ESSAYS v _^aa£Hj 
 
 THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE 
 HUMAN MIND; 
 
 AN INQUIRY INTO THE HUMAN MIND ON THE PRINCIPLES 
 OF COMMON SENSE; 
 
 AND AN 
 
 ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS REID, D.D. F.R.S.E. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW. 
 
 A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 BY DUGALD STEWART. 
 
 4 
 
 WITH NOTES, SECTIONAL HEADS, AND A SYNOPTICAL TABLE 
 OP CONTENTS, 
 
 REV. G. IN\ WRIGHT, M.A. kc. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG, CHEAPSIDE ; 
 
 R. GRIFFIN AND CO., GLASGOW; T. MESSURIER, DUBLIN; 
 J. AND S. A. TEGG, SYDNEY AND HOBART TOWN. 
 
 MDCCCXLIII. 
 


 f 
 
 A? 
 
 
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 \b EDITOR'S PREFACE 
 
 Greater typographical accuracy is not the only advantage to 
 which this edition of the author's works is entitled; it possesses 
 the still further recommendation of being the only complete and 
 perfect collection of his writings yet published. In the first 
 volume are included, " An Account of Dr. Reid's Life and 
 Writings," from the classic pen of Dugald Stewart; "Essays 
 on the Active Powers of the Human Mind ;" " An Inquiry into 
 the Human Mind, on the Principles of Common Sense ;" and 
 " An Essay on Quantity :" the last has hitherto only appeared in 
 the " Philosophical Transactions." The second volume contains 
 the author's prceclarum opus, " Essays on the Intellectual Powers 
 of Man," together with his " View " or " Analysis of Aristotle's 
 Logic," first published in the works of Lord Karnes, and subse- 
 quently in a separate volume. 
 
 In the preparation of these Essays for the press and the pub- 
 lic, one uniform method has been observed. Where it had not 
 been previously done by the author, the chapters are divided, 
 with scrupulous attention to each pause, or interruption in the 
 chain of reasoning, into sections ; and to every section, whether 
 original or newly separated, headings are prefixed. These 
 headings present a condensed view of the contents, argument, 
 or arguments, in each section ; and, as far as it could be done, 
 they are so linked together in meaning as to afford a tolerably 
 full, correct, and continuous synopsis of the author's theory. 
 In these introductions, perhaps, consist the chief merit which this 
 
EDITOR S PREFACE. 
 
 edition can claim. To facilitate, however, the interpretation of 
 abstruse passages, brackets are employed, italic letters frequently 
 used, and forcible examples marked by indices ; besides which 
 those arguments that support any theory or fact, and which are 
 scattered over many pages or chapters, or even Essays, are 
 indicated and connected by the numerals of some one particular 
 fount ; and attention called to this connexion by notes, sometimes 
 containing a complete recapitulation. 
 
 In those parts of the author's writings that are of a mixed 
 character — moral and metaphysical — numerous quotations from 
 the works of ancient philosophers occur in the original lan- 
 guages. All such extracts have been translated, not literally, 
 but appropriately ; and given, not in substitution, but in addi- 
 tion to the originals. 
 
 Hitherto the philosophical labours of this able and excellent 
 man, the bold assailant of Locke, lay, like the Sibyl's leaves, 
 where the winds had carried them. Henceforth, it is hoped, 
 their connexion, an end so valuable in such serious investiga- 
 tions, will be unequivocally perceived; and some of the difficul- 
 ties that have obstructed the study of pneumatology thereby 
 alleviated, if not entirely removed. 
 
 G. N. W. 
 
 Coed Celyn, Llanrwst, Denbighshire. 
 1843. 
 
SYNOPTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS, 
 
 ESSAYS ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 
 
 Life of Dr. Reid 
 
 Introduction 
 
 Page 
 1 
 
 77 
 
 ESSAY I. v 
 
 OF ACTIVE POWER IN GENERAL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. v 
 
 OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER 79 V 
 
 Sec. 1. An explanation of the mean- 
 ing of " active power" ne- 
 cessary . . . ib. 
 
 2. The Aristotelian definition 
 
 of motion . . . ib. 
 
 3. Of our conception of active 
 
 power . . .80 
 
 4. Power not an object of con- 
 
 sciousness . . . ib. 
 
 But a relative conception . 81 
 
 6. There are some things of 
 
 which we can have both a 
 direct and a relative con- 
 ception . . .82 
 
 7. Our conception of power is 
 
 relative to its exertions or 
 effects . . .83 
 
 8. Our idea of power . . ib. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT . . 85 . 
 
 Sec. 1. Distinction of "action and 
 passion " coeval with the 
 origin of languages . ib. 
 
 2. Objection . . . ib. 
 
 6. Active verbs appear plainly 
 to have been first contrived 
 to express action . .88 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 of mr. locke's account of our 
 idea of power . .91 
 
 2. Objections to Mr. Locke's 
 origin of our idea of power ib. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 of mr. hume's opinion of the 
 
 idea of power . . 93 
 
 Sec. 1. Induction, by which Mr. ■ 
 Hume attempts to explain 
 the origin of our simple 
 ideas, imperfect . . ib. 
 
 4. Of the two principles which 
 Hume opposes to Locke . 96 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHETHER BEINGS THAT HAVE NO 
 WILL NOR. UNDERSTANDING 
 MAY HAVE ACTIVE POWER? . 97 
 
 Sec. 1. The question perplexed by 
 the ambiguity of certain 
 terms . . . ib. 
 
 4. Volition necessary to the 
 
 operation of power . 99 
 
 6. Our conception of active 
 power relative . .101 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF THE EFFICIENT CAUSES OF THE 
 
 PHENOMENA OF NATURE .103 
 
 Sec. 1. Of powers ascribed to matter ib. 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. 107 
 
 Sec. 1. Power an attribute of ac- 
 countable beings . . ib, 
 8. Human power entirely de- 
 pendent upon God and the 
 laws of nature . .113 
 
 ESSAY II. V 
 
 OF THE WILL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE 
 
 114 
 
VI 
 
 SYNOPTICAL TABLE 
 
 Page 
 Sec. 1. Volition and will different . 114 
 
 2. The term will, how used . ib. 
 
 3. Its definition . .115 
 5. Of command, will, and de- 
 sire . . .117 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF THE INFLUENCE OF INCITE- 
 MENTS AND MOTIVES UPON THE 
 WILL . . . .119 
 
 Sec. 1 . Instinct . . . ib. 
 
 2. Judgment not necessary to 
 
 instinct . . . ib. 
 
 3. The exercise of judgment 
 
 distinct from the impulse 
 
 of appetite. . .121 
 
 4. Taste and judgment differ . 122 
 
 5. Of passion and reason . ib. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF OPERATIONS OF MIND WHICH 
 
 MAY BE CALLED VOLUNTARY . 126 
 
 Sec. 1. Of attention, deliberation, 
 
 and resolution . . ib. 
 
 2. Of genius . . .127 
 
 3. Deliberation . .129 
 
 6. Resolution . . .131 
 
 7. The virtue and affection of 
 
 benevolence different . 132 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 COROLLARIES . . . 135 
 
 Sec. 1. Of transient and momentary 
 
 acts of the will . . ib. 
 
 ESSAY III. 
 
 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
 PART I. 
 
 OF THE MECHANICAL PRINCIPLES OF 
 ACTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN 
 
 GENERAL . . .138 
 
 Sec. 1. Actions of men classified . ib. 
 
 2. Knowledge of the principles 
 
 of action important . ib. 
 
 3. Difficulties attending an in- 
 
 vestigation of the principles 
 
 of human actions . .139 
 
 4. Third cause of the difficulty 
 
 of tracing the principles of 
 action in man . . 140 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF INSTINCT . . .142 
 
 Sec. 1. Of instinct in man . ib. 
 
 Page 
 Sec. 2. Of instinct in inferior ani- 
 mals . . .143 
 3. Some human instincts tran- 
 sitory, others permanent . 145 
 
 6. Fourth case in which in- 
 
 stinct, probably, is requisite 147 
 
 7. Judgment and belief influ- 
 
 enced, to a certain extent, 
 
 by instinct. . .148 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF HABIT .... 151 
 
 Sec. 1. Vulgar definition of habit . ib. 
 2. The art of speaking, the 
 strongest illustration of the 
 force of habit . . 1 52 
 
 PART II. 
 OF ANIMAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF APPETITES . . .154 
 
 Sec. 1. Definition of animal princi- 
 ples of action . . ib. 
 5. The principle of activity 
 belongs to every period of 
 • life . . .157 
 7. The government of appe- 
 tites gives a superiority to 
 man over brute animals . 159 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF DESIRES. . . .160 
 
 Sec. 1. Distinction between appe- 
 tites and desires twofold . ib. 
 2. Of esteem and contempt . ib. 
 
 5. Such natural desires not sel- 
 
 fish principles . .162 
 
 6. Our desires auxiliary to the 
 
 maintenance of morals . ib. 
 9. Of acquired desires . 165 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GE- 
 NERAL . . .166 
 
 Sec. 2. Objects of our desires and 
 
 our affections different . 167 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF THE PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT 
 
 AFFECTIONS . . .171 
 
 Sec. 1. Of natural affection. . ib. 
 
 2. Duration of parental affec- 
 
 tion limited in inferior ani- 
 mals ; not so in the human 
 species . . .172 
 
 3. Parental affection the effect 
 
 of our natural constitution. 173 
 
 4. Further uses of parental 
 
 affection . . . ib. 
 
OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Y1L 
 
 Page 
 Sec. 11. Necessity for submitting 
 public spirit to the control 
 of reason and virtue, evi- 
 dent . . .179 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION . 182 
 
 Sec. 1. Of emulation and resent- 
 ment . . . ib. 
 
 4. Effects of emulation in 
 
 brute-animals . .185 
 
 5. Definition of resentment . ib. 
 7. Children and rude nations 
 
 generally ascribe life and 
 intelligence to inanimate 
 things . . .188 
 
 9. Agreements and disagree- 
 ments between deliberate 
 and mere animal resent- 
 ment . . .189 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF PASSION . . . .190 
 
 Sec. 1. Passion, Disposition, Opin- 
 ion . . . ib. 
 2. Definition of passion . 191 
 
 5. Hume's paradoxes generally 
 
 reducible to abuses of words 193 
 
 6. Common division of the 
 
 passions . . . ib. 
 
 7. Influence of passion . 194 
 
 CHAPTER VIE 
 
 OF DISPOSITION . . .198 
 
 Sec..3. The excellent consequences 
 
 of good humour . .199 
 
 5. Elation, magnanimity, a 
 
 sense of honour and pride 200 
 
 6. Depression, humility, mean- 
 ness . . . ib. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 OF OPINION 
 
 . 202 
 
 Sec. 1. Influence of opinion upon 
 
 our animal principles . ib. 
 
 4. Analogy between the disci- 
 
 pline of body and mind . 203 
 
 5. Man actuated, by no sense 
 
 of duty, considered . 204 
 
 PART III. 
 
 OF THE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF 
 ACTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THERE ARE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES 
 
 OF ACTION IN MAN . . 206 
 
 Sec. 2. Hume's error as to one of 
 
 the chief offices of reason . 207 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Page 
 OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE 
 
 WHOLE . . . 208 
 
 Sec. 1. Chief spring of our early 
 
 actions . . ib. 
 
 2. The conception of what is 
 good or ill for us upon the 
 whole, the offspring of 
 reason . . . 209 
 
 4. Office of practical reason .211 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE 213 
 
 Sec. 1. Question of the ancient mo- 
 ralists, " What is the great- 
 est good ?" . . ib. 
 
 2. Fallacy of the Epicurean 
 
 doctrine . . . ib. 
 
 3. Doctrine of the Stoics not 
 
 original . . .214 
 
 4. Recapitulation of what has 
 
 been advanced relative to 
 the rational principles of 
 action . . . 216 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE .217 
 
 Sec. 1. The rational principle of 
 action not the only regu- 
 lator of human conduct . ib. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, RECTI- 
 TUDE, MORAL OBLIGATION . 221 
 
 Sec. 1. A sense of interest, or a 
 sense of duty, or both, ne- 
 cessary to the social state . ib. 
 
 2. Of a sense of duty only . ib. 
 
 3. The notion of this principle 
 
 invariable, its extent not so 223 
 
 4. Reality of moral distinc- 
 
 tions . . . ib. 
 
 6. Moral obligation a relation 225 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF THE SENSE OF DUTY . .227 
 
 Sec. 1. The moral sense, — the moral 
 
 faculty, — conscience . ib. 
 
 2. This analogy excusable . ib. 
 
 3. Further shown . . 228 
 
 5. Universality of first princi- 
 
 ples . . . 230 
 
 6. The first principles of morals 
 
 are the immediate dictates 
 
 of the moral faculty . 230 
 
 7. Recapitulation . .231 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DIS- 
 
 APPROBATION . 
 
 . 231 
 
VI 11 
 
 SYNOPTICAL TABLE 
 
 Page 
 Sec. 1. Of affections and feelings 
 included in our moral judg- 
 ments . . .231 
 3. Moral disapprobation' . 233 
 
 6. Social ties auxiliary to vir- 
 
 tue, unfavourable to vice . 235 
 
 7. Consequences of remorse . ib. 
 
 8. Operations of the faculty 
 
 called moral sense . . 236 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CON- 
 SCIENCE . . .237 
 
 Sec. 1. Our judgment of moral con- 
 duct advances from infancy 
 by insensible degrees . ib. 
 3. Scepticism twofold . . 238 
 
 8. The intention or end of our 
 
 active powers obvious . 241 
 
 9. Office of conscience . 242 
 10. Stoical perfection ideal . 243 
 12. Extravagance of Mysticism ib. 
 
 v ESSAY IV, 
 
 ON THE LIBERTY OF MORAL 
 AGENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY 
 
 AND NECESSITY STATED . 246 
 
 Sec. 1. Moral liberty . . ib. 
 
 2. The voluntary actions of 
 brutes, determined by the 
 present predominant pas- 
 sion . . . 247 
 
 7. Three additional meanings 
 
 of the word liberty . 249 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, 
 
 ACTION, AND ACTIVE POWER . 251 
 
 Sec. 1. The use of ambiguous terms 
 has impeded our reason- 
 ings about moral liberty . ib. 
 2. Active power . . 252 
 
 5. Recapitulation . . 254 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CAUSES OF THE AMBIGUITY OF 
 
 THOSE WORDS . . . 255 
 
 Sec. 1. Premature conclusion as to 
 
 objects indued with motion ib. 
 
 6. A chief cause of the imper- 
 
 fection of language . 257 
 
 8. Absurd theories of philoso- 
 
 phers to explain causation 259 
 
 9. Not mischievous . . ib. 
 
 Page 
 Sec. 10. Proof of a Deity on these 
 principles presents no diffi- 
 culty . . . 260 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES . 261 
 
 Sec. 6. Motives of the same kind 
 
 may be compared . .264 
 
 8. Animal test of the strength 
 
 of motives . . . 265 
 
 9. Rational motives defined . 266 
 10. Rational test of the strength 
 
 of motives . . . ib. 
 
 14. The supposition of necessity 
 precludes rewards and pun- 
 ishments — liberty gives 
 efficacy to both . . 268 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GO- 
 VERNMENT . . .269 
 
 Sec. 1. Mechanical and moral go- 
 vernment . . . ib. 
 7. The moral government of 
 God consistent with liberty 273 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FIRST ARGUMENT . . .275 
 
 Sec. 3. The belief of acting freely 
 is coeval with our reason, 
 universal, and necessary . 278 
 5. Exceptions . . . 279 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SECOND ARGUMENT . .282 
 
 Sec. 1. Certain first principles uni- 
 versally conceded . . ib. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THIRD ARGUMENT . . . 2S6 
 
 Sec. 2. Argument from analogy . 286 
 
 3. Its application . .287 
 
 4. Objection and answer . ib. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY . 289 
 
 Sec. 1. Three classes of arguments 
 
 against human liberty . ib. 
 
 2. Boast of Leibnitz . . ib. 
 
 3. Identity of indiscernibles . 290 
 
 4. Leibnitz' proof of the truth 
 
 of his principle only a pe- 
 titio principii . . ib. 
 
 5. Three meanings of the prin- 
 
 ciple of " a sufficient reason" 
 applied to the determina- 
 tions of the will . .291 
 
 6. The principle further ex- 
 
 amined . . . ib. 
 
Or CONTENTS. 
 
 Sec. 9. Four consequences of this 
 
 definition of a cause . 294 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT . .297 
 
 Sec. 2. Third class of arguments 
 
 against human liberty . 298 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL . 303 
 
 Sec. 2. Scientia media . . ib. 
 
 3. Prescience of the Deity in- 
 disputable. . . 304 
 
 ESSAY V. 
 
 OF MORALS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MO- 
 RALS . . . .312 
 
 Sec. 1. First principles . . ib. 
 
 4. Another class of axioms in 
 
 morals . . .317 
 
 5. Conclusion . .319 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS . .319 
 
 Sec. 1. Instruction in morals ne- 
 cessary . . . ib 
 3. Necessity of instruction in 
 morals shown from the evi- 
 dence of history . .321 
 
 6. Morals have been method- 
 
 ized in different ways . 322 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURIS- 
 PRUDENCE . . . 323 
 Sec, 1." Jurisprudence and morals 
 
 closely related . . ib. 
 
 5. True origin of systems of 
 natural jurisprudence . 326 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHETHER AN ACTION DESERVING 
 MORAL APPROBATION, MUST BE 
 DONE "WITH THE BELIEF OF 
 ITS BEING MORALLY GOOD . 329 
 
 Sec. 9. Conscience, or moral sense 337 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Page 
 WHETHER JUSTICE BE A NATURAL 
 
 OR AN ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE . 338 
 
 Sec. 1. Hume consistent as a writer 
 
 on morals . . . ib. 
 
 3. Hume agrees with the Epi- 
 
 cureans in one respect . 339 
 
 4. Disagrees in another . 340 
 
 5. Effect of this doctrine . ib. 
 
 6. Natural and artificial vir- 
 
 tues . . . ib. 
 
 8. Esteem . . .341 
 
 9. The merit of justice, accord- 
 
 ing to Hume . . 342 
 
 17. Six branches of justice . 349 
 20. Mr. Hobbes' system . 350 
 
 26. This argument would prove 
 all social virtues to be arti- 
 ficial, as well as justice . 357 
 
 28. Obvious defect in Mr. 
 
 Hume's reasoning as to the 
 standard of justice gene- 
 rally . . . 358 
 
 29. Standard of justice among 
 
 the ancients . . 359 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION 
 
 OF A CONTRACT . .361 
 
 Sec. 1. Promise and contract differ- 
 ent . . . ib. 
 2. Definition of a contract . 362 
 5. Contracts and promises have 
 a foundation in nature . 367 
 
 7. Natural tendency of Mr. 
 
 Hume's principles . 370 
 
 8. Mr. Hume's practice proba- 
 
 bly contradicted his princi- 
 ples . . .371 
 10. Origin of the contradictions 
 
 in Mr. Hume's arguments 374 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THAT MORAL APPROBATION IM- 
 PLIES A REAL JUDG3IENT . 376 
 
 Sec. 4. Of feeling and judgment . 377 
 8. Improper use of words has 
 impeded the study of moral 
 philosophy . . 384 
 
 10. Impiety of the assertion, that 
 moral judgment is merely 
 a feeling . ; . 392 
 
SYNOPTICAL TABLE 
 
 AN INQUIRY INTO THE HUMAN MIND ON THE 
 PRINCIPLES OF COMMON SENSE. 
 
 Page 
 DEDICATION TO LORD DESKFOORD 395 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION . . .399 
 
 Sec. 1. The importance of the sub- 
 ject, and the means of pro- 
 secuting it . . ib. 
 
 2. The impediments to our 
 
 knowledge of the mind . 400 
 
 3. The present state of this 
 
 part of philosophy. Of 
 Des Cartes, Malebranche, 
 and Locke . . 403 
 
 4. Apology for these philoso- 
 
 phers . . . 405 
 
 5. Of Bishop Berkeley ; the 
 
 " Treatise of Human Na- 
 ture ;" and of scepticism . 406 
 
 6. Of the " Treatise of Human 
 
 Nature" . . . 408 
 
 7. The system of all these au- 
 
 thors is the same, and leads 
 
 to scepticism . . 409 
 
 8. We ought not to despair of 
 
 abetter . . . 410 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF SMELLING 
 
 411 
 
 Sec 1. The order of proceeding. 
 Of the medium and organ 
 of smell . . . ib. 
 
 2. The sensation considered 
 
 abstractly . . .412 
 
 3. Sensation and its remem- 
 
 brance natural principles 
 
 of belief . . .413 
 
 4. Judgment and belief in some 
 
 cases precede simple appre- 
 hension . . .415 
 
 5. Two theories of the nature 
 
 of belief refuted. Conclu- 
 sions from what hath been 
 said . . . 415 
 
 6. Apologyfor metaphysical ab- 
 
 surdities. Sensation with- 
 out a sentient, a conse- 
 quence of the theory of 
 ideas. Consequences of 
 this strange opinion . 418 
 
 7. The conception and belief 
 
 of a sentient being or mind, 
 is suggested by our consti- 
 
 Page 
 tution. The notion of re- 
 lations not always got by 
 comparing the related ideas 422 
 
 8. There is a quality or virtue 
 
 in bodies, which we call 
 their smell. How this is 
 connected in the imagina- 
 tion with the sensation . 424 
 
 9. That there is a principle in 
 
 human nature, from which 
 the notion of this, as well 
 as all other natural virtues 
 or causes, is derived . 425 
 
 0. Whether in sensations the 
 mind is active or passive . 428 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF TASTING 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 . 430 
 
 433 
 
 OF HEARING 
 
 Sec. 1. Variety of sounds. Their 
 place and distance learned 
 by custom, without reason- 
 ing . . . ib. 
 2. Of natural language . 434 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 OF TOUCH .... 437 
 Sec. 1. Of heat and cold . . ib. 
 
 2. Of hardness and softness . 438 
 
 3. Of natural signs . . 441 
 
 4. Of hardness, and other pri- 
 
 mary qualities . . 444 
 
 5. The distinction betwixt pri- 
 
 mary and secondary quali- 
 ties hath had several revo- 
 lutions . . . ib. 
 
 6. Of extension . . 445 
 
 7. Of extension . .447 
 
 8. Of the existence of a mate- 
 
 rial world . . .449 
 
 9. Of the systems of philoso- 
 
 phers concerning the senses 454 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF SEEING .... 457 
 
 Sec. 1. The excellence and dignity 
 
 of this faculty . . ib. 
 
 2. Sight discovers almost no- 
 thing which the blind may 
 not comprehend. The rea- 
 son of this . • 459 
 
OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Sec. 3. Of the visible appearances 
 
 of objects . . .462 
 
 4. That colour is a quality of 
 
 bodies, not a sensation of 
 the mind . 
 
 5. First inference from the pre 
 
 ceding 
 
 6. Second. — That none of our 
 
 sensations are resemblances 
 of any of the qualities of 
 bodies 
 
 7. Of visible figure and exten- 
 
 sion 
 
 8. Some queries concerning vi- 
 
 sible figure answered 
 
 9. Of the geometry ofvisibles 
 
 10. Of the parallel motion of the 
 
 eyes . . . 
 
 11. Of our seeing objects erect 
 
 by inverted images 
 
 12. The same subject continued 497 
 
 13. Of seeing objects single with 
 
 two eyes . . . 509 
 
 14. Of the laws of vision in 
 
 brute animals . .514 
 
 1 5. The phenomena of squinting 
 
 considered hypothetically 516 
 
 465 
 
 . 467 
 
 470 
 
 474 
 
 477 
 482 
 
 490 
 
 492 
 
 Page 
 Sec. 16. Facts relating to squinting 524 
 
 17. Of the effect of custom in 
 
 seeing objects single . 526 
 
 18. Of Dr. Porterfield's account 
 
 of single and double vision 532 
 
 19. Of Dr. Briggs's theory, and 
 
 Sir Isaac Newton's conjec- 
 ture on this subject . 534 
 
 20. Of perception in general . 542 
 
 21. Of the process of nature in 
 
 perception . .548 
 
 22. Of the signs by which we 
 
 learn to perceive distance 
 from the eye . . 552 
 
 23. Of the signs used in these 
 
 acquired perceptions . 561 
 
 24. Of the analogy between per- 
 
 ception and the credit we 
 give to human testimony 563 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CONCLUSION . . .575 
 
 Sec. 1. Containing reflections upon 
 the opinions of philoso- 
 phers on this subject . 575 
 
 AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 
 
 
 Page 
 
 
 Sec. 1 . What quantity is 
 
 . 591 
 
 Sec 
 
 2. Of proper and 
 
 improper 
 
 
 quantity . 
 
 . 592 
 
 
 3. Corollary 1 
 
 . 594 
 
 
 4. Corollary 2 
 
 . ib. 
 
 
 5. Corollary 3 
 
 . 595 
 
 
 Page 
 
 6. Of the Newtonian measure 
 
 of force . . .596 
 
 7. Of the Leibnitzian measure 
 
 of force . . .597 
 
 8. Reflections on this contro- 
 
 versy . . .598 
 
(C PROPER- 
 
 ACCOUNT 
 
 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS REID, D.D. 
 
 SECTION L 
 
 PROM DR. REID'S BIRTH TILL THE DATE OF HIS LATEST PUBLICATION, 
 
 The life of which I am now to present to the Royal Society 
 a short account, although it fixes an era in the history of modern 
 philosophy, was uncommonly barren of those incidents which 
 furnish materials for biography ; strenuously devoted to truth, 
 to virtue, and to the best interests of mankind ; but spent in the 
 obscurity of a learned retirement, remote from the pursuits of 
 ambition, and with little solicitude about literary fame. After 
 the agitation, however, of the political convulsions which Europe 
 has witnessed for a course of years, the simple record of such a 
 life may derive an interest even from its uniformity ; and when 
 contrasted with the events of the passing scene, may lead the 
 thoughts to some views of human nature, on which it is not 
 ungrateful to repose. 
 
 Thomas Reid, D.D., late Professor of Moral Philosophy in 
 the University of Glasgow, was born on the 26th of April, 1710, 
 at Strachan in Kincardineshire, a country parish situated about 
 twenty miles from Aberdeen, on the north side of the Grampian 
 Mountains. 
 
 His father, the Reverend Lewis Reid, was minister of this 
 parish for fifty years. He was a clergyman, according to his 
 son's account of him, respected by all who knew him, for his 
 
g ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 piety, prudence, and benevolence ; inheriting from his ancestors 
 (most of whom, from the time of the Protestant establishment, 
 had been ministers of the Church of Scotland) that purity and 
 simplicity of manners which became his station ; and a love of 
 letters, which, without attracting the notice of the world, amused 
 his leisure, and dignified his retirement. 
 
 For some generations before his time, a propensity to litera- 
 ture, and to the learned professions, — a propensity which, when 
 it has once become characteristical of a race, is peculiarly apt to 
 be propagated by the influence of early associations and habits, — 
 may be traced in several individuals among his kindred. One of 
 his ancestors, James Reid, was the first minister of Banchory- 
 Ternan after the Reformation ; and transmitted to four sons a 
 predilection for those studious habits which formed his own hap- 
 piness. He was himself a younger son of Mr. Reid of Pitfoddels, 
 a gentleman of a very ancient and respectable family in the 
 county of Aberdeen. 
 
 James Reid was succeeded as minister of Banchory by his son 
 Robert. Another son, Thomas, rose to considerable distinction 
 both as a philosopher and a poet ; and seems to have wanted 
 neither ability nor inclination to turn his attainments to the best 
 advantage. After travelling over Europe, and maintaining, as 
 was the custom of his age, public disputations in several univer- 
 sities, he collected into a volume the theses and dissertations 
 which had been the subjects of his literary contests ; and also 
 published some Latin poems, which may be found in the collec- 
 tion entitled " Deliciae Poetarum Scotorum." On his return to 
 his native country, he fixed his residence in London, wheie he 
 was appointed secretary in the Greek and Latin tongues to King 
 James the First of England, and lived in habits of intimacy with 
 some of the most distinguished characters of that period. — Little 
 more, I believe, is known of Thomas Reid's history, excepting 
 that he bequeathed to the Marischal College of Aberdeen a curi- 
 ous collection of books and manuscripts, with a fund for establish- 
 ing a salary to a librarian. 
 
 Alexander Reid, the third son, was physician to King Charles 
 the First, and published several books on surgery and medicine. 
 The fortune he acquired in the course of his practice was con- 
 siderable, and enabled him (beside many legacies to his relations 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 3 
 
 and friends) to leave various lasting and honourable memorials, 
 both of his benevolence, and of his attachment to letters. 
 
 A fourth son, whose name was Adam, translated into English, 
 " Buchanan's History of Scotland." Of this translation, which 
 was never published, there is a manuscript copy in the possession 
 of the University of Glasgow. 
 
 A grandson of Robert, the eldest of these sons, was the third 
 minister of Banchory after the Reformation, and was great-grand- 
 father of Thomas Reid, the subject of this memoir.* 
 
 * In the account given in the text, of Dr. Reid's ancestors, I have followed 
 scrupulously the information contained in his own memorandums. I have 
 some suspicion, however, that he has committed a mistake with respect to the 
 name of the translator of Buchanan's History ; which would appear, from the 
 MS. in Glasgow College, to have been — not Adam, but John. At the same 
 time, as this last statement rests on an authority altogether unknown, (being 
 written in a hand different from the rest of the MS.,) there is a possibility that 
 Dr. Reid's account may be correct; and therefore I have thought it advisable, 
 in a matter of so very trifling consequence, to adhere to it in preference to the 
 other. 
 
 The following particulars, with respect to Thomas Reid may, perhaps, be 
 acceptable to some of my readers. They are copied from Dempster, a con- 
 temporary writer ; whose details concerning his countrymen, it must, however, 
 be confessed, are not always to be implicitly relied on. 
 
 " Thomas Reidus Aberdonensis, pueritias meae et infantilis otii sub Thoma 
 Cargillo collega, Lovanii literas in schola Lipsii serio didicit, quas magno 
 nomine in Germania docuit, carus Principibus. Londini diu in comitatu 
 humanissimi ac clarissimi viri Fulconis Grevilli, Regii Consiliarii Interioris et 
 Anglise Proqusestoris, egit : turn ad amicitiam Regis, eodem Fulcone deducente, 
 evectus, inter Palatinos admissus, a literis Latinis Regi fuit. Scripsit multa, 
 ut est magna indole et varia erudition e," &c. — " Ex aula se, nemine conscio, 
 nuper proripuit, dum illi omnia festinati honoris augmenta singuli ominaren- 
 tur, nee quid deinde egerit aut quo locorum se contulerit quisquam indicare 
 potuit. Multi suspicabantur, taedio aulas affectum, monasticae quieti seipsum 
 tradidisse, sub annum 1618. Rumor postea fuit in aulam rediisse, et meritissi- 
 mis honoribus redditum, sed nunquam id consequetur quod virtus promeretur." 
 — Hist. Ecclesiastica Gentis Scotorum, lib. xvi. p. 576. 
 
 What was the judgment of Thomas Reid's own times with respect to his 
 genius, and what their hopes of his posthumous fame, may be collected from 
 an elegy on his death by his learned countryman Robert Aytoun. Already, 
 before the lapse of two hundred years, some apology, alas ! may be thought 
 necessary for an attempt to rescue his name from total oblivion. 
 
 Aytoun's elegy on Reid is referred to in terms very flattering both to its 
 author and to its subject, by the editor of the Collection, entitled, " Poetarum 
 Scotorum Musae Sacrae." " In obitum Thomas Rheidi epicedium extat elegan- 
 
 B2 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 The particulars hitherto mentioned, are stated on the authority 
 of some short memorandums written by Dr. Reid a few weeks 
 before his death. In consequence of a suggestion of his friend 
 Dr. Gregory, he had resolved to amuse himself with collecting 
 such facts as his papers or memory could supply, with respect to 
 his life, and the progress of his studies ; but, unfortunately, 
 before he had fairly entered on the subject, his design was inter- 
 rupted by his last illness. If he had lived to complete it, I might 
 have entertained hopes of presenting to the public some details 
 with respect to the history of his opinions and speculations on 
 those important subjects to which he dedicated his talents ; — the 
 most interesting of all articles in the biography of a philosopher, 
 and of which, it is to be lamented, that so few authentic records 
 are to be found in the annals of letters. All the information, 
 however, which I have derived from these notes, is exhausted in 
 the foregoing pages ; and I must content myself, in the continua- 
 tion of my narrative, with those indirect aids which tradition, and 
 the recollection of a few old acquaintances, afford ; added to what 
 I myself have learned from Dr. Reid's conversation, or collected 
 from a careful perusal of his writings. 
 
 His mother, Margaret Gregory, was a daughter of David 
 Gregory, Esq., of Kinnairdie, in Banffshire ; elder brother of 
 James Gregory, the inventor of the reflecting telescope, and the 
 antagonist of Huyghens. She was one of twenty -nine children ; 
 the most remarkable of whom was David Gregory, Savilian Pro- 
 fessor of Astronomy at Oxford, and an intimate friend of Sir 
 Isaac Newton. Two of her younger brothers were at the same 
 time professors of mathematics ; the one at St. Andrew's, the 
 
 tissimum Roberti Aytoni, viri Uteris ac dignitate clarissimi, in Deliciis Poeta- 
 rum Scotorum, ubi et ipsius quoque poemata, paucula quidem ilia, sed venusta, 
 sed elegantia, comparent." 
 
 The only works of Alexander Reid of which I have heard, are " Chirurgical 
 Lectures on Tumors and Ulcers," London, 1635 ; and a " Treatise of the first 
 part of Chirurgerie," London, 1638. He appears to have been the physician 
 and friend of the celebrated mathematician Thomas Harriott, of whose interest- 
 ing history so little was known, till the recent discovery of his manuscripts, by 
 Mr. Zach, of Saxe-Gotha. 
 
 A remarkable instance of the careless or capricious orthography formerly so 
 common in writing proper names, occurs in the different individuals to whom 
 this note refers. Sometimes the family name is written — Reid ; on other oc- 
 casions, Riede, Read, Rhead or Rhaid. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £ 
 
 other at Edinburgh ; and were the first persons who taught the 
 Newtonian philosophy in our northern universities. The heredi- 
 tary worth and genius which have so long distinguished, and 
 which still distinguish, the descendants of this memorable family, 
 are well known to all who have turned their attention to Scottish 
 biography ; but it is not known so generally, that through the 
 female line, the same characteristical endowments have been 
 conspicuous in various instances ; and that to the other monu- 
 ments which illustrate the race of the Gregories, is to be added 
 the Philosophy of Reid. 
 
 With respect to the earlier part of Dr. Reid's life, all that I 
 have been able to learn amounts to this, that after two years 
 spent at the parish school of Kincardine, he was sent to Aber- 
 deen, where he had the advantage of prosecuting his classical 
 studies under an able and diligent teacher ; that, about the age 
 of twelve or thirteen, he was entered as a student in Marischal 
 College ; and that his master in philosophy, for three years, was 
 Dr. George Turnbull, who afterwards attracted some degree of 
 notice as an author ; particularly by a book entitled " Principles 
 of Moral Philosophy," and by a voluminous treatise (long ago 
 forgotten) on Ancient Painting.* The sessions of the College 
 w r ere, at that time, very short, and the education (according to 
 Dr. Reid's own account) slight and superficial. 
 
 It does not appear from the information which I have received, 
 that he gave any early indications of future eminence. His 
 industry, however, and modesty, were conspicuous from his 
 childhood; and it was foretold of him, by the parish school- 
 
 * Dr. Turnbull's work on Moral Philosophy was published at London in 
 1 740. As I have only turned over a few pages, I cannot say any thing with 
 respect to its merits. The mottos on the title-page are curious, when considered 
 in connexion with those inquiries which his pupil afterwards prosecuted with so 
 much success ; and may, perhaps, without his perceiving it, have had some 
 effect in suggesting to him that plan of philosophizing which he so systemati- 
 cally and so happily pursued. 
 
 " If Natural Philosophy, in all its parts, by pursuing this method, shall at 
 length be perfected, the bounds of Moral Philosophy will also be enlarged." — 
 Newton's Optics. 
 
 " Account for moral, as for natural things." — Pope. 
 
 For the opinion of a very competent judge with respect to the Treatise on 
 Ancient Painting, vide Hogarth's print, entitled, " Beer -lane." 
 
5 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 master who initiated him in the first principles of learning, 
 " That he would turn out to be a man of good and well "wearing 
 parts ;" a prediction which touched, not unhappily, on that capa- 
 city of " patient thought" which so peculiarly characterised his 
 philosophical genius. 
 
 His residence at the university was prolonged beyond the 
 usual term, in consequence of his appointment to the office of 
 librarian, which had been endowed by one of his ancestors about 
 a century before. The situation was acceptable to him, as it 
 afforded an opportunity of indulging his passion for study, and 
 united the charms of a learned society, with the quiet of an 
 academical retreat. 
 
 During this period, he formed an intimacy with John Stewart, 
 afterwards Professor of Mathematics in Marischal College, and 
 author of a commentary on Newton's " Quadrature of Curves." 
 His predilection for mathematical pursuits was confirmed and 
 strengthened by this connexion. I have often heard him mention 
 it with much pleasure, while he recollected the ardour with 
 which they both prosecuted these fascinating studies, and the 
 lights which they imparted mutually to each other, in their first 
 perusal of the " Principia," at a time when a knowledge of the 
 Newtonian discoveries was only to be acquired in the writings of 
 their illustrious author. 
 
 In 1736, Dr. Reid resigned his office of librarian, and accom- 
 panied Mr. Stewart on an excursion to England. They visited, 
 together, London, Oxford, and Cambridge, and were introduced 
 to the acquaintance of many persons of the first literary emi- 
 nence. His relation to Dr. David Gregory procured him a ready 
 access to Martin Folkes, whose house concentrated the most 
 interesting objects which the metropolis had to offer to his curio- 
 sity. At Cambridge he saw Dr. Bentley, who delighted him 
 with his learning, and amused him with his vanity; and enjoyed 
 repeatedly the conversation of the blind mathematician, Saun- 
 derson ; a phenomenon in the history of the human mind, to 
 which he has referred more than once, in his philosophical specu- 
 lations. 
 
 With the learned and amiable man who was his companion in 
 this journey, he maintained an uninterrupted friendship till 1766, 
 when Mr. Stewart died of a malignant fever. His death was 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 
 
 accompanied with circumstances deeply afflicting to Dr. Reid's 
 sensibility ; the same disorder proving fatal to his wife and daugh- 
 ter, both of whom were buried with him in one grave. 
 
 In 1737, Dr. Reid was presented, by the King's College of 
 Aberdeen, to the living of New-Machar in the same county ; but 
 the circumstances in which he entered on his preferment were far 
 from auspicious. The intemperate zeal of one of his predeces- 
 sors, and an aversion to the law of patronage, had so inflamed 
 the minds of his parishioners against him, that, in the first dis- 
 charge of his clerical functions, he had not only to encounter the 
 most violent opposition, but was exposed to personal danger. His 
 unwearied attention, however, to the duties of his office ; the 
 mildness and forbearance of his temper, and the active spirit of 
 his humanity, soon overcame all these prejudices ; and, not many 
 years afterwards, when he was called to a different situation, the 
 same persons who had suffered themselves to be so far misled as 
 to take a share in the outrages against him, followed him, on his 
 departure, with their blessings and tears. 
 
 Dr. Reid's popularity at New-Machar (as I am informed by 
 the respectable clergyman* who now holds that living) increased 
 greatly after his marriage, in 1740, with Elizabeth, daughter of 
 his uncle, Dr. George Reid, physician in London. The accom- 
 modating manners of this excellent .woman, and her good offices 
 among the sick and necessitous, are still remembered with grati- 
 tude ; and so endeared the family to the neighbourhood, that its 
 removal was regarded as a general misfortune. The simple and 
 affecting language in which some old men expressed themselves 
 on this subject, in conversing with the present minister, deserves 
 to be recorded. " We fought against Dr. Reid when he came, 
 and would have fought for him when he went away." 
 
 In some notes relative to the earlier part of his history, which 
 have been kindly communicated to me by the Reverend Mr. 
 Davidson, minister of Rayne, it is mentioned as a proof of his 
 uncommon modesty and diffidence, that long after he became 
 minister of New-Machar, he was accustomed, from a distrust in 
 his own powers, to preach the sermons of Dr. Tillotson and of 
 Dr. Evans. I have heard also, through other channels, that he 
 had neglected the practice of composition to a more than ordinary 
 
 * The Reverend William Stronach. 
 
3 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 degree, in the earlier part of his studies. The fact is curious, 
 when contrasted with that ease, perspicuity, and purity of style, 
 which he afterwards attained. From some information, however, 
 which has been lately transmitted to me by one of his nearest 
 relations, I have reason to believe, that the number of original 
 discourses which he wrote, while a country clergyman, was not 
 inconsiderable. 
 
 The satisfaction of his own mind was probably, at this period, 
 a more powerful incentive to his philosophical researches, than 
 the hope of being able to instruct the world as an author. But, 
 whatever his views were, one thing is certain, that during his 
 residence at New-Machar, the greater part of his time was spent 
 in the most intense study ; more particularly in a careful examina- 
 tion of the laws of external perception, and of the other prin- 
 ples which form the groundwork of human knowledge. His 
 chief relaxations were gardening and botany, to both of which 
 pursuits he retained his attachment even in old age. 
 
 A paper which he published in the Philosophical Transactions 
 of the Royal Society of London, for the year 1748, affords some 
 light with respect to the progress of his speculations about this 
 period. It is entitled, " An Essay on Quantity, occasioned by 
 reading a Treatise, in which Simple and Compound Ratios are 
 applied to Virtue and Merit ;" and shows plainly, by its contents, 
 that, although he had not yet entirely relinquished the favourite 
 researches of his youth, he was beginning to direct his thoughts 
 to other objects. 
 
 The treatise alluded to in the title of this paper, was manifestly 
 the "Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue," 
 by Dr. Hutcheson of Glasgow. According to this very ingenious 
 writer, the moment of public good produced by an individual, 
 depending partly on his benevolence, and partly on his ability, 
 the relation between these different moral ideas may be expressed 
 in the technical form of algebraists, by saying, that the first is in 
 the compound proportion of the two others. Hence, Dr. Hutche- 
 son infers, that " the benevolence of an agent (which in this 
 system is synonymous with his moral merit) is proportional to a 
 fraction, having the moment of good for the numerator, and the 
 ability of the agent for the denominator." Various other exam- 
 ples of a similar nature occur in the same work ; and are stated 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. Q 
 
 with a gravity not altogether worthy of the author. It is pro- 
 bable, that they were intended merely as illustrations of his 
 general reasonings, not as media of investigation for the discovery 
 of new conclusions ; but they appeared to Dr. Reid to be an 
 innovation which it was of importance to resist, on account of 
 the tendency it might have (by confounding the evidence of dif- 
 ferent branches of science) to retard the progress of knowledge. 
 The very high reputation which Dr. Hutcheson then possessed 
 in the universities of Scotland, added to the recent attempts of 
 Pitcairn and Cheyne to apply mathematical reasoning to medi- 
 cine, would bestow, it is likely, an interest on Dr. Reid's Essay 
 at the time of its publication, which it can scarcely be expected 
 to possess at present. Many of the observations, however, which 
 it contains, are acute and original; and all of them are expressed 
 with that clearness and precision, so conspicuous in his subse- 
 quent compositions. The circumstance which renders a subject 
 susceptible of mathematical consideration, is accurately stated ; 
 and the proper province of that science defined in such a manner, 
 as sufficiently to expose the absurdity of those abuses of its 
 technical phraseology which were at that time prevalent. From 
 some passages in it, there is, I think, ground for concluding, that 
 the author's reading had not been very extensive previous to 
 this period. The enumeration, in particular, which he has given 
 of the different kinds of proper quantity, affords a proof, that he 
 was not acquainted with the refined yet sound disquisitions con- 
 cerning the nature of number and of proportion, which had 
 appeared almost a century before, in the " Mathematical Lec- 
 tures" of Dr. Barrow ; nor with the remarks on the same subject 
 introduced by Dr. Clarke in one of his controversial letters 
 addressed to Leibnitz. 
 
 In the same paper, Dr. Reid takes occasion to offer some re- 
 flections on the dispute between the Newtonians and Leibnitzians 
 concerning the measure of forces. The fundamental idea on 
 which these reflections proceed, is just and important ; and it 
 leads to the correction of an error, committed very generally by 
 the partizans of both opinions ; that, of mistaking a question 
 concerning the comparative advantages of two definitions, for a 
 difference of statement with respect to a physical fact. It must, 
 I think, be acknowledged, at the same time, that the whole merits 
 
1Q ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 of the controversy are not here exhausted ; and that the honour 
 of placing this very subtle and abstruse question in a point of 
 view calculated to reconcile completely the contending parties, 
 was reserved for M. D'Alembert. To have fallen short of the 
 success which attended the inquiries of that eminent man, on a 
 subject so congenial to his favourite habits of study, will not 
 reflect any discredit on the powers of Dr. Reid's mind, in the 
 judgment of those who are at all acquainted with the history of 
 this celebrated discussion. 
 
 In 1752, the professors of King's College elected Dr. Reid 
 Professor of Philosophy, in testimony of the high opinion they 
 had formed of his learning and abilities. Of the particular plan 
 which he followed in his academical lectures, while he held this 
 office, I have not been able to obtain any satisfactory account ; 
 but the department of science which was assigned to him by the 
 general system of education in that university, was abundantly 
 extensive ; comprehending mathematics and physics, as well as 
 logic and ethics. A similar system was pursued formerly in the 
 other universities of Scotland ; the same professor then conduct- 
 ing his pupils through all those branches of knowledge which 
 are now appropriated to different teachers. And where he hap- 
 pened fortunately to possess those various accomplishments 
 which distinguished Dr. Reid in so remarkable a degree, it can- 
 not be doubted that the unity and comprehensiveness of method, 
 of which such academical courses admitted, must necessarily 
 have possessed important advantages over that more minute sub- 
 division of literary labour which has since been introduced. 
 But as public establishments ought to adapt themselves to what 
 is ordinary, rather than to what is possible, it is not surprising, 
 that experience should have gradually suggested an arrangement 
 more suitable to the narrow limits which commonly circumscribe 
 human genius. 
 
 Soon after Dr. Reid's removal to Aberdeen, he projected (in 
 conjunction with his friend Dr. John Gregory) a literary society, 
 which subsisted for many years, and which seems to have had 
 the happiest effects in awakening and directing that spirit of 
 philosophical research, which has since reflected so much lustre 
 on the north of Scotland. The meetings of this society were 
 held weekly ; and afforded the members (beside the advantages 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. J J 
 
 to be derived from a mutual communication of their sentiments 
 on the common objects of their pursuit) an opportunity of sub- 
 jecting their intended publications to the test of friendly criticism. 
 The number of valuable works which issued nearly about the 
 same time, from individuals connected with this institution, 
 more particularly the writings of Reid, Gregory, Campbell, 
 Beattie, and Gerard, furnish the best panegyric on the en- 
 lightened views of those under whose direction it was originally 
 formed. 
 
 Among these works, the most original and profound was, un- 
 questionably, the " Inquiry into the Human Mind," published 
 by Dr. Reid in 1764. The plan appears to have been conceived, 
 and the subject deeply meditated, by the author long before ; 
 but it is doubtful whether his modesty would have ever per- 
 mitted him to present to the world the fruits of his solitary 
 studies, without the encouragement which he received from the 
 general acquiescence of his associates, in the most important 
 conclusions to which he had been led. 
 
 From a passage in the dedication, it would seem that the 
 speculations which terminated in these conclusions had com- 
 menced as early as the year 1739 ; at which period the publica- 
 tion of Mr. Hume's " Treatise of Human Nature" induced him, 
 for the first time, as he himself informs us, " to call in question 
 the principles commonly received with regard to the human 
 understanding." In his " Essays on the Intellectual Powers," 
 he acknowledges, that, in his youth he had, without examination, 
 admitted the established opinions on which Mr. Hume's system 
 of scepticism was raised ; and that it was the consequences which 
 these opinions seemed to involve, which roused his suspicions 
 concerning their truth. " If I may presume," says he, " to 
 speak my own sentiments, I once believed the doctrine of ideas 
 so firmly, as to embrace the whole of Berkeley's system along 
 with it ; till finding other consequences to follow from it, which 
 gave me more uneasiness than the want of a material world, it 
 came into my mind more than forty years ago, to put the ques- 
 tion, What evidence have I for this doctrine, that all the objects 
 of my knowledge are ideas in my own mind ? From that time 
 to the present, I have been candidly and impartially, as I think, 
 
12 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 seeking for the evidence of this principle ; but can find none, 
 excepting the authority of philosophers." 
 
 In following the train of Dr. Reid's researches, this last 
 extract merits attention, as it contains an explicit avowal, on his 
 own part, that, at one period of his life, he had been led, by 
 Berkeley's reasonings, to abandon the belief of the existence of 
 matter. The avowal does honour to his candour, and the fact 
 reflects no discredit on his sagacity. The truth is, that this 
 article of the Berkleian system, however contrary to the conclu- 
 sions of a sounder philosophy, was the error of no common mind. 
 Considered in contrast with that theory of materialism which 
 the excellent author was anxious to supplant, it possessed im- 
 portant advantages, not only in its tendency, but in its scientific 
 consistency ; and it afforded a pi oof, wherever it met with a 
 favourable reception, of an understanding superior to those 
 casual associations, which, in the apprehensions of most men, 
 blend indissolubly the phenomena of thought with the objects 
 of external perception. It is recorded as a saying of M. Turgot, 
 (whose philosophical opinions in some important points ap- 
 proached very nearly to those of Dr. Reid,*) that " he who had 
 never doubted of the existence of matter, might be assured he 
 had no turn for metaphysical disquisitions." 
 
 As the refutation of Mr. Hume's sceptical theory was the 
 great and professed object of Dr. Reid's " Inquiry," he was 
 anxious, before taking the field as a controversial writer, to 
 guard against the danger of misapprehending or misrepresenting 
 the meaning of his adversary, by submitting his reasonings to 
 Mr. Hume's private examination. With this view, he availed 
 himself of the good offices of Dr. Blair, with whom both he and 
 Mr. Hume had long lived in habits of friendship. The com- 
 munications which he at first transmitted, consisted only of 
 detached parts of the work ; and appear evidently, from a cor- 
 respondence which I have perused, to have conveyed a very 
 imperfect idea of his general system. In one of Mr. Hume's 
 letters to Dr. Blair, he betrays some want of his usual good 
 humour, in looking forward to his new antagonist. " I wish," 
 says he, " that the parsons would confine themselves to their old 
 
 * See, in particular, the article "Existence," in the Encyclopedie, 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. ] o 
 
 occupation of worrying one another, and leave philosophers to 
 argue with temper, moderation, and good manners." After Mr. 
 Hume, however, had read the manuscript, he addressed himself 
 directly to the author, in terms so candid and liberal, that it 
 would be unjust to his memory to withhold from the public so 
 pleasing a memorial of his character. 
 
 " By Dr. Blair's means, I have been favoured with the perusal 
 of your performance, which I have read with great pleasure and 
 attention. It is certainly very rare, that a piece so deeply 
 philosophical is wrote with so much spirit, and affords so much 
 entertainment to the reader ; though I must still regret the 
 disadvantages under which I read it, as I never had the whole 
 performance at once before me, and could not be able fully to 
 compare one part with another. To this reason, chiefly, I 
 ascribe some obscurities, which, in spite of your short analysis 
 or abstract, still seem to hang over your system. For I must 
 do you the justice to own, that when I enter into your ideas, 
 no man appears to express himself with greater perspicuity than 
 you do; a talent which, above all others, is requisite in that 
 species of literature which you have cultivated. There are some 
 objections which I would willingly propose to the chapter, ' Of 
 Sight,' did I not suspect that they proceed from my not suffi- 
 ciently understanding it ; and I am the more confirmed in this 
 suspicion, as Dr. Blair tells me, that the former objections I 
 made had been derived chiefly from that cause. I shall there- 
 fore forbear till the whole can be before me, and shall not at 
 present propose any farther difficulties to your reasonings. I 
 shall only say, that if you have been able to clear up these 
 abstruse and important subjects, instead of being mortified, I 
 shall be so vain as to pretend to a share of the praise ; and shall 
 think, that my errors, by having at least some coherence, had led 
 you to make a more strict review of my principles, which were 
 the common ones, and to perceive their futility. 
 
 " As I was desirous to be of some use to you, I kept a watch- 
 ful eye all along over your style; but it is really so correct, 
 and so good English, that I found not any thing worth the 
 remarking. There is only one passage in this chapter, where 
 you make use of the phrase hinder to do, instead of hinder from 
 doing, which is the English one ; but I could not find the pas- 
 
14 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 sage when I sought for it. You may judge how unexception- 
 able the whole appeared to me, when I could remark so small a 
 blemish. I beg my compliments to my friendly adversaries, Dr. 
 Campbell and Dr. Gerard ; and also to Dr. Gregory, whom I 
 suspect to be of the same disposition, though he has not openly 
 declared himself such." — 
 
 Of the particular doctrines contained in Dr. Reid's " Inquiry," 
 I do not think it necessary here to attempt any abstract ; nor 
 indeed do his speculations (conducted as they were in strict 
 conformity to the rules of inductive philosophizing) afford a 
 subject for the same species of rapid outline, which is so useful 
 in facilitating the study of a merely hypothetical theory. Their 
 great object was to record and to classify the phenomena which 
 the operations of the human mind present to those who reflect 
 carefully on the subjects of their consciousness ; and of such a 
 history, it is manifest, that no abridgment could be offered with 
 advantage. Some reflections on the peculiar plan adopted by 
 the author, and on the general scope of his researches in this 
 department of science, will afterwards find a more convenient 
 place, when T shall have finished my account of his subsequent 
 publications. 
 
 The idea of prosecuting the study of the human mind, on a 
 plan analogous to that which had been so successively adopted 
 in physics by the followers of Lord Bacon, if not first con- 
 ceived by Dr. Reid, was at least first carried successfully into 
 execution in his writings. An attempt had long before been 
 announced by Mr. Hume, in the title-page of his " Treatise of 
 Human Nature," to introduce the experimental method of rea- 
 soning into moral subjects ; and some admirable remarks are made 
 in the introduction to that work, on the errors into which his 
 predecessors had been betrayed by the spirit of hypothesis ; and 
 yet it is now very generally admitted, that the whole of his own 
 system rests on a principle for which there is no evidence but 
 the authority of philosophers ; and it is certain, that in no part 
 of it has he aimed to investigate by a systematical analysis, those 
 general principles of our constitution which can alone afford a 
 synthetical explanation of its complicated phenomena. 
 
 I have often been disposed to think, that Mr. Hume's inatten- 
 tion to those rules of philosophizing which it was his professed, 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. J 5 
 
 intention to exemplify, was owing in part to some indistinctness 
 in his notions concerning their import. It does not appear, 
 that, in the earlier part of his studies, he had paid much atten- 
 tion to the models of investigation exhibited in the writings of 
 Newton and of his successors ; and that he was by no means 
 aware of the extraordinary merits of Bacon as a philosopher, 
 nor of the influence which his writings have had on the subse- 
 quent progress of physical discovery, is demonstrated by the 
 cold and qualified encomium which is bestowed on his genius, 
 in one of the most elaborate passages of the " History of 
 England." 
 
 In these respects, Dr. Reid possessed important advantages ; 
 familiarized from his early years to those experimental inquiries 
 which, in the course of the two last centuries, have exalted 
 natural philosophy to the dignity of a science ; and determined 
 strongly, by the peculiar bent of his genius, to connect every 
 step in the progress of discovery with the history of the human 
 mind. The influence of the general views opened in the " No- 
 vum Organon," may be traced in almost every page of his 
 writings ; and indeed, the circumstance by which these are so 
 strongly and characteristically distinguished, is, that they exhibit 
 the first systematical attempt to exemplify, in the study of human 
 nature, the same plan of investigation which conducted Newton 
 to the properties of light, and to the law of gravitation. It is 
 from a steady adherence to this plan, and not from the supe- 
 riority of his inventive powers, that he claims to himself any 
 merit as a philosopher ; and he seems even willing (with a 
 modesty approaching to a fault) to abandon the praise of what is 
 commonly called genius, to the authors of the systems which he 
 was anxious to refute. " It is genius," he observes in one pas- 
 sage, " and not the want of it, that adulterates philosophy, and 
 fills it with error and false theory. A creative imagination 
 disdains the mean offices of digging for a foundation, of remov- 
 ing rubbish, and carrying materials: leaving these servile em- 
 ployments to the drudges of science, it plans a design, and raises 
 a fabric. Invention supplies materials where they are wanting, 
 and fancy adds colouring and every befitting ornament. The 
 work pleases the eye, and wants nothing but solidity and a good 
 foundation. It seems even to vie with the works of nature, till 
 
IQ ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 some succeeding architect blows it into ruins, and builds as 
 goodly a fabric of his own in its place." 
 
 " Success in an inquiry of this kind," he observes farther, 
 " it is not in human power to command ; but perhaps it is pos- 
 sible, by caution and humility, to avoid error and delusion. The 
 labyrinth may be too intricate, and the thread too fine, to be 
 traced through all its windings ; but, if we stop where we can 
 trace it no farther, and secure the ground we have gained, there 
 is no harm done ; a quicker eye may in time trace it farther." 
 
 The unassuming language with which Dr. Reid endeavours 
 to remove the prejudices naturally excited by a new attempt to 
 philosophize on so unpromising, and hitherto so ungrateful a 
 subject, recalls to our recollection those passages in which Lord 
 Bacon — filled as his own imagination was with the future gran- 
 deur of the fabric founded by his hand — bespeaks the indulgence 
 of his readers, for an enterprise apparently so hopeless and pre- 
 sumptuous. The apology he offers for himself, when compared 
 with the height to which the structure of physical knowledge has 
 since attained, may perhaps have some effect in attracting a more 
 general attention to pursuits still more immediately interesting 
 to mankind ; and, at any rate, it forms the best comment on the 
 prophetic suggestions in which Dr. Reid occasionally indulges 
 himself concerning the future progress of moral speculation. 
 
 " Si homines per tanta amiorum spatia viam verarn inveniendi 
 et colendi scientias tenuissent, nee tamen ulterius progredi potu- 
 issent, audax procul dubio et temeraria foret opinio, posse rem 
 in ulterius provehi. Quod si in via ipsa erratum sit, atque homi- 
 num opera in iis consumpta in quibus minime oportebat, sequitur 
 ex eo, non in rebus ipsis difficultatem oriri, quae potestatis nos- 
 tras non sunt ; sed in intellectu humano, ej usque usu et applica- 
 tione, quae res remedium et medicinam suscipit." * . . . " De 
 nobis ipsis silemus : de re autem quae agitur, petimus ; ut homi- 
 nes earn non opinionem, sed opus esse cogitent ; ac pro certo 
 habeant, non sectae nos alicujus, aut placiti, sed utilitatis et 
 amplitudinis humanae fundamenta moliri. Praeterea, ut bene 
 sperent ; neque Instaurationem nostram ut quiddam infinitum et 
 ultra mortale fingant, et animo concipiant ; quum revera sit 
 infiniti erroris finis et terminus legitimus."f 
 
 * Nov. Org. 94. f Instaur. Mag. — Praefat. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. \f 
 
 The impression produced on the minds of speculative men by 
 the publication of Dr. Reid's " Inquiry," was fully as great as 
 could be expected from the nature of his undertaking. It was 
 a work neither addressed to the multitude, nor level to their 
 comprehension ; and the freedom with which it canvassed opin- 
 ions sanctioned by the highest authorities, was ill calculated to 
 conciliate the favour of the learned. A few, however, habituated, 
 like the author, to the analytical researches of the Newtonian 
 school, soon perceived the extent of his views, and recognised in 
 his pages the genuine spirit and language of inductive investiga- 
 tion. Among the members of this university, Mr. Ferguson was 
 the first to applaud Dr. Reid's success ; warmly recommending 
 to his pupils a steady prosecution of the same plan, as the only 
 effectual method of ascertaining the general principles of the 
 human frame ; and illustrating happily, by his own profound and 
 eloquent disquisitions, the application of such studies, to the 
 conduct of the understanding, and to the great concerns of life. 
 I recollect, too, when I attended (about the year 1771) the lec- 
 '• tures of the late Mr. Russell, to have heard high encomiums on\ 
 the philosophy of Reid, in the course of those comprehensive 
 discussions concerning the objects and the rules of experimental 
 science, with which he so agreeably diversified the particular 
 doctrines of physics. Nor must I omit this opportunity of pay- 
 ing a tribute to the memory of my old friend, Mr. Stevenson, 
 then professor of logic, whose candid mind, at the age of 
 seventy, gave a welcome reception to a system subversive of the 
 theories which he had taught for forty years ; and whose zeal for 
 the advancement of knowledge prompted him, when his career 
 was ahnost finished, to undertake the laborious task of new- 
 modelhng that useful compilation of elementary instruction, to 
 which a singular diffidence of his own powers limited his literary 
 exertions. 
 
 It is with no common feelings of respect and of gratitude, 
 that I now recall the names of those to whom I owe my first 
 attachment to these studies, and the happiness of a liberal 
 occupation superior to the more aspiring aims of a servile 
 ambition. 
 
 From the University of Glasgow, Dr. Reid's " Inquiry " re- 
 ceived a still more substantial testimony of approbation ; the 
 
 c 
 
IS ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 author having been invited, in 1763, by that learned body, to 
 the professorship of moral philosophy, then vacant by the resig- 
 nation of Mr. Smith. The preferment was in many respects 
 advantageous ; affording an income considerably greater than he 
 enjoyed at Aberdeen ; and enabling him to concentrate to his 
 favourite objects that attention which had been hitherto dis- 
 tracted by the miscellaneous nature of his academical engage- 
 ments. It was not, however, without reluctance, that he con- 
 sented to tear himself from a spot where he had so long been 
 fastening his roots ; and, much as he loved the society in which 
 he passed the remainder of his days, I am doubtful if, in his 
 mind, it compensated the sacrifice of earlier habits and con- 
 nexions. 
 
 Abstracting from the charm of local attachment, the Univer- 
 sity of Glasgow, at the time when Dr. Reid was adopted as one 
 of its members, presented strong attractions to reconcile him to 
 his change of situation. Robert Simson, the great restorer of 
 ancient geometry, was still alive ; and, although far advanced in 
 years, preserved unimpaired his ardour in study, his relish for 
 social relaxation, and his amusing singularities of humour. Dr. 
 Moor combined with a gaiety and a levity foreign to this climate, 
 the profound attainments of a scholar and of a mathematician. 
 In Dr. Black, to whose fortunate genius a new world of science 
 had just opened, Reid acknowledged an instructor and a guide ; 
 and met a simplicity of manners congenial to his own. The 
 Wilsons (both father and son) were formed to attach his heart by 
 the similarity of their scientific pursuits, and an entire sympathy 
 with his views and sentiments. Nor was he less delighted with 
 the good-humoured opposition which his opinions never failed to 
 encounter in the acuteness of Millar, — then in the vigour of 
 youthful genius, and warm from the lessons of a different school. 
 Dr. Leechman, the friend and biographer of Hutcheson, was the 
 official head of the college ; and added the weight of a venerable 
 name to the reputation of a community, which he had once 
 adorned in a more active station.* 
 
 • James Moor, LL.D., author of a very ingenious fragment on Greek gram- 
 mar, and of other philological essays. He was also distinguished by a pro- 
 found acquaintance with ancient geometry. Dr. Simson, an excellent judge of 
 his merits both in literature and science, has somewhere honoured him with 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. ] 9 
 
 Animated by the zeal of such, associates, and by the busy 
 scenes which his new residence presented in every department of 
 useful industry, Dr. Reid entered on his functions at Glasgow, 
 with an ardour not common at the period of life which he had 
 now attained. His researches concerning the human mind, and 
 the principles of morals, which had occupied but an inconsider- 
 able space in the wide circle of science, allotted to him by his 
 former office, were extended and methodized in a course, which 
 employed five hours every week, during six months of the year : 
 the example of his illustrious predecessor, and the prevailing 
 topics of conversation around him, occasionally turned his thoughts 
 to commercial politics, and produced some ingenious essays on 
 different questions connected with trade, which were communi- 
 cated to a private society of his academical friends : his early 
 passion for the mathematical sciences was revived by the conver- 
 sation of Simson, Moor, and the Wilsons ; and, at the age of 
 fifty -five, he attended the lectures of Black, with a juvenile 
 curiosity and enthusiasm. 
 
 As the substance of Dr. Reid's lectures at Glasgow (at least of 
 that part of them which was most important and original) has 
 been since given to the public in a more improved form, it is 
 unnecessary for me to enlarge on the plan which he followed in 
 the discharge of his official duties. I shall therefore only observe, 
 that beside his " Speculations on the Intellectual and Active 
 Powers of Man," and a " System of Practical Ethics," his course 
 comprehended some general views with respect to natural juris- 
 prudence, and the fundamental principles of politics. A few 
 lectures on rhetoric, which were read, at a separate hour, to a 
 more advanced class of students, formed a voluntary addition to 
 the appropriate functions of his office, to which, it is probable, 
 he was prompted, rather by a wish to supply what was then a 
 deficiency in the established course of education, than by any 
 predilection for a branch of study so foreign to his ordinary 
 pursuits. 
 
 the following encomium : " Turn in Mathesi, turn in Grsecis Uteris multum 
 et feliciter versatus." 
 
 Alexander Wilson, M. D., and Patrick Wilson, Esq. ; well known over 
 Europe by their " Observations on the Solar Spots j" and many other valuable 
 memoirs. 
 
 c2 
 
20 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 The merits of Dr. Reid, as a public teacher, were derived 
 chiefly from that rich fund of original and instructive philosophy 
 which is to be found in his writings ; and from his unwearied 
 assiduity in inculcating principles which he conceived to be of 
 essential importance to human happiness. In his elocution and 
 mode of instruction, there was nothing peculiarly attractive. He 
 seldom, if ever, indulged himself in the warmth of extempore 
 discourse ; nor was his manner of reading calculated to increase 
 the effect of what he had committed to writing. Such, however, 
 was the simplicity and perspicuity of his style ; such the gravity 
 and authority of his character ; and such the general interest of 
 his young hearers in the doctrines which he taught, that by the 
 numerous audiences to which his instructions were addressed, he 
 was heard uniformly with the most silent and respectful atten- 
 tion. On this subject, I speak from personal knowledge ; having 
 had the good fortune, during a considerable part of the winter 
 of 1772, to be one of his pupils. 
 
 It does not appear to me, from what I am now able to recol- 
 lect of the order which he observed in treating the different parts 
 of his subject, that he had laid much stress on systematical 
 arrangement. It is probable, that he availed himself of whatever 
 materials his private inquiries afforded, for his academical com- 
 positions ; without aiming at the merit of combining- them into 
 a whole, by a comprehensive and regular design ; — an under- 
 taking, to which, if I am not mistaken, the established forms of 
 his university, consecrated by long custom, would have presented 
 some obstacles. One thing is certain, that neither he nor his 
 immediate predecessor ever published any general prospectus of 
 their respective plans ; nor any heads or outlines to assist their 
 students in tracing the trains of thought which suggested their 
 various transitions. 
 
 The interest, however, excited by such details as these, even 
 if it were in my power to render them more full and satisfactory, 
 must necessarily be temporary and local ; and I therefore hasten 
 to observations of a more general nature, on the distinguishing 
 characteristics of Dr. Reid's philosophical genius, and on the 
 spirit and scope of those researches which he has bequeathed to 
 posterity, concerning the phenomena and laws of the human 
 mind. In mentioning his first performance on this subject,' I 
 
OF THOMAS RE1P, D.D. Q\ 
 
 have already anticipated a few remarks which are equally appli- 
 cable to his subsequent publications ; but the hints then sug- 
 gested were too slight, to place in so strong a light as I could 
 wish, the peculiarities of that mode of investigation, which it was 
 the great object of his writings to recommend and to exemplify. 
 His own anxiety, to neglect nothing that might contribute to its 
 farther illustration, induced him, while his health and faculties 
 were yet entire, to withdraw from his public labours ; and to 
 devote himself, with an undivided attention, to a task of more 
 extensive and permanent utility. It was in the year 1781, that 
 he carried this design into execution, at a period of life (for he 
 was then upwards of seventy) when the infirmities of age might 
 be supposed to account sufficiently for his retreat ; but when, in 
 fact, neither the vigour of his mind nor of his body seemed to 
 have suffered any injury from time. The works which he pub- 
 lished not many years afterwards, afford a sufficient proof of the 
 assiduity with which he had availed himself of his literary leisure ; 
 his "Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man" appearing in 
 1785; and those on the " Active Powers" in 1788. 
 
 As these two performances are, both of them, parts of one 
 great work, to which his " Inquiry into the Human Mind" may 
 be regarded as the introduction, I have reserved for this place 
 whatever critical reflections I have to offer on his merits as an 
 author; conceiving that they would be more likely to produce 
 their intended effect, when presented at once in a connected 
 form, than if interspersed, according to a chronological order, 
 with the details of a biographical narrative. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON THE SPIRIT AND SCOPE OF DR. REID'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 I have already observed, that the distinguishing feature of 
 Dr. Reid's philosophy, is the systematical steadiness, with which 
 he has adhered in his inquiries, to that plan of investigation 
 which is delineated in the " Novum Organon," and which has 
 been so happily exemplified in physics by Sir Isaac Newton and 
 his followers. To recommend this plan as the only effectual 
 method of enlarging our knowledge of nature, was the favourite 
 
22 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 aim of all his studies, and a topic on which he thought he could 
 not enlarge too much, in conversing or corresponding with his 
 younger friends. In a letter to Dr. Gregory, which I have 
 perused, he particularly congratulates him, upon his acquaintance 
 w T ith Lord Bacon's works ; adding, " I am very apt to measure a 
 man's understanding, by the opinion he entertains of that author." 
 
 It were perhaps to be wished, that he had taken a little more 
 pains to illustrate the fundamental rules of that logic, the value 
 of which he estimated so highly ; more especially, to point out 
 the modifications with which it is applicable to the science of 
 mind. Many important hints, indeed, connected with this sub- 
 ject, may be collected from different parts of his writings ; but I 
 am inclined to think, that a more ample discussion of it in a pre- 
 liminary dissertation, might have thrown light on the scope of 
 many of his researches, and obviated some of the most plausible 
 objections which have been stated to his conclusions. 
 
 It is not, however, my intention at present, to attempt to sup- 
 ply a desideratum of so great a magnitude ; — an undertaking 
 which, I trust, will find a more convenient place, in the farther 
 prosecution of those speculations with respect to the intellectual 
 powers which I have already submitted to the public. The 
 detached remarks which follow, are offered merely as a supple- 
 ment to what I have stated concerning the nature and object of 
 this branch of study, in the introduction to the " Philosophy of 
 the Human Mind." 
 
 - The influence of Bacon's genius on the subsequent progress 
 of physical discovery, has been seldom fairly appreciated ; by 
 some writers almost entirely overlooked ; and by others consi- 
 dered as the sole cause of the reformation in science which has 
 since taken place. Of these two extremes, the latter certainly 
 is the least wide of the truth ; for, in the whole history of let- 
 ters, no other individual can be mentioned whose exertions have 
 had so indisputable an effect in forwarding the intellectual pro- 
 gress of mankind. On the other hand, it must be acknowledged, 
 that before the era when Bacon appeared, various philosophers 
 in different parts of Europe had struck into the right path ; and 
 it may perhaps be doubted, whether any one important rule with 
 respect to the true method of investigation be contained in his 
 works, of which no hint can be traced in those of his predeces- 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 23 
 
 sors. His great merit lay in concentrating their feeble and scat- 
 tered lights ; fixing the attention of philosophers on the distin- 
 guishing characteristics of true and of false science, by a felicity 
 of illustration peculiar to himself, seconded by the commanding 
 powers of a bold and figurative eloquence. The method of in- 
 vestigation which he recommended had been previously followed 
 in every instance in which any solid discovery had been made 
 with respect to the laws of nature ; but it had been followed 
 accidentally, and without any regular, preconceived design ; and 
 it was reserved for him to reduce to rule and method what others 
 had effected, either fortuitously, or from some momentary glimpse 
 of the truth. It is justly observed by Dr. Reid, that " the man 
 who first discovered that cold freezes water, and that heat turns 
 it into vapour, proceeded on the same general principle by which 
 Newton discovered the law of gravitation and the properties of 
 light. His l Regulae Philosophandi ' are maxims of common 
 sense, and are practised every day in common life ; and he who 
 philosophizes by other rules, either concerning the material sys- 
 tem or concerning the mind, mistakes his aim." 
 
 These remarks are not intended to detract from the just glory 
 of Bacon ; for they apply to all those, without exception, who 
 have systematized the principles of any of the arts. Indeed, 
 they apply less forcibly to him than to any other philosopher 
 whose studies. have been directed to objects analogous to his; 
 inasmuch as we know of no art, of which the rules have been 
 reduced successfully into a didactic form, when the art itself was 
 as much in infancy as experimental philosophy was when Bacon 
 wrote. Nor must it be supposed that the utility was small of 
 thus attempting to systematize the accidental processes of unen- 
 lightened ingenuity, and to give to the noblest exertions of hu- 
 man reason the same advantages of scientific method which have 
 contributed so much to ensure the success of genius in pursuits 
 of inferior importance. The very philosophical motto which 
 Reynolds has so happily prefixed to his " Academical Discourses," 
 admits, on this occasion, of a still more appropriate application : 
 " Omnia fere quae praeceptis continentur ab ingeniosis hominibus 
 fiunt ; sed casu quodam magis quam scientia. Ideoque doctrina 
 et animadversio adhibenda est, ut ea quae interdum sine ratione 
 nobis occurrunt, semper in nostra potestate sint ; et quoties res 
 
24 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 postulaverit, a nobis ex prgeparato adhibeantur." — Almost all 
 things set forth in precepts are produced by men of high intel- 
 lectual powers ; but it is rather by chance than through science. 
 Wherefore learning and attention should be applied that we may 
 have command even over those things which occur sometimes to 
 us without reasoning; so that we may be prepared to make use 
 of them when necessary. 
 
 But although a few superior minds seem to have been in some 
 measure predisposed for that revolution in science which Bacon 
 contributed so powerfully to accomplish, the case was very dif- 
 ferent with the great majority of those who were then most dis- 
 tinguished for learning and talents. His views were plainly too 
 advanced for the age in which he lived ; and, that he was sen- 
 sible of this himself, appears from those remarkable passages in 
 which he styles himself "the servant of posterity," and "be- 
 queaths his fame to future times." Hobbes, who in his early 
 youth had enjoyed his friendship, speaks, a considerable time 
 after Bacon's death, of experimental philosophy in terms of con- 
 tempt ; influenced probably, not a little, by the tendency he 
 perceived in the inductive method of inquiry, to undermine the 
 foundations of that fabric of scepticism which it was the great 
 object of his labours to rear. Nay, even during the course of 
 the last century, it has been less from Bacon's own speculations 
 than from the examples of sound investigation exhibited by a 
 few eminent men, who professed to follow him as their guide, 
 that the practical spirit of his writings has been caught by the 
 multitude of physical experimentalists over Europe ; truth and 
 good sense descending gradually, in this as in other instances, by 
 the force of imitation and of early habit, from the higher orders 
 of intellect to the lower. In some parts of the continent, more 
 especially, the circulation of Bacon's philosophical works has 
 been surprisingly slow. It is doubtful whether Des Cartes him- 
 self ever perused them ; and, as late as the year 1759, if we may 
 credit Montucla, they were very little known in France. The 
 introductory discourse prefixed by D'Alembert to the " Ency- 
 clopedic," first recommended them in that country to general 
 attention. 
 
 The change which has taken place during the two last centu- 
 ries in the plan of physical research, and the success which has 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 25 
 
 so remarkably attended it, could not fail to suggest an idea, that 
 something analogous might probably be accomplished at a future 
 period, with respect to the phenomena of the intellectual world. 
 And accordingly, various hints of this kind may be traced in 
 different authors, since the era of Newton's discoveries. A me- 
 morable instance occurs in the prediction with which that great 
 man concludes his " Optics : " — " That if natural philosophy in 
 all its parts, by pursuing the inductive method, shall at length be 
 perfected, the bounds of moral philosophy will also be enlarged." 
 Similar remarks may be found in other publications ; particularly 
 in Mr. Hume's " Treatise of Human Nature," where the subject 
 is enlarged on with much ingenuity. As far, however, as I am 
 able to judge, Dr. Reid was the first who conceived justly and 
 clearly the analogy between these two different branches of hu- 
 man knowledge, defining with precision the distinct provinces of 
 observation and of reflection, in furnishing the data of all our 
 reasonings concerning matter and mind ; and demonstrating the 
 necessity of a careful separation between the phenomena which 
 they respectively exhibit, while we adhere to the same mode of 
 philosophizing in investigating the laws of both. 
 
 That so many philosophers should have thus missed their aim, 
 in prosecuting the study of the human mind, will appear the less 
 surprising, when we consider in how many difficulties, peculiar 
 to itself, this science is involved. It is sufficient at present to 
 mention those which arise, — from the metaphorical origin of all 
 the words which express the intellectual phenomena, — from the 
 subtle and fugitive nature of the objects of our reasonings, — from 
 the habits of inattention we acquire in early life, to the subjects 
 of our consciousness, — and from the prejudices which early im- 
 pressions and associations create to warp our opinions. It must 
 be remembered, too, that in the science of mind (so imperfectly 
 are its logical rules as yet understood) we have not the same 
 checks on the abuses of our reasoning powers, which serve to 
 guard us against error in our other researches. In physics, a 
 speculative mistake is abandoned when contradicted by facts which 
 strike the senses. In mathematics, an absurd or inconsistent 
 conclusion is admitted as a demonstrative proof of a faulty hypo- 
 thesis. But, in those inquiries which relate to the principles of 
 human nature, the absurdities and inconsistencies to which we 
 are led by almost all the systems hitherto proposed, instead of 
 
2Q ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 suggesting corrections and improvements on these systems, have 
 too frequently had the effect of producing scepticism with re- 
 spect to all of them alike. How melancholy is the confession of 
 Hume ! — " The intense view of these manifold contradictions 
 and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me and 
 heated my brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reason- 
 ing, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or 
 likely than another." 
 
 Under these discouragements to this branch of study, it affords 
 us some comfort to reflect on the great number of important 
 facts with respect to the mind which are scattered in the writings 
 of philosophers. As the subject of our inquiry here lies within 
 our own breast, a considerable mixture of truth may be expected 
 even in those systems which are most erroneous ; not only be- 
 cause a number of men can scarcely be long imposed on by an 
 hypothesis which is perfectly groundless, concerning the objects 
 of their own consciousness ; but because it is generally by an 
 alliance with truth and with the original principles of human 
 nature, that prejudices and associations produce their effects. 
 Perhaps it may even be affirmed, that our progress in this re- 
 search depends less on the degree of our industry and invention 
 than on our sagacity and good sense in separating old discoveries 
 from the errors which have been blended with them ; and on 
 that candid and dispassionate temper that may prevent us from 
 being led astray by the love of novelty, or the affectation of sin- 
 gularity. In this respect, the science of mind possesses a very 
 important advantage over that which relates to the laws of the 
 material world. The former has been cultivated with more or 
 less success in all ages and countries : the facts which serve as 
 the basis of the latter have, with a very few exceptions, been 
 collected during the course of the two last centuries. An ob- 
 servation similar to this is applied to systems of ethics by Mr. 
 Smith, in his account of the theory of Mandeville ; and the illus- 
 tration he gives of it may be extended with equal propriety to 
 the science of mind in general. " A system of natural philoso- 
 phy," he remarks, " may appear very plausible, and be, for a long 
 time, very generally received in the world, and yet have no 
 foundation in nature, nor any sort of resemblance to the truth. 
 But it is otherwise with systems of moral philosophy. When a 
 traveller gives an account of some distant country, he may im- 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £7 
 
 pose upon our credulity trie most groundless and absurd fictions 
 as the most certain matters of fact. But when a person pretends 
 to inform us of what passes in our neighbourhood, and of the 
 affairs of the very parish we live in, though here too, if we are 
 so careless as not to examine things with our own eyes, he may 
 deceive us in many respects ; yet the greatest falsehoods which 
 he imposes on us must bear some resemblance to the truth, and 
 must even have a considerable mixture of truth in them." 
 
 These considerations demonstrate the essential importance, in 
 this branch of study, of forming, at the commencement of our 
 inquiries, just notions of the criteria of true and false science, 
 and of the rules of philosophical investigation. They demon- 
 strate, at the same time, that an attention to the rules of philo- 
 sophizing, as they are exemplified in the physical researches of 
 Newton and his followers, although the best of all preparations 
 for an examination of the mental phenomena, is but one of the 
 steps necessary to ensure our success. On an accurate compari- 
 son of the two subjects, it might probably appear, that after this 
 preliminary step has been gained, the most arduous part of the 
 process still remains. One thing is certain, that it is not from 
 any defect in the power of ratiocination or deduction, that our 
 speculative errors chiefly arise, — a fact of which we have a 
 decisive proof in the facility with which most students may be 
 taught the mathematical and physical sciences, when compared 
 with the difficulty of leading their minds to the truth on ques- 
 tions of morals and politics. 
 
 The logical rules which lay the foundation of sound and useful 
 conclusions concerning the laws of this internal world, although 
 not altogether overlooked by Lord Bacon, were plainly not the 
 principal object of his work; and what he has written on the 
 subject, consists chiefly of detached hints dropt casually in the 
 course of other speculations. A comprehensive view of the 
 sciences and arts dependent on the philosophy of the. human 
 mind, exhibiting the relations which they bear to each other, and 
 to the general system of human knowledge, would form a natural 
 and useful introduction to the study of these logical principles ; 
 but such a view remains still a desideratum, after all the advances 
 made towards it by Bacon and D'Alembert. Indeed, in the pre- 
 sent improved state of things, much is wanting to complete and 
 perfect that more simple part of their intellectual map which 
 
28 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 relates to the material universe. — Of the inconsiderable progress 
 hitherto made towards a just delineation of the method to be 
 pursued in studying the mental phenomena, no other evidence is 
 necessary than this, That the sources of error and false judgment, 
 so peculiarly connected, in consequence of the association of 
 ideas, with studies in which our best interests are immediately 
 and deeply concerned, have never yet been investigated with 
 such accuracy, as to afford effectual aid to the student, in his 
 attempts to counteract their influence. One of these sources 
 alone, — that which arises from the imperfections of language, — 
 furnishes an exception to the general remark. It attracted, for- 
 tunately, the particular notice of Locke, whose observations with 
 respect to it, compose, perhaps, the most valuable part of his 
 philosophical writings ; and, since the time of Condillac, the sub- 
 ject has been still more deeply analyzed by others. Even on 
 this article, much yet remains to be done ; but enough has been 
 already accomplished to justify the profound aphorism in which 
 Bacon pointed it out to the attention of his followers : — 
 " Credunt homines rationem suam verbis imperare ; sed fit etiam 
 ut verba vim suam super rationem retorqueant."* — Men suppose 
 that their reason has command over words. Still it also happens 
 that words exercise reaction on reason. (Nov. Organ, lix.) 
 
 Into these logical discussions concerning the means of advanc- 
 ing the philosophy of human nature, Dr. Reid has seldom 
 entered ; and still more rarely has he indulged himself in tracing 
 the numerous relations, by which this philosophy is connected 
 with the practical business of life. But he has done what was 
 still more essential at the time he wrote ; he has exemplified, 
 with tlie happiest success, that method of investigation by which 
 alone any solid progress can be made ; directing his inquiries to 
 a subject which forms a necessary groundwork for the labours of 
 his successors, — an analysis of the various powers and principles 
 belonging to our constitution. Of the importance of this under- 
 taking, it is sufficient to observe, that it stands somewhat, 
 although I confess not altogether, in the same relation to the dif- 
 ferent branches of intellectual and moral science, (such as gram- 
 
 * This passage of Bacon forms the motto to a very ingenious and philo- 
 sophical dissertation, published by M. Prevost of Geneva,) entitled, " Des 
 Signes envisages relativement a leur Influence sur la Formation des Idees." 
 Paris, an 8. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £9 
 
 mar, rhetoric, logic, ethics, natural theology, and politics,) in 
 which the anatomy of the human body stands to the different 
 branches of physiology and pathology. And as a course of medical 
 education naturally, or rather necessarily, begins with a general 
 survey of man's animal frame ; so, I apprehend, that the proper, 
 or rather the essential preparation for those studies which regard 
 our nobler concerns, is an examination of the principles which 
 belong to man as an intelligent, active, social, and moral being. 
 Nor does the importance of such an analysis rest here ; it exerts 
 an influence over all those sciences and arts which are connected 
 with the material world ; and the philosophy of Bacon itself, 
 while it points out the road to physical truth, is but a branch of 
 the philosophy of the human mind. 
 
 The substance of these remarks is admirably expressed by Mr. 
 Hume in the following passage, — allowances being made for a 
 few trifling peculiarities of expression, borrowed from the the- 
 ories which were prevalent at the time when he wrote : " 'Tis 
 evident, that all the sciences have a relation, greater or less, to 
 human nature, and that, however wide any of them may seem to 
 run from it, they still return back by one passage or another. 
 Even mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural religion, are 
 in some measure dependent on the science of man ; since they 
 lie under the cognizance of men, and are judged of by their 
 powers and faculties. It is impossible to tell what changes and 
 improvements we might make in these sciences, were we tho- 
 roughly acquainted with the extent and force of human under- 
 standing, and could explain the nature of the ideas we employ, 
 and of the operations we perform in our reasonings. 
 
 " If, therefore, the sciences of mathematics, natural philoso- 
 phy, and natural religion, have such a dependence on the know- 
 ledge of man, what may be expected in the other sciences, whose 
 connexion with human nature is more close and intimate ? The 
 sole end of logic is to explain the principles and operations of 
 our reasoning faculty, and the nature of our ideas : morals and 
 criticism regard our tastes and sentiments : and politics consider 
 men as united in society, and dependent on each other. In 
 these four sciences of logic, morals, criticism, and politics, is 
 comprehended almost every thing which it can any way import 
 us to be acquainted with, or which can tend either to the improve- 
 ment or ornament of the human mind. 
 
30 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 " Here, then, is the only expedient from which we can hope 
 for success in our philosophical researches ; to leave the tedious, 
 lingering method, which we have hitherto followed ; and, instead 
 of taking, now and then, a castle or village on the frontier, to 
 march up directly to the capital or centre of these sciences, to 
 human nature itself; which being once masters of, we may 
 every where else hope for an easy victory. From this station, 
 we may extend our conquests over all those sciences which more 
 intimately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed at 
 leisure to discover more fully those which are the objects of 
 pure curiosity. There is no question of importance, whose deci- 
 sion is not comprised in the science of man ; and there is none 
 which can be decided with any certainty, before we become 
 acquainted with that science." 
 
 To prepare the way for the accomplishment of the design so 
 forcibly recommended in the foregoing quotation, by exempli- 
 fying, in an analysis of our most important intellectual and 
 active principles, the only method of carrying it successfully into 
 execution, was the great object of Dr. Reid, in all his various 
 philosophical publications. In examining these principles, he 
 had chiefly in view a vindication of those fundamental laws of 
 belief which form the groundwork of human knowledge, against 
 the attacks made on their authority in some modern systems of 
 scepticism ; leaving to his successors the more agreeable task of 
 applying the philosophy of the mind to its practical uses. On 
 the analysis and classification of our powers, which he has pro- 
 posed, much room for improvement must have been left in so 
 vast an undertaking ; but imperfections of this kind do not neces- 
 sarily affect the justness of his conclusions, even where they 
 may suggest to future inquirers the advantages of a simpler 
 arrangement, and a more definite phraseology. Nor must it be 
 forgotten, that, in consequence of the plan he has followed, the 
 mistakes which may be detected in particular parts of his works, 
 imply no such weakness in the fabric he has reared, as might 
 have been justly apprehended, had he presented a connected 
 system founded on gratuitous hypotheses, or on arbitrary defini- 
 tions. The detections, on the contrary, of his occasional errorSj 
 may be expected, from the invariable consistency and harmony 
 of truth, to throw new lights on those parts of his work, where 
 his inquiries have been more successful ; as the correction of a 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. gj[ 
 
 particular misstatement in an authentic history, is often found, 
 by completing an imperfect link, or reconciling a seeming con- 
 tradiction, to dispel the doubts which hung over the most faith- 
 ful and accurate details of the narrative. 
 
 In Dr. Reid's first performance, he confined himself entirely 
 to the five senses, and the principles of our nature necessarily 
 connected with them ; reserving the further prosecution of the 
 subject for a future period. At that time, indeed, he seems to 
 have thought, that a more comprehensive examination of the 
 mind was an enterprise too great for one individual. " The 
 powers," he observes, " of memory, of imagination, of taste, of 
 reasoning, of moral perception, the will, the passions, the affec- 
 tions, and all the active powers of the soul, present a boundless 
 field of philosophical disquisition, which the author of this 
 * Inquiry' is far from thinking himself able to explore with 
 accuracy. Many authors of ingenuity, ancient and modern, 
 have made incursions into this vast territory, and have communi- 
 cated useful observations ; but there is reason to believe, that 
 those who have pretended to give us a map of the whole, have 
 satisfied themselves with a very inaccurate and incomplete sur- 
 vey. If Galileo had attempted a complete system of natural 
 philosophy, he had probably done little service to mankind ; 
 but, by confining himself to what was within his comprehension, 
 he laid the foundation of a system of knowledge, which rises by 
 degrees, and does honour to the human understanding. Newton, 
 building upon this foundation, and in like manner, confining his 
 inquiries to the law of gravitation, and the properties of light, 
 performed wonders. If he had attempted a great deal more, he 
 had done a great deal less, and perhaps nothing at all. Ambi- 
 tious of following such great examples, with unequal steps, alas ! 
 and unequal force, we have attempted an inquiry into one little 
 corner only, of the human mind ; that corner which seems to be 
 most exposed to vulgar observation, and to be most easily com- 
 prehended ; and yet, if we have delineated it justly, it must be 
 acknowledged, that the accounts heretofore given of it were very 
 lame, and wide of the truth." 
 
 From these observations, when compared with the magnitude 
 of the work which the author lived to execute, there is some 
 ground for supposing, that, in the progress of his researches, he 
 
32 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 became more and more sensible of the mutual connexion and 
 dependence which exist among the conclusions we form con- 
 cerning the various principles of human nature ; even concern- 
 ing those which seem, on a superficial view, to have the most 
 remote relation to each other: and it was fortunate for the 
 world, that, in this respect, he was induced to extend his views 
 so far beyond the limits of his original design. His examina- 
 tion, indeed, of the powers of external perception, and of the 
 questions immediately connected with them, bears marks of a 
 still more minute diligence and accuracy than appear in some of 
 his speculations concerning the other parts of our frame ; and 
 what he has written on the former subject, in his " Inquiry into 
 the Human Mind," is evidently more highly finished both in 
 matter and form, than the volumes which he published in his 
 more advanced years. The value, however, of these is inesti- 
 mable to future adventurers in the same arduous undertaking ; 
 not only, in consequence of the aids they furnish as a rough 
 draught of the field to be examined, but, by the example they 
 exhibit of a method of investigation on such subjects, hitherto 
 very imperfectly understood by philosophers. It is by the ori- 
 ginality of this method, so systematically pursued in all his 
 researches, still more than by the importance of his particular 
 conclusions, that he stands so conspicuously distinguished among 
 those who have hitherto prosecuted analytically the study of man. 
 I have heard it sometimes mentioned, as a subject of regret, 
 that the writers who have applied themselves to this branch of 
 knowledge, have, in general, aimed at a great deal more than it 
 was possible to accomplish ; extending their researches to all 
 the different parts of our constitution, while a long life might 
 be well employed in examining and describing the phenomena 
 connected with any one particular faculty. Dr. Reid, in a pas- 
 sage already quoted from his " Inquiry," might have been sup- 
 posed to give some countenance to this opinion ; if his own 
 subsequent labours did not so strongly sanction the practice in 
 question. The truth, I apprehend, is, that such detached re- 
 searches concerning the human mind, can seldom be attempted 
 with much hope of success ; and that those who have recom- 
 mended them, have not attended sufficiently to the circumstances 
 which so remarkably distinguish this study from that which lias 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 33 
 
 for its object the philosophy of the material world. A few 
 remarks in illustration of this proposition seem to me to be 
 necessary, in order to justify the reasonableness of Dr. Reid's 
 undertaking ; and they will be found to apply with still greater 
 force, to the labours of such as may wish to avail themselves of 
 a similar analysis in explaining the varieties of human genius 
 ana character, or in developing the latent capacities of the 
 youthful mind. 
 
 One consideration of a more general nature is, in the first 
 place, worthy of notice ; that in the infancy of every science, 
 the grand and fundamental desideratum is a bold and compre- 
 hensive outline : — somewhat for the same reason, that, in the 
 cultivation of an extensive country, forests must be cleared, and 
 wildernesses reclaimed, before the limits of private property are 
 fixed with accuracy ; and long before the period, when the 
 divisions and subdivisions of separate possessions give rise to the 
 details of a curious and refined husbandry. The speculations 
 of Lord Bacon embraced all the objects of human knowledge. 
 Those of Newton and Boyle were confined to physics ; but 
 included an astonishing range of the material universe. The 
 labours of their successors, in our own times, have been employed 
 with no less zeal, in pursuing those more particular, but equally 
 abstruse investigations, . in which they were unable to engage, 
 for want of a sufficient stock, both of facts and of general prin- 
 ciples ; and which did not perhaps interest their curiosity in any 
 considerable degree. 
 
 If these observations are allowed to hold to a certain extent 
 with respect to all the sciences, they apply in a more peculiar 
 manner to the subjects treated of in Dr. Reid's writings ; — -sub- 
 jects which are all so intimately connected, that it may be doubted, 
 if it be possible to investigate any one completely, without some 
 general acquaintance, at least, with the rest. Even the theory 
 of the understanding may receive important lights from an 
 examination of the active and the moral powers ; the state of 
 which in the mind of every individual, will be found to have a 
 powerful influence on his intellectual character: — while, on the 
 other hand, an accurate analysis of the faculties of the under- 
 standing, would probably go far to obviate the sceptical difficul- 
 ties which have been started concerning the origin of our moral 
 
34 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 ideas. It appears to me, therefore, that, whatever be the depart- 
 ment of mental science that we propose more particularly to 
 cultivate, it is necessary to begin with a survey of human nature 
 in all its various parts ; studying these parts, however, not so 
 much on their own account, as with a reference to the applica- 
 tions of which our conclusions are susceptible to our favourite 
 purpose. The researches of Dr. Reid, when considered carefully 
 in the relation which they bear to each other, afford numberless 
 illustrations of the truth of this remark. His leading design was 
 evidently to overthrow the modern system of scepticism ; and at 
 every successive step of his progress, new and unexpected lights 
 break in on his fundamental principles. 
 
 It is, however, chiefly in their practical application to the 
 conduct of the understanding, and the culture of the heart, that 
 such partial views are likely to be dangerous ; for here, they 
 tend not only to mislead our theoretical conclusions, but to 
 counteract our improvement and happiness. Of this I am so 
 fully convinced, that the most faulty theories of human nature, 
 provided only they embrace the whole of it, appear to me less 
 mischievous in their probable effects, than those more accurate 
 and microscopical researches which are habitually confined to 
 one particular corner of our constitution. It is easy to conceive, 
 that where the attention is wholly engrossed with the intellectual 
 powers, the moral principles will be in danger of running to 
 waste : and it is no less certain, on the other hand, that, by 
 confining our care to the moral constitution alone, we may suffer 
 the understanding to remain under the influence of unhappy 
 prejudices, and destitute of those just and enlightened views, 
 without which the worthiest dispositions are of little use, either 
 to ourselves or to society. An exclusive attention to any one 
 of the subordinate parts of our frame, — to the culture of taste 
 (for example) or of the argumentative powers, or even to the 
 refinement of our moral sentiments and feelings, — must be 
 attended with a hazard proportionally greater. 
 
 " In forming the human character," says Bacon, in a passage 
 which Lord Bolingbroke has pronounced to be one of the finest 
 and deepest in his writings, " we must not proceed, as a statuary 
 does in forming a statue, who works sometimes on the face, 
 sometimes on the limbs, sometimes on the folds of the drapery ; 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. g/j 
 
 but we must proceed (and it is in our power to proceed) as nature 
 does in forming a flower, or any other of her productions ; — she 
 throws out altogether, and at once, the whole system of being, 
 and the rudiments of all the parts. ' Rudimenta partium omnium 
 simul parit et producit.' " * 
 
 Of this passage, so strongly marked with Bacon's capacious 
 intellect, and so richly adorned with his " philosophical fancy,'* 
 I will not weaken the impression by any comment ; and, indeed, 
 to those who do not intuitively perceive its evidence, no comment 
 would be useful. 
 
 In what I have hitherto said of Dr. Reid's speculations, I have 
 confined myself to such general views of the scope of his re- 
 searches, and of his mode of philosophizing, as seemed most 
 likely to facilitate the perusal of his works to those readers who 
 have not been much conversant with these abstract disquisitions. 
 A slight review of some of the more important and fundamental 
 objections which have been proposed to his doctrines, may, I 
 hope, be useful as a farther preparation for the same course of 
 study. 
 
 Of these objections, the four following appear to me to be 
 chiefly entitled to attention. 
 
 1. That he has assumed gratuitously in all his reasonings, 
 that theory concerning the human soul, which the scheme of 
 materialism calls in question. 
 
 2. That his views tend to damp the ardour of philosophical 
 curiosity, by stating as ultimate facts, phenomena which may 
 be resolved into principles more simple and general. 
 
 3. That, by an unnecessary multiplication of original or 
 instinctive principles, he has brought the science of mind into 
 a state more perplexed and unsatisfactory, than that in which it 
 was left by Locke and his successors. 
 
 4. That his philosophy, by sanctioning an appeal from the 
 decisions of the learned to the voice of the multitude, is unfa- 
 vourable to a spirit of free inquiry, and lends additional stability 
 to popular errors. 
 
 1. With respect to Dr. Reid's supposed assumption of a 
 
 * In the foregoing paragraph, I have borrowed (with a very trifling altera- 
 tion) Lord Bolingbroke's words, in a beautiful paraphrase on Bacon's remark. 
 — See his " Idea of a Patriot King." 
 
 d2 
 
36 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 • 
 
 doubtful hypothesis concerning the nature of the thinking and 
 sentient principle, it is almost sufficient for me to observe, that 
 the charge is directed against that very point of his philosophy 
 in which it is most completely invulnerable. The circumstance 
 which peculiarly characterises the inductive science of mind is, 
 that it professes to abstain from all speculations concerning its 
 nature and essence ; confining the attention entirely to pheno- 
 mena, for which we have the evidence of consciousness, and to the 
 laws by which these phenomena are regulated. In this respect, 
 it differs equally, in its scope, from the pneumatological discus- 
 sions of the schools ; and from the no less visionary theories, so 
 loudly vaunted by the physiological metaphysicians of more 
 modern times. Compared with the first, it differs, as the in- 
 quiries of the mechanical philosophers concerning the laws of 
 moving bodies, differ from the discussions of the ancient sophists 
 concerning the existence and the nature of motion. Compared 
 with the other, the difference is analogous to what exists between 
 the conclusions of Newton concerning the law of gravitation, 
 and his query concerning the invisible ether of which he sup- 
 posed it might, possibly, be the effect. The facts which this 
 inductive science aims at ascertaining, rest on their own proper 
 evidence ; — an evidence unconnected with all these hypotheses, 
 and which would not, in the smallest degree, be affected, although 
 the truth of any one of them should be fully established. It is 
 not, therefore, on account of its inconsistency with any favourite 
 opinions of my own, that I would oppose the disquisitions either 
 of scholastic pneumatology, or of physiological metaphysics ; 
 but because I consider them as an idle waste of time and genius 
 on questions where our conclusions can neither be verified nor 
 overturned by an appeal to experiment or observation. Sir 
 Isaac Newton's query concerning the cause of gravitation was 
 certainly not inconsistent with his own discoveries concerning its 
 laws ; but what would have been the consequences to the world, 
 if he had indulged himself in the prosecution of hypothetical 
 theories with respect to the former, instead of directing his 
 astonishing powers to an investigation of the latter ? 
 
 That the general spirit of Dr. Reid's philosophy is hostile to 
 the conclusions of the materialists, is indeed a fact : not, how- 
 ever, because his system rests on the contrary hypothesis as a 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. fif 
 
 fundamental principle, but because his inquiries have a powerful 
 tendency to wean the understanding gradually from those obsti- 
 nate associations and prejudices, to which the common mechani- 
 cal theories of mind owe all their plausibility. It is, in truth, 
 much more from such examples of sound research concerning 
 the laws of thought, than from any direct metaphysical refuta- 
 tion, that a change is to be expected in the opinions of those 
 who have been accustomed to confound together two classes of 
 phenomena, so completely and essentially different. — But this 
 view of the subject does not belong to the present argument. 
 
 It has been recommended of late, by a medical author of great 
 reputation, to those who wish to study the human mind, to begin 
 with preparing themselves for the task by the study of anatomy. 
 I must confess, I cannot perceive the advantages of this order 
 of investigation ; as the anatomy of the body does not seem to 
 me more likely to throw light on the philosophy of the mind, 
 than an analysis of the mind to throw light on the physiology of 
 the body. To ascertain, indeed, the general laws of their con- 
 nexion from facts established by observation or experiment, is a 
 reasonable and most interesting object of philosophical curiosity ; 
 and in this inquiry, (which was long ago proposed and recom- 
 mended by Lord Bacon,) a knowledge of the constitution both 
 of mind and body is indispensably requisite ; but even here, if 
 we wish to proceed on firm ground, the two classes of facts must 
 be kept completely distinct ; so that neither of them may be 
 warped or distorted, in consequence of theories suggested by 
 their supposed relations or analogies.* Thus, in many of the 
 phenomena connected with custom and habit, there is ample 
 scope for investigating general laws, both with respect to our 
 mental and our corporeal frame ; but what light do we derive 
 from such information concerning this part of our constitution 
 as is contained in the following sentence of Locke ? " Habits 
 seem to be but trains of motion in the animal spirits, which, 
 once set a-going, continue in the same steps they had been 
 used to, which by often treading are worn into a smooth path." 
 In like manner, the laws which regulate the connexion between 
 the mind and our external organs, in the case of perception, 
 have furnished a very fertile subject of examination to some 
 
 * Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, pp. 11, 12, 2nd edit. 
 
38 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS % m 
 
 of the best of our modern philosophers ; but how impotent does 
 the genius of Newton itself appear, when it attempts to shoot 
 the gulf which separates the sensible world, and the sentient 
 principle ? " Is not the sensorium of animals," he asks in one 
 of his queries, " the place where the sentient substance is pre- 
 sent, and to which the sensible species of things are brought 
 through the nerves and brain, that they may be perceived by the 
 mind present in that place ?" 
 
 It ought to be remembered also, that this inquiry, with respect 
 to the laws regulating the connexion between our bodily organ- 
 ization, and the phenomena subjected to our own consciousness, 
 is but one particular department of the philosophy of the mind ; 
 and that there still remains a wide and indeed boundless region, 
 where all our data must be obtained from our own mental ope- 
 rations. In examining, for instance, the powers of judgment 
 and reasoning, let any person of sound understanding, after 
 perusing the observations of Bacon on the different classes of 
 our prejudices, or those of Locke on the abuse of words, turn 
 his attention to the speculations of some of our contemporary 
 theorists ; and he will at once perceive the distinction between 
 the two modes of investigation which I wish at present to con- 
 trast. " Reasoning," says one of the most ingenious and original 
 of these, " is that operation of the sensorium, by which we excite 
 two or many tribes of ideas ; and then re-excite the ideas, in 
 which they differ or correspond. If we determine this difference, 
 it is called Judgment ; if we in vain endeavour to determine it, 
 it is called Doubting. — If we re-excite the ideas in which they 
 differ, it is called Distinguishing ; if we re-excite those in which 
 they correspond, it is called Comparing."* — In what acceptation 
 the word idea is to be understood in the foregoing passage, may 
 be learned from the following definition of the same author : — 
 " The word idea has various meanings in the writers of meta- 
 physics : it is here used simply for those notions of external 
 things, which our organs of sense bring us acquainted with 
 originally ; and is defined, a contraction, or motion, or configu- 
 ration, of the fibres, which constitute the immediate organ of 
 sense, "f Mr. Hume, who was less of a physiologist than Dr. 
 Darwin, has made use of a language by no means so theoretical 
 
 * Zoonomia, vol. i. p. 181, 3rd edit. f Ibid. vol. i. pp. 11, 12. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 39 
 
 and arbitrary ; but still widely removed from the simplicity and 
 precision essentially necessary in studies, where everything de- 
 pends on the cautious use of terms. " Belief," according to 
 him, is "a lively idea related to or associated with a present 
 impression ; memory is the faculty by w T hich we repeat our im- 
 pressions, so as that they retain a considerable degree of their 
 first vivacity, and are somewhat intermediate betwixt an idea 
 and an impression." 
 
 According to the views of Dr. Reid, the terms w T hich express 
 the simple powers of the mind, are considered as unsusceptible 
 of definition or explanation ; the words, feeling, for example, 
 knowledge, will, doubt, belief, being, in this respect, on the 
 same footing with the words, green or scarlet, sweet or bitter. 
 To the names of these mental operations, all men annex some 
 notions, more or less distinct ; and the only way of conveying 
 to them notions more correct, is by teaching them to exercise 
 their own powers of reflection. The definitions quoted from 
 Hume and Darwin, even if they were more unexceptionable in 
 point of phraseology, would, for these reasons, be unphilosophi- 
 cal, as attempts to simplify what is incapable of analysis ; but, 
 as they are actually stated, they not only envelop truth in mys- 
 tery, but lay a foundation, at the very outset, for an erroneous 
 theory. It is worth while to add, that of the two theories in 
 question, that of Darwin, how inferior soever, in the estimation 
 of competent judges, as a philosophical work, is by far the best 
 calculated to impose on a very wide circle of readers, by the 
 mixture it exhibits of crude and visionary metaphysics, with 
 those important facts and conclusions which might be expected 
 from the talents and experience of such a writer, in the present 
 advanced state of medical and physiological science. The ques- 
 tions which have been hitherto confined to a few, prepared for 
 such discussions by habits of philosophical study, are thus sub- 
 mitted to the consideration, — not only of the cultivated and 
 enlightened minds, which adorn the medical profession, — but of 
 the half-informed multitude who follow the medical trade. Nor 
 is it to be doubted, that many of these will give the author 
 credit upon subjects of wmich they feel themselves incompetent 
 to judge, for the same ability which he displays within their own 
 professional sphere. The hypothetical principles assumed by 
 
40 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 Hume are intelligible to those only who are familiarized to the 
 language of the schools ; and his ingenuity and elegance, capti- 
 vating as they are to men of taste and refinement, possess slight 
 attractions to the majority of such as are most likely to be. misled 
 by his conclusions. 
 
 Aftei all, I do not apprehend that the physiological theories 
 concerning the mind, which have made so much noise of late, 
 will produce a very lasting impression. The splendour of Dr. 
 Darwin's accomplishments could not fail to bestow a temporary 
 importance on whatever opinions were sanctioned by his name ; 
 as the chemical discoveries which have immortalized that of 
 Priestley, have, for a while, recalled from oblivion the reveries 
 of Hartley. But, abstracting from these accidental instances, in 
 which human reason seems to have held a retrograde course, 
 there has certainly been, since the time of Des Cartes, a con- 
 tinual, and, on the whole, a very remarkable approach to the in- 
 ductive plan of studying human nature. We may trace this in 
 the writings even of those who profess to consider thought merely 
 as an agitation of the brain; in the writings more particularly of 
 Hume and of Helvetius ; both of whom, although they may 
 have occasionally expressed themselves in an unguarded manner 
 concerning the nature of mind, have, in their most useful and 
 practical disquisitions, been prevented, by their own good sense, 
 from blending any theory with respect to the causes of the intel- 
 lectual phenomena with the history of facts, or the investigation 
 of general laws. The authors who form the most conspicuous 
 exceptions to this gradual progress, consist chiefly of men whose 
 errors may be easily accounted for, by the prejudices connected 
 with their circumscribed habits of observation and inquiry ; of 
 physiologists, accustomed to attend to that part alone of the 
 human frame which the knife of the anatomist can lay open ; or 
 of chemists, who enter on the analysis of thought, fresh from the 
 decompositions of the laboratory ; carrying into the theory of 
 mind itself (what Bacon expressively calls) " the smoke and tar- 
 nish of the furnace." Of the value of such pursuits, none can 
 think more highly than myself ; but I must be allowed to ob- 
 serve, that the most distinguished pre-eminence in them does 
 not necessarily imply a capacity of collected and abstracted re- 
 flection, or an understanding superior to the prejudices of early 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 41 
 
 association, and the illusions of popular language. T will not 
 go so far as Cicero, when he ascribes to those who possess these 
 advantages a more than ordinary vigour of intellect : " Magni 
 est ingenii revocare mentem a sensibus, et cogitationem a con- 
 suetudine abducere." "It is characteristic of great genius to be 
 able to call away the mind from objects of sense, and abstract 
 the thoughts from those that are customary." I would only 
 claim for them the merit of patient and cautious research ; and 
 would exact from their antagonists the same qualifications.* 
 
 In offering these remarks, I have no wish to exalt any one 
 branch of useful knowledge at the expense of another, but to 
 combat prejudices equally fatal to the progress of them all. With 
 the same view, I cannot help taking notice of a prevailing, but 
 very mistaken idea, that the formation of a hypothetical system 
 is a stronger proof of inventive genius than the patient investi- 
 gation of nature, in the way of induction. To form a system, 
 appears to the young and inexperienced understanding a species 
 of creation ; to ascend slowly to general conclusions, from the 
 observation and comparison of particular facts, is to comment 
 servilely on the works of another. 
 
 No opinion surely can be more groundless. To fix on a few 
 principles, or even on a single principle as the foundation of a 
 theory ; and, by an artful statement of supposed facts, aided by 
 a dexterous use of language, to give a plausible explanation, by 
 means of it, of an immense number of phenomena; is within* 
 the reach of most men whose talents have been a little exercised 
 among the subtleties of the schools : whereas, to follow nature 
 through all her varieties with a quick yet an exact eye ; to re- 
 
 * A writer of great talents (after having reproached Dr. Reid with " a gross 
 ignorance, disgraceful to the university of which he was a member,") boasts of 
 the trifling expense of time and thought which it had cost himself to overturn 
 his philosophy. " Dr. Oswald is pleased to pay me a compliment in saying, 
 that ' I might employ myself to more advantage to the public, by pursuing 
 other branches of science, than by deciding rashly on a subject which he sees I 
 have not studied.' In return to this compliment, I shall not affront him by 
 telling him how very little of my time this business has hitherto taken up. 
 If he alludes to my experiments, I can assure him that I have lost no time at 
 all ; for having been intent upon such as require the use of a burning lens, I 
 believe I have not lost one hour of sunshine on this account. And the public 
 may perhaps be informed, some time or other, of what I have been doing in 
 the sun, as well as in the shade." — Examination of Reid's Inquiry, &c. 
 p. 357. See also pp. 101, 102, of the same work. 
 
42 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 cord faithfully what she exhibits, and to record nothing more ; — 
 to trace, amidst the diversity of her operations, the simple and 
 comprehensive laws by which they are regulated, and sometimes 
 to guess at the beneficent purposes to which they are subser- 
 vient, — may be safely pronounced to be the highest effort of a 
 created intelligence. And, accordingly, the number of inge- 
 nious theorists has, in every age, been great ; that of sound phi- 
 losophers has been wonderfully small, or rather, they are only 
 beginning now to have a glimpse of their way, in consequence 
 of the combined lights furnished by their predecessors. 
 
 Des Cartes aimed at a complete system of physics, deduced a 
 priori from the abstract suggestions of his own reason : Newton 
 aspired no higher than at a faithful " interpretation of nature," 
 in a few of the more general laws which she presents to our no- 
 tice ; and yet the intellectual power displayed in the voluminous 
 writings of the former vanishes into nothing, when compared 
 with what we may trace in a single page of the latter. On this 
 occasion a remark of Lord Bacon appears singularly apposite ; 
 that " Alexander and Cassar, though they acted without the aid 
 of magic or prodigy, performed exploits that are truly greater 
 than what fable reports of King Arthur or Amadis de Gaul." 
 
 I shall only add farther on this head, that the last observation 
 holds more strictly with respect to the philosophy of the human 
 mind than any other branch of science ; for there is no subject 
 whatever on which it is so easy to form theories calculated to 
 impose on the multitude ; and none where the discovery of truth 
 is attended with so many difficulties. One great cause of this 
 is, the analogical or theoretical terms employed in ordinary lan- 
 guage to express every thing relating either to our intellectual 
 or active powers ; in consequence of which, specious explana- 
 tions of the most mysterious phenomena may be given to super- 
 ficial inquirers ; while, at the same time, the labour of just 
 investigation is increased to an incalculable degree. 
 
 2. To allege, that in this circumscription of the field of our 
 inquiries concerning the mind, there is any tendency to repress 
 a reasonable and philosophical curiosity, is a charge no less un- 
 founded than the former; inasmuch as every physical inquiry 
 concerning the material world is circumscribed by limits pre- 
 cisely analogous. In all our investigations, whatever their sub- 
 ject maybe, the business of philosophy is confined to a reference 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D 43 
 
 of particular facts to other facts more general ; and our most 
 successful researches must at length terminate in some law of 
 nature, of which no explanation can be given. In its applica- 
 tion to Dr. Reid's writings, this objection has, I think, been 
 more pointedly directed against his reasonings concerning the 
 process of nature in perception ; a part of his writings w 7 hich 
 (as it is of fundamental importance in his general system) he 
 has laboured with peculiar care. The result is, indeed, by no 
 means nattering to the pride of those theorists who profess to 
 explain every thing ; for it amounts to an acknowledgment, that, 
 after all the lights which anatomy and physiology supply, the 
 information we obtain, by means of our senses, concerning the 
 existence and the qualities of matter, is no less incomprehen- 
 sible to our faculties than it appears to the most illiterate pea- 
 sant ; and that all we have gained is a more precise and complete 
 acquaintance with some particulars in our animal economy, — 
 highly interesting indeed when regarded in their proper light, 
 as accessions to our physical knowledge, but, considered in con- 
 nexion with the philosophy of the mind, affording only a more 
 accurate statement of the astonishing phenomena which w r e would 
 vainly endeavour to explain. This language has been charged, 
 but most unjustly and ignorantly, w T ith mysticism ; for the same 
 charge may be brought, with equal fairness, against all the most 
 important discoveries in the sciences. It was in truth the very 
 objection urged against Newton, when his adversaries contended, 
 that gravity was to be ranked with the occult qualities of the 
 schoolmen, till its mechanical cause should be assigned ; and the 
 answer given to this objection by Sir Isaac Newton's commen- 
 tator, Mr. Maclaurin, may be literally applied, in the instance 
 before us, to the inductive philosophy of the human mind. 
 
 " The opponents of Newton, finding nothing to object to his 
 observations and reasonings, pretended to find a resemblance 
 between his doctrines and the exploded tenets of the scholastic 
 philosophy. They triumphed mightily in treating gravity as an 
 occult quality, because he did not pretend to deduce this prin- 
 ciple fully from its cause. I know not that ever it was made an 
 objection to the circulation of the blood, that there is no small 
 difficulty in accounting for it mechanically. They, too, who 
 first extended gravity to air, vapour, and to all bodies round the 
 
44 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 earth, had their praise ; though the cause of gravity was as ob- 
 scure as before ; or rather appeared more mysterious, after they 
 had shown, that there was no body found near the earth, ex- 
 empt from gravity, that might be supposed to be its cause. Why 
 then were his admirable discoveries, by which this principle 
 was extended over the universe, so ill relished by some philoso- 
 phers ? The truth is, he had, with great evidence, overthrown 
 the boasted schemes by which they pretended to unravel all the 
 mysteries of nature ; and the philosophy he introduced, in place 
 of them, carrying with it a sincere confession of our being far 
 from a complete and perfect knowledge of it, could not please 
 those who had been accustomed to imagine themselves possessed 
 of the eternal reasons and primary causes of ail things. 
 
 " It was, however, no new thing that this philosophy should 
 meet with opposition. All the useful discoveries that were made 
 in former times, and particularly in the seventeenth century, had 
 to struggle with the prejudices of those who had accustomed 
 themselves, not so much as to think but in a certain systematic 
 way ; who could not be prevailed on to abandon their favourite 
 schemes, while they were able to imagine the least pretext for 
 continuing the dispute. Every art and talent was displayed to 
 support their falling cause ; no aid seemed foreign to them that 
 could in any manner annoy their adversary ; and such often was 
 their obstinacy, that truth was able to make little progress, till 
 they were succeeded by younger persons, who had not so strongly 
 imbibed their prejudices." 
 
 These excellent observations are not the less applicable to the 
 subject now under consideration, that the part of Dr. Reid's 
 writings which suggested the quotation, leads only to the correc- 
 tion of an inveterate prejudice, not to any new general conclu- 
 sion. It is probable, indeed, (now that the Ideal Theory has in 
 a great measure disappeared from our late metaphysical systems,) 
 that those who have a pleasure in detracting from the merits of 
 their predecessors, may be disposed to represent it as an idle 
 waste of labour and ingenuity to have entered into a serious 
 refutation of an hypothesis at once gratuitous and inconceivable. 
 A different judgment, however, will be formed by such as are 
 acquainted with the extensive influence which, from the earliest 
 accounts of science, this single prejudice has had in vitiating 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 45 
 
 almost every branch of the philosophy of the mind ; and who, at 
 the same time, recollect the names of the illustrious men, by 
 whom, in more modern times, it has been adopted as an incon- 
 trovertible principle. It is sufficient for me to mention those of 
 Berkeley, Hume, Locke, Clarke, and Newton. To the two first 
 of these, it has served as the basis of their sceptical conclusions, 
 which seem indeed to follow from it as necessary consequences ; 
 while the others repeatedly refer to it in their reasonings, as one 
 of those facts concerning the mind, of which it would be equally 
 superfluous to attempt a proof or a refutation. 
 
 I have enlarged on this part of Dr. Reid's writings the more 
 fully as he was himself disposed, on all occasions, to rest upon it 
 his chief merit as an author. In proof of this, I shall transcribe 
 a few sentences from a letter of his to Dr. Gregory, dated 20th 
 August, 1790. 
 
 " It would be want of candour not to own, that I think there 
 is some merit in what you are pleased to call my philosophy ; but 
 I think it lies chiefly in having called in question the common 
 theory of ideas or images of things in the mind being the only 
 objects of thought ; a theory founded on natural prejudices, and 
 so universally received as to be interwoven with the structure of 
 language. Yet were I to give you a detail of what led me to 
 call in question this theory, after I had long held it as self-evi- 
 dent and unquestionable, you would think, as I do, that there 
 was much of chance in the matter. " The discovery was the birth 
 of time, not of genius ; and Berkeley and Hume did more to 
 bring it to light than the man that hit upon it. I think there is 
 hardly any thing that can be called mine in the philosophy of 
 the mind which does not follow with ease from the detection of 
 this prejudice. 
 
 " I must, therefore, beg of you most earnestly, to make no 
 contrast in my favour to the disparagement of my predecessors in 
 the same pursuit. I can truly say of them, and shall always 
 avow, what you are pleased to say of me, that but for the assist- 
 ance I have received from their writings, I never could have 
 wrote or thought what I have done." 
 
 3. Somewhat connected with the last objection are the cen- 
 sures which have been so frequently bestowed on Dr. Reid for 
 an unnecessary and unsystematical multiplication of original or 
 instinctive principles. 
 
46 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 In reply to these censures, I have little to add to what I have 
 remarked on the same topic, in the " Philosophy of the Human 
 Mind." That the fault which is thus ascribed to Dr. Reid has 
 been really committed by some ingenious writers in this part of 
 the island, I most readily allow ; nor will I take upon me to 
 assert, that he has in no instance fallen into it himself. Such 
 instances, however, will be found, on an accurate examination of 
 his works, to be comparatively few, and to bear a very trifling 
 proportion to those in which he has most successfully and deci- 
 sively displayed his acuteness in exposing the premature and 
 flimsy generalizations of his predecessors. 
 
 A certain degree of leaning to that extreme to which Dr. Reid 
 seems to have inclined, was, at the time when he wrote, much 
 safer than the opposite bias. From the earliest ages, the sci- 
 ences in general, and more particularly the science of the human 
 mind, have been vitiated by an undue love of simplicity ; and in 
 the course of the last century this disposition, after having been 
 long displayed in subtile theories concerning the active powers, 
 or the principles of human conduct, has been directed to similar 
 refinements with respect to the faculties of the understanding, 
 and the truths with which they are conversant. Mr. Hume 
 himself has coincided so far with the Hartleian school, as to 
 represent the " principle of union and cohesion among our simple 
 ideas as a kind of attraction, of as universal application in the 
 mental world as in the natural;"* and Dr. Hartley, with a still 
 more sanguine imagination, looked forward to an era " when 
 future generations shall put all kinds of evidences and inquiries 
 into mathematical forms, reducing Aristotle's ten categories, and 
 Bishop Wilkins's forty summa genera, to the head of quantity 
 alone, so as to make mathematics and logic, natural history and 
 civil history, natural philosophy and philosophy of all other 
 kinds, coincide omni exparte."f 
 
 It is needless to remark the obvious tendency of such prema- 
 ture generalizations to withdraw the attention from the study of 
 particular phenomena ; while the effect of Reid's mode of phi- 
 losophizing, even in those instances where it is carried to an 
 excess, is to detain us, in this preliminary step, a little longer 
 
 * Treatise of Human Nature, vol. i. p. 30. 
 f Hartley on Man, p. 207, London, 1791. 
 
OF THOMAS RE1D, D,D. 47 
 
 than is absolutely necessary. The truth is, that when the phe- 
 nomena are once ascertained, generalization is here of compara- 
 tively little value, and a task of far less difficulty than to observe 
 facts with precision, and to record them with fairness. 
 
 In no part of Dr. Reid's writings, I am inclined to think, 
 could more plausible criticisms be made on this ground, than in 
 his classification of our active principles ; but even there, the 
 facts are always placed fully and distinctly before the reader. 
 That several of the benevolent affections which he has stated as 
 ultimate facts in our constitution, might be analyzed into the 
 same general principle differently modified, according to circum- 
 stances, there can, in my opinion, be little doubt. This, how- 
 ever, (as I have elsewhere observed,*) notwithstanding the stress 
 which has been sometimes laid upon it, is chiefly a question of 
 arrangement. Whether we suppose these affections to be all 
 ultimate facts, or some of them to be resolvable into other facts 
 more general ; they are equally to be regarded as constituent 
 parts of human nature ; and, upon either supposition, we have 
 equal reason to admire the wisdom with which that nature is 
 adapted to the situation in which it is placed. The laws which 
 regulate the acquired perceptions of sight, are surely as much a 
 part of our frame as those which regulate any of our original 
 perceptions ; and, although they require, for their development, 
 a certain degree of experience and observation in the individual, 
 the uniformity of the result shows, that there is nothing arbi- 
 trary nor accidental in their origin. In this point of view, what 
 can be more philosophical, as well as beautiful, than the words 
 of Mr. Ferguson, that " natural affection springs up in the soul 
 of the mother, as the milk springs in her breast, to furnish nou- 
 rishment to her child!" — " The effect is here to the race," as the 
 same author has excellently observed, " what the vital motion 
 of the heart is to the individual ; too necessary to the preserva- 
 tion of nature's works, to be intrusted to the precarious will or 
 intention of those most nearly concerned. "f 
 
 The question, indeed, concerning the origin of our different 
 
 * Outlines of Moral Philosophy, pp. 79, 80, 2nd edit. Edin. 1801. 
 
 f Principles of Moral and Political Science, Part i. chap. i. sect. 3, " Of 
 the principles of society in human nature." — The whole discussion unites, in a 
 singular degree, the soundest philosophy with the most eloquent description. 
 
48 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 affections, leads to some curious analytical disquisitions ; but is 
 of very subordinate importance to those inquiries which relate to 
 their laws, and uses, and mutual references. In many ethical 
 systems, however, it seems to have been considered as the most 
 interesting subject of disquisition which this wonderful part of 
 our frame presents. 
 
 In Dr. Reid's " Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man," 
 and in his " Inquiry into the Human Mind," I recollect little 
 that can justly incur a similiar censure ; notwithstanding the ridi- 
 cule which Dr. Priestley has attempted to throw on the last of 
 these performances, in his " Table of Reid's Instinctive Princi- 
 ples."* To examine all the articles enumerated in that table, 
 would require a greater latitude of disquisition than the limits 
 of this memoir allow ; and, therefore, I shall confine my observa- 
 tions to a few instances, where the precipitancy of the general 
 criticism seems to me to admit of little dispute. In this light I 
 cannot help considering it, when applied to those dispositions or 
 determinations of the mind, to which Dr. Reid has given the 
 names of the "principle of credulity," and the "principle of 
 veracity." How far these titles are happily chosen, is a question 
 of little moment ; and on that point I am ready to make every 
 concession. I contend only for what is essentially connected 
 with the objection which has given rise to these remarks. 
 
 " That any man," says Dr. Priestley, " should imagine that a 
 peculiar instinctive principle was necessary to explain our giving 
 credit to the relations of others, appears to me, who have been 
 used to see things in a different light, very extraordinary ; and 
 yet this doctrine is advanced by Dr. Reid, and adopted by Dr. 
 Beattie. But really," he adds, " what the former says in favour 
 of it, is hardly deserving of the slightest notice. f" 
 
 The passage quoted by Dr. Priestley, in justification of this 
 very peremptory decision, is as follows : "If credulity were the 
 effect of reasoning and experience, it must grow up and gather 
 strength in the same proportion as reason and experience do. 
 But if it is the gift of nature, it will be the strongest in child- 
 hood, and limited and restrained by experience ; and the most 
 superficial view of human life shows that this last is the case, 
 and not the first." 
 
 * Examination of Reid's Inquiry, &c. London, 1774. f Ibid. p. S2. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 49 
 
 To m}- own judgment, this argument of Dr. Reid's, when con- 
 nected with the excellent illustrations which accompany it, carries 
 complete conviction ; and I am confirmed in my opinion by find- 
 ing that Mr. Smith (a writer inferior to none in acuteness, and 
 strongly disposed by the peculiar bent of his genius, to simplify, 
 as far as possible, the philosophy of human nature,) has, in the 
 latest edition of his " Theory of Moral Sentiments," acquiesced 
 in this very conclusion ; urging in support of it the same reason- 
 ing which Dr. Priestley affects to estimate so lightly. " There 
 seems to be in young children an instinctive disposition to believe 
 whatever they are told. Nature seems to have judged it neces- 
 sary for their preservation that they should, for some time at 
 least, put implicit confidence in those to whom the care of their 
 childhood, and of the earliest and most necessary part of their 
 education, is intrusted. Their credulity, accordingly, is exces- 
 sive, and it requires long and much experience of the falsehood 
 of mankind to reduce them to a reasonable degree of diffidence 
 and distrust."* — That Mr. Smith's opinion also coincided with 
 Dr. Reid's, in what he has stated concerning the " principle of 
 veracity," appears evidently from the remarks which immediately 
 follow the passage just quoted. — But I must not add to the length 
 of this memoir by unnecessary citations. 
 
 Another instinctive principle mentioned by Reid is, "our 
 belief of the continuance of the present course of nature." — 
 " All our knowledge of nature," he observes, " beyond our ori- 
 ginal perceptions, is got by experience, and consists in the inter- 
 pretation of natural signs. The appearance of the sign is fol- 
 lowed by the belief of the thing signified. Upon this principle 
 of our constitution, not only acquired perception, but also in- 
 ductive reasoning, and all reasoning from analogy, is grounded ; 
 and, therefore, for want of a better name, we shall beg leave to 
 call it the " inductive principle." • It is from the force of this prin- 
 ciple that we immediately assent to that axiom, upon which all 
 our knowledge of nature is built, that effects of the same kind 
 must have the same cause. Take away the light of this induc- 
 tive principle, and experience is as blind as a mole. She may, 
 indeed, feel what is present, and what immediately touches her, 
 
 * Smith's " Theory," last edit. Part VII. sect. 4. 
 E 
 
50 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 but she sees nothing that is either before or behind, upon the 
 right hand or upon the left, future or past." 
 
 On this doctrine, likewise, the same critic has expressed him- 
 self with much severity ; calling it " a mere quibble ;" and add- 
 ing, " Every step that I take among this writer's sophisms, raises 
 my astonishment higher than before." In this, however, as in 
 many other instances, he has been led to censure Dr. Reid, not 
 because he was able to see farther than his antagonist, but be- 
 cause he did not see quite so far. Turgot, in an article inserted 
 in the French " Encyclopedic," and Condorcet, in a discourse pre- 
 fixed to one of his mathematical publications,* have, both of 
 them, stated the fact with a true philosophical precision ; and, 
 after doing so, have deduced from it an inference, not only the 
 same in substance with that of Dr. Reid, but almost expressed 
 in the same form of words. 
 
 In these references, as well as in that already made to Mr. 
 Smith's " Theory," I would not be understood to lay any undue 
 stress on authority in a philosophical argument. I wish only, 
 by contrasting the modesty and caution resulting from habits of 
 profound thought, with that theoretical intrepidity which a blind- 
 ness to insuperable difficulties has a tendency to inspire, to invite 
 those whose prejudices against this part of Reid's system rest 
 chiefly on the great names to which they conceive it to be hos- 
 tile, to re-examine it with a little more attention, before they 
 pronounce finally on its merits. 
 
 The prejudices which are apt to occur against a mode of phi- 
 losophizing so mortifying to scholastic arrogance, are encouraged 
 greatly by that natural disposition to refer particular facts to 
 general laws, which is the foundation of all scientific arrange- 
 ment ; a principle of the utmost importance to our intellectual 
 constitution, but which requires the guidance of a sound and 
 experienced understanding to accomplish the purposes for which 
 it was destined. They are encouraged, also, in no inconsiderable 
 degree, by the acknowledged success of mathematicians, in 
 raising, on the basis of a few simple data, the most magnificent, 
 and at the same time the most solid fabric of science, of which 
 
 * Essai sur l'Application de l'Analyse a la Probability des Decisions rendues 
 a la Pluralite des Voix. — Paris, 1 785. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 5 \ 
 
 human genius can boast. The absurd references which logicians 
 are accustomed to make to Euclid's " Elements of Geometry," 
 as a model which cannot be too studiously copied, both in phy- 
 sics and in morals, have contributed, in this as in a variety of 
 other instances, to mislead philosophers from the study of facts 
 into the false refinements of hypothetical theory. 
 
 On these misapplications of mathematical method to sciences 
 which rest ultimately on experiment and observation, I shall 
 take another opportunity of offering some strictures. At pre- 
 sent, it is sufficient to remark the peculiar nature of the truths 
 about which pure or abstract mathematics are conversant. As 
 these truths have all a necessary connexion with each other, (all 
 of them resting ultimately on those definitions or hypotheses 
 which are the principles of our reasoning,) the beauty of the 
 science cannot fail to increase in proportion to the simplicity of 
 the data, compared with the incalculable variety of consequences 
 which they involve. And to the simplifications and generaliza- 
 tions of theory on such a subject, it is perhaps impossible to con- 
 ceive any limit. How different is the case in those inquiries 
 where our first principles are not definitions but facts ; and where 
 our business is not to trace necessary connexions, but the laws 
 which regulate the established order of the universe ! 
 
 In various attempts which have been lately made, more espe- 
 cially on the Continent, towards a systematical exposition of the 
 elements of physics, the effects of the mistake I am now cen- 
 suring are extremely remarkable. The happy use of mathema- 
 tical principles exhibited in the writings of Newton and his 
 followers, having rendered an extensive knowledge of them an 
 indispensable preparation for the study of the mechanical philo- 
 sophy, the early habits of thought acquired in the former pur- 
 suit are naturally transferred to the latter. Hence the illogical 
 and obscure manner in which its elementary principles have fre- 
 quently been stated ; an attempt being made to deduce from the 
 smallest possible number of data the whole system of truths 
 which it comprehends. The analogy existing among some of 
 the fundamental laws of mechanics, bestows, in the opinion of 
 the multitude, an appearance of plausibility on such attempts ; 
 and their obvious tendency is to withdraw the attention from 
 that unity of design which it is the noblest employment of phi- 
 
 e 2 
 
52 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 losophy to illustrate, by disguising it under the semblance of an 
 eternal and necessary order, similar to what the mathematician 
 delights to trace among the mutual relations of quantities and 
 figures. 
 
 These slight hints may serve as a reply in part to what Dr. 
 Priestley has suggested with respect to the consequences likely 
 to follow, if the spirit of Reid's philosophy should be introduced 
 into physics.* One consequence would unquestionably be, a 
 careful separation between the principles which we learn from 
 experience alone, and those which are fairly resolvable by mathe- 
 matical or physical reasoning, into other facts still more general ; 
 and, of course, a correction of that false logic, which, while it 
 throws an air of mystery over the plainest and most undeniable 
 facts, levels the study of nature, in point of moral interest, with 
 the investigations of the geometer or of the algebraist. 
 
 It must not, however, be supposed, that, in the present state 
 of natural philosophy, a false logic threatens the same danger- 
 ous effects as in the philosophy of the mind. It may retard 
 somewhat the progress of the student at his first outset ; or it 
 may confound, in his apprehensions, the harmony of systema- 
 tical order with the consistency and mutual dependency essential 
 to a series of mathematical theorems : but the fundamental truths 
 of physics are now too well established, and the checks which it 
 furnishes against sophistry are too numerous and palpable to 
 admit the possibility of any permanent error in our deductions. 
 In the philosophy of the mind, so difficult is the acquisition of 
 those habits of reflection which can alone lead to a correct know- 
 ledge of the intellectual phenomena, that a faulty hypothesis, if 
 skilfully fortified by the imposing, though illusory strength of 
 arbitrary definitions and a systematical phraseology, may main- 
 tain its ground for a succession of ages. 
 
 It will not, I trust, be inferred from any thing I have here 
 advanced, that I mean to offer an apology for those who, either 
 in physics or morals, would presumptuously state their own 
 opinions with respect to the laws of nature, as a bar against fu- 
 ture attempts to simplify and generalize them still farther. To 
 assert, that none of the mechanical explanations yet given of 
 
 * Examination of Dr. Reid's Inquiry, p. 110. 
 
OF THOMAS E.EID, D.D. 53 
 
 gravitation are satisfactory, and even to hint, that ingenuity 
 might be more profitably employed than in the search of such a 
 theory, is something different from a gratuitous assumption of 
 ultimate facts in physics ; nor does it imply an obstinate deter- 
 mination to resist legitimate evidence, should some fortunate 
 inquirer — contrary to what seems probable at present — succeed 
 where the genius of Newton has failed. If Dr. Reid has gone 
 farther than this in his conclusions concerning the principles 
 which he calls original or instinctive, he has departed from that 
 guarded language in which he commonly expresses himself ; for 
 all that it was of importance for him to conclude was, that the 
 theories of his predecessors were, in these instances, exception- 
 able ; and the doubts he may occasionally insinuate, concerning 
 the success of future adventurers, so far from betraying any 
 overweening confidence in his own understanding, are an indi- 
 rect tribute to the talents of those, from whose failure he draws 
 an argument against the possibility of their undertaking. 
 
 The same eagerness to simplify and to generalize, which led 
 Priestley to complain of the number of Reid's instinctive princi- 
 ples, has carried some later philosophers a step farther. Accord- 
 ing to them, the very word instinct is unphilosophical ; and every 
 thing either in man or brute which has been hitherto referred 
 to this mysterious source, may be easily accounted for by expe- 
 rience or imitation. A few instances in which this doctrine 
 appears to have been successfully verified, have been deemed 
 sufficient to establish it without any limitation. 
 
 In a very original work, on which I have already hazarded 
 some criticisms, much ingenuity has been employed in analysing 
 the wonderful efforts which the human infant is enabled to make 
 for its own preservation the moment after its introduction to the 
 light. Thus, it is observed, that the foetus, while still in the 
 uterus, learns to perform the operation of swallowing ; and also 
 learns to relieve itself, by a change of posture, from the irksome- 
 ness of continued rest: and, therefore, (if we admit these pro- 
 positions,) we must conclude, that some of the actions which 
 infants are vulgarly supposed to perform in consequence of 
 instincts coeval with birth, are only a continuation of actions to 
 which they were determined at an earlier period of their being. 
 The remark is ingenious, and it may, perhaps, be just ; but it 
 
54 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 does not prove, that instinct is an imphilosophical term ; nor 
 does it render the operations of the infant less mysterious than 
 they seem to be on the common supposition. How far soever 
 the analysis, in such instances, may be carried, we must at last 
 arrive at some phenomenon no less wonderful than that we mean 
 to explain : in other words, we must still admit, as an ultimate 
 fact, the existence of an original determination to a particular 
 mode of action salutary or necessary to the animal ; and all we 
 have accomplished is to connect the origin of this instinct with 
 an earlier period in the history of the human mind. 
 
 The same author has attempted to account, in a manner 
 somewhat similar, for the different degrees in which the young 
 of different animals are able, at the moment of birth, to exert 
 their bodily powers. Thus, calves and chickens are able to 
 walk almost immediately ; while the human infant, even in the 
 most favourable situations, is six or even twelve months old 
 before he can stand alone. For this, Dr. Darwin assigns two 
 causes'. 1. That the young of some animals come into the 
 world in a more complete state than that of others : — the colt 
 and lamb (for example) enjoying, in this respect, a striking 
 advantage over the puppy and the rabbit. 2. That the mode 
 of walking of some animals coincides more perfectly than that 
 of others, with the previous motions of the foetus in utero. The 
 struggles of all animals, he observes, in the womb, must resemble 
 their manner of swimming, as by this kind of motion they can 
 best change their attitude in water. But the swimming of the 
 calf and of the chicken resembles their ordinary movements on 
 the ground, which they have thus learned in part to execute, 
 while concealed from our observation ; whereas, the swimming 
 of the human infant differing totally from his manner of walk- 
 ing, he has no opportunity of acquiring the last of these arts till 
 he is exposed to our view. — The theory is extremely plausible, 
 and does honour to the author's sagacity ; but it only places in a 
 new light that provident care which Nature has taken of all her 
 offspring in the infancy of their existence. 
 
 Another instance may contribute towards a more ample illus- 
 tration of the same subject. A lamb, not many minutes after 
 it is dropped, proceeds to search for its nourishment in that spot 
 where alone it is to be found ; applying both its limbs and its 
 
OF THOMAS REID,D.D. 55 
 
 eyes to their respective offices. The peasant observes the fact, 
 and gives the name of instinct, or some corresponding term, to 
 the unknown principle by which the animal is guided. On a 
 more accurate examination of circumstances, the philosopher 
 finds reason to conclude, that it is by the sense of smelling, it is 
 thus directed to its object. In proof of this, among other curious 
 facts, the following has been quoted. " On dissecting," says 
 Gralen, " a goat great with young, I found a brisk embryon, and 
 having detached it from the matrix, and snatching it away before 
 it saw its dam, I brought it into a room where there were many 
 vessels ; some filled with wine, others with oil, some with honey, 
 others with milk, or some other liquor ; and in others there were 
 grains and fruits. We first observed the young animal get upon 
 its feet and walk ; then it shook itself, and afterwards scratched 
 its side with one of its feet : then we saw it smelling to every 
 one of those things that were set in the room ; and when it had 
 smelt to them all, it drank up the milk."* Admitting this very 
 beautiful story to be true, (and, for my own part, I am far from 
 being disposed to question its probability,) it only enables us to 
 state the fact with a little more precision, in consequence of our 
 having ascertained, that it is to the sense of smelling, the in- 
 stinctive determination is attached. The conclusion of the pea- 
 sant is not here at variance with that of the philosopher. It 
 differs only in this, that he expresses himself in those general 
 terms which are suited to his ignorance of the particular process 
 by which Nature in this case accomplishes her end ; and, if he 
 did otherwise, he would be censurable for prejudging a question 
 of which he is incompetent to form an accurate opinion. 
 
 The application of these illustrations to some of Dr. Reid's 
 conclusions concerning the instinctive principles of the human 
 mind, is, I flatter myself, sufficiently manifest. They relate, 
 indeed, to a subject which differs, in various respects, from that 
 which has fallen under his more particular consideration ; but 
 the same rules of philosophizing will be found to apply equally 
 to both. 
 
 4. The criticisms which have been made on what Dr. Reid 
 has written concerning the intuitive truths which he distinguishes 
 
 * Darwin, vol. i. pp. 195, 196. 
 
50 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 by the title of " Principles of Common Sense," would require a 
 more ample discussion than I can now bestow on them ; — not 
 that the importance of these criticisms (of such of them, at least, 
 as I have happened to meet with) demands a long or elaborate 
 refutation; but because the subject, according to the view I 
 wish to take of it, involves some other questions of great moment 
 and difficulty, relative to the foundations of human knowledge. 
 Dr. Priestley, the most formidable of Dr. Reid's antagonists, 
 has granted as much in favour of this doctrine as it is worth 
 while to contend for, on the present occasion. " Had these 
 writers," he observes with respect to Dr. Reid and his followers, 
 "assumed, as the elements of their common sense, certain 
 truths which are so plain that no man could doubt of them, 
 (without entering into the ground of our assent to them,) their 
 conduct would have been liable to very little objection. All 
 that could have been said would have been, that, without any 
 necessity, they had made an innovation in the received use of a 
 term. For no person ever denied, that there are self-evident 
 truths, and that these must be assumed as the foundation of all 
 our reasoning. I never met with any person who did not ac- 
 knowledge this, or heard of any argumentative treatise that did 
 not go upon the supposition of it."* After such an acknow- 
 ledgment, it is impossible to forbear asking (with Dr. Campbell), 
 " What is the great point which Dr. Priestley would controvert ? 
 Is it, whether such self-evident truths shall be denominated 
 principles of common sense, or be distinguished by some other 
 appellation ?"f 
 
 * Examination of Dr. Reid's Inquiry, &c. p. 119. 
 
 f The following strictures on Dr. Priestley's "Examination," &c. are copied 
 from a very judicious note in Dr. Campbell's " Philosophy of Rhetoric," 
 vol. i. p. 111. 
 
 " I shall only subjoin two remarks on this book. The first is, that the author, 
 through tne whole, confounds two things totally distinct, — certain associations 
 of ideas, and certain judgments implying belief, which, though in some, are 
 not in all cases, and therefore not necessarily connected with association. And 
 if so, merely to account for the association, is in no case to account for the 
 belief with which it is attended. Nay, admitting his plea, (p. 80,) that by 
 the principle of association, not only the ideas, but the concomitant belief may 
 be accounted for, even this does not invalidate the doctrine he impugns. For, 
 let it be observed, that it is one thing to assign a cause, which, from the me- 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 57 
 
 That the doctrine in question has been, in some publications, 
 presented in a very exceptionable form, I most readily allow ; 
 nor would I be understood to subscribe to it implicitly, even as 
 it appears in the works of Dr. Reid. It is but an act of justice 
 to him, however, to request, that his opinions may be judged of 
 from his own works alone, not from those of others who may 
 have happened to coincide with him in certain tenets, or in cer- 
 tain modes of expression ; and that, before any ridicule be 
 attempted on his conclusions concerning the authority of com- 
 mon sense, his antagonists would take the trouble to examine in 
 what acceptation he has employed that phrase. 
 
 The truths which Dr. Reid seems, in most instances, disposed 
 to refer to the judgment of this tribunal, might, in my opinion, 
 be denominated more unexceptionably, " fundamental laws of 
 human belief." They have been called by a very ingenious 
 foreigner, (M. Trembley of Geneva,) but certainly with a singu- 
 lar infelicity of language, Ppejuges Legitimes. — Of this kind are 
 the following propositions : "I am the same person to-day that 
 
 chanism of our nature, has given rise to a particular tenet of belief, and anothor 
 thing to produce a reason by which the understanding has been convinced. 
 Now, unless this be done as to the principles in question, they must be consi- 
 dered as primary truths in respect of the understanding, which never deduced 
 them from other truths, and which is under a necessity, in all her moral rea- 
 sonings, of founding upon them. In fact, to give any other account of our 
 conviction of them, is to confirm, instead of confuting the doctrine, that in 
 all argumentation they must be regarded as primary truths, or truths which 
 reason never inferred through any medium, from other truths previously 
 perceived. My second remark is, that though this examiner has, from Dr. 
 Reid, given us a catalogue of first principles, which he deems unworthy of 
 the honourable place assigned them, he has no where thought proper to give us 
 a list of those self-evident truths, which, b,y his own account, and in his own 
 express words, 'must be assumed as the foundation of all our reasoning.' 
 How much light might have been thrown upon the subject by the contrast ! 
 Perhaps we should have been enabled, on the comparison, to discover some 
 distinctive characters in his genuine axioms, which would have preserved us 
 from the danger of confounding them with their spurious ones. Nothing is 
 more evident than that, in whatever regards matter of fact, the mathematical 
 axioms will not answer. These are purely fitted for evolving the abstract 
 relations of quantity. This he in effect owns himself (p. 39.) It would have 
 been obliging, then, and would have greatly contributed to shorten the con- 
 troversy, if he had given us, at least, a specimen of those self-evident principles, 
 which, in his estimation, are the non plus ultra of moral reasoning." 
 
58 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 I was yesterday ;" " The material world has an existence inde- 
 pendent of that of percipient beings ;" " There are other intelli- 
 gent beings in the universe beside myself;" " The future course 
 of nature will resemble the past." Such truths no man but a 
 philosopher ever thinks of stating to himself in words ; but all 
 our conduct and all our reasonings proceed on the supposition 
 that they are admitted. The belief of them is essential for the 
 preservation of our animal existence : and it is accordingly 
 coeval with the first operations of the intellect. 
 
 One of the first writers who introduced the phrase common 
 sense into the technical or appropriate language of logic, was 
 Father Buffier, in a book entitled, " Traite des Premieres 
 Verites." It has since been adopted by several authors of note 
 in this country ; particularly by Dr. Reid, Dr. Oswald, and 
 Dr. Beat tie ; by all of whom, however, I am afraid, it must be 
 confessed, it has been occasionally employed without a due 
 attention to precision. The last of these writers uses it* to 
 denote that power by which the mind perceives the truth of any 
 intuitive proposition ; whether it be an axiom of abstract science ; 
 or a statement of some fact resting on the immediate information 
 of consciousness of perception, or of memory ; or one of those 
 fundamental laws of belief which are implied in the application 
 of our faculties to the ordinary business of life. The same 
 extensive use of the word may, I believe, be found in the other 
 authors just mentioned. But no authority can justify such a 
 laxity in the employment of language in philosophical discus- 
 sions ; for, if mathematical axioms be (as they are manifestly 
 and indisputably) a class of propositions essentially distinct from 
 the other kinds of intuitive truths now described, why refer 
 them all indiscriminately to the same principle in our constitu- 
 tion ? If this phrase, therefore, be at all retained, precision 
 requires, that it should be employed in a more limited accepta- 
 tion ; and accordingly, in the works under our consideration, it 
 is appropriated most frequently, though by no means uniformly, 
 to that class of intuitive truths which I have already called 
 " fundamental laws of belief, "f When thus restricted, it con- 
 
 * Essay on Truth, second edition, p. 40, ct scq. ; also p. 1GG, et seq. 
 ■j- This seems to be nearly the meaning annexed to the phrase, by the learned 
 and acute author of " The Philosophy of Rhetoric," vol. i. p. 109, et seq. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £g 
 
 veys a notion, unambiguous at least, and definite ; and, conse- 
 quently, the question about its propriety or impropriety turns 
 entirely on the coincidence of this definition with the meaning 
 of the word as employed in ordinary discourse. Whatever 
 objections, therefore, may be stated to the expression as now 
 defined, will apply to it with additional force, when used with 
 the latitude which has been already censured. 
 
 I have said, that the question about the propriety of the 
 phrase common sense as employed by philosophers, must be 
 decided by an appeal to general practice : for, although it be 
 allowable and even necessary for a philosopher to limit the 
 acceptation of words which are employed vaguely in common 
 discourse, it is always dangerous to give to a word a scientific 
 meaning . essentially distinct from that in which it is usually 
 understood. It has, at least, the effect of misleading those who 
 do not enter deeply into the subject ; and of giving a paradoxical 
 appearance to doctrines, which, if expressed in more unexcep- 
 tionable terms, would be readily admitted. 
 
 It appears to me, that this has actually happened in the pre- 
 sent instance. The phrase common sense, as it is generally 
 understood, is nearly synonymous with mother-wit; denoting 
 that degree of sagacity (depending partly on original capacity, 
 and partly on personal experience and observation,) which quali- 
 fies an individual for those simple and essential occupations 
 which all men are called on to exercise habitually by their com- 
 mon nature. In this acceptation, it is opposed to those mental 
 acquirements which are derived from a regular education, and 
 from the study of books ; and refers, not to the speculative con- 
 victions of the understanding, but to that prudence and discre- 
 tion which are the foundation of successful conduct. Such is 
 the idea which Pope annexes to the word, when, speaking of 
 good sense, (which means only a more than ordinary share of 
 common sense,) he calls it 
 
 " the gift of Heaven, 
 And though no science, fairly worth the seven." 
 
 To speak, accordingly, of appealing from the conclusions of 
 philosophy to common sense, had the appearance, to title-page 
 readers, of appealing from the verdict of the learned to the voice 
 of the multitude ; or of attempting to silence free discussion, by 
 
gO ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 a reference to some arbitrary and undefinable standard, distinct 
 from any of the intellectual powers hitherto enumerated by 
 logicians. Whatever countenance may be supposed to have been 
 given by some writers to such an interpretation of this doctrine, 
 I may venture to assert that none is afforded by the works of 
 Dr, Reid. The standard to which he appeals, is neither the 
 . creed of a particular sect, nor the inward light of enthusiastic 
 presumption ; but that constitution of human nature without 
 which all the business of the world would immediately cease ; — 
 and the substance of his argument amounts merely to this, that 
 those essential laws of belief to which sceptics have objected, 
 when considered in connexion with our scientific reasonings, are 
 implied in every step we take as active beings ; and if called in 
 question by any man in his practical concerns, would expose him 
 universally to the charge of insanity. 
 
 In stating this important doctrine, it were perhaps to be wished, 
 that the subject had been treated with somewhat more of analy- 
 tical accuracy ; and it is certainly to be regretted, that a phrase 
 should have been employed, so well calculated by its ambiguity 
 to furnish a convenient handle to misrepresentations : but in the 
 judgment of those who have perused Dr. Reid's writings with 
 an intelligent and candid attention, these misrepresentations must 
 recoil on their authors ; while they who are really interested in 
 the progress of useful science, will be disposed rather to lend 
 their aid in supplying what is defective in his views, than to 
 reject hastily a doctrine which aims, by the development of some 
 logical principles, overlooked in the absurd systems which have 
 been borrowed from the schools, to vindicate the authority of 
 truths intimately and extensively connected with human happi- 
 ness. 
 
 In the prosecution of my own speculations on the human 
 mind, I shall have occasion to explain myself fully concerning 
 this as well as various other questions connected with the foun- 
 dations of philosophical evidence. The new doctrines, and new 
 phraseology on that subject, which have lately become fashion- 
 able among some metaphysicians in Germany, and which, in my 
 opinion, have contributed not a little to involve it in additional 
 obscurity, are a sufficient proof that this essential and funda- 
 mental article of logic is not as yet completely exhausted. 
 
OF THOMAS EEID, D.D. g| 
 
 In order to bring the foregoing remarks within some compass, 
 I have found it necessary to confine myself to such objections as 
 strike at the root of Dr. Reid's philosophy, without touching on 
 any of his opinions on particular topics, however important. I 
 have been obliged also to compress what I have stated within 
 narrower limits than were, perhaps, consistent with complete 
 perspicuity ; and to reject many illustrations which crowded 
 upon me at almost every step of my progress. 
 
 It may not, perhaps, be superfluous to add, that, supposing 
 some of these objections to possess more force than I have as- 
 cribed to them in my reply, it will not therefore follow, that 
 little advantage is to be derived from a careful perusal of the 
 speculations against which they are directed. Even they who 
 dissent the most widely from Dr. Reid's conclusions, can scarcely 
 fail to admit that, as a writer, he exhibits a striking contrast to 
 the most successful of his predecessors, in a logical precision and 
 simplicity of language ; his statement of facts being neither vi- 
 tiated by physiological hypothesis, nor obscured by scholastic 
 mystery. Whoever has reflected on the infinite importance, in 
 such inquiries, of a skilful use of words as the essential instru- 
 ment of thought, must be aware of the influence which his works 
 are likely to have on the future progress of science, were they to 
 produce no other effect than a general imitation of his mode of 
 reasoning, and of his guarded phraseology. 
 
 It is not indeed every reader to whom these inquiries are acces- 
 sible ; for habits of attention in general, and still more habits of 
 attention to the phenomena of thought, require early and careful 
 cultivation : but those who are capable of the exertion, will soon 
 recognise, in Dr. Reid's statements, the faithful history of their 
 own minds, and will find their labours amply rewarded by that 
 satisfaction which always accompanies the discovery of useful 
 truth. They may expect, also, to be rewarded by some intel- 
 lectual acquisitions not altogether useless in their other studies. 
 An author well qualified to judge, from his own experience, of 
 whatever conduces to invigorate or to embellish the understand- 
 ing, has beautifully remarked, that, " by turning the soul in- 
 ward on itself, its forces are concentred, and are fitted for stronger 
 and bolder nights of science ; and that, in such pursuits, whether 
 we take, or whether we lose the game, the chase is certainly of 
 
Q2 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 service."* In this respect, the philosophy of the mind (ab- 
 stracting entirely from that pre-eminence which belongs to it in 
 consequence of its practical applications) may claim a distin- 
 guished rank among those preparatory disciplines which another 
 writer of no less eminence has happily compared to " the crops 
 which are raised, not for the sake of the harvest, but to be 
 ploughed in as a dressing to the land."f 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE NARRATIVE. 
 
 The three works to which the foregoing remarks refer, together 
 with the " Essay on Quantity," published in the " Philosophical 
 Transactions of the Royal Society of London," and a short but 
 masterly " Analysis of Aristotle's Logic," which forms an appen- 
 dix to the third volume of Lord Karnes's " Sketches," compre- 
 hend the whole of Dr. Reid's publications. The interval between 
 the dates of the first and last of these amounts to no less than 
 forty years, although he had attained to the age of thirty-eight 
 before he ventured to appear as an author. 
 
 With the "Essays on the Active Powers of Man" he closed 
 his literary career ; but he continued, notwithstanding, to prose- 
 cute his studies with unabated ardour and activity. The more 
 modern improvements in chemistry attracted his particular no- 
 tice ; and he applied himself, with his wonted diligence and 
 success, to the study of its new doctrines and new nomenclature. 
 He amused himself, also, at times, in preparing for a philoso- 
 phical society, of which he was a member, short essays on parti- 
 cular topics, which happened to interest his curiosity, and on 
 which he thought he might derive useful hints from friendly dis- 
 cussion. The most important of these were, "An Examination 
 of Priestley's Opinions concerning Matter and Mind ; " " Obser- 
 vations on the Utopia of Sir Thomas More;" and "Physiolo- 
 gical Reflections on Muscular Motion." This last essay appears 
 to have been written in the eighty-sixth year of his age, and was 
 
 * Preface to Mr. Burke's " Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful." 
 f Bishop Berkeley's " Querist." 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. Qg 
 
 read by the author to his associates a few months before his 
 death. His " thoughts were led to the speculations it contains," 
 (as he himself mentions in the conclusion,) "by the experience 
 of some of the effects which old age produces on the muscular 
 motions." — "As they were occasioned, therefore," he adds, " by 
 the infirmities of age, they will, I hope, be heard with the greater 
 indulgence." 
 
 Among the various occupations with which he thus enlivened 
 his retirement, the mathematical pursuits of his earlier years 
 held a distinguished place. He delighted to converse about 
 them with his friends, and often exercised his skill in the inves- 
 tigation of particular problems. His knowledge of ancient geo- 
 metry had not probably been, at any time, very extensive ; but 
 he had cultivated diligently those parts of mathematical science 
 which are subservient to the study of Sir Isaac Newton's works. 
 He had a predilection, more particularly, for researches requiring 
 the aid of arithmetical calculation, in the practice of which he 
 possessed uncommon expertness and address. I think I have 
 sometimes observed in him a slight and amiable vanity connected 
 with this accomplishment. 
 
 The revival, at this period, of Dr. Reid's first scientific pro- 
 pensity, has often recalled to me a favourite remark • of Mr. 
 Smith's, that of all the amusements of old age, the most grateful 
 and soothing is a renewal of acquaintance with the favourite 
 studies and favourite authors of our youth ; a remark which, in 
 his own case, seemed to be more particularly exemplified, while 
 he was re-perusing, with the enthusiasm of a student, the tragic 
 poets of ancient Greece. I heard him at least repeat the obser- 
 vation more than once, while Sophocles or Euripides lay open 
 on his table. 
 
 In the case of Dr. Reid, other motives perhaps conspired with 
 the influence of the agreeable associations to which Mr. Smith 
 probably alluded. His attention was always fixed on the state 
 of his intellectual faculties ; and for counteracting the effects of 
 time on these, mathematical studies seem to be fitted in a pecu- 
 liar degree. They are fortunately, too, within the reach of many 
 individuals, after a decay of memory disqualifies them for inqui- 
 ries which involve a multiplicity of details. Such detached pro- 
 blems, more especially, as Dr. Reid commonly selected for his 
 
(34< ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 consideration ; problems where all the data are brought at once 
 under the eye, and where a connected train of thinking is not 
 to be carried on from day to day, will be found, (as I have wit- 
 nessed with pleasure, in several instances,) by those who are ca- 
 pable of such a recreation, a valuable addition to the scanty 
 resources of a life protracted beyond the ordinary limit. 
 
 While he was thus enjoying an old age, happy in some respects 
 beyond the usual lot of humanity, his domestic comfort suffered 
 a deep and incurable wound by the death of Mrs. Reid. He 
 had had the misfortune, too, of surviving, for many years, a nu- 
 merous family of promising children ; four of whom (two sons 
 and two daughters) died after they attained to maturity. One 
 daughter only was left to him when he lost his wife ; and of her 
 affectionate good offices he could not always avail himself, in 
 consequence of the attentions which her own husband's infirm- 
 ities required. Of this lady, who is still alive, (the widow of 
 Patrick Carmichael, M.D.,*) I shall have occasion again to in- 
 troduce the name, before I conclude this narrative. 
 
 A short extract from a letter addressed to myself by Dr. Reid, 
 not many weeks after his wife's death, will, I am persuaded, be 
 acceptable to many, as an interesting relic of the writer. 
 
 " By .the loss of my bosom-friend, with whom I lived fifty- 
 two years, I am brought into a kind of new world, at a time of 
 life when old habits are not easily forgot, or new ones acquired. 
 But every world is God's world, and I am thankful for the com- 
 forts he has left me. Mrs. Carmichael has now the care of two 
 old deaf men, and does every thing in her power to please them ; 
 and both are very sensible of her goodness. I have more health 
 than at my time of life I had any reason to expect. I walk 
 about; entertain myself with reading what I soon forget; can 
 converse with one person, if he articulates distinctly, and is within 
 ten inches of my left ear ; go to church, without hearing one 
 word of what is said. You know, I never had any pretensions 
 to vivacity, but I am still free from languor and ennui. 
 
 * A learned and worthy physician, who, after a long residence in Holland, 
 where he practised medicine, retired to Glasgow. He was a younger son of 
 Professor Gerschom Carmichael, who published, about the year 1720, an edi- 
 tion of Puflendorf, " Do OHicio Hominis et Civis," and who is pronounced by 
 Dr Hutcheson, " by far the best commentator on that book." 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. Q$ 
 
 " If you are weary of this detail, impute it to the anxiety you 
 express to know the state of my health. I wish you may have 
 no more uneasiness at my age, — being yours most affectionately." 
 
 About four years after this event, he was prevailed on by his 
 friend and relation Dr. Gregory, to pass a few weeks, during the 
 summer of 1796, at Edinburgh. He was accompanied by Mrs. 
 Carmichael, who lived with him in Dr. Gregory's house ; a situa- 
 tion which united, under the same roof, every advantage of medi- 
 cal care, of tender attachment, and of philosophical intercourse. 
 As Dr. Gregory's professional engagements, however, necessarily 
 interfered much with his attentions to his guest, I enjoyed more 
 of Dr. Reid's society than might otherwise have fallen to my 
 share. I had the pleasure, accordingly, of spending some hours 
 with him daily, and of attending him in his walking excursions, 
 which frequently extended to the distance of three or four miles. 
 His faculties (excepting his memory, which was considerably 
 impaired,) appeared as vigorous as ever ; and, although his deaf- 
 ness prevented him from taking any share in general conversa- 
 tion, he was still able to enjoy the company of a friend. Mr. 
 Playfair and myself were both witnesses of the acuteness which 
 he displayed on one occasion, in detecting a mistake, by no means 
 obvious, in a manuscript of his kinsman David Gregory, on the 
 subject of " Prime and Ultimate Ratios." Nor had his temper 
 suffered from the hand of time, either in point of gentleness or 
 of gaiety. " Instead of repining at the enjoyments of the young, 
 he delighted in promoting them ; and, after all the losses he had 
 sustained in his own family, he continued to treat children with 
 such condescension and benignity, that some very young ones 
 noticed the peculiar kindness of his eye."* In apparent sound- 
 ness and activity of body, he resembled more a man of sixty than 
 of eighty-seven. 
 
 He returned to Glasgow in his usual health and spirits ; and 
 continued, for some weeks, to devote, as formerly, a regular por- 
 tion of his time to the exercise both of body and of mind. It 
 appears, from a letter of Dr. Cleghorn's to Dr. Gregory, that he 
 
 * I have borrowed this sentence from a just and elegant character of Dr. 
 Reid, which appeared, a few days after his death, in one of the Glasgow jour- 
 nals. I had occasion frequently to verify the truth of the observation during 
 his last visit to Edinburgh. 
 
 F 
 
g(] ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 was still able to work with his own hands in his garden ; and he 
 was found by Dr. Brown occupied in the solution of an algebra- 
 ical problem of considerable difficulty, in which, after the labour 
 of a day or two, he at last succeeded. It was in the course of 
 the same short interval that he committed to writing those parti- 
 culars concerning his ancestors which I have already mentioned. 
 
 His active and useful life was now, however, drawing to a 
 conclusion. A violent disorder attacked him about the end of 
 September ; but does not seem to have occasioned much alarm 
 to those about him, till he was visited by Dr. Cleghorn, who 
 soon after communicated his apprehensions in a letter to Dr. 
 Gregory. Among other symptoms, he mentioned particularly, 
 " that alteration of voice and features, which, though not easily 
 described, is so well known to all who have opportunities of 
 seeing life close." Dr. Reid's own opinion of his case was pro- 
 bably the same with that of his physician ; as he expressed to 
 him on his first visit, his hope that he was " soon to get his dis- 
 mission." After a severe struggle, attended with repeated strokes 
 of palsy, he died on the 7th of October following. Dr. Gregory 
 had the melancholy satisfaction of visiting his venerable friend 
 on his death -bed, and of paying him this unavailing mark of at- 
 tachment, before his powers of recollection were entirely gone. 
 
 The only surviving descendant of Dr. Reid is Mrs. Carmi- 
 chael, a daughter worthy in every respect of such a father — 
 long the chief comfort and support of his old age, and his anx- 
 ious nurse in his last moments.* 
 
 * Dr. Reid's father, the Rev. Lewis Reid, married, for his second wife, 
 Janet, daughter of Mr. Fraser, of Phopachy, in the county of Inverness. A 
 daughter of this marriage survived Dr. Reid ; the wife of the Rev. Alexander 
 Leslie, and the mother of the Rev. James Leslie, ministers of Fordoun. To the 
 latter of these gentlemen, I am indebted for the greater part of the information 
 I have been able to collect with respect to Dr. Reid, previous to his removal to 
 Glasgow ; Mr. Leslie's regard for the memory of his uncle having prompted 
 him, not only to transmit to me such particulars as had fallen under his own 
 knowledge, but some valuable letters on the same subject, which he procured 
 from his relations and friends in the North. 
 
 For all the members of this most respectable family, Dr. Reid entertained 
 the strongest sentiments of affection and regard. During several years before 
 his death, a daughter of Mrs. Leslie's was a constant inmate of his house, and 
 added much to the happiness of his small domestic circle. 
 
 Another daughter of Mr. Lewis Reid was married to the Rev. John Rose, 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 
 
 67 
 
 In point of bodily constitution, few men have been more in- 
 debted to nature than Dr. Reid. His form was vigorous and 
 athletic ; and his muscular force (though he was somewhat under 
 the middle size) uncommonly great ; advantages to which his 
 habits of temperance and exercise, and the unclouded serenity 
 of his temper, did ample justice. His countenance was strongly 
 expressive of deep and collected thought ; but when brightened 
 up by the face of a friend, what chiefly caught the attention 
 was, a look of good- will and of kindness. A picture of him, 
 for which he consented, at the particular request of Dr. Gre- 
 gory, to sit, to Mr. Raeburn, during his last visit to Edinburgh, 
 is generally and justly ranked among the happiest performances 
 of that excellent artist. The medallion of Tassie, also, for 
 which he sat in the eighty-first year of his age, presents a very 
 perfect resemblance. 
 
 I have little to add to what the foregoing pages contain with 
 respect to his character. Its most prominent features were, — 
 intrepid and inflexible rectitude ; — a pure and devoted attach- 
 ment to truth ; — and an entire command (acquired by the un- 
 wearied exertions of a long life) over all his passions. Hence, 
 in those parts of his writings where his subject forces him to 
 dispute the conclusions of others, a scrupulous rejection of every 
 expression calculated to irritate those whom he was anxious to 
 convince ; and a spirit of liberality and good-humour towards 
 
 minister of Udny. She died in 1793. In this connexion, Dr. Reid was no 
 less fortunate than in the former ; and to Mr. Rose I am indebted for favours 
 of the same kind with those which I have already acknowledged from Mr. 
 Leslie. 
 
 The widow of Mr. Lewis Reid died in 1798, in the eighty-seventh year of 
 her age, having survived her step-son, Dr. Reid, more than a year. 
 
 The limits within which I was obliged to confine my biographical details, 
 prevented me from availing myself of many interesting circumstances which 
 were communicated to me through the authentic channels which I have now 
 mentioned. But I cannot omit this opportunity of returning to my different 
 correspondents my warmest acknowledgments for the pleasure and instruction 
 which I received from their letters. 
 
 Mr. Jardine, also, the learned Professor of Logic in the University of Glas- 
 gow, a gentleman, who, for many years, lived in habits of the most confiden- 
 tial intimacy with Dr. Reid and his family, is entitled to my best thanks for his 
 obliging attention to various queries, which I took the liberty to propose to him, 
 concerning the history of our common friend. 
 
 f2 
 
68 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 his opponents, from which no asperity on their part could pro- 
 voke him, for a moment, to deviate. The progress of useful 
 knowledge, more especially in what relates to human nature and 
 to human life, he believed to be retarded rather than advanced 
 by the intemperance of controversy ; and to be secured most 
 effectually when intrusted to the slow but irresistible influence 
 of sober reasoning. That the argumentative talents of the dis- 
 putants might be improved by such altercations, he was willing 
 to allow ; but, considered in their connexion with the great ob- 
 jects which all classes of writers profess equally to have in view, 
 he was convinced " that they have done more harm to the prac- 
 tice, than they have done service to the theory of morality."* 
 
 In private life, no man ever maintained, more eminently or 
 more uniformly, the dignity of philosophy ; combining with the 
 most amiable modesty and gentleness, the noblest spirit of inde- 
 pendence. The only preferments which he ever enjoyed, he 
 owed to the unsolicited favour of the two learned bodies who 
 successively adopted him into their number ; and the respectable 
 rank which he supported in society was the well-earned reward 
 of his own academical labours. The studies in which he de- 
 lighted were little calculated to draw on him the patronage of the 
 great ; and he was unskilled in the art of courting advancement, 
 by " fashioning his doctrines to the varying hour." 
 
 As a philosopher, his genius was more peculiarly characterised 
 by a sound, cautious, distinguishing judgment ; by a singular 
 patience and perseverance of thought ; and by habits of the most 
 fixed and concentrated attention to his own mental operations ; 
 endowments which, although not the most splendid in the esti- 
 mation of the multitude, would seem entitled, from the history 
 of science, to rank among the rarest gifts of the mind. 
 
 With these habits and powers, he united (what does not always 
 accompany them) the curiosity of a naturalist, and the eye of an 
 observer; and, accordingly, his information about every thing 
 relating to physical science and to the useful arts, was extensive 
 and accurate. His memory for historical details was not so re- 
 markable ; and he used sometimes to regret the imperfect degree 
 in which he possessed this faculty. I am inclined, however, to 
 
 * Preface to Pope's " Essay on Man." 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. go, 
 
 think, that, in doing so, he underrated his natural advantages ; 
 estimating the strength of memory, as men commonly do, rather 
 by the recollection of particular facts, than by the possession of 
 those general conclusions, from a subserviency to which, such 
 facts derive their principal value. 
 
 Towards the close of life, indeed, his memory was much less 
 vigorous than the other powers of his intellect ; in none of which 
 could I ever perceive any symptom of decline. His ardour for 
 knowledge, too, remained unextinguished to the last ; and, when 
 cherished by the society of the young and inquisitive, seemed 
 even to increase with his years. What is still more remarkable, 
 he retained in extreme old age all the sympathetic tenderness, 
 and all the moral sensibility of youth ; the liveliness of his emo- 
 tions, wherever the happiness of others was concerned, forming 
 an affecting contrast to his own unconquerable firmness under 
 the severest trials. 
 
 Nor was the sensibility which he retained, the selfish and ste- 
 rile offspring of taste and indolence. It was alive and active, 
 wherever he could command the means of relieving the distresses, 
 or of adding to the comforts of others ; and was often felt in its 
 effects where he was unseen and unknown. Among the various 
 proofs of this which have happened to fall under my own know- 
 ledge, I cannot help mentioning particularly (upon the most un- 
 questionable authority) the secrecy with which he conveyed his 
 occasional benefactions to his former parishioners at New-Machar, 
 long after his establishment at Glasgow. One donation, in par- 
 ticular, during the scarcity of 1782, — -a donation which, not- 
 withstanding all his precautions, was distinctly traced to his 
 beneficence, — might perhaps have been thought disproportionate 
 to his limited income, had not his own simple and moderate 
 habits multiplied the resources of his humanity. 
 
 His opinions on the most important subjects are to be found 
 in his works ; and that spirit of piety which animated every part 
 of his conduct, forms the best comment on their practical ten- 
 dency. In the state in which he found the philosophical world, 
 he believed, that his talents could not be so usefully employed, 
 as in combating the schemes of those who aimed at the complete 
 subversion of religion, both natural and revealed ; convinced 
 with Dr. Clarke, that " as Christianity presupposes the truth of 
 
70 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 natural religion, whatever tends to discredit the latter, must have 
 a proportionally greater effect in weakening the authority of the 
 former."* In his views of both, he seems to have coincided nearly 
 with Bishop Butler, an author whom he held in the highest esti- 
 mation. A very careful abstract of the treatise entitled " Ana- 
 logy," drawn up by Dr. Reid, many years ago, for his own use, 
 still exists among his manuscripts ; and the short " Dissertation 
 on Virtue," which Butler has annexed to that work, together 
 with the " Discourses on Human Nature," published in his vo- 
 lume of Sermons, he used always to recommend* -as the most 
 satisfactory account that has yet appeared on the fundamental 
 principles of morals ; nor could he conceal his regret, that the 
 profound philosophy which these discourses contain, should of 
 late have been so generally supplanted in England, by the spe- 
 culations of some other moralists, who, while they profess to 
 idolize the memory of Locke, " approve little or nothing in his 
 writings, but his errors, "f 
 
 Deeply impressed, however, as he was with his own principles, 
 he possessed the most perfect liberality towards all whom he be- 
 lieved to be honestly and conscientiously devoted to the search 
 of truth. With one very distinguished character, the late Lord 
 Karnes, he lived in the most cordial and affectionate friendship, 
 notwithstanding the avowed opposition of their sentiments on 
 some moral questions, to which he attached the greatest import- 
 ance. Both of them, however, were the friends of virtue and of 
 mankind ; and both were able to temper the warmth of free dis- 
 cussion, with the forbearance and good-humour founded on reci- 
 procal esteem. No two men, certainly, ever exhibited a more 
 striking contrast in their conversation, or in their constitutional 
 tempers : the one, slow and cautious in his decisions, even on 
 those topics which he had most diligently studied ; reserved and 
 silent in promiscuous society ; and retaining, after all his literary 
 eminence, the same simple and unassuming manners which he 
 brought from his country residence : the other, lively, rapid, 
 
 * Collection of papers which passed between Leibnitz and Clarke. — See 
 Dr. Clarke's Dedication. 
 
 f I have adopted here the words which Dr. Clarke applied to some of Mr. 
 Locke's earlier followers. They are still more applicable to many writers of 
 the present times. — See Clarke's first Reply to Leibnitz. 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 7] 
 
 and communicative ; accustomed, by his professional pursuits, to 
 wield with address the weapons of controversy, and not averse to 
 a trial of his powers on questions the most foreign to his ordi- 
 nary habits of inquiry. But these characteristical differences, 
 while to their common friends they lent an additional charm to 
 the distinguishing merits of each, served only to enliven their 
 social intercourse, and to cement their mutual attachment. 
 
 I recollect few, if any, anecdotes of Dr. Reid, which appear to 
 me calculated to throw additional light on his character ; and I 
 suspect strongly that many of those which are to be met with 
 in biographical publications are more likely to mislead than to 
 inform. A trifling incident, it is true, may sometimes paint a 
 peculiar feature better than the most elaborate description ; but 
 a selection of incidents really characteristical, presupposes, in the 
 observer, a rare capacity to discriminate and to generalize ; and 
 where this capacity is wanting, a biographer, with the most scru- 
 pulous attention to the veracity of his details, may yet convey a 
 very false conception of the individual he would describe. As, 
 in the present instance, my subject afforded no materials for such 
 a choice, I have attempted, to the best of my abilities, (instead 
 of retailing detached fragments of conversations, or recording 
 insulated and unmeaning occurrences,) to communicate to others 
 the general impressions which Dr. Reid's character has left on 
 my own mind. In this attempt I am far from being confident 
 that I have succeeded ; but, how barren soever I may have thus 
 rendered my pages in the estimation of those who consider bio- 
 graphy merely in the light of an amusing tale, I have, at least, 
 the satisfaction to think that my picture, though faint in the 
 colouring, does not present a distorted resemblance of the ori- 
 ginal. 
 
 The confidential correspondence of an individual with his 
 friends, affords to the student of human nature, materials of far 
 greater authenticity and importance ; more particularly the cor- 
 respondence of a man like Dr. Reid, who will not be suspected 
 by those who knew him of accommodating his letters (as has 
 been alleged of Cicero) to the humours and principles of those 
 whom he addressed. I am far, at the same time, from thinking, 
 that the correspondence of Dr. Reid would be generally interest- 
 ing ; or even that he excelled in this species of writing ; but few 
 
72 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 men, I sincerely believe, who have written so much, have left 
 behind them such unblemished memorials of their virtue. 
 
 At present I shall only transcribe two letters, which I select 
 from a considerable number now lying before me, as they seem 
 to accord, more than the others, with the general design of this 
 memoir. The first (which is dated 13 January, 1779,) is addressed 
 to the Reverend William Gregory, (afterwards Rector of St. 
 Andrew's, Canterbury,) then an undergraduate in Balliol College, 
 Oxford. It relates to a remarkable peculiarity in Dr. Reid's 
 physical temperament, connected with the subject of dreaming ; 
 and is farther interesting as a genuine record of some particulars 
 in his early habits, in which it is easy to perceive the openings 
 of a superior mind. 
 
 " The fact which your brother the Doctor desires to be 
 informed of, was as you mention it. As far as I remember the 
 circumstances, they were as follow : 
 
 " About the age of fourteen I was, almost every night, un- 
 happy in my sleep from frightful dreams. Sometimes hanging 
 over a dreadful precipice, and just ready to drop down ; some- 
 times pursued for my life, and stopped by a wall, or by a sudden 
 loss of all strength ; sometimes ready to be devoured by a w r ild 
 beast. How long I was plagued with such dreams I do not now 
 recollect. I believe it was for a year or two at least ; and I think 
 they had quite left me before I was fifteen. In those days I was 
 much given to what Mr. Addison, in one of his ' Spectators,' 
 calls Castle-building ; and in my evening solitary walk, which 
 was generally all the exercise I took, my thoughts would hurry 
 me into some active scene, where I generally acquitted myself 
 much to my own satisfaction ; and in these scenes of imagination 
 I performed many a gallant exploit. At the same time, in my 
 dreams I found myself the most arrant coward that ever was. 
 Not only my courage, but my strength, failed me in every dan- 
 ger ; and I often rose from my bed in the morning, in such a 
 panic, that it took some time to get the better of it. I wished 
 very much to get free of these uneasy dreams, which not only 
 made me unhappy in sleep, but often left a disagreeable impres- 
 sion in my mind for some part of the following day. I thought 
 it was worth trying whether it was possible to recollect that it 
 was all a dream, and that I was in no real danger. I often went 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 7g 
 
 to sleep with my mind as strongly impressed as I could with this 
 thought, that I never in my lifetime was in any real danger, and 
 that every fright I had was a dream. After many fruitless en- 
 deavours to recollect this when the danger appeared, I effected 
 it at. last, and have often, when I was sliding over a precipice 
 into the abyss, recollected that it was all a dream, and boldly 
 jumped down. The effect of this commonly was, that I imme- 
 diately awoke. But I awoke calm and intrepid, which I thought 
 a great acquisition. After this, my dreams were never very 
 uneasy ; and in a short time I dreamed not at all. 
 
 "During all this time I was in perfect health; but whether 
 my ceasing to dream was the effect of the recollection above men- 
 tioned, or of any change in the habit of my body, which is usual 
 about that period of life, I cannot tell. I think it may more 
 probably be imputed to the last. However, the fact was, that 
 for at least forty years after, I dreamed none, to the best of my 
 remembrance : and finding, from the testimony of others, that 
 this is somewhat uncommon, I have often, as soon as I awoke, 
 endeavoured to recollect, without being able to recollect, any 
 thing that passed in my sleep. For some years past I can some- 
 times recollect some kind of dreaming thoughts, but so incohe- 
 rent that I can make nothing of them. 
 
 " The only distinct dream I ever had since I was about sixteen, 
 as far as I remember, was about two years ago. I had got my 
 head blistered for a fall. A plaster which was put upon it after 
 the blister, pained me excessively for a whole night. In the 
 morning I slept a little, and dreamed very distinctly that I had 
 fallen into the hands of a party of Indians, and was scalped. 
 
 " I am apt to think, that as there is a state of sleep, and a 
 state wherein we are awake, so there is an intermediate state, 
 which partakes of the other two. If a man peremptorily resolves 
 to rise at an early hour for some interesting purpose, he will of 
 himself awake at that hour. A sick-nurse gets the habit of 
 sleeping in such a manner that she hears the least whisper of the 
 sick person, and yet is refreshed by this kind of half sleep. The 
 same is the case of a nurse who sleeps with a child in her arms. 
 I have slept on horseback, but so as to preserve my balance ; and 
 if the horse stumbled, I could make the exertion necessary for 
 saving me from a fall, as if I was awake. 
 
74 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 " I hope the sciences at your good university are not in this 
 state. Yet, from so many learned men, so much at their ease, 
 one would expect something more than we hear of." 
 
 For the other letter, I am indebted to one of Dr. Reid's most 
 intimate friends, to whom it was addressed, in the year 1784, on 
 occasion of the melancholy event to which it alludes. 
 
 u I sympathize with you very sincerely in the loss of a most 
 amiable wife. I judge of your feelings by the impression she 
 made upon my own heart, on a very short acquaintance. But 
 I all the blessings of this world are transient and uncertain ; and 
 it would be but a melancholy scene if there were no prospect of 
 another. • 
 
 " I have often had occasion to admire the resignation and for- 
 titude of young persons, even of the weaker sex, in the views of 
 death, when their imagination is filled with all the gay prospects 
 which the world presents at that period. I have been witness to 
 instances of this kind, which I thought truly heroic, and I hear 
 Mrs. Gregory gave a remarkable one. 
 
 " To see the soul increase in vigour and wisdom, and in every 
 amiable quality, when health and strength and animal spirits 
 decay ; when it is to be torn by violence from all that filled the 
 imagination, and flattered hope, is a spectacle truly grand and 
 instructive to the surviving. To think that the soul perishes in 
 that fatal moment, when it is purified by this fiery trial, and 
 fitted for the noblest exertions in another state, is an opinion 
 which I cannot help looking down upon with contempt and 
 disdain. 
 
 " In old people there is no more merit in leaving this world 
 with perfect acquiescence than in rising from a feast after one is 
 full. When I have before me the prospect of the infirmities, the 
 distresses, and the peevishness of old age, and when I have 
 already received more than my share of the good things of this 
 life, it would be ridiculous indeed to be anxious about prolong- 
 ing it ; but when I was four-and-twenty, to have had no anxiety 
 for its continuance, would, I think, have required a noble effort. 
 Such efforts, in those that are called to make them, surely shall 
 not lose their reward." 
 
 $fc W yfc "Sjr %> 
 
 I have now finished all that the limits of my plan permit me 
 
OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 
 
 75 
 
 to offer here, as a tribute to the memory of this excellent person. 
 In the details which I have stated, both with respect to his pri- 
 vate life and his scientific pursuits, I have dwelt chiefly on such 
 circumstances as appeared to me most likely to interest the 
 readers of his works, by illustrating his character as a man, and 
 his views as an author. Of his merits as an instructor of youth, 
 I have said but little ; partly from a wish to avoid unnecessary 
 diffuseness ; but chiefly from my anxiety to enlarge on those 
 still more important labours, of which he has bequeathed the 
 fruits to future ages. And yet, had he left no such monument 
 to perpetuate his name, the fidelity and zeal with which he dis- 
 charged, during so long a period, the obscure but momentous 
 duties of his official station, would, in the judgment of the wise 
 and good, have ranked him in the first order of useful citizens. — 
 " Nee enim is solus reipublicse prodest, qui candidatos extrahit, 
 et tuetur reos, et de pace belloque censet ; sed qui juventutem 
 exhortatur ; qui, in tanta bonorum prseceptorum inopia, virtute 
 instruit animos ; qui, ad pecuniam luxuriamque cursu ruentes 
 prensat ac retrahit, et, si nihil aliud, certe moratur : in privato, 
 publicum negotium agit," Seneca, De Tranquill. An. cap. 3. — ■ 
 " For neither is he alone of service to the republic who induces 
 candidates to come forward, and defends the accused, and gives 
 his opinion concerning peace and war ; but he who admonishes 
 the young ; who in such a dearth of good precepts disciplines 
 their minds with virtuous precepts ; who checks and draws back 
 those eagerly rushing to money and dissipation, and retards them, 
 if nothing more ; who in a private station forwards the public 
 
 In concluding this memoir, I trust I shall be pardoned, if, for 
 once, I give way to a personal feeling, while I express the satis- 
 faction with which I now close finally, my attempts as a biogra- 
 pher. Those which I have already made, were imposed on me 
 by the irresistible calls of duty and attachment ; and, feeble as 
 they are, when compared with the magnitude of subjects so 
 splendid and so various, they have encroached deeply on that 
 small portion of literary leisure which indispensable engagements 
 allow me to command. I cannot, at the same time, be insensi- 
 ble to the gratification of having endeavoured to associate in 
 some degree, my name with three of the greatest which have 
 
76 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 
 
 adorned this age ; — happy, if without deviating intentionally 
 from truth, I may have succeeded, however imperfectly, in my 
 wish, to gratify, at once, the curiosity of the public, and to soothe 
 
 the recollections of surviving friends. But I, too, have designs 
 
 and enterprises of my own ; and the execution of these (which 
 alas ! swell in magnitude, as the time for their accomplishment 
 hastens to a period,) claims at length, an undivided attention. 
 Yet I should not look back on the past with regret, if I could 
 indulge the hope, that the facts which it has been my province 
 to record, — by displaying those fair rewards of extensive useful- 
 ness, and of permanent fame, which talents and industry, when 
 worthily directed, cannot fail to secure, — may contribute, in one 
 single instance, to foster the proud and virtuous independence 
 of genius ; or, amidst the gloom of poverty and solitude, to gild 
 the distant prospect of the unfriended scholar, whose laurels are 
 now slowly ripening in the unnoticed privacy of humble life. 
 
ESSAYS 
 
 ACTIVE POWERS OF THE HUMAN MIND. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The division of the faculties of the human mind into Under- 
 standing and Will is very ancient, and has been very generally 
 adopted ; the former comprehending all our speculative, the 
 latter all our active powers. 
 
 It is evidently the intention of our Maker, that man should 
 be an active and not merely a speculative being. For this pur- 
 pose, certain active powers have been given him, limited indeed 
 in many respects, but suited to his rank and place in the crea- 
 tion. 
 
 Our business is to manage these powers, by proposing to our- 
 selves the best ends, planning the most proper system of conduct 
 that is in our power, and executing it with industry and zeal. 
 This is true wisdom ; this is the very intention of our being. 
 
 Every thing virtuous and praiseworthy must lie in the right 
 use of our power; every thing vicious and blameable in the 
 abuse of it. What is not within the sphere of our power can- 
 not be imputed to us either for blame or praise. These are 
 self-evident truths, to which every unprejudiced mind yields an 
 immediate and invincible assent. 
 
 Knowledge derives its value from this, that it enlarges our 
 power, and directs us in the application of it. For in the right 
 employment of our active power consists all the honour, dignity, 
 and worth of a man, and, in the abuse and perversion of it, all 
 the vice, corruption, and depravity. 
 
 We are distinguished from the brute animals, not less by our 
 active than by our speculative powers. 
 
78 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The brutes are stimulated to various actions by their instincts, 
 by their appetites, by their passions. But they seem to be 
 necessarily determined by the strongest impulse, without any 
 capacity of self-government. Therefore we do not blame them 
 for what they do ; nor have we any reason to think that they 
 blame themselves. They may be trained up by discipline, but 
 cannot be governed by law. There is no evidence that they 
 have the conception of a law, or of its obligation. 
 
 Man is capable of acting from motives of a higher nature. He 
 perceives a dignity and worth in one course of conduct, a demerit 
 and turpitude in another, which brutes have not the capacity to 
 discern. 
 
 He perceives it to be his duty to act the worthy and the 
 honourable part, whether his appetites and passions incite him 
 to it, or to the contrary. When he sacrifices the gratification of 
 the strongest appetites or passions to duty, this is so far from 
 diminishing the merit of his conduct, that it greatly increases it, 
 and affords upon reflection, an inward satisfaction and triumph, 
 of which brute animals are not susceptible. When he acts a 
 contrary part, he has a consciousness of demerit, to which they 
 are no less strangers. 
 
 Since, therefore, the active powers of man make so important 
 a part of 'his constitution, and distinguish him so eminently from 
 his fellow-animals, they deserve no less to be the subject of phi- 
 losophical disquisition than his intellectual powers. 
 
 A just knowledge of our powers, whether intellectual or active, 
 is so far of real importance to us, as it aids us in the exercise of 
 them. And every man must acknowledge, that to act properly 
 is much more valuable than to think justly or reason acutely. 
 
ESSAY I. 
 
 OF ACTIVE POWER IN GENERAL. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. 
 
 I. An explanation of the meaning of {t active power" neces- 
 sary. — To consider gravely what is meant by active power, may 
 seem altogether unnecessary, and to be mere trifling. It is not 
 a term of art, but a common word in our language, used every 
 day in discourse, even by the vulgar. We find words of the 
 same meaning in all other languages ; and there is no reason to 
 think that it is not perfectly understood by all men who under- 
 stand the English language. 
 
 I believe all this is true, and that an attempt to explain a 
 word so well understood, and to show that it has a meaning, 
 requires an apology. 
 
 [The apology is, that this term, so well understood by the vul- 
 gar, has been darkened by philosophers, who, in this, as in many 
 other instances, have found great difficulties about a thing which, 
 to the rest of mankind, seems perfectly clear.] 
 
 This has been the more easily effected, because power is a 
 thing so much of its own kind, and so simple in its nature, as 
 not to admit of a logical definition. 
 
 It is well known, that there are many things perfectly under- 
 stood, and of which we have clear and distinct conceptions, 
 which cannot be logically defined. No man ever attempted to 
 define magnitude ; yet there is no word whose meaning is more 
 distinctly or more generally understood. We cannot give a logi- 
 cal definition of thought, of duration, of number, or of motion. 
 
 When men attempt to define such things, they give no light. 
 They may give a synonymous word or phrase, but it will pro- 
 bably be a worse for a better. If they will define, the definition 
 will either be grounded upon a hypothesis, or it will darken the 
 subject rather than throw light upon it. 
 
 II. The Aristotelian definition of motion, that it is " actus 
 entis in potentia, quatenus in potentia," has been justly censured 
 by modern philosophers ; yet I think it is matched by what a 
 
80 ESSAY I. CHAP. I. 
 
 celebrated modern philosopher has given us, as the most accu- 
 rate definition of belief, to wit, " that it is a lively idea related 
 to or associated with a present impression." (Treatise of Hu- 
 man Nature, Vol. I. p. 172.) "Memory," according to the 
 same philosopher, " is the faculty by which we repeat our im- 
 pressions, so as that they retain a considerable degree of their 
 first vivacity, and are somewhat intermediate betwixt an idea 
 and an impression." 
 
 Euclid, if his editors have not done him injustice, has at- 
 tempted to define a right line, to define unity, ratio, and num- 
 ber. But these definitions are good for nothing.. We may, 
 indeed, suspect them not to be Euclid's, because they are never 
 once quoted in the " Elements," and are of no use. 
 
 I shall not, therefore, attempt to define active power, that I 
 may not be liable to the same censure ; but shall offer some ob- 
 servations that may lead us to attend to the conception we have 
 of it in our own minds. 
 
 TIL Of our conception of active power. — 1. Power is not an 
 object of any of our external senses, nor even an object of con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 That it is not seen, nor heard, nor touched, nor tasted, nor 
 smelt, needs no proof. That we are not conscious of it, in the 
 proper sense of that word, will be no less evident, if we reflect, 
 that consciousness is that power of the mind by which it has an 
 immediate knowledge of its own operations. Power is not an 
 operation of the mind, and therefore no object of consciousness. 
 Indeed, every operation of the mind is the exertion of some 
 power of the mind ; but we are conscious of the operation only, 
 the power lies behind the scene ; and though we may justly infer 
 the power from the operation, it must be remembered, that in- 
 ferring is not the province of consciousness, but of reason. 
 
 I acknowledge, therefore, that our having any conception or 
 idea of power is repugnant to Mr. Locke's theory, that all our 
 simple ideas are got either by the external senses, or by con- 
 sciousness. Both cannot be true. Mr. Hume perceived this 
 repugnancy, and consistently maintained, that we have no idea 
 of power. Mr. Locke did not perceive it. If he had, it might 
 have led him to suspect his theory ; for when theory is repug- 
 nant to fact, it is easy to see which ought to yield. I am con- 
 scious that I have a conception or idea of power, but, strictly 
 fpeaking, I am not conscious that I have power. ' 
 
 IV. Power not an object of consciousness. — I shall have occa- 
 sion to show, that we have very early, from our constitution, a 
 conviction or belief of some degree of active power in ourselves. 
 This belief, however, is not consciousness : for we may be de- 
 ceived in it ; but the testimony of consciousness can never de- 
 ceive. Thus, a man who is struck with a palsy in the night, 
 
OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. g| 
 
 commonly knows not that he has lost the power of speech till he 
 attempts to speak ; he knows not whether he can move his hands 
 and arms till he makes the trial ; and if, without making trial, 
 he consults his consciousness ever so attentively, it will give him 
 no information whether he has lost these powers, or still retains 
 them. 
 
 From this we must conclude, that the powers we have are not 
 an object of consciousness, though it would be foolish to censure 
 this way of speaking in popular discourse, which requires not 
 accurate attention to the different provinces of our various facul- 
 ties. The testimony of consciousness is always unerring, nor was 
 it ever called in question by the greatest sceptics, ancient or 
 modern. 
 
 But a relative conception. — [2, A second observation is, that 
 as there are some things of which we have a direct, and others 
 of which we have only a relative conception, power belongs to 
 the latter class.] 
 
 As this distinction is overlooked by most writers in logic, I 
 shall beg leave to illustrate it a little, and then shall apply it to 
 the present subject. 
 
 Of some things, -we know what they are in themselves ; our 
 conception of such things I call direct. Of other things, we 
 know not what they are in themselves, but only that they have 
 certain properties or attributes, or certain relations to other 
 things ; of these our conception is only relative. 
 
 giF To illustrate this by some examples : in the university- 
 library, J call for the book, press L, shelf 10, No. 10 ; the library- 
 keeper must have such a conception of the book I want, as to be 
 able to distinguish it from ten thousand that are under his care. 
 But what conception does he form of it from my words ? They 
 inform him neither of the author, nor the subject, nor the lan- 
 guage, nor the size, nor the binding, but only of its mark and 
 place. His conception of it is merely relative to these circum- 
 stances ; yet this relative notion enables him to distinguish it 
 from every other book in the library. 
 
 There are other relative notions that are not taken from acci- 
 dental relations, as in the example just now mentioned, but from 
 qualities or attributes essential to the thing. 
 
 |gg° Of this kind are our notions both of body and mind. 
 What is body ? It is, say philosophers, that which is extended, 
 solid, and divisible. Says the querist, I do not ask what the pro- 
 perties of body are, but what is the thing itself? let me first 
 know directly what body is, and then consider its properties. 
 To this demand I am afraid the querist will meet with no satis- 
 factory answer ; because our notion of body is not direct, but 
 relative to its qualities. We know that it is something extended, 
 solid, and divisible, and we know no more. 
 
 G 
 
82 ESSAY I. CHAP. I. 
 
 iSF Again, if it should be asked, What is mind ? It is that 
 which thinks. I ask not what it does, or what its operations are, 
 but what it is ? To this I can find no answer ; our notion of 
 mind being not direct, but relative to its operations, as our notion 
 of body is relative to its qualities. 
 
 iSF There are even many of the qualities of body, of which 
 we have only a relative conception. What is heat in a body ? 
 It is a quality which affects the sense of touch in a certain way. 
 If you want to know, not how it affects the sense of touch, but 
 what it is in itself; this I confess I know not. My conception 
 of it is not direct, but relative to the effect it has upon bodies. 
 The notions we have of all those qualities which Mr. Locke calls 
 secondary, and of those he calls powers of bodies, such as the 
 power of the magnet to attract iron, or of fire to burn wood, are 
 relative. 
 
 V. Having given examples of things of which our conception 
 is only relative, it may be proper to mention some of which it is 
 direct. Of this kind, are (1) all the primary qualities of body; 
 figure, extension, solidity, hardness, fluidity, and the like. Of 
 these we have a direct and immediate knowledge from our senses. 
 To this class belong also (2) all the operations of mind of which 
 we are conscious. I know what thought is, what memory, what 
 a purpose, what a promise. 
 
 VI. There are some things of which we can have both a direct 
 and a relative conception. I can directly conceive ten thousand 
 men or ten thousand pounds, because both are objects of sense, 
 and maybe seen. But whether I see such an object, or directly 
 conceive it, my notion of it is indistinct ; it is only that of a 
 great multitude of men, or of a great heap of money ; and a 
 small addition or diminution makes no perceptible change in the 
 notion I form in this way. |g§F But I can form a relative notion 
 'of the same number of men or of pounds, by attending to the 
 relations which this number has to other numbers, greater or 
 less. Then I perceive that the relative notion is distinct and 
 scientific. For the addition of a single man, or a single pound, 
 or even of a penny, is easily perceived. 
 
 g§F In like manner, I can form a direct notion of a polygon of 
 a thousand equal sides and equal angles. This direct notion 
 cannot be more distinct, when conceived in the mind, than that 
 which I get by sight, when the object is before me ; and I find 
 it so indistinct, that it has the same appearance to my eye, or to 
 my direct conception, as a polygon of a thousand and one, or of 
 nine hundred and ninety-nine sides. But when I form a relative 
 conception of it, by attending to the relation it bears to poly- 
 gons of a greater or less number of sides, my notion of it be- 
 comes distinct and scientific, and I can demonstrate the properties 
 by which it is distinguished from all other polygons. From 
 
OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. 33 
 
 these instances it appears, that our relative conceptions of things 
 are not always less distinct, nor less fit materials for accurate 
 reasoning, than those that are direct ; and that the contrary may 
 happen in a remarkable degree. ■ 
 
 VII. Our conception of power is relative to its exertions or 
 effects. — Power is one thing; its exertion is another thing. It is 
 true, there can be no exertion without power ; but there may be 
 power that is not exerted. Thus a man may have power to 
 speak when he is silent ; he may have power to rise and walk 
 when he sits still. 
 
 But, though it be one thing to speak, and another to have the 
 power of speaking, I apprehend we conceive of the power as 
 something which has a certain relation to the effect. And of 
 every power we form our notion by the effect which it is able 
 to produce. 
 
 3. It is evident that power is a quality, and cannot exist with- 
 out a subject to which it belongs. 1 
 
 That power may exist without any being or subject to which 
 that power may be attributed, is an absurdity, shocking to every 
 man of common understanding. 
 
 It is a quality which may be varied, not only in degree, but 
 also in kind ; and we distinguish both the kinds and degrees by 
 the effects which they are able to produce. 
 
 Thus a power to fly, and a power to reason, are different 
 kinds of power, their effects being different in kind. . But a 
 power to carry one hundred weight, and a power to carry two 
 hundred, are different degrees of the same kind. 
 
 4. We cannot conclude the want of power from its not being 
 exerted ; nor from the exertion of a less degree of power, can 
 we conclude that there is no greater degree'in the subject. Thus, 
 though a man on a particular occasion said nothing, we cannot 
 conclude from that circumstance, that he had not the power of 
 speech ; nor from a man's carrying ten pound weight, can we 
 conclude that he had not power to carry twenty. 
 
 5. There are some qualities that have a contrary, others that 
 have not ; power is a quality of the latter kind. 
 
 Vice is contrary to virtue, misery to happiness, hatred to love, 
 negation to affirmation ; but there is no contrary to power. 
 Weakness or impotence are defects or privations of power, but 
 not contraries to it. 
 
 If what has been said of power be easily understood, and 
 readily assented to, by all who understand our language, as I 
 believe it is, we may from this justly conclude, that we have a 
 distinct notion of power, and may reason about it with under- 
 standing, though we can give no logical definition of it. 
 
 VIII. Our idea of power. — If power were a thing of which 
 we have no idea, as some philosophers have taken much pains 
 
S4 ESSAY I. CHAP. I. 
 
 to prove, that is, if power were a word without any meaning, 
 we could neither affirm nor deny any thing concerning it with 
 understanding. We should have equal reason to say that it is a 
 substance, as that it is a quality ; that it does not admit of degrees, 
 as that it does. If the understanding immediately assents to 
 one of these assertions, and revolts from the contrary, we may 
 conclude with certainty, that we put some meaning upon the 
 word power, that is, that we have some idea of it. And it is 
 chiefly for the sake of this conclusion, that I have enumerated 
 so many obvious things concerning it. 
 
 IX. The term active power is used, I conceive, to distinguish 
 it from speculative powers. As all languages distinguish action 
 from speculation, the same distinction is applied to the powers 
 by which they are produced. The powers of seeing, hearing, 
 remembering, distinguishing, judging, reasoning, are speculative 
 powers ; the power of executing any work of art or labour is 
 active power. 
 
 There are many things related to power, in such a manner, 
 that we can have no notion of them if we have none of power. 
 
 The exertion of active power we call action ; and as every 
 action produces some change, so every change must be caused 
 by some exertion, or by the cessation of some exertion of power. 
 That which produces a change by the exertion of its power, we 
 call the cause of that change ; and the change produced, the 
 effect of that cause. 
 
 When one being, by its active power, produces any change 
 upon another, the last is said to be passive, or to be acted upon. 
 Thus we see, that action and passion, cause and effect, exertion 
 and operation, have such a relation to active power, that if it be 
 understood, they are understood of consequence ; but if power 
 be a word without any meaning, all those words which are re- 
 lated to it, must be words without any meaning. They are, 
 however, common words in our language ; and equivalent words 
 have always been common in all languages. 
 
 It would be very strange indeed, if mankind had always used 
 these words so familiarly, without perceiving that they had no 
 meaning; and that this discovery should have been first made 
 by a philosopher of the present age. 
 
 With equal reason it might be maintained, that though there 
 are words in all languages to express sight, and words to signify 
 the various colours which are objects of sight ; yet that all man- 
 kind, from the beginning of the world, had been blind, and never 
 had an idea of sight or of colour. But there are no absurdities 
 so gross as those which philosophers have advanced concerning 
 ideas. 
 
85 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 I. Distinction of " action and passion" coeval with the origin 
 of languages. — [There are, I believe, no abstract notions, that 
 are to be found more early, or more universally , in the minds 
 of men, than those of acting, and being acted upon.] Every child 
 that understands the distinction between striking and being struck, 
 must have the conception of action and passion. 
 
 We find, accordingly, that there is no language so imperfect, 
 but that it has active and passive verbs, and participles ; the one 
 signifying some kind of action ; the other, the being acted upon. 
 This distinction enters into the original contexture of all lan- 
 guages. 
 
 Active verbs have a form and construction proper to them- 
 selves ; passive verbs a different form and a different construction. 
 In all languages, the nominative to an active verb is the agent ; 
 the thing acted upon is put in an oblique case. In passive verbs, 
 the thing acted upon is the nominative, and the agent, if ex- 
 pressed, must be in an oblique case ; as in this example : Raphael 
 drew the Cartoons; the Cartoons were drawn by Raphael, 
 
 Every distinction which we find in the structure of all lan- 
 guages, must have been familiar to those who framed the lan- 
 guages at first, and to all who speak them with understanding. 
 
 II. Objection. — [It may be objected to this argument, taken 
 from the structure of language, in the use of active and passive 
 verbs, (1) that active verbs are not always used to denote an 
 action ; (2) nor is the nominative before an active verb conceived 
 in all cases to be an agent, in the strict sense of that word ; (3) 
 that there are many passive verbs which have an active significa- 
 tion, and active verbs which have a passive.] From these facts, 
 it may be thought a just conclusion, that in contriving the differ- 
 ent forms of active and passive verbs, and their different con- 
 struction, men have not been governed by a regard to any dis- 
 tinction between action and passion, but by chance, or some 
 accidental cause. 
 
 III. In answer to this objection, the fact on which it is founded 
 must be admitted ; but I think the conclusion not justly drawn 
 from it, for the following reasons : 
 
 [1. It seems contrary to reason, to attribute to chance or 
 accident, what is subject to rules, even though there may be 
 exceptions to the rule.] The exceptions may, in such a case, be 
 attributed to accident, but the rule cannot. There is perhaps 
 hardly anything in language so general, as not to admit of excep- 
 
86 ESSAY I. CHAP. II. 
 
 tions. It cannot be denied to be a general rule, that verbs and 
 participles have an active and a passive voice ; and as this is a 
 general rule, not in one language only, but in all the languages 
 we are acquainted with, it shows evidently that men, in the 
 earliest stages, and in all periods of society, have distinguished 
 action from passion. 
 
 [2. It is to be observed, that the forms of language are often 
 applied to purposes different from those for which they were ori- 
 ginally intended. The varieties of a language, even the most 
 perfect, can never be made equal to all the variety of human 
 conceptions.] The forms and modifications of language must be 
 confined within certain limits, that they may not exceed the 
 capacity of human memory. Therefore, in all languages, there 
 must be a kind of frugality used, to make one form of expression 
 serve many different purposes, like Sir Hudibras' dagger, which, 
 though made to stab or break a head, was put to many other 
 uses. Many examples might be produced of this frugality in 
 language. Thus the Latins and Greeks had five or six cases of 
 nouns, to express all the various relations that one thing could 
 bear to another. The genitive case must have been at first 
 intended to express some one capital relation, such as that of 
 possession or of property : but it would be very difficult to 
 enumerate all the relations which, in the progress of language, 
 it was used to express. The same observation may be applied 
 to other cases of nouns. 
 
 The slightest similitude or analogy is thought sufficient to 
 justify the extension of a form of speech beyond its proper 
 meaning, whenever the language does not afford a more proper 
 form. In the moods of verbs, a few of those which occur most 
 frequently are distinguished by different forms, and these are 
 made to supply all the forms that are wanting. The same obser- 
 vation may be applied to what is called the voices of verbs. An 
 active and a passive are the capital ones ; some languages have 
 more, but no language so many as to answer to all the variations 
 of human thought. We cannot always coin new ones, and 
 therefore must use some one or other of those that are to be 
 found in the language, though at first intended for another pur- 
 pose. 
 
 [3. A third observation in answer to the objection is, That 
 we can point out a cause of the frequent misapplication of active 
 verbs, to things which have no proper activity :] a cause which 
 extends to the greater part of such misapplications, and which 
 confirms the account I have given of the proper intention of 
 active and passive verbs. 
 
 As there is no principle that appears to be more universally 
 acknowledged by mankind, from the first dawn of reason, than, 
 that every change we observe in nature must have a cause ; so 
 
OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. g7 
 
 this is no sooner perceived, than there arises in the human mind 
 a strong desire to know the causes of those changes that fall 
 within our observation. " Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere 
 causas," is the voice of nature in all men. Nor is there any 
 thing that more early distinguishes the rational from the brute 
 creation, than this avidity to know the causes of things, of which 
 I see no sign in brute animals. 
 
 IV. It must surely be admitted, that in those periods wherein 
 languages are formed, men are but poorly furnished for carrying 
 on this investigation with success. We see, that the experience 
 of thousands of years is necessary to bring men into the right 
 track in this investigation, if indeed they can yet be said to be 
 brought into it. What innumerable errors rude ages must fall 
 into, with regard to causes, from impatience to judge, and 
 inability to judge right, we may conjecture from reason, and 
 may see from experience ; from which I think it is evident, 
 that supposing active verbs to have been originally intended to 
 express what is properly called action, and their nominatives to 
 express the agent ; yet, in the rude and barbarous state wherein 
 languages are formed, there must be innumerable misapplica- 
 tions of such verbs and nominatives, and many things spoken of 
 as active, which have no real activity. 
 
 To this we may add, [that it is a general prejudice of our 
 early years, and of rude nations, when we perceive any thing to 
 be changed, and do not perceive any other thing which we can 
 believe to be the cause of that change, to impute it to the thing 
 itself, and conceive it to be active and animated, so far as to have 
 the power of producing that change in itself.] ggp Hence to a 
 child, or to a savage, all nature seems to be animated; the sea, 
 the earth, the air, the sun, moon, and stars, rivers, fountains, 
 and groves, are conceived to be active and animated beings. As 
 this is a sentiment natural to man in his rude state, it has, on 
 that account, even in polished nations, the verisimilitude that is 
 required in poetical fiction and fable, and makes personification 
 one of the most agreeable figures in poetry and eloquence. 
 
 V. The origin of this prejudice probably is, that we judge of 
 other things by ourselves, and therefore axe disposed to ascribe 
 to them that life and activity which we know to be in ourselves. 
 
 iST A little girl ascribes to her doll the passions and senti- 
 ments she feels in herself. Even brutes seem to have something 
 of this nature. A young cat, when she sees any brisk motion in 
 a feather or a straw, is prompted, by natural instinct, to hunt it 
 as she would hunt a mouse. 
 
 Whatever be the origin of this prejudice in mankind, it has 
 a powerful influence upon language, and leads men, in the 
 structure of language, to ascribe action to many things that are 
 merely passive ; because, when such forms of speech were in- 
 
§3 ESSAY I. CHAP. II. 
 
 vented, those things were really believed to be active. Thus we 
 say, the wind blows, the sea rages, the sun rises and sets, bodies 
 gravitate and move. 
 
 When experience discovers that these things are altogether 
 inactive, it is easy to correct our opinion about them ; but it is 
 not so easy to alter the established forms of language. The most 
 perfect and the most polished languages are like old furniture, 
 which is never perfectly suited to the present taste, but retains 
 something of the fashion of the times when it was made. 
 
 IHSF Thus, though all men of knowledge believe that the suc- 
 cession of day and night is owing to the rotation of the earth 
 round its axis, and not to any diurnal motion of the heavens ; 
 yet we find ourselves under a necessity of speaking in the old 
 style, of the sun's rising and going down, and coming to the 
 meridian. And this style is used, not only in conversing with 
 the vulgar, but when men of knowledge converse with one 
 another. And if we. should suppose the vulgar to be at last so 
 far enlightened, as to have the same belief with the learned, of 
 the cause of day and night, the same style would still be used. 
 
 From this instance we may learn, that the language of man- 
 kind may furnish good evidence of opinions which have been 
 early and universally entertained, and that the forms contrived 
 for expressing such opinions may remain in use after the opi- 
 nions which gave rise to them have been greatly changed. 
 
 VI. Active verbs appear plainly to have been first contrived to 
 express action. — They are still in general applied to this pur- 
 pose. And though we find many instances of the application of 
 active verbs to things which we now believe not to be active, 
 this ought to be ascribed to men's having once had the belief 
 that those things are active, and perhaps, in some cases, to this, 
 that forms of expression are commonly extended, in course of 
 time, beyond their original intention, either from analogy, or 
 because more proper forms for the purpose are not found in the 
 language. 
 
 [ (1) Even the misapplication of this notion of action and 
 active power shows that there is such a notion in the human mind, 
 and shows the necessity there is in philosophy of distinguishing 
 the proper application of these words, from the vague and im- 
 proper application of them, founded on common language, or on 
 popular prejudice.] 
 
 [ (2) Another argument to show that all men have a notion or 
 idea of active power is, that there are many operations of mind 
 common to all men who have reason, and necessary in the ordi- 
 nary conduct of life, which imply a belief of active power in 
 ourselves and in others.] 
 
 All our volitions and efforts to act, all our deliberations, our 
 purposes and promises, imply a belief of active power in our- 
 
OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. g9 
 
 selves : our counsels, exhortations, and commands, imply a belief 
 of active power in those to whom they are addressed. 
 
 U^ If a man should make an effort to fly to the moon ; if he 
 should even deliberate about it, or resolve to do it, we should 
 conclude him to be lunatic ; and even lunacy would not account 
 for his conduct, unless it made him believe the thing to be in his 
 power. 
 
 If a man promises to pay me a sum of money to-morrow, 
 without believing that it will then be in his power, he is not an 
 honest man : and, if I did not believe that it will then be in his 
 power, I should have no dependence on his promise. 
 
 All our power is, without doubt, derived from the Author of 
 our being, and, as he gave it freely, he may take it away when 
 he will. No man can be certain of the continuance of any of 
 his powers of body or mind for a moment ; and, therefore, in 
 every promise there is a condition understood, to wit, if we live, 
 if we retain that health of body and soundness of mind which is 
 necessary to the performance, and if nothing happen, in the pro- 
 vidence of God, which puts it out of our power. The rudest 
 savages are taught by nature to admit these conditions in all 
 promises, whether they be expressed or not; and no man is 
 charged with breach of promise, when he fails through the fail- 
 ure of these conditions. 
 
 It is evident,, therefore, that, without the belief of some active 
 power, no honest man would make a promise, no wise man would 
 trust to a promise ; and it is no less evident, that the belief of 
 active power, in ourselves, or in others, implies an idea or notion 
 of active power. 
 
 The same reasoning may be applied to every instance wherein 
 we give counsel to others, wherein we persuade or command. 
 As long, therefore, as mankind are beings who can deliberate, 
 and resolve, and will ; as long as they can give counsel, and ex- 
 hort, and command, they must believe the existence of active 
 / power in themselves, and in others, and therefore must have a 
 notion or idea of active power. 
 
 VII. [It might further be observed, that power is the proper 
 and immediate object of ambition, one of the most universal pas- 
 sions of the human mind, and that which makes the greatest 
 figure in the history of all ages.] Whether Mr. Hume, in de- 
 fence of his system, would maintain that there is no such passion 
 in mankind as ambition, or that ambition is not a vehement 
 desire of power, or that men may have a vehement desire of 
 power, without having any idea of power, I will not pretend to 
 divine. 
 
 I cannot help repeating my apology for insisting so long in 
 the refutation of so great an absurdity. It is a capital doctrine 
 in a late celebrated system of human nature, that we have no 
 
90 ESSAY I. CHAP. II. 
 
 idea of power, not even in the Deity ; that we are not able to 
 discover a single instance of it, either in body or spirit, either in 
 superior or inferior natures ; and that we deceive ourselves when 
 we imagine that we are possessed of any idea of this kind. 
 
 To support this important doctrine, and the out-works that are 
 raised in its defence, a great part of the first volume of the 
 " Treatise of Human Nature " is employed. That system abounds 
 with conclusions the most absurd that ever were advanced by 
 any philosopher, deduced with great acuteness and ingenuity 
 from principles commonly received by philosophers. To reject 
 such conclusions as unworthy of a hearing, would be disrespect- 
 ful to the ingenious author ; and to refute them is difficult, and 
 appears ridiculous. 
 
 It is difficult, because we can hardly find principles to reason 
 from, more evident than those we wish to prove ; and it appears 
 ridiculous, because, as this author justly observes, next to the 
 ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking much 
 pains to prove it. 
 
 BUT Protestants complain, with justice, of the hardship put 
 upon them by Roman Catholics, in requiring them to prove that 
 bread and wine is not flesh and blood. They have, however, 
 submitted to this hardship for the sake of truth. I think it is 
 no less hard to be put to prove that men have an idea of power. 
 
 [What convinces myself that I have an idea of power is, that 
 I am conscious that I know what I mean by that word, and, while 
 I have this consciousness, I disdain equally to hear arguments for 
 or against my having such an idea.] But if we would convince 
 those who, being led away by prejudice, or by authority, deny 
 that they have any such idea, we must condescend to use such 
 arguments as the subject will afford, and such as we should use 
 with a man who should deny that mankind have any idea of mag- 
 nitude or of equality. 
 
 VIII. The arguments I have adduced are taken from these 
 five topics: 1. That there are many things that we can affirm or 
 deny concerning power, with understanding. 2. That there are, 
 in all languages, words signifying, not only power, but signifying 
 many other things that imply power, such as action and passion, 
 cause and effect, energy, operation, and others. S. That in the 
 structure of all languages, there is an active and passive form in 
 verbs and participles, and a different construction adapted to 
 these forms, of which diversity no account can be given, but that 
 it has been intended to distinguish action from passion. 4. That 
 there are many operations of the human mind familiar to every 
 man come to the use of reason, and necessary in the ordinary 
 conduct of life, which imply a conviction of some degree of 
 power in ourselves and in others. 5. That the desire of power 
 is one of the strongest passions of human nature. 
 
91 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF MR. LOCKE'S ACCOUNT OF OUR IDEA OF POWER. 
 
 1. This author, having refuted the Cartesian doctrine of in- 
 nate ideas, took up, perhaps too rashly, an opinion that all our 
 simple ideas are got, either by sensation or by reflection ; that 
 is, by our external senses, or by consciousness of the operations 
 of our own minds. 
 
 Through the whole of his Essay, he shows a fatherly affection 
 to this opinion, and often strains very hard to reduce our simple 
 ideas to one of those sources, or both. Of this, several instances 
 might be given, in his account of our idea of substance, of dura- 
 tion, of personal identity. Omitting these, as foreign to the 
 present subject, I shall only take notice of the account he gives 
 of our idea of power. 
 
 The sum of it is, that observing, by our senses, various 
 changes in objects, we collect a possibility in one object to be 
 changed, and in another a possibility of making that change, and 
 so come by that idea which we call power. 
 
 Thus we say the fire has a power to melt gold, and gold has 
 power to be melted ; the first he calls active, the second passive 
 power. 
 
 He thinks, however, that^we have the most distinct notion of 
 active power, by attending to the power which we ourselves 
 exert, in giving motion to our bodies when at rest, or in directing 
 our thoughts to this or the other object, as we will. And this 
 way of forming the idea of power he attributes to reflection, as 
 he refers the former to sensation.* 
 
 II. Objections to Mr. Locke s origin of our idea of power. — On 
 this account of the origin of our idea of power, I would beg 
 leave to make two remarks, with the respect that is most justly 
 due to so great a philosopher, and so good a man. 
 
 [1. Whereas he distinguishes power into active and passive, I 
 conceive passive power is no power at all. He means by it, the 
 possibility of being changed. To call this power, seems to be a 
 misapplication of the word. ' I do not remember to have met with 
 the phrase passive power in any other good author.] Mr. Locke 
 seems to have been unlucky in inventing it ; and it deserves not 
 to be retained in our language. 
 
 Perhaps he was unwarily led into it, as an opposite to active 
 
 * " Observing in ourselves, that we do and can think ; and that we can at 
 pleasure move several parts of our bodies which were at rest : the effects, also, 
 that natural bodies are able to produce in one another, occurring every moment 
 to our senses, we both these ways get the idea of power." — Essay, Book ii. 
 chap.'vii. sect. 8. 
 
92 ESSAY I. CHAP. III. 
 
 power. But I conceive we call certain powers active) to distin- 
 guish them from other powers that are called speculative. As 
 all mankind distinguish action from speculation, it is very proper 
 to distinguish the powers by which those different operations are 
 performed, into active and speculative. Mr. Locke, indeed, 
 acknowledges that active power is more properly called power ; 
 but I see no propriety at all in passive power ; it is a powerless 
 power, and a contradiction in terms. 
 
 '[2. I would observe, that Mr. Locke seems to have imposed 
 upon himself, in attempting to reconcile this account of the idea 
 of power to his favourite doctrine, that all our simple ideas are 
 ideas of sensation, or of reflection.] 
 
 There are two steps, according to his account, which the mind 
 takes in forming this idea of power ; first, it observes changes 
 in things ; and, secondly, from these changes, it infers a cause of 
 them, and a power to produce them. 
 
 If both these steps are operations of the external senses, or of 
 consciousness, then the idea of power may be called an idea of 
 sensation, or of reflection. But, if either of those steps requires 
 the co-operation of other powers of the mind, it will follow, that 
 the idea of power cannot be got by sensation, nor by reflection, 
 nor by both together. Let us, therefore, consider each of these 
 steps by itself. 
 
 First, we observe various changes in things. And Mr. Locke 
 takes it for granted, that changes in external things are observed 
 by our senses, and that changes in our thoughts are observed by 
 consciousness. 
 
 I grant that it may be said, that changes in things are observed 
 by our senses, when we do not mean to exclude every other 
 faculty from a share in this operation. And it would be ridi- 
 culous to censure the phrase, when it is so used in popular dis- 
 course. But it is necessary to Mr. Locke's purpose, that changes 
 in external things should be observed by the senses alone, ex- 
 cluding every other faculty ; because every faculty that is neces- 
 sary in order to observe the change, will claim a share in the 
 origin of the idea of power. 
 
 Now, it is evident, that memory is no less necessary than the 
 senses, in order to our observing changes in external things, and 
 therefore the idea of power, derived from the changes observed, 
 may as justly be ascribed to memory as to the senses. 
 
 Every change supposes two states of the thing changed. Both 
 these states may be past ; one of them at least must be past ; 
 and one only can be present. By our senses we may observe 
 the present state of the thing ; but memory must supply us with 
 the past ; and, unless we remember the past state, we can per- 
 ceive no change. 
 
 [The same observation may be applied to consciousness. The 
 
OF MR. HUME'S OPINION OF THE IDEA OF POWER. Qg 
 
 truth, therefore, is, that by the senses alone, without memory, or 
 by consciousness alone, without memory, no change can be ob- 
 served^ Every idea, therefore, that is derived from observing 
 changes in things, must have its origin, partly from memory, and 
 not from the senses alone, nor from consciousness alone, nor 
 from both together. 
 
 The second step made by the mind in forming this idea of 
 power is this : from the changes observed, we collect a cause of 
 those changes, and a power to produce them. 
 
 Here one might ask Mr. Locke, whether it is by bur senses 
 that we draw this conclusion, or is it by consciousness ? Is rea- 
 soning the province of the senses, or is it the province of con- 
 sciousness ? If the senses can draw one conclusion from premises, 
 they may draw five hundred, and demonstrate the whole Elements 
 of Euclid. 
 
 Thus, I think, it appears, that [the account which Mr. Locke 
 himself gives of the origin of our idea of power, cannot be recon- 
 ciled to his favourite doctrine, that all our simple ideas have 
 their origin from sensation or reflection ; and that, in attempting 
 to derive the idea of power from these two sources only, he un- 
 awares brings in our memory and our reasoning 'power for a share 
 in its origin.] 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF MR. HUME'S OPINION OF THE IDEA OF POWER. 
 
 I. Induction, by which Mr. Hume attempts to explain the origin 
 of our simple ideas, imperfect. — This very ingenious author adopts 
 the principle of Mr. Locke before mentioned, — That all our 
 simple ideas are derived either from sensation or reflection. This 
 he seems to understand, even in a stricter sense than Mr. Locke 
 did ; for he will have all our simple ideas to be copies of pre- 
 ceding impressions, either of our external senses or of conscious- 
 ness. " After the most accurate examination," says he, " of 
 which I am capable, I venture to affirm, that the rule here holds 
 without any exception, and that every simple idea has a simple 
 impression which resembles it, and every simple impression a 
 correspondent idea. Every one may satisfy himself in this point, 
 by running over as many as he pleases." 
 
 [I observe here, by the way, that this conclusion is formed by 
 the author rashly and unphilosophically. For it is a conclusion 
 that admits of no proof but by induction ; and it is upon this 
 ground that he himself founds it. The induction cannot be per- 
 fect till every simple idea that can enter into the human mind be 
 examined, and be shown to be copied from a resembling impres- 
 sion of sense or of consciousness.] No man can pretend to have 
 
94 ESSAY I. CHAP. IV. 
 
 made this examination of all our simple ideas without exception ; 
 and, therefore, no man can, consistently with the rules of philo- 
 sophizing, assure us, that this conclusion holds without any 
 exception. 
 
 The author professes, in his title-page, to introduce into moral 
 subjects the experimental method of reasoning. This was a very 
 laudable attempt ; but he ought to have known, that it is a rule 
 in the experimental method of reasoning, That conclusions, 
 established by induction, ought never to exclude exceptions, if 
 any such should afterwards appear from observation or experi- 
 ment. Sir Isaac Newton, speaking of such conclusions, says, 
 " Et si quando in experiundo postea reperiatur aliquid, quod a 
 parte contraria faciat ; turn demum, non sine istis exceptionibus 
 affirmetur conclusio opportebit." " And if at any time, in the 
 course of experimenting, a contrary instance occur, then the con- 
 clusion must necessarily be affirmed subject to such exception." 
 " But," says our author, " J will venture to affirm, that the rule 
 here holds without any exception." 
 
 Accordingly, throughout the whole treatise, this general rule 
 is considered as of sufficient authority, in itself, to exclude, even 
 from a hearing, every thing that appears to be an exception to 
 it. This is contrary to the fundamental principles of the experi- 
 mental method of reasoning, and therefore may be called rash 
 and unphilosophical. 
 
 II. [Having thus established this general principle, the author 
 does great execution by it among our ideas. He finds, (1) that 
 we have no idea of substance, material or spiritual ; (2) that body 
 and mind are only certain trains of related impressions and ideas ; 
 (3) that we have no idea of space or duration ; and (4) no idea of 
 power, active or intellective.] 
 
 Mr. Locke used his principle of sensation and reflection with 
 greater moderation and mercy. Being unwilling to thrust the 
 ideas we have mentioned into the limbo of non-existence, he 
 stretches sensation and reflection to the very utmost, in order to 
 receive these ideas within the pale ; and draws them into it, as 
 it were, by violence. 
 
 But this author, instead of showing them any favour, seems 
 fond to get rid of them. 
 
 Of the ideas mentioned, it is only that of power that concerns 
 our present subject. And, with regard to this, the author 
 boldly affirms, " That we never have any idea of power; that 
 we deceive ourselves when we imagine we are possessed of any 
 idea of this kind." 
 
 He begins with observing, " That the terms efficacy, agency, 
 power, force, energy, are all nearly synonymous ; and therefore 
 it is an absurdity to employ any of them in defining the rest. 
 By this observation," says he, " we reject at once all the vulgar 
 definitions which philosophers have given of power and efficacy" 
 
OF MR. HUME'S OPINION OF THE IDEA OF POWER. 95 
 
 Surely this author was not ignorant, that there are many 
 things of which we have a clear aiid distinct conception, which 
 are so simple in their nature, that they cannot be denned any 
 other way than by synonymous words. It is true that this is 
 not a logical definition ; but that there is, as he affirms, an ab- 
 surdity in using it, when no better can be had, I cannot per- 
 ceive. 
 
 He might here have applied to power and efficacy what he 
 says, in another place, of pride and humility. " The passions 
 of pride and humility " he says, " being simple and uniform 
 impressions, it is impossible we can ever give a just definition 
 of them. As the words are of general use, and the things they 
 represent the most common of any, every one, of himself, will 
 be able to form a just notion of them without danger of mis- 
 take." 
 
 He mentions Mr. Locke's account of the idea of power, That, 
 observing various changes in things, we conclude that there 
 must be somewhere a power capable of producing them, and 
 so arrive at last, by this reasoning, at the idea of power and 
 efficacy. 
 
 " But," says he, " to be satisfied that this explication is 
 more popular than philosophical, we need but reflect on two 
 very obvious principles : first, That reason alone can never give 
 rise to any original idea ; and, secondly, That reason, as dis- 
 tinguished from experience, can never make us conclude that a 
 cause, or productive quality, is absolutely requisite to every 
 beginning of existence."* 
 
 III. Before we consider the two principles which our author 
 opposes to the popular opinion of Mr. Locke, I observe, 
 
 First, That there are some popular opinions, which, on that 
 very account, deserve more regard from philosophers than this 
 author is willing to bestow. 
 
 That things cannot begin to exist, nor undergo any change, 
 without a cause that hath power to produce that change, is in- 
 deed so popular an opinion, that, I believe, this author is the 
 first of mankind that ever called it in question. It is so popu- 
 lar, that there is not a man of common prudence who does not 
 act from this opinion, and rely upon it every day of his life. 
 And any man who should conduct himself by the contrary opi- 
 nion, would soon be confined as insane, and continue in that 
 state, till a sufficient cause was found for his enlargement. 
 
 Such a popular opinion as this stands upon a higher autho- 
 rity than that of philosophy, and philosophy must strike sail to 
 it, if she would not render herself contemptible to every man of 
 common understanding. 
 
 * Vide Essay IV., chap. ix. sec. 9. 
 
96 ESSAY I. CHAP. IV. 
 
 For though, in matters of deep speculation, the multitude 
 must be guided by philosophers, yet, in things that are within 
 the reach of every man's understanding, and upon which the 
 whole conduct of human life turns, the philosopher must follow 
 the multitude, or make himself perfectly ridiculous. 
 
 Secondly, I observe, that whether this popular opinion be true 
 or false, it follows from men's having this opinion, that they 
 have an idea of power. A false opinion about power, no less 
 than a true, implies an idea of power ; for how can men have 
 any opinion, true or false, about a thing of which they have no 
 idea ? 
 
 IV. Of the two principles which Mr. Hume opposes to Mr. Locke. 
 — [The first of the very obvious principles which the author 
 opposes to Mr. Locke's account of the idea of power, is, That 
 reason alone can never give rise to any original idea.] 
 
 This appears to me so far from being a very obvious prin- 
 ciple, that the contrary is very obvious. 
 
 Is it not our reasoning faculty that gives rise to the idea of 
 reasoning itself? As our idea of sight takes its rise from our 
 being endowed with that faculty, so does our idea of reasoning. 
 Do not the ideas of demonstration, of probability, our ideas of 
 a syllogism, of major, minor and conclusion, of an enthymeme, 
 dilemma, sorites, and all the various modes of reasoning, take 
 their rise from the faculty of reason ? Or is it possible, that a 
 being, not endowed with the faculty of reasoning, should have 
 these ideas ? This principle, therefore, is so far from being 
 obviously true, that it appears to be obviously false. 
 
 [The second obvious principle is, That reason, as distinguished 
 from experience, can never make us conclude, that a cause, or 
 productive quality, is absolutely requisite to every beginning of 
 existence.] 
 
 In some " Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man," I had 
 occasion to treat of this principle, That every change in nature 
 must have a cause ; and, to prevent repetition, I beg leave to 
 refer the reader to what is said upon this subject, Essay vi. 
 ^ichap. 6. I endeavoured to show, that it is a first principle, 
 evident to all men come to years of understanding. Besides its 
 having been universally received, without the least doubt, from 
 the beginning of the world, it has this sure mark of a first prin- 
 ciple, that the belief of it is absolutely necessary in the ordinary 
 affairs of life, and, without it, no man could act with common 
 prudence, or avoid the imputation of insanity. Yet a philoso- 
 pher, who acted upon the firm belief of it every day of his life, 
 thinks fit, in his closet, to call it in question. 
 
 [He insinuates here, that we may know it from experience. 
 I endeavoured to show, that we do not learn it from experience, 
 for two reasons.] 
 .- 
 
OF BEINGS THAT HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING. 97 
 
 [First, Because it is a necessary truth, and has always been 
 received as a necessary truth. Experience gives no information 
 of what is necessary, or of what must be.] 
 
 We may know from experience, what is, or what was, and 
 from that may probably conclude what shall be in like circum- 
 stances ; but with regard to what must necessarily be, experience 
 is perfectly silent. 
 
 iiF Thus we know, by unvaried experience, from the begin- 
 ning of the world, that the sun and stars rise in the east and set 
 in the west. But no man believes that it could not possibly 
 have been otherwise, or that it did not depend upon the will 
 and power of Him who made the world, whether the earth 
 should revolve to the east or to the west. 
 
 In like manner, if we had experience, ever so constant, that 
 every change in nature we have observed, actually had a cause, 
 this might afford ground to believe, that, for the future, it shall 
 be so ; but no ground at all to believe that it must be so, and 
 cannot be otherwise. 
 
 [Another reason to show that this principle is not learned from 
 experience is, That experience does not show us a cause of one 
 in a hundred of those changes which we observe, and therefore 
 can never teach us that there must be a cause of all.] 
 
 Of all the paradoxes this author has advanced, there is not 
 one more shocking to the human understanding than this, That 
 things may begin to exist without a cause. This would put an 
 end to all speculation, as well as to all the business of life. The 
 employment of speculative men, since the beginning of the 
 world, has been to investigate the causes of things. What pity 
 is it, they never thought of putting the previous question, Whe- 
 ther things have a cause or not ? This question has at last been 
 started ; and what is there so ridiculous as not to be maintained 
 by some philosopher ? 
 
 Enough has been said upon it, and more, I think, than it 
 deserves. But being about to treat of the active powers of the 
 human mind, I thought it improper to take no notice of what 
 has been said by so celebrated a philosopher, to show that there 
 is not, in the human mind, any idea of power. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHETHER BEINGS THAT HAVE NO WILL NOR UNDERSTANDING MAY HAVE 
 
 ACTIVE POWER? 
 
 I. The question perplexed by the ambiguity of certain terms. — 
 That active power is an attribute, which cannot exist but in 
 some being possessed of that power, and the subject of that 
 
 H 
 
98 ESSAY I. CHAP. V. 
 
 attribute, I take for granted as a self-evident truth. Whether 
 there can be active power in a subject which has no thought, no 
 understanding, no will, is not so evident. 
 
 [The ajnbigmty of the words power, cause, agent, and of all 
 the words related to these, tends to perplex this question.] The 
 weakness of human understanding, which gives us only an indi- 
 rect and relative conception of power, contributes to darken our 
 reasoning, and should make us cautious and modest in our deter- 
 minations. 
 
 We can derive little light in this matter from the events which 
 we observe in the course of nature. We perceive changes innu- 
 merable in things without us. We know that those changes 
 must be produced by the active power of some agent ; but we 
 neither perceive the agent nor the power, but the change only. 
 Whether the things be active, or merely passive, is not easily 
 discovered. And though it may be an object of curiosity to the 
 speculative few, it does not greatly concern the many. 
 
 To know the event and the circumstances that attended it, and 
 to know in what circumstances like events maybe expected, may 
 be of consequence in the conduct of life ; but to know the real 
 efficient, whether it be matter or mind, whether of a superior or 
 inferior order, concerns us little. 
 
 Thus it is with regard to all the effects we ascribe to nature. 
 
 II. Nature is the name we give to the efficient cause of innu- 
 merable effects which fall daily under our observation. But if 
 it be asked what nature is ? — whether the first universal cause, 
 or a subordinate one, whether one or many, whether intelligent 
 or unintelligent ? — upon these points we find various conjectures 
 and theories, but no solid ground upon which we can rest ; and 
 I apprehend the wisest men are they who are sensible that they 
 know nothing of the matter. 
 
 From the course of events in the natural world, we have suf- 
 ficient reason to conclude the existence of an eternal intelligent 
 First Cause. But whether he acts immediately in the production 
 of those events, or by subordinate intelligent agents, or by instru- 
 ments that are unintelligent, and what the number, the nature, 
 and the different offices of those agents or instruments may be ; 
 these I apprehend to be mysteries placed beyond the limits of 
 human knowledge. We see an established order in the succes- 
 sion of natural events, but we see not the bond that connects 
 them together. 
 
 III. [Since we derive so little light, with regard to efficient 
 causes and their active power, from attention to the natural 
 world, let us next attend to the moral, I mean, to human actions 
 and conduct.] 
 
 Mr. Locke observes very justly, " That, from the observation 
 of the operation of bodies by our senses, we have but a very 
 
OF BEINGS THAT HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING. 99 
 
 imperfect obscure idea of active power, since they afford us not 
 any idea in themselves of the power to begin any action, either 
 of motion or thought." He adds, " That we find in ourselves a 
 power to begin or forbear, continue or end several actions of our 
 minds and motions of our bodies, barely by a thought or prefer- 
 ence of the mind, ordering, or, as it were, commanding the doing 
 or not doing such a particular action. This power which the 
 mind has thus to order the consideration of any idea, or the for- 
 bearing to consider it, or to prefer the motion of any part of the 
 body to its rest, and vice versa, in any particular instance, is that 
 which we call the will. The actual exercise of that power, by 
 directing any particular action, or its forbearance, is that which 
 we call volition or willing.'" 
 
 According to Mr. Locke, therefore, the only clear notion or 
 idea we have of active power, is taken from the power which we 
 find in ourselves to give certain -motions to our bodies, or a cer- 
 tain direction to our thoughts ; and this power in ourselves can 
 be brought into action only by willing or volition. 
 
 IV. Volition necessary to the operation of power. — [From this, 
 I think, it follows, that^if we had not will, and that degree of 
 understanding which will necessarily implies, we could exert no 
 active power, and consequently could have none : for p ower that 
 cannot be exerted is no power. It follows also, that the active 
 power, of which only we can have any distinct conception, can 
 be only in beings that have understanding and will.] 
 
 Power to produce any effect implies power not to produce it. 
 We can conceive no way in which power may be determined to 
 one of these rather than the other, in a being that has no will. 
 
 [Whatever is the effect of active power must be something 
 that is contingent. Contingent existence is that which depended 
 upon the power and will of its cause. Opposed to this, is neces- 
 sary existence, which we ascribe to the Supreme Being, because 
 his existence is not owing to the power of any being. The same 
 distinction there is between contingent and necessary truth.] 
 
 giF That the planets of our system go round the sun from 
 west to east, is a contingent truth ; because it depended upon the 
 power and will of him who made the planetary system, and gave 
 motion to it. That a circle and a right line can cut one another 
 only in two points, is a truth which depends upon no power nor 
 will, and therefore is called necessary and immutable. Contin- 
 gency, therefore, has a relation to active power, as all active 
 power is exerted in contingent events ; and as such events can 
 have no existence, but by the exertion of active power. 
 
 Igf When I observe a plant growing from its seed to maturity, 
 I know that there must be a cause that has power to produce 
 this effect. But I see neither the cause nor the manner of its 
 operation. 
 
 u2 
 
100 ESSAY I. CHAP. V. 
 
 But in certain motions of my body and directions of my 
 thought, I know, not only that there must be a cause that has 
 power to produce these effects, but that I am that cause ; and I 
 am conscious of what I do in order to the production of them. 
 
 From the consciousness of our own activity, seems to be 
 derived, not only the clearest, but the only conception we can 
 form of activity, or the exertion of active power. 
 
 As I am unable to form a notion of any intellectnal power 
 different in kind from those I possess, the same holds with respect 
 to active power. If all men had been blind, we should have had 
 no conception of the power of seeing, nor any name for it in 
 language. If man had not the powers of abstraction and rea- 
 soning, we could not have had any conception of these operations. 
 In like manner, if he had not some degree of active power, and 
 if he were not conscious of the exertion of it in his voluntary 
 actions, it is probable he could have no conception of activity, or 
 of active power. 
 
 A train of events following one another ever so regularly, 
 could never lead us to the notion of a cause, if we had not, from 
 our constitution, a conviction of the necessity of a cause to every 
 event. 
 
 And of the manner in which a cause may exert its active 
 power, we can have no conception but from consciousness of the 
 manner in which our own active power is exerted. 
 
 With regard to the operations of nature, it is sufficient for us 
 to know, that, whatever the agents may be, whatever the manner 
 of their operation, or the extent of their power, they depend 
 upon the First Cause, and are under his control ; and this indeed 
 is all that we know ; beyond this we are left in darkness. But, 
 in what regards human actions, we have a more immediate 
 concern. 
 
 It is of the highest importance to us, as moral and accountable 
 creatures, to know what actions are in our own power, because 
 it is for these only that we can be accountable to our Maker, 
 or to our fellow-men in society ; by these only we can merit 
 praise or blame ; in these only all our prudence, wisdom and vir- 
 tue must be employed ; and, therefore, with regard to them, the 
 wise Author of nature has not left us in the dark. 
 
 Every man is led by nature to attribute to himself the free 
 determinations of his own will, and to believe those events to be 
 in his power which depend upon his will. On the other hand, 
 it is self-evident, that nothing is in our power that is not subject 
 to our will. 
 
 We grow from childhood to manhood, we digest our food, our 
 blood circulates, our heart and arteries beat, we are sometimes 
 sick and sometimes in health ; all these things must be done by 
 the power of some agent ; but they are not done by our power. 
 
OF BEINGS THAT HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING. 1QJ 
 
 How do we know this ? Because they are not subject to our 
 will. This is the infallible criterion by which we distinguish 
 what is our doing from what is not ; what is in our power from 
 what is not. 
 
 [Human poiver, therefore, can only be exerted by will, and we 
 are unable to conceive any active power to be exerted without 
 will. Every man knows infallibly that what is done by his con- 
 scious will and intention, is to be imputed to him as the agent or 
 cause ; and that whatever is done without his will and intention, 
 cannot be imputed to him with truth.] 
 
 We judge of the actions and conduct of other men by the 
 same rule as we judge of our own. In morals, it is self-evident 
 that no man can be the object either of approbation or of blame 
 for what he did not. But how shall we know whether it is his 
 doing or not ? If the action depended upon his wall, and if he 
 intended and willed it, it is his action in the judgment of all 
 mankind. But if it was done without his knowledge, or with- 
 out his will and intention, it is as certain that he did it not, and 
 that it ought not to be imputed to him as the agent. 
 
 When there is any doubt to whom a particular action ought 
 to be imputed, the doubt arises only from our ignorance of facts ; 
 when the facts relating to it are known, no man of understand- 
 ing has any doubt to whom the action ought to be imputed. 
 
 Y. [The general rules of imputation are self-evident. They 
 have been the same in all ages, and among all civilized nations.] 
 No man blames another for being black or fair, for having a fever 
 or the falling sickness ; because these things are believed not to 
 be in his power ; and they are believed not to be in his power, 
 because they depend not upon his will. [We can never conceive 
 that a man's duty goes beyond his power, or that his power goes 
 beyond what depends upon his will.] 
 
 Reason leads us to ascribe unlimited power to the Supreme 
 Being. But what do we mean by unlimited power ? It is 
 power to do whatsoever he wills. To suppose him to do what he 
 does not will to do, is absurd. 
 
 VI. Our conception of active power relative. — [The only dis- 
 tinct conception I can form of active powder is, that it is an attri- 
 bute in a being by which he can do certain things if he wills. 
 This, after all, is only a relative conception. It is relative to the 
 effect, and to the will of producing it.] Take away these, and 
 the conception vanishes. They are the handles by which the 
 mind takes hold of it. When they are taken away, our hold is 
 gone. The same is the case with regard to other relative concep- 
 tions. Thus velocity is a real state of a body, about which philo- 
 sophers reason with the force of demonstration ; but our concep- 
 tion of it is relative to space and time. What is velocity in a 
 body ? It is a state in which it passes through a certain space in 
 
]02 ESSAY I. CHAP. V. 
 
 a certain time. Space and time are very different from velocity ; 
 but we cannot conceive it but by its relation to them. The 
 effect produced, and the will to produce it, are things different 
 from active power, but we can have no conception of it, but by 
 its relation to them. 
 
 Whether the conception of an efficient cause, and of real 
 activity, could ever have entered into the mind of man, if we had 
 not had the experience of activity in ourselves, I am not able to 
 determine with certainty. The origin of many of our concep- 
 tions, and even of many of our judgments, is not so easily traced 
 as philosophers have generally conceived. No man can recollect 
 the time when he first got the conception of an efficient cause, 
 or the time when he first got the belief that an efficient cause is 
 necessary to every change in nature. The conception of an 
 efficient cause may very probably be derived from the experience 
 we have had in very early life of our own power to produce cer- 
 tain effects. But the belief, that no event can happen without 
 an efficient cause, cannot be derived from experience. We may 
 learn from experience what is, or what was, but no experience 
 can teach us what necessarily must be. 
 
 In like manner, we probably derive the conception of pain 
 from the experience we have had of it in ourselves ; but our 
 belief that pain can only exist in a being that hath life, cannot 
 be got by experience, because it is a necessary truth ; and no 
 necessary truth can have its attestation from experience. 
 
 If it be so that the conception of an efficient cause enters into 
 the mind, only from the early conviction we have that we are 
 the efficients of our own voluntary actions, (which I think is 
 most probable,) the notion of efficiency will be reduced to this, — 
 That it is a relation between the cause and the effect, similar to 
 that which is between us and our voluntary actions. This is 
 surely the most distinct notion, and, I think, the only notion we 
 can form of real efficiency. 
 
 Now it is evident, that, to constitute the relation between me 
 and my action, my conception of the action, and will to do it, are 
 essential. For what I never conceived, nor willed, I never did. 
 
 If any man, therefore, affirms, that a being may be the efficient 
 cause of an action, and have power to produce it, which that 
 being can neither conceive nor will, he speaks a language which 
 I do not understand. If he has a meaning, his notion of power 
 and efficiency must be essentially different from mine ; and, until 
 he conveys his notion of efficiency to my understanding, I can no 
 more assent to his opinion, than if he should affirm, that a being 
 without life may feel pain. 
 
 It seems, therefore, to me most probable, that such beings 
 only as have some degree of understanding and will, can possess 
 active power : and that inanimate beings must be merely passive, 
 
OF THE PHENOMENA OF NATURE. \Qg 
 
 and have no real activity. Nothing we perceiYe without us 
 affords any good ground for ascribing active power to any inani- 
 mate being ; and every thing we can discover in our own consti- 
 tution, leads us to think, that active power cannot be exerted 
 without will and intelligence. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF THE EFFICIENT CAUSES OF THE PHENOMENA OF NATURE. 
 
 I. Of powers ascribed to matter. — If active power, in its pro- 
 per meaning, requires a subject endowed with will and intelli- 
 gence, what shall we say of those active powers which philoso- 
 phers teach us to ascribe to matter ; the powers of corpuscular 
 attraction, magnetism, electricity, gravitation, and others ? Is 
 it not universally allowed, that heavy bodies descend to the earth 
 by the power of gravity ; that, by the same power, the moon, 
 and all the planets and comets, are retained in their orbits ? 
 Have the most eminent natural philosophers been imposing 
 upon us, and giving us words instead of real causes ? 
 
 In answer to this, I apprehend, that the principles of natural 
 philosophy have, in modern times, been built upon a foundation 
 that cannot be shaken, and that they can be called in question 
 only by those who do not understand the evidence on which they 
 stand. [But the ambiguity of the words cause, agency, active 
 power, and the other words related to these, has led many to un- 
 derstand them, when used in natural philosophy, in a wrong sense, 
 and in a sense which is neither necessary for establishing the true 
 principles of natural philosophy, nor was ever meant by the most 
 enlightened in that science.] 
 
 To be convinced of this, we may observe, that those very 
 philosophers who attribute to matter the power of gravitation, 
 and other active powers, teach us, at the same time, that mat- 
 ter is a substance altogether inert, and merely passive ; that 
 gravitation, and the other attractive or repulsive powers which 
 they ascribe to it, are not inherent in its nature, but impressed 
 upon it by some external cause, which they do not pretend to 
 know, or to explain. Now, when we find wise men ascribing 
 action and active power to a substance which they expressly 
 teach us to consider as merely passive, and acted upon by some 
 unknown cause, we must conclude that the action and active 
 power ascribed to it are not to be understood strictly, but in 
 some popular sense. 
 
 II. It ought likewise to be observed, that although philoso- 
 phers, for the sake of being understood, must speak the lan- 
 guage of the vulgar, as when they say, the sun rises and sets, 
 
1Q4 ESSAY I. CHAP. VI. 
 
 and goes thrpugh all the signs of the zodiac, yet they often 
 think differently from the vulgar. Let us hear what the great- 
 est of natural philosophers says, in the 8th definition prefixed to 
 his " Principia," " Voces autem attractionis, impulsus, vel pro- 
 pensionis cujuscunque in centrum, indifferenter et pro se mutuo 
 promiscue usurpo ; has voces non physice sed mathematice consi- 
 derando. Unde caveat lector, ne per hujus modi voces cogitet me 
 speciem vel modum actionis, causamve aut rationem physicam, 
 alicubi definire ; vel centris (quae sunt puncta mathematica) 
 vires vere et physice tribuere, si forte centra trahere, aut vires 
 centrorum esse, dixero." 
 
 " But I use the words attraction, impulse, or propensity of 
 any sort towards a centre, promiscuously and indifferently one 
 for another, considering those forces not physically but ma- 
 thematically. Therefore if I happen to speak of centres as at- 
 tracting, or as endued with attractive powers, let the reader 
 beware lest he imagine, that I anywhere take upon me to define 
 the kind, or the manner of the action ; or the cause or physical 
 reason thereof ; or that I attribute forces in a true and physical 
 sense, to certain centres which are only mathematical points." 
 
 [In all languages, action is attributed to many things which 
 all men of common understanding believe to be merely passive ; 
 thus we say, the wind blows, the rivers flow, the sea rages, the 
 fire burns, bodies move, and impel other bodies.] 
 
 Every object which undergoes any change, must be either 
 active or passive in that change. This is self-evident to all 
 men from the first dawn of reason ; and therefore the change 
 is always expressed in language, either by an active or a passive 
 verb. Nor do I know any verb, expressive of a change, which 
 does not imply either action or passion. The thing either 
 changes, or it is changed. [But it is remarkable in language, 
 that when an external cause of the change is not obvious, the 
 change is always imputed to the thing changed, as if it were 
 animated, and had active power to produce the change in it- 
 self. So we say, the moon changes, the sun rises and goes down.] 
 
 Thus active verbs are very often applied, and active power 
 imputed to things, which a little advance in knowledge and expe- 
 rience teaches us to be merely passive. This property, common 
 to all languages, I endeavoured to account for in the second 
 chapter of this Essay, to which the reader is referred. 
 
 III. A like irregularity may be observed in the use of the 
 word signifying cause, in all languages, and of the words re- 
 lated to it. 
 
 Our knowledge of causes is very scanty in the most advanced 
 state of society, much more is it so in that early period in which 
 language is formed. A strong desire to know the causes of 
 things, is common to all men in every state ; but the experience 
 
OF THE PHENOMENA OF NATURE. 105 
 
 of all ages shows that this keen appetite, rather than go empty, 
 will feed upon the husks of real knowledge where the fruit 
 cannot be found. 
 
 While we are very much in the dark with regard to the real 
 agents or causes which produce the phenomena of Nature, and 
 have, at the same time, an avidity to know them, ingenious 
 men frame conjectures, which those of weaker understanding 
 take for truth. The fare is coarse, but appetite makes it go down. 
 
 Thus, in a very ancient system, love and strife were made the 
 causes of things. Plato made the causes of things to be matter, 
 ideas, and an efficient architect. Aristotle, matter, form, and 
 privation. Des Cartes thought matter, and a certain quantity 
 of motion given it by the Almighty at first, to be all that is ne- 
 cessary to make the material world. Leibnitz conceived the 
 whole universe, even the material part of it, to be made up of 
 monades, each of which is active and intelligent, and produces 
 in itself, by its own active power, all the changes it undergoes 
 from the beginning of its existence to eternity. 
 
 In common language, we give the name of a cause to a rea- 
 son, a motive, an end, to any circumstance which is connected 
 with the effect, and goes before it. 
 
 IV. [Aristotle, and the schoolmen after him, distinguished 
 four kinds of causes, the efficient, the material, the formal, and 
 the final.'] This, like many of Aristotle's distinctions, is only 
 a distinction of the various meanings of an ambiguous word ; 
 for the efficient, the matter, the form, and the end, have no- 
 thing common in their nature, by which they may be accounted 
 species of the same genus ; but the Greek word which we trans- 
 late cause, had these four different meanings in Aristotle's days, 
 and we have added other meanings. We do not indeed call 
 the matter or the form of a thing its cause ; but we have final 
 causes, instrumental causes, occasional causes, and I know not how 
 many others. 
 
 Thus the word cause has been so hackneyed, and made to 
 have so many different meanings in the writings of philoso- 
 phers, and in the discourse of the vulgar, that its original and 
 proper meaning is lost in the crowd. 
 
 With regard to the phenomena of nature, the important end 
 of knowing their causes, besides gratifying our curiosity, is, 
 that we may know when to expect them, or how to bring them 
 about. This is very often of real importance in life ; and this 
 purpose is served, by knowing what, by the course of nature, 
 goes before them and is connected with them ; and this, there- 
 fore, we call the cause of such a phenomenon. 
 
 iiF If a magnet be brought near to a mariner's compass, the 
 needle, which was before at rest, immediately begins to move, 
 and bends its course towards the magnet, or perhaps the con- 
 
IQQ ESSAY I. CHAP. VI. 
 
 trary way. If an unlearned sailor is asked the cause of this 
 motion of the needle, he is at no loss for an answer. He tells 
 you it is the magnet ; and the proof is clear ; for, remove the 
 magnet, and the effect ceases ; bring it near, and the effect is 
 again produced. It is, therefore, evident to sense, that the mag- 
 net is the cause of this effect. 
 
 A Cartesian philosopher enters deeper into the cause of this 
 phenomenon. He observes, that the magnet does not touch 
 the needle, and therefore can give it no impulse. He pities 
 the ignorance of the sailor. The effect is produced, says he, 
 by magnetic effluvia, or subtile matter, which passes from the 
 magnet to the needle, and forces it from its place. He can 
 even show you, in a figure, where these magnetic effluvia issue 
 from the magnet, what round they take, and what way they 
 return home again. And thus he thinks he comprehends per- 
 fectly how, and by what cause, the motion of the needle is pro- 
 duced. 
 
 A Newtonian philosopher inquires what proof can be offered 
 for the existence of magnetic effluvia, and can find none : he 
 therefore holds it as a fiction, a hypothesis ; and he has learned 
 that hypotheses ought to have no place in the philosophy of 
 nature. He confesses his ignorance of the real cause of this 
 motion, and thinks that his business, as a philosopher, is only 
 to find from experiment the laws by which it is regulated in all 
 cases. 
 
 These three persons differ much in their sentiments with 
 regard to the real cause of this phenomenon ; and the man who 
 knows most is he who is sensible that he knows nothing of 
 the matter. Yet all the three speak the same language, and 
 acknowledge that the cause of this motion is the attractive or 
 repulsive power of the magnet. 
 
 V. What has been said of this, may be applied to every phe- 
 nomenon that falls within the compass of natural philosophy. 
 We deceive ourselves, if we conceive that we can point out the 
 real efficient cause of any one of them. 
 
 [The grandest discovery ever made in natural philosophy, was 
 that of the laiv of gravitation, which opens such a view of our 
 planetary system, that it looks like something divine. But the 
 author of this discovery was perfectly aware that he discovered 
 no real cause, but only the law or rule according to which the 
 unknown cause operates.] 
 
 Natural philosophers, who think accurately, have a precise 
 meaning to the terms they use in the science ; and when they 
 pretend to show the cause of any phenomenon of nature, they 
 mean by the cause, a law of nature of which that phenomenon 
 is a necessary consequence. 
 
 The whole object of natural philosophy, as Newton expressly 
 
OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. JQY 
 
 teaches, is reducible to these two heads : first, by just indue- 
 Hon from experiment and observation, to discover the laws of 
 Nature, and then to apply those laws to the solution of the 
 phenomena of Nature. This was all that this great philosopher 
 attempted, and all that he thought attainable. And this in- 
 deed he attained in a great measure, with regard to the motions 
 of our planetary system, and with regard to the rays of light. 
 
 But supposing that all the phenomena that fall within the 
 reach of our senses were accounted for from general laws of na- 
 ture, justly deduced from experience ; that is, supposing na- 
 tural philosophy brought to its utmost perfection, it does not 
 discover the efficient cause of any one phenomenon in nature. 
 
 The laws of nature are the rules according to which the effects 
 are produced ; but there must be a cause which operates according 
 to these rules. The rules of navigation never navigated a ship. 
 The rules of architecture never built a house. 
 
 Natural philosophers, by great attention to the course of na- 
 ture, have discovered many of her laws, and have very happily 
 applied them to account for many phenomena ; but they have 
 never discovered the efficient cause of any one phenomenon ; 
 nor do those who have distinct notions of the principles of the 
 science, make any such pretence. 
 
 Upon the theatre of nature we see innumerable effects, which 
 require an agent, endowed with active power ; but the agent is 
 behind the scene. [Whether it be (1) the Supreme Cause alone, 
 or (2) a subordinate cause or causes, and (3) if subordinate 
 causes be employed by the Almighty, what their nature, their 
 number, and their different offices may be, are things hid, for 
 wise reasons without doubt, from the human eye.] 
 
 It is only in human actions, that may be imputed for praise or 
 blame, that it is necessary for us to know who is the agent ; and 
 in this, nature has given us all the light that is necessary for our 
 conduct. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. 
 
 I. Power an attribute of accountable beings. — Every thing 
 laudable and praiseworthy in man, must consist in the proper 
 exercise of that power which is given him by his Maker. This 
 is the talent which he is required to occupy, and of which he 
 must give an account to him who committed it to his trust. 
 
 [To some persons more power is given than to others ; and to 
 the same person more at one time and less at another. Its exist- 
 
108 ESSAY I. CHAP. VII. 
 
 ence, its extent, and its continuance, depend solely upon the 
 pleasure of the Almighty ; but every man that is accountable 
 must have more or less of it. For, to call a person to account, to 
 approve or disapprove of his conduct, who had no power to do 
 good or ill, is absurd.] No axiom of Euclid appears more evi- 
 dent than this. 
 
 As power is a valuable gift, to under-rate it is ingratitude to 
 the giver ; to over-rate it, begets pride and presumption, and 
 leads to unsuccessful attempts. It is therefore, in every man, a 
 point of wisdom to make a just estimate of his own power. 
 " Quid ferre recusent, quid valeant humeri." 
 
 II. [We can only speak of the power of man in general ; and 
 as our notion of power is relative to its effects, we can estimate 
 its extent only by the effects which it is able to produce.] 
 
 It would be wrong to estimate the extent of human power 
 by the effects which it has actually produced. For every man 
 had power to do many things which he did not, and not to do 
 many things which he did ; otherwise he could not be an object 
 either of approbation or of disapprobation, to any rational being. 
 
 The effects of human power are either immediate, or they are 
 more remote. 
 
 The immediate effects, I think, are reducible to two heads. 
 We can give certain motions to our own bodies ; and we can 
 give a certain direction to our own thoughts. 
 
 Whatever we can do beyond this, must be done by one of 
 these means, or both. 
 
 We can produce no motion in any body in the universe, but 
 by moving first our own body as an instrument. Nor can we 
 produce thought in any other person, but by thought and motion 
 in ourselves. 
 
 Our power to move our own body is not only limited in its 
 extent, but in its nature is subject to mechanical laws. It may 
 be compared to a spring endowed with the power of contracting 
 or expanding itself, but which cannot contract without drawing 
 equally at both ends, nor expand without pushing equally at 
 both ends ; so that every action of the spring is always accom- 
 panied with an equal re-action in a contrary direction. 
 
 We can conceive a man to have power to move his whole body 
 in any direction, without the aid of any other body, or a power 
 to move one part of his body without the aid of any other part. 
 But philosophy teaches us that man has no such power. 
 
 If he carries his whole body in any direction with a certain 
 quantity of motion, this he can do only by pushing the earth, 
 or some other body, with an equal quantity of motion in the 
 contrary direction. If he but stretch out his arm in one direc- 
 tion, the rest of his body is pushed with an equal quantity of 
 motion in the contrary direction. 
 
OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN FOWER. JQ9 
 
 This is the case with regard to all animal and voluntary mo- 
 tions, which come within the reach of our senses. They are 
 performed by the contraction of certain muscles ; and a muscle, 
 when it is contracted, draws equally at both ends. As to the 
 motions antecedent to the contraction of the muscle, and conse- 
 quently upon the volition of the animal, we know nothing, and 
 can say nothing about them. 
 
 We know not even how those immediate effects of our power 
 are produced by our willing them. We perceive not any neces- 
 sary connexion between the volition and exertion on our part> 
 and the motion of our body that follows them. 
 
 ffHF Anatomists inform us, that every voluntary motion of the 
 body is performed by the contraction of certain muscles, and that 
 the muscles are contracted by some influence derived from the 
 nerves. But, without thinking in the least either of muscles or 
 nerves, we will only the external effect, and the internal ma- 
 chinery, without our call, immediately produces that effect. 
 
 This is one of the wonders of our frame, which we have rea- 
 son to admire ; but to account for it is beyond the reach of our 
 understanding. 
 
 That there is an established harmony between our willing cer- 
 tain motions of our bodies, and the operation of the nerves and 
 muscles which produces those motions, is a fact known by expe- 
 rience. This volition is an act of the mind. But whether this 
 act of the mind have any physical effect upon the nerves and 
 muscles, or whether it be only an occasion of their being acted 
 upon by some other efficient, according to the established laws of 
 nature, is hid from us. So dark is our conception of our own 
 power when we trace it to its origin. 
 
 III. [We have good reason to believe, that matter had its 
 origin from mind, as well as all its motions ; but how, or in what 
 manner, it is moved by mind, we know as little as how it was 
 created.] 
 
 It is possible, therefore, for any thing we know, that what we 
 call the immediate effects of our power, may not be so in the 
 strictest sense. Between the will to produce the effect, and the 
 production of it, there may be agents or instruments of which we 
 are ignorant. 
 
 This may leave some doubt, whether we be, in the strictest 
 sense, the efficient cause of the voluntary motions of our own 
 body. But it can produce no doubt with regard to the moral 
 estimation of our actions. 
 
 The man who knows that such an event depends upon his 
 will, and who deliberately wills to produce it, is, in the strictest 
 moral sense, the cause of the event ; and it is justly imputed to 
 him, whatever physical causes may have concurred in its pro- 
 duction. 
 
HO ESSAY I. CHAP. VII. 
 
 ggi" Thus, he who maliciously intends to shoot his neighbour 
 dead, and voluntarily does it, is undoubtedly the cause of his 
 death, though he did no more to occasion it than draw the trigger 
 of the gun. He neither gave to the ball its velocity, nor to the 
 powder its expansive force, nor to the flint and steel the power 
 to strike fire ; but he knew that what he did must be followed 
 b}^ the man's death, and did it with that intention ; and therefore 
 he is justly chargeable with the murder. 
 
 Philosophers may therefore dispute innocently, whether we be 
 the proper efficient causes of the voluntary motions of our own 
 body; or whether we be only, as Malebranche thinks, the occa- 
 sional causes. The determination of this question, if it can be 
 determined, can have no effect on human conduct. 
 
 IV. The other branch of what is immediately in our power, 
 is to give a certain direction to our own thoughts. This, as well 
 as the first branch, is limited in various ways. It is greater in 
 some persons than in others, and in the same person is very dif- 
 ferent, according to the health of his body, and the state of his 
 mind. [But that men, when free from disease of body and of 
 mind, have a considerable degree of power of this kind, and that 
 it may be greatly increased by practice and habit, is sufficiently 
 evident from experience, and from the natural conviction of all 
 mankind.] 
 
 [Were we to examine minutely (1) into the connexion between 
 our volitions, and the direction of our thoughts which obey these 
 volitions ; were we to consider (2) how we are able to give atten- 
 tion to an object for a certain time, and turn our attention to 
 another when we choose, we might perhaps find it difficult to 
 determine, whether the mind itself be the sole efficient cause of 
 the voluntary changes in the direction of our thoughts, or whe- 
 ther it requires the aid of other efficient causes.] 
 
 I see no good reason why the dispute about efficient and occa- 
 sional causes may not be applied to the power of directing our 
 thoughts, as well as to the power of moving our bodies. In 
 both cases, I apprehend, the dispute is endless, and, if it could be 
 brought to an issue, would be fruitless. 
 
 Nothing appears more evident to our reason, than that there 
 must be an efficient cause of every change that happens in na- 
 ture. But when I attempt to comprehend the manner in which 
 an efficient cause operates, either upon body or upon mind, there 
 is a darkness which my faculties are not able to penetrate. 
 
 V. [However small the immediate effects of human power 
 seem to be, its more remote effects are very considerable.] 
 
 B££F In this respect, the power of man may be compared to 
 the Nile, the Ganges, and other great rivers, which make a 
 figure upon the globe of the earth, and, traversing vast regions, 
 bring sometimes great benefit, at other times great mischief, to 
 
OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. 
 
 many nations ; yet, when we trace those rivers to their source, 
 we find them to rise from inconsiderable fountains and rills. 
 
 giF The command of a mighty prince, what is it but the sound 
 of his breath, modified by his organs of speech ? But it may 
 have great consequences ; it may raise armies, equip fleets, 
 and spread war and desolation over a great part of the earth. 
 
 The meanest of mankind has considerable power to do good, 
 and more to hurt himself and others. 
 
 From this I think we may conclude, that although the dege- 
 neracy of mankind be great, and justly to be lamented, yet, men 
 in general are more disposed to employ their power in doing 
 good, than in doing hurt to their fellow-men. The last is much 
 more in their power than the first ; and, if they were as much 
 disposed to it, human society could not subsist, and the species 
 must soon perish from the earth. 
 
 VI. We may Jirst consider the effects which may be produced 
 by human. power upon the material system. 
 
 It is confined indeed to the planet which we inhabit; we 
 cannot remove to another ; nor can we produce any change in the 
 annual or diurnal motions of our own. 
 
 But, by human power, great changes may be made upon the 
 face of the earth ; and those treasures of metals and minerals that 
 are stored up in its bowels, may be discovered and brought forth. 
 
 The Supreme Being could, no doubt, have made the earth 
 to supply the wants of man without any cultivation by human 
 labour. Many inferior animals, who neither plant, nor sow, nor 
 spin, are provided for by the bounty of Heaven. But this is not 
 the case with man. 
 
 He has active powers and ingenuity given him, by which he 
 can do much for supplying his wants ; and his labour is made 
 necessary for that purpose. 
 
 His wants are more than those of any other animal that in- 
 habits this globe ; and his resources are proportioned to them, 
 and put within the sphere of his power. 
 
 I3iF The earth is left by nature in such a state as to require 
 cultivation for the accommodation of man. 
 
 It is capable of cultivation, in most places, to such a degree, 
 that, by human labour, it may afford subsistence to an hundred 
 times the number of men it could in its natural state. 
 
 Every tribe of men, in every climate, must labour for their 
 subsistence and accommodation ; and their supply is more or 
 less comfortable, in proportion to the labour properly employed 
 for that purpose. 
 
 It is evidently the intention of nature that man should be 
 laborious, and that he should exert his powers of body and mind 
 for his own and for the common good. And, by his power pro- 
 perly applied, he may make great improvement upon the fertility 
 
\\C£ ESSAY I. CHAP. VII. 
 
 of the earth, and a great addition to his own accommodation and 
 comfortable state. 
 
 By clearing, tilling, and manuring the ground, by planting and 
 sowing, by building cities and harbours, draining marshes and 
 lakes, making rivers navigable, and joining them by canals, by 
 manufacturing the rude materials which the earth, duly culti- 
 vated, produces in abundance, by the mutual exchange of com- 
 modities and of labour, he may make the barren wilderness the 
 habitation of rich and populous states. 
 
 If we compare the city of Venice, the province of Holland, 
 the empire of China, with those places of the earth which never 
 felt the hand of industry, we may form some conception of the 
 extent of human power upon the material system, in changing 
 the face of the earth, and furnishing the accommodations of 
 human life. 
 
 VII. But, in order to produce those happy changes, man him- 
 self must he improved. 
 
 [His animal faculties are sufficient for the preservation of the 
 species ; they grow up of themselves, like the trees of the forest, 
 which require only the force of nature and the influences of 
 heaven. • 
 
 His rational and moral faculties, like the earth itself, are 
 rude and barren by nature, but capable of a high degree of 
 culture ; and this culture he must receive from parents, from 
 instructors, from those with whom he lives in society, joined 
 with his own industry.] 
 
 If we consider the changes that may be produced by man 
 upon his own mind, and upon the minds of others, they appear 
 to be great. 
 
 Upon his own mind he may make great improvement, in ac- 
 quiring the treasures of useful knowledge, the habits of skill in 
 arts, the habits of wisdom, prudence, self-command, and every 
 other virtue. It is the constitution of nature, that such quali- 
 ties as exalt and dignify human nature are to be acquired by 
 proper exertions ; and, by a contrary conduct, such qualities as 
 debase it below the condition of brutes. 
 
 Even upon the minds of others, great effects may be produced 
 by means within the compass of human power ; by means of 
 good education, of proper instruction, of persuasion, of good 
 example, and by the discipline of laws and government. 
 
 That these have often had great and good effects on the civili- 
 zation and improvement of individuals, and of nations, cannot be 
 doubted. But what happy effects they might have, if applied 
 universally with the skill and address that is within the reach of 
 human wisdom and power, is not easily conceived, or to what 
 pitch the happiness of human society, and the improvement of 
 the species, might be carried. 
 
OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. \ 13 
 
 What a noble, what a divine employment of human power 
 is here assigned us ! How ought it to rouse the ambition of 
 parents, of instructors, of lawgivers, of magistrates, of every man 
 in his station, to contribute his part towards the accomplishment 
 of so glorious an end ! 
 
 VIII. Human power entirely dependent upon God and the 
 laws of nature. — [The power of man over his own and other 
 minds, when we trace it to its origin, is involved in darkness, no 
 less than his power to move his own and other bodies.] 
 
 How far we are properly efficient causes, how far occasional 
 causes, I cannot pretend to determine. 
 
 We know that (1) habit produces great changes in the mind ; 
 but how it does so, we know not. We know that (2) ex- 
 ample has a powerful, and, in the early period of life, almost an 
 irresistible effect ; but we know not how it produces this effect. 
 
 (3) The communication of thought, sentiment, and passion, from 
 one mind to another, has something in it as mysterious as the 
 communication of motion from one body to another. 
 
 We perceive one event to follow another, according to estab- 
 lished laws of nature, and we are accustomed to call the first the 
 
 (4) cause, and the last the effect, without knowing what is the 
 bond that unites them. In order to produce a certain event, we 
 use means which, by laws of nature, are connected with that 
 event ; and we call ourselves the cause of that event, though 
 other efficient causes may have had the chief hand in its pro- 
 duction. 
 
 Upon the whole, [human power, in its (1) existence, in its (2) 
 extent, and in its (3) exertions, is entirely dependent upon God, 
 and upon the laws of nature which he has established.] This 
 ought to banish pride and arrogance from the most mighty of 
 the sons of men. At the same time, that degree of power which 
 we have received from the bounty of Heaven, is one of the noblest 
 gifts of God to man ; of which we ought not to be insensible, 
 that we may not be ungrateful, and that we may be excited to 
 make the proper use of it. 
 
 IX. The extent of human power is perfectly suited to the state 
 of man, as a state of improvement and discipline. It is sufficient 
 to animate us to the noblest exertions. By the proper exercise 
 of this gift of God, human nature, in individuals and in societies, 
 may be exalted to a high degree of dignity and felicity, and the 
 earth become a paradise. On the contrary, its perversion and 
 abuse is the cause of most of the evils that afflict human life. 
 
ESSAY II. 
 
 OF THE WILL. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE WILL. 
 
 I. Volition and will different. — Every man is conscious of a 
 power to determine, in things which he conceives to depend upon 
 his determination. To this power we give the name of will; 
 and, as it is usual, in the operations of the mind, to give the 
 same name to the power and to the act of that power, the term 
 will is often put to signify the act of determining, which more 
 properly is called volition. 
 
 [Volition, therefore, signifies the act of willing and determining ; 
 and will is put indifferently to signify either the power of willing, 
 or the act.~\ 
 
 But the term will has very often, especially in the writings of 
 philosophers, a more extensive meaning, which we must care- 
 fully distinguish from that which we have now given. 
 
 In the general division of our faculties into understanding and 
 will, our passions, appetites, and affections, are comprehended 
 under the will ; and so it is made to signify, not only our deter- 
 mination to act or not to act, but every motive and incitement 
 to action. 
 
 It is this, probably, that has led some philosophers to repre- 
 sent desire, aversion, hope, fear, joy, sorrow, all our appetites, 
 passions, and affections, as different modifications of the will, 
 which, I think, tends to confound things which are very different 
 in their nature. 
 
 The advice given to a man, and his determination consequent 
 to that advice, are things so different in their nature, that it 
 would be improper to call them modifications of one and the 
 same thing. In like manner, the motives to action, and the 
 determination to act or not to act, are things that have no com- 
 mon nature, and therefore ought not to be confounded under 
 one name, or represented as different modifications of the same 
 thing. 
 
 II. The term will, how used. — [For this reason, in speaking of 
 
OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE WILL. U5 
 
 the will in this Essay, I do not comprehend under that term any 
 of the incitements or motives which may have an influence upon 
 our determinations, but solely the determination itself, and the 
 power to determined] 
 
 Mr. Locke has considered this operation of the mind more 
 attentively, and distinguished it more accurately, than some very 
 ingenious authors who wrote after him. 
 
 He defines volition* to be, " an act of the mind knowingly 
 exerting that dominion it takes itself to have over any part of 
 the man, by employing it in, or withholding it from, any parti- 
 cular action."-)- 
 
 III. Its definition. — [It may more briefly be defined, the deter- 
 mination of the mind to do or not to do something which we con- 
 ceive to be in our power.] 
 
 If this were given as a strictly logical definition, it would be 
 liable to this objection, that the determination of the mind is 
 only another term for volition. But it ought to be observed, 
 that the most simple acts of the mind do not admit of a logical 
 definition. The way to form a clear notion of them is, to reflect 
 attentively upon them as we feel them in ourselves. Without 
 this reflection, no definition can give us a distinct conception of 
 them. 
 
 For this reason, rather than sift any definition of the will, I 
 shall make some observations upon it, which may lead us to 
 reflect upon it, and to distinguish it from other acts of mind, 
 which, from the ambiguity of words, are apt to be confounded 
 with it. 
 
 [First, every act of will must have an object. He that wills, 
 must will something ; and that which he wills is called the object 
 of his volition. As a man cannot think without thinking of 
 something, nor remember without remembering something, so 
 neither can he will without willing something.] Every act of 
 will, therefore, must have an object ; and the person who wills 
 must have some conception, more or less distinct, of what he 
 wills. 
 
 By this, things done voluntarily are distinguished from things 
 done merely from instinct, or merely from habit. 
 
 %MT A healthy child, some hours after its birth, feels the 
 sensation of hunger, and, if applied to the breast, sucks and 
 swallows its food very perfectly. We have no reason to think, 
 that, before it ever sucked, it has any conception of that complex 
 operation, or how it is performed. It cannot, therefore, with 
 propriety, be said, that it wills to suck. 
 
 * " The actual exercise of that power, by directing any particular action or 
 its forbearance, is that which we call volition, or willing." — Book II. chap. xxi. 
 sect 5. 
 
 | Book II. chap. xxi. sect. 15. 
 
 i 2 
 
116 ESSAY II. CHAP. I. 
 
 Numberless instances might be given of things done by ani- 
 mals without any previous conception of what they are to do — 
 without the intention of doing it. They act by some inward 
 blind impulse, of which the efficient cause is hid from us ; and 
 though there is an end evidently intended by the action, this 
 intention is not in the animal, but in its Maker. 
 
 Other things are done by habit, which cannot properly be 
 called voluntary. We shut our eyes several times every minute 
 while we are awake ; no man is conscious of willing this every 
 time he does it. 
 
 [A second observation is, that the immediate object of will 
 must be some action of our oivn. 
 
 By this, will is distinguished from two acts of the mind, which 
 sometimes take its name, and thereby are apt to be confounded 
 with it ; these are, desire and command.'] 
 
 IV. The distinction between will and desire has been well 
 explained by Mr. Locke ; yet many later writers have overlooked 
 it, and have represented desire as a modification of will. 
 
 [Desire and will agree in this, that both must have an object, 
 of which we must have some conception ; and therefore both 
 must be accompanied with some degree of understanding. But 
 they differ in several things.] 
 
 The object of desire may be any thing which appetite, pas- 
 sion, or affection, leads us to pursue ; it may be any event 
 which we think good for us, or for those to whom we are well 
 affected. I may desire meat, or drink, or ease from pain : 
 but to say that I will meat, or will drink, or will ease from 
 pain, is not English. There is, therefore, a distinction in com- 
 mon language between desire and will. And the distinction 
 is, that what we will must be an action, and our own action ; 
 what we desire may not be our own action, it may be no action 
 at all. 
 
 A man desires that his children may be happy, and that they 
 may behave well. Their being happy is no action at all ; their 
 behaving well is not his action, but theirs. 
 
 With regard to our own actions, we may desire what we do 
 not will, and will what we do not desire ; nay, what we have a 
 great aversion to. 
 
 A man a-thirst has a strong desire to drink, but, for some 
 particular reason, he determines not to gratify his desire. A 
 judge, from a regard to justice, and to the duty of his office, 
 dooms a criminal to die, wliile, from humanity or particular affec - 
 tion, he desires that he should live. A man, for health, may take a 
 nauseous draught, for which he has no desire, but a great aver- 
 sion. [Desire, therefore, even when its object is some action of our 
 own, is only an incitement to will, but it is not volition.] The 
 determination of the mind may be, not to do what we desire to 
 
OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE WILL. J 17 
 
 do. But as desire is often accompanied by will, we are apt to 
 overlook the distinction between them. 
 
 V. Of command, will, and desire.' — [The command of a per- 
 son is sometimes called his will, sometimes his desire ; but when 
 these words are used properly, they signify three different acts of 
 the mind. 
 
 The immediate object of will is some action of our own ; the 
 , object of a command is some action of another person, over 
 whom we claim authority ; the object of desire may be no action 
 at all.] 
 
 In giving a command, all these acts concur ; and as they go 
 
 together, it is not uncommon in language to give to one the 
 
 name which properly belongs to another. 
 
 , A command being a voluntary action, there must be a will to 
 
 / give the command : some desire is commonly the motive to that 
 
 act of will, and the command is the effect of it. 
 
 Perhaps it may be thought that a command is only a desire 
 expressed by language, that the thing commanded should be 
 done. But it is not so. For a desire may be expressed by 
 language when there is no command ; and there may possibly be 
 a command without any desire that the thing commanded should 
 be done. There have been instances of tyrants who have laid 
 grievous commands upon their subjects, in order to reap the 
 penalty of their disobedience, or to furnish a pretence for their 
 punishment. 
 
 We might further observe, that a command is a social act of 
 the mind. It can have no existence but by a communication of 
 thought to some intelligent being ; and therefore implies a be- 
 lief that there is such a being, and that we can communicate our 
 thoughts to him. 
 
 Desire and will are solitary acts, which do not imply any 
 such communication or belief. 
 
 The immediate object of volition, therefore, must be some 
 action, and our own action. 
 
 [A third observation is, That the object of our volition must 
 be something which we believe to be in our power, and to depend 
 upon our will.] 
 
 A man may desire to make a visit to the moon, or to the 
 planet Jupiter, but he cannot will or determine to do it ; be- 
 cause he knows it is not in his power. If an insane person should 
 make an attempt, his insanity must first make him believe it to 
 be in his power. 
 
 A man in his sleep may be struck with a palsy, which de- 
 prives him of the power of speech ; when he awakes, he attempts 
 to speak, not knowing that he has lost the power. But when 
 he knows by experience that the power is gone, he ceases to 
 make the effort. 
 
 The same man, knowing that some persons have recovered 
 
Ug ESSAY II. CHAP. I. 
 
 the power of speech after they had lost it by a paralytic stroke, 
 may now and then make an effort. In this effort, however, 
 there is not properly a will to speak, but a will to try whether 
 he can speak or not. 
 
 In like manner, a man may exert his strength to raise a weight 
 which is too heavy for him. But he always does this, either 
 from the belief that he can raise the weight, or for a trial whe- 
 ther he can or not. It is evident, therefore, that what we will 
 must be believed to be in our power, and to depend upon our 
 will. 
 
 [The next observation is, That when we will to do a thing 
 immediately, the volition is accompanied with an effort to execute 
 that which we will.] 
 
 If a man wills to raise a great weight from the ground by the 
 strength of his arm, he makes an effort for that purpose pro- 
 portioned to the weight he determines to raise. A great weight 
 requires a great effort ; a small weight a less effort. We say, 
 indeed, that to raise a very small body requires no effort at all. 
 But this, I apprehend, must be understood either as a figura- 
 tive way of speaking, by which things very small are accounted 
 as nothing ; or it is owing to our giving no attention to very 
 small efforts, and therefore having no name for them. 
 
 Great efforts, whether of body or mind, are attended with 
 difficulty, and, when long continued, produce lassitude, which 
 requires that they should be intermitted. This leads us to reflect 
 upon them, and to give them a name. The name effort, is com- 
 monly appropriated to them ; and those that are made with ease, 
 and leave no sensible effect, pass without observation and with- 
 out a name, though they be of the same kind, and differ only in 
 degree from those to which the name is given. 
 
 This effort we are conscious of, if we will but give attention 
 to it ; and there is nothing in which we are in a more strict sense 
 active. 
 
 [The last observation is, That in all determinations of the 
 mind that are of any importance, there must be something in 
 the preceding state of the mind that disposes or inclines us to that 
 determination, .] 
 
 If the mind were always in a state of perfect indifference, 
 without any incitement, motive, or reason, to act, or not to act, 
 to act one way rather than another, our active power, having no 
 end to pursue, no rule to direct its exertions, would be given in 
 vain. We should either be altogether inactive, and never will 
 to do any thing, or our volitions would be perfectly unmeaning 
 and futile, being neither wise nor foolish, virtuous nor vicious. 
 
 We have reason, therefore, to think, that to every being to 
 whom God hath given any degree of active power, he hath also 
 given some principles of action, for the direction of that power 
 to the end for which it was intended. 
 
INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. ^ 19 
 
 It is evident that, in the constitution of man, there are va- 
 rious principles of action suited to our state and situation. A 
 particular consideration of these is the subject of the next Essay ; 
 in this we are only to consider them in general, with a view to 
 examine the relation they bear to volition, and how it is influ- 
 enced by them. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF THE INFLUENCE OF INCITEMENTS AND MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. 
 
 I. Instinct. — We come into the world ignorant of every thing, 
 yet we must do many things in order to our subsistence and well- 
 being. A new-born child may be carried in arms, and kept 
 warm by his nurse, but he must suck and swallow his food for 
 himself. And this must be done before he has any conception 
 of sucking or swallowing, or of the manner in which they are 
 to be performed. [He is led by nature to do these actions, with- 
 out knowdng for what end, or what he is about. This we call 
 instinct.'] 
 
 In many cases, there is no time for voluntary determination. 
 The motions must go on so rapidly, that the conception and vo- 
 lition of every movement cannot keep pace with them. In some 
 cases of this kind, instinct, in others habit, comes in to our aid. 
 
 IgF When a man stumbles and loses his balance, the motion 
 necessary to prevent his fall would come too late, if it were the 
 consequence of thinking what is fit to be done, and making a 
 voluntary effort for that purpose. He does this instinctively. 
 
 When a man beats a drum or plays a tune, he has not time to 
 direct every particular beat or stop by a voluntary determina- 
 tion ; but the habit which may be acquired by exercise answers 
 the purpose as well. 
 
 [By instinct, therefore, and by habit, we do many things with- 
 out any exercise either of judgment or will.] 
 
 In other actions, the will is exerted, but without judgment. 
 
 Suppose a man to know that, in order to live, he must eat. 
 What shall he eat ? How much ? And how often ? His rea- 
 son can answer none of these questions ; and therefore can give 
 no direction how he should determine. Here again nature, as 
 an indulgent parent, supplies the defects of his reason ; giving 
 him appetite, which shows him when he is to eat, how often, and 
 how much ; and taste, which informs him what he is and what 
 he is not to eat. And by these principles he is much better di- 
 rected than he could be, without them, by all the knowledge he 
 can acquire. 
 
 II. Judgment not necessary to instinct. — As the Author of 
 
120 ESSAY IT. CHAP. II. 
 
 nature has given us some principles of action to supply the de- 
 fects of our knowledge, he has given others to supply the defects 
 of our wisdom and virtue. 
 
 The natural desires, affections, and passions, which are com- 
 mon to the wise and to the foolish, to the virtuous and to the 
 vicious, and even to the more sagacious hrutes, serve very often 
 to direct the course of human actions. By these principles, men 
 may perform the most laborious duties of life, without any 
 regard to duty ; and do what is proper to be done, without 
 regard to propriety, $5F like a vessel that is carried on in her 
 proper course by a prosperous gale, without the skill or judgment 
 of those that are aboard. 
 
 Appetite, affection, or passion, give an impulse to a certain 
 action. In this impulse there is no judgment implied. It may 
 be weak or strong; we can even conceive it irresistible. In the 
 case of madness, it is so. Madmen have their appetites and pas- 
 sions ; but they want the power of self-government ; and there- 
 fore we do not impute their actions to the man, but to the 
 disease. 
 
 In actions that proceed from appetite or passion, we are pas- 
 sive in part, and only in part active. They are therefore partly 
 imputed to the passion ; x and if it is supposed to be irresistible, 
 we do not impute them to the man at all. 
 
 Even an American savage judges in this manner : when in a 
 fit of drunkenness, he kills his friend : as soon as he comes to 
 himself, he is very sorry for what he has done ; but pleads, that 
 drink, and not he, was the cause. 
 
 We conceive brute animals to have no superior principle to 
 control their appetites and passions. On this account, their 
 actions are not subject to law. Men are in a like state in 
 infancy, in madness, and in the delirium of a fever. They have 
 appetites and passions, but they want that which makes them 
 moral agents, accountable for their conduct, and objects of moral 
 approbation or of blame. 
 
 In some cases, a stronger impulse of appetite or passion may 
 oppose a weaker. Here also there may be determination and 
 action without judgment. 
 
 Suppose a soldier ordered to mount a breach, and certain of 
 present death if he retreats : this man needs not courage to go on ; 
 fear is sufficient. The certainty of present death if he retreats, 
 is an overbalance to the probability of being killed if he goes on. 
 The man is pushed by contrary forces, and it requires neither 
 judgment nor exertion to yield to the strongest. 
 
 A hungry dog acts by the same principle, if meat is set before 
 him, with a threatening to beat him if he touch it. Hunger 
 pushes him forward, fear pushes him back with more force, and 
 the strongest force prevails. 
 
INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL, 
 
 Thus we see, that, in many even of our voluntary actions, we 
 may act from the impulse of appetite, affection, or passion, with- 
 out any exercise of judgment, and much in the same manner as 
 brute animals seem to act. 
 
 III. The exercise of judgment distinct from the impulse of ap- 
 petite. — [Sometimes, however, there is a calm in the mind from 
 the gales of passion or appetite, and the man is left to work his 
 way, in the voyage of life, without those impulses which they 
 give.] Then he calmly weighs goods and evils, which are at 
 too great a distance to excite any passion. He judges what is 
 best upon the whole, without feeling any bias drawing him to 
 one side. He judges for himself as he would do for another in 
 his situation ; and the determination is wholly imputable to the 
 man, and not in any degree to his passion. 
 
 Every man come to years of understanding, who has given 
 any attention to his own conduct, and to that of others, has, in 
 his mind, a scale or measure of goods and evils, more or less 
 exact. He makes an estimate of the value of health, of repu- 
 tation, of riches, of pleasure, of virtue, of self-approbation, and 
 of the approbation of his Maker. These things, and their con- 
 traries, have a comparative importance in his cool and deliberate 
 judgment. 
 
 [When a man considers whether health ought to be preferred 
 to bodily strength, fame to riches, — whether a good conscience 
 and the approbation of his Maker, to every thing that can come 
 in competition with it, — this appears to me to be an exercise of 
 judgment, and not any impulse of passion or appetite.] 
 
 Every thing worthy of pursuit must be so, either intrinsically, 
 and upon its own account, or as the means of procuring some- 
 thing that is intrinsically valuable. That it is by judgment that 
 we discern the fitness of means for attaining an end, is self- 
 evident ; and in this, I think, all philosophers agree. But that 
 it is the office of judgment to appreciate the value of an end, or 
 the preference due to one end above another, is not granted by 
 some philosophers. 
 
 In determining what is good or ill, and, of different goods, 
 which is best, they think we must be guided, not by judgment, 
 but by some natural or acquired taste, which makes us relish 
 one thing and dislike another. 
 
 Thus, if one man prefers cheese to lobsters, another lobsters 
 to cheese, it is vain, say they, to apply judgment to determine 
 which is right. In like manner, if one man prefers pleasure to 
 virtue, another virtue to pleasure, this is a matter of taste, judg- 
 ment has nothing to do in it. This seems to be the opinion of 
 some philosophers. 
 
 I cannot help being of a contrary opinion. I think we may 
 
Igg ESSAY II. CHAP. II. 
 
 form a judgment, both in the question about cheese and lobsters, 
 and in the more important question about pleasure and virtue. 
 
 When one man feels a more agreeable relish in cheese, another 
 in lobsters, this, I grant, requires no judgment ; it depends only 
 upon the constitution of the palate. But, if we would deter- 
 mine which of the two has the best taste, I think the question 
 must be determined by judgment ; and that, with a small share 
 of this faculty, we may give a very certain determination, to 
 wit, that the two tastes are equally good, and that both of the 
 persons do equally well, in preferring what suits their palate and 
 their stomach. 
 
 Nay, I apprehend, that the two persons who differ in their 
 taste will, notwithstanding that difference, agree perfectly in 
 their judgment, that both tastes are upon a footing of equality, 
 and that neither has a just claim to preference. 
 
 IV. Taste and judgment differ. — [Thus it appears, that, in 
 this instance, the office of taste is very different from that of 
 judgment ; and that men, who differ most hi taste, may agree 
 perfectly in their judgment, even with respect to the tastes 
 wherein they differ.] 
 
 To make the other case parallel with this, it must be supposed 
 that the man of pleasure and the man of virtue agree in their 
 judgment, and that neither sees any reason to prefer the one 
 course of life to the other. 
 
 If this be supposed, I shall grant, that neither of these per- 
 sons has reason to condemn the other. Each chooses according 
 to his taste, in matters which his best judgment determines to 
 be perfectly indifferent. 
 
 But it is to be observed, that this supposition cannot have 
 place when we speak of men, or indeed of moral agents. The 
 man who is incapable of perceiving the obligation of virtue, 
 when he uses his best judgment, is a man in name, but not in 
 reality. He is incapable either of virtue or vice, and is not a 
 moral agent. 
 
 Even the man of pleasure, when his judgment is unbiassed, 
 sees, that there are certain things which a man ought not to do, 
 though he should have a taste for them. If a thief breaks into 
 his house, and carries off his goods, he is perfectly convinced that 
 he did wrong, and deserves punishment, although he had as 
 strong a relish for the goods as he himself has for the pleasures 
 he pursues. 
 
 V. Of passion and reason. — [It is evident, that mankind, in 
 all ages, have conceived two parts in the human constitution that 
 may have influence upon our voluntary actions. These we call 
 by the general names of passion and reason ; and we shall find, 
 in all languages, names that are equivalent.] 
 
INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. |£3 
 
 Under the former, we comprehend various principles of action, 
 similar to those we observe in brute animals, and in men who 
 have not the use of reason. Appetites, affections, passions, are 
 the names by which they are denominated ; and these names are 
 not so accurately distinguished in common language, but that 
 they are used somewhat promiscuously. This, however, is com- 
 mon to them all, that they draw a man toward a certain object, 
 without any farther view, by a kind of violence ; a violence 
 which indeed may be resisted if the man is master of himself, 
 but cannot be resisted without a struggle. 
 
 Cicero's phrase for expressing their influence is, " Hominem 
 hue et illuc rapiunt." Dr. Hutcheson uses a similar phrase, 
 " Quibus agitatur mens et bruto quodamimpetu fertur." There 
 is no exercise of reason or judgment necessary in order to feel 
 their influence. 
 
 With regard to this part (passion) of the human constitution, 
 I see no difference between the vulgar and philosophers. 
 
 As to the other part of our constitution, which is commonly 
 called reason, as opposed to passion, there have been very subtle 
 disputes among modern philosophers, whether it ought to be 
 called reason, or be not rather some internal sense or taste. 
 
 Whether it ought to be called reason, or by what other name, 
 I do not here inquire, but what kind of influence it has upon 
 our voluntary actions. 
 
 As to this point, I think, all men must allow that this is the 
 manly part of our constitution, the other the brute part. This 
 operates in a calm and dispassionate manner ; a manner so like 
 to judgment or reason, that even those who do not allow it to be 
 called by that name, endeavour to account for its having always 
 had the name, because, in the manner of its operation, it has a 
 similitude to reason. 
 
 As the similitude between this principle and reason has led 
 mankind to give it that name, so the dissimilitude between it 
 and passion has led them to set the two* in opposition. They 
 have considered this cool principle as having an influence upon 
 our actions so different from passion, that what a man does coolly 
 and deliberately, without passion, is imputed solely to the man, 
 whether it have merit or demerit ; whereas, what he does from 
 passion is imputed in part to the passion. If the passion be 
 conceived to be irresistible, the action is imputed solely to it, 
 and not at all to the man. If he had power to resist, and ought 
 to have resisted, we blame him for not doing his duty ; but, 
 in proportion to the violence of the passion, the fault is alle- 
 viated. 
 
 By this cool principle, we judge what ends are most worthy 
 to be pursued, how far every appetite and passion may be in- 
 dulged, and when it ought to be resisted. 
 
124 ESSAY II. CHAP. II. 
 
 It directs us, not only to resist the impulse of passion when it 
 would lead us wrong, but to avoid the occasions of inflaming it ; 
 ISSFlike Cyrus, who refused to see the beautiful captive prin- 
 cess. In this he acted the part both of a wise and a good man ; 
 firm in the love of virtue, and, at the same time, conscious of 
 the weakness of human nature, and unwilling to put it to too 
 severe a trial. In this case, the youth of Cyrus, the incompar- 
 able beauty of his captive, and every circumstance which tended 
 to inflame his desire, exalts the merit of his conduct in resist- 
 ing it. 
 
 It is in such actions that the superiority of human nature 
 appears, and the specific difference between it and that of 
 brutes. In them we may observe one passion combating an- 
 other, and the strongest prevailing; but we perceive no calm 
 principle in their constitution, that is superior to every passion, 
 and able to give law to it. 
 
 VI. The difference between these two parts of our constitu- 
 tion may be farther illustrated by an instance or two wherein 
 passion prevails. 
 
 8HF If a man, upon great provocation, strike another when he 
 ought to keep the peace, he blames himself for what he did, and 
 acknowledges that he ought not to have yielded to his passion. 
 Every other person agrees with his sober judgment :' they think he 
 did wrong in yielding to his passion, when he might and ought to 
 have resisted its impulse. If they thought it impossible to bear 
 the provocation, they would not blame him at all ; but believing 
 that it was in his power, and was his duty, they impute to him 
 some degree of blame, acknowledging, at the same time, that it 
 is alleviated in proportion to the provocation ; so that the tres- 
 pass is imputed, partly to the man, and partly to the passion. 
 But if a man deliberately conceives a design of mischief against 
 his neighbour, contrives the means, and executes it, the action 
 admits of no alleviation, it is perfectly voluntary, and he bears 
 the whole guilt of the evil intended and done. 
 
 If a man, by the agony of the rack, is made to disclose a 
 secret of importance, with which he is intrusted, we pity him 
 more than we blame him. We consider, that such is the weak- 
 ness of human nature, that the resolution, even of a good man, 
 might be overcome by such a trial. But if he have strength of 
 mind, which even the agony of the rack could not subdue, we 
 admire his fortitude as truly heroical. 
 
 Thus, I think, it appears, that the common sense of men 
 (which, in matters of common life, ought to have great autho- 
 rity) has led them to distinguish two parts in the human con- 
 stitution, which have influence upon our voluntary determina- 
 tions. There is an irrational part, common to us with brute 
 animals, consisting of appetites, affections, and passions ; and 
 
INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. [^5 
 
 there is a cool and rational part. The first, in many cases, gives 
 a strong impulse, but without judgment, and without authority. 
 The second is always accompanied with authority. All wisdom 
 and virtue consist in following its dictates ; all vice and folly in 
 disobeying them. We may resist the impulses of appetite and 
 passion, not only without regret, but with self-applause and 
 triumph ; but the calls of reason and duty can never be resisted 
 without remorse and self-condemnation. 
 
 VII. [The ancient philosophers agreed with the vulgar, in 
 making this distinction of the principles of action.] The irra- 
 tional part the Greeks called opfxr] ; Cicero calls it appetitus, tak- 
 ing that word in an extensive sense, so as to include every pro- 
 pensity to action which is not grounded on judgment. 
 
 The other principle the Greeks called vovs ; Plato calls it the 
 f]yr]iM)viKov, or leading principle. " Duplex enim est vis animo- 
 rum atque naturae," says Cicero, "una pars in appetitu posita est, 
 quae est op/x^ Greece, quae hominem hue et illuc rapit ; altera in 
 ratione, quae docet, et explanat, quid faciendum fugiendumve 
 sit ; ita fit ut ratio praesit, appetitus obtemperet." 
 
 The reason of explaining this distinction here is, that these 
 two principles influence the will in different ways. Their influ- 
 ence differs, not in degree only, but in kind. This difference 
 we feel, though it may be difficult to find words to express it. 
 We may perhaps more easily form a notion of it by a similitude. 
 It is one thing to push a man from one part of the room to 
 another : it is a thing of a very different nature to use arguments 
 to persuade him to leave his place, and go to another. He may 
 yield to the force which pushes him, without any exercise of his 
 rational faculties ; nay, he must yield to it, if he do not oppose 
 an equal or a greater force. His liberty is impaired in some 
 degree ; and, if he has not power sufficient to oppose, his liberty 
 is quite taken away, and the motion cannot be imputed to him 
 at all. The influence of appetite or passion seems to me to be 
 very like to this. If the passion be supposed irresistible, we 
 impute the action to it solely, and not to the man. If he had 
 power to resist, but yields after a struggle, we impute the action 
 partly to the man and partly to the passion. 
 
 If we attend to the other case, when the man is only urged 
 by arguments to leave his place, this resembles the operation of 
 the cool or rational principle. It is evident that, whether he 
 yields to the arguments or not, the determination is wholly his 
 own act, and is entirely to be imputed to him. Arguments, 
 whatever be the degree of their strength, diminish not a man's 
 liberty ; they may produce a cool conviction of what we ought to 
 do, and they can do no more. But appetite and passion give an im- 
 pulse to act and impair liberty, in proportion to their strength. 
 With most men, the impulse of passion is more effectual than 
 
126 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 
 
 bare conviction ; and, on this account, orators, who would per- 
 suade, find it necessary to address the passions, as well as to 
 convince the understanding ; and, in all systems of rhetoric, 
 these two have been considered as different intentions of the 
 orator, and to be accomplished by different means. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF OPERATIONS OF MIND WHICH MAY BE CALLED VOLUNTARY. 
 
 I. Of attention, deliberation, and resolution. — The faculties of 
 understanding and will are easily distinguished in thought, but 
 very rarely, if ever, disjoined in operation. 
 
 In most, perhaps in all the operations of mind for which we 
 have names in language, both faculties are employed, and we 
 are both intellective and active. 
 
 Whether it be possible that intelligence may exist without 
 some degree of activity, or impossible, is perhaps beyond the 
 reach of our faculties to determine ; but I apprehend that, in 
 fact, they are always conjoined in the operations of our minds. 
 
 It is probable, I think, that there is some degree of activity 
 in those operations which we refer to the understanding ; accord- 
 ingly, they have always, and in all languages, been expressed 
 by active verbs ; as, 1 see, I hear, I remember, I apprehend, I 
 judge, I reason. And it is certain that every act of will must 
 be accompanied by some operation of the understanding ; for he 
 that wills must apprehend what he wills, and apprehension be- 
 longs to the understanding. 
 
 The operations I am to consider in this chapter, I think, have 
 commonly been referred to the understanding ; but we shall find 
 that the will has so great a share in them, that they may, with 
 propriety, be called voluntary. They are these three, — atten- 
 tion, deliberation, and fixed purpose, or resolution. 
 
 [Attention may be given to any object, either of sense or of 
 intellect, in order to form a distinct notion of it, or to discover 
 its nature, its attributes, or its relations. And so great is the 
 effect of attention, that, without it, it is impossible to acquire or 
 retain a distinct notion of any object of thought.] 
 
 If a man hear a discourse without attention, what does he 
 carry away with him ? If he see St. Peter's or the Vatican 
 without attention, what account can he give of it ? While two 
 persons are engaged in interesting discourse, the clock strikes 
 within their hearing, to which they give no attention : what is 
 the consequence ? The next minute they know not whether the 
 clock struck or not. Yet their ears were not shut. The usual 
 impression was made upon the organ of hearing, and upon the 
 
OF VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. \CT[ 
 
 auditory nerve and brain ; but from inattention the sound either 
 was not perceived, or passed in the twinkling of an eye, without 
 leaving the least vestige in the memory. 
 
 A man sees not what is before his eyes when his mind is 
 occupied about another object. In the tumult of a battle, a 
 man may be shot through the body without knowing anything 
 of the matter, till he discover it by the loss of blood or of 
 strength. 
 
 The most acute sensation of pain may be deadened, if the at 
 tention can be vigorously directed to another object. A gen- 
 tleman of my acquaintance, in the agony of a fit of the gout 
 used to call for the chess-board. As he was fond of that game 
 he acknowledged that, as the game advanced and drew his atten- 
 tion, the sense of pain abated, and the time seemed much shorter. 
 
 g§F Archimedes, it is said, being intent upon a mathematical 
 proposition, when Syracuse was taken by the Romans, knew not 
 the calamity of the city, till a Roman soldier broke in upon his 
 retirement, and gave him a deadly wound ; on which he lamented 
 only that he had lost a fine demonstration. 
 
 It is needless to multiply instances to show, that when one 
 faculty of the mind is intensely engaged about any object, the 
 other faculties are laid, as it were, fast asleep. 
 
 II. Of genius. — It may be farther observed, that [if there be 
 any thing that can be called genius, in matters of mere judgment 
 and reasoning, it seems to consist chiefly in being able to give 
 that attention to the subject which keeps it steady in the mind, 
 till we can survey it accurately on all sides.] 
 
 There is a talent of imagination, which bounds from earth to 
 heaven, and from heaven to earth, in a moment. This may be 
 favourable to wit and imagery ; but the powers of judging and 
 reasoning depend chiefly upon keeping the mind to a clear and 
 steady view of the subject. 
 
 Sir Isaac Newton, to one who complimented him upon the 
 force of genius, which had made such improvements in mathe- 
 matics and natural philosophy, is said to have made this reply, 
 which was both modest and judicious, that, if he had made any 
 improvements in those sciences, it was owing more to patient 
 attention than to any other talent. 
 
 Whatever be the effects which attention may produce, (and 
 I apprehend they are far beyond what is commonly believed,) it 
 is for the most part in our power. 
 
 Every man knows that he can turn his attention to this sub- 
 ject or to that, for a longer or a shorter time, and with more or 
 less intenseness, as he pleases. It is a voluntary act, and depends 
 upon his will. 
 
 But what was before observed of the will in general, is appli- 
 cable to this particular exertion of it, that the mind is rarely in 
 
 \i 
 
123 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 
 
 a state of indifference, left to turn its attention to the object 
 which to reason appears most deserving of it. There is, for the 
 most part, a bias to some particular object more than to any 
 other ; and this not from any judgment of its deserving our at- 
 tention more, but from some impulse or propensity, grounded 
 on nature or habit. 
 
 It is well known, that things new and uncommon, things 
 grand, and things that are beautiful, draw our attention, not in 
 proportion to the interest we have, or think we have in them, 
 but in a much greater proportion. 
 
 Whatever moves our passions or affections draws our attention, 
 very often, more than we wish. 
 
 You desire a man not to think of an unfortunate event which 
 torments him. It admits of no remedy. The thought of it 
 answers no purpose but to keep the wound bleeding. He is 
 perfectly convinced of all you say. He knows that he would 
 not feel the affliction, if he could only not think of it ; yet he 
 hardly thinks of any thing else. Strange ! when happiness and 
 misery stand before him, and depend upon his choice, he chooses 
 misery, and rejects happiness with his eyes open ! 
 
 Yet he wishes to be happy, as all men do. How shall we re- 
 concile this contradiction between his judgment and his conduct ? 
 The account of it seems to me to be this : the afflicting event 
 draws his attention so strongly, by a natural and blind force, that 
 he either hath not the power, or hath not the vigour of mind, 
 to resist its impulse, though he knows that to yield to it is 
 misery, without any good to balance it. 
 
 Acute bodily pain draws our attention, and makes it very 
 difficult to attend to any thing else, even when attention to the 
 pain serves no other purpose but to aggravate it tenfold. 
 
 The man who played a game at chess in the agony of the 
 gout, to engage his attention to another object, acted the rea- 
 sonable part, and consulted his real happiness ; but it required 
 a great effort to give that attention to his game which was ne- 
 cessary to produce the effect intended by it. 
 
 Even when there is no particular object that draws away 
 our attention, there is a desultoviness of thought in man, and 
 in some more ' than in others, which makes it very difficult to 
 give that fixed attention to important objects which reason re- 
 quires. 
 
 It appears, I think, from what has been said, that the atten- 
 tion we give to objects is for the most part voluntary ; that a 
 great part of wisdom and virtue consists in giving a proper 
 direction to our attention ; and that however reasonable this 
 appears to the judgment of every man, yet, in some cases, it 
 requires an effort of self-command no less than the most heroic 
 virtues. 
 
OP VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. \%Q 
 
 III. Deliberation. — [Another operation that may be called 
 voluntary, is deliberation about what we are to do or to for- 
 bear.] 
 
 Every man knows that it is in his power to deliberate or 
 not to deliberate about any part of his conduct ; to deliberate 
 for a shorter, or a longer time, more carelessly, or more seri- 
 ously ; and when he has reason to suspect that his affection may 
 bias his judgment, he may either honestly use the best means 
 in his power to form an impartial judgment, or he may yield 
 to his bias, and only seek arguments to justify what inclination 
 leads him to do. In all these points, he determines, he wills, 
 the right or the wrong. 
 
 IY. [The general rules of deliberation are perfectly evident to 
 reason when we consider them abstractly. They are axioms in 
 morals.] 
 
 (1) We ought not to deliberate in cases that are perfectly clear. 
 — [No man deliberates whether he ought to choose happiness or 
 misery. No honest man deliberates whether he shall steal his 
 neighbour's property.] [(2) When the case is not clear, when it 
 is of importance, and when there is time for deliberation, we 
 ought to deliberate with more or less care, in proportion to the 
 importance of the action.] [ (3) In deliberation, we ought to 
 weigh things in an even balance, and to allow to every conside- 
 ration the weight which, in sober judgment, we think it ought to 
 have, and no more. This is to deliberate impartially.] [ (4) Our 
 deliberation should be brought to an issue in due time, so that 
 we may not lose the opportunity of acting while we ^liberate.] 
 
 The axioms of Euclid do not appear to me to have a greater 
 degree of self-evidence, than these rules of deliberation. And 
 as far as a man acts according to them, his heart approves of 
 him, and he has confidence of the approbation of the Searcher 
 of hearts. 
 
 But though the manner in which we ought to deliberate be 
 evident to reason, it is not always easy to follow it. Our appe- 
 tites, our affections, and passions, oppose all deliberation, but 
 that which is employed in finding the means of their gratifica- 
 tion. Avarice may lead to deliberate upon the ways of making 
 money, but it does not distinguish between the honest and the 
 dishonest. 
 
 We ought surely to deliberate how far every appetite and 
 passion may be indulged, and what limits should be set to it. 
 But our appetites and passions push us on to the attainment of 
 their objects, in the shortest road, and without delay. 
 
 Thus it happens, that, if we yield to their impulse, we shall 
 often transgress those rules of deliberation which reason ap- 
 proves. In this conflict between the dictates of reason and the 
 blind impulse of passion, we must voluntarily determine. When 
 
 K 
 
 V 
 
130 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 
 
 we take part with our reason, though in opposition to passion, 
 we approve of our own conduct. 
 
 [What we call a fault of ignorance,-!^ always owing to the 
 want of due deliberation. When we do not take due pains to he 
 rightly informed, there is a fault, not indeed in acting according 
 to the light we have, but in not using the proper means to get 
 light. For if we judge wrong, after using the proper means of 
 information, there is no fault in acting according to that wrong 
 judgment ; the error is invincible.] 
 
 The natural consequence of deliberation on any part of our 
 conduct, is a determination how we shall act ; and if it is not 
 brought to this issue it is lost labour. 
 
 V. [There are two cases in which a determination may take 
 place ; (1) when the opportunity of putting it in execution is 
 present, and (2) when it is at a distance. ] 
 
 When the opportunity is present, the determination to act is 
 immediately followed by the action. Thus, if a man determine 
 to rise and walk, he immediately does it, unless he is hindered 
 by force, or has lost the power of walking. And if he sit still 
 when he has power to walk, we conclude infallibly that he has 
 not determined or willed to walk immediately. 
 
 Our determination or will to act is not always the result of 
 deliberation ; it may be the effect of some passion or appetite, 
 without any judgment interposed. And when judgment is inter- 
 posed, we may determine and act either according to that judg- 
 ment, or contrary to it. 
 
 When a man sits down hungry to dine, he eats from appetite, 
 very often without exercising his judgment at all ; nature in- 
 vites, and he obeys the call, as the ox, or the horse, or as an 
 infant does. 
 
 When we converse with persons whom we love or respect, we 
 say and do civil things merely from affection or from respect. 
 They flow spontaneously from the heart, without requiring any 
 judgment. In such cases, we act as brute-animals do, or as chil- 
 dren before the use of reason. We feel an impulse in our na- 
 ture, and we yield to it. 
 
 When a man eats merely from appetite, he does not consider 
 the pleasure of eating, or its tendency to health. These consi- 
 derations are not in his thoughts. But we can suppose a man 
 who eats with a view to enjoy the pleasure of eating. Such a 
 man reasons and judges. He will take care to use the proper 
 means of procuring an appetite. He will be a critic in tastes, 
 and make nice discriminations. This man uses his rational facul- 
 ties even in eating. And however contemptible this application 
 of them may be, it is an exercise of which, I apprehend, brute- 
 animals are not capable. 
 
 In like manner, a man may say or do civil things to another, 
 
OF VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. l£l 
 
 not from affection, but in order to serve some end by it, or be- 
 cause he thinks it his duty. 
 
 To act with a view to some distant interest, or to act from a 
 sense of duty, seems to be proper to man as a reasonable being ; 
 but to act merely from passion, from appetite, or from affection, 
 is common to him with the brute -animals. In the last case there 
 is no judgment required, but in the first there is. 
 
 To act against what one judges to be for his real good upon 
 the whole, is folly. To act against what he judges to be his duty, 
 is immorality. It cannot be denied, that there are too many 
 instances of both in human life. " Video meliora proboque, 
 deteriora sequor," — " I see and approve of better things, I fol- 
 low worse," — is neither an impossible nor an unfrequent case. 
 
 While a man does what he really thinks wisest and best to be 
 done, the more his appetites, his affections, and passions, draw him 
 the contrary way, the more he approves of his own conduct, and 
 the more he is entitled to the approbation of every rational being. 
 
 VI. Resolution. — [The third operation of mind I mentioned, 
 which may be called voluntary, is, a fixed purpose, or resolution, 
 with regard to our future conduct,] 
 
 This naturally takes place, when any action, or course of 
 action, about which we have deliberated, is not immediately to 
 be executed, the occasion of acting being at some distance. 
 
 [A fixed purpose to do, some time hence, something which we 
 believe shall then be in our power, is strictly and properly a 
 determination of will, no less than a determination to do it 
 instantly.] Every definition of volition agrees to it. Whether 
 the opportunity of doing what we have determined to do be 
 present or at some distance, is an accidental circumstance which 
 does not affect the nature of the determination, and no good rea- 
 son can be assigned why it should not be called volition in the 
 one case, as well as in the other. A purpose or resolution, there- 
 fore, is truly and properly an act of will. 
 
 Our purposes are of two kinds. We may call the one parti- 
 cular, the other general. By a particular purpose, I mean that 
 which has for its object an individual action, limited to one time 
 and place ; by a general purpose, that of a course or train of 
 action, intended for some general end, or regulated by some 
 general rule. 
 
 Thus, I may purpose to go to London next winter. When 
 the time comes, 1 execute my purpose, if I continue of the same 
 mind ; and the purpose, when executed, is no more. Thus it is 
 with every particular purpose. 
 
 A general purpose may continue for life ; and, after many 
 particular actions have been done in consequence of it, may 
 remain and regulate future actions. 
 
 Thus, a young man proposes to follow the profession of law, 
 
 k 2 
 
132 ESSAY II. CHAP. Ill 
 
 of medicine, or of theology. This general purpose directs the 
 course of his reading and study. It directs him in the choice of 
 his company and companions, and even of his diversions. It 
 determines his travels and the place of his abode. It has influ- 
 ence upon his dress and manners, and a considerable effect in 
 forming his character. 
 
 There are other fixed purposes which have a still greater effect 
 in forming the character. I mean such as regard our moral 
 conduct. 
 
 Suppose a man to have exercised his intellectual and moral 
 faculties, so far as to have distinct notions of justice and injus- 
 tice, and of the consequences of both, and, after due delibera- 
 tion, to have formed a fixed purpose to adhere inflexibly to 
 justice, and never to handle the wages of iniquity. 
 
 Is not this the man whom we should call a just man ? We 
 consider the moral virtues as inherent in the mind of a good man, 
 even when there is no opportunity of exercising them. And 
 what is it in the mind which we can call the virtue of justice, 
 when it is not exercised ? It can be nothing but a fixed purpose, 
 or determination, to act according to the rules of justice, when 
 there is opportunity. 
 
 The Roman law defined justice, a steady and perpetual will 
 to give to every man his due. When the opportunity of doing 
 justice is not present, this can mean nothing else than a steady 
 purpose, which is very properly called will. Such a purpose, if 
 it is steady, will infallibly produce just conduct ; for every known 
 transgression of justice demonstrates a change of purpose, at least 
 for that time. 
 
 What has been said of justice, may be so easily applied to 
 every other moral virtue, that it is unnecessary to give instances. 
 They are all fixed purposes of acting according to a certain rule. 
 
 VII. The virtue and affection of benevolence different. — By 
 this, the virtues may be easily distinguished, in thought at least, 
 from natural affections that bear the same name. Thus, bene- 
 volence is a capital virtue, which, though not so necessary to the 
 being of society, is entitled to a higher degree of approbation 
 than even justice. But there is a natural affection of benevo- 
 lence, common to good and bad men, to the virtuous and to the 
 vicious. How shall these be distinguished ? 
 
 In practice, indeed, we cannot distinguish them in other men, 
 and with difficulty in ourselves ; but in theory, nothing is more 
 easy. [The virtue of berievolence is a fixed purpose or resolution 
 to do good when we have opportunity, from a conviction that it 
 is right, and is our duty. The affection of benevolence is a pro- 
 pensity to do good, from natural constitution or habit, without 
 regard to rectitude or duty.] 
 
 There are good tempers and bad, which are a part of the con- 
 
OF VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. 133 
 
 stitution of the man, and are really involuntary, though they 
 often lead to voluntary actions. A good natural temper is not 
 virtue, nor is a bad one vice. Hard would it be indeed to think, 
 that a man should be born under a decree of reprobation, be- 
 cause he has the misfortune of a bad natural temper. 
 
 The physiognomist saw, in the features of Socrates, the signa- 
 tures of many bad dispositions, which that good man acknow- 
 ledged he felt within him ; but the triumph of his virtue was the 
 greater in having conquered them. 
 
 In men who have no fixed rules of conduct, no self-govern- 
 ment, the natural temper is variable by numberless accidents. 
 The man who is full of affection and benevolence this hour, when 
 a cross accident happens to ruffle him, or perhaps when an east- 
 erly wind blows, feels a strange revolution in his temper. The 
 kind and benevolent affections give place to the jealous and ma- 
 lignant, which are as readily indulged in their turn, and for the 
 same reason, because he feels a propensity to indulge them. 
 
 We may observe, that men who have exercised their rational 
 powers are generally governed in their opinions by fixed prin- 
 ciples of belief ; and men who have made the greatest advance in 
 self-government are governed, in their practice, by general fixed 
 purposes. Without the former, there would be no steadiness and 
 consistence in our belief; nor without the latter, in our conduct. 
 
 When a man is come to years of understanding ; from his 
 education, from his company, or from his study, he forms to 
 himself a set of general principles, a creed, which governs his 
 judgment in particular points that occur. 
 
 If new evidence be laid before him, which tends to overthrow 
 any of his received principles, it requires in him a great degree 
 of candour and love of truth to give it an impartial examination, 
 and to form a new judgment. Most men, when they are fixed 
 in their principles, upon what they account sufficient evidence, 
 can hardly be drawn into a new and serious examination of them. 
 
 They get a habit of believing them, which is strengthened by 
 repeated acts, and remains immoveable, even when the evidence 
 upon which their belief was at first grounded is forgot. 
 
 It is this that makes conversions, either from religious or poli- 
 tical principles, so difficult. 
 
 A mere prejudice of education sticks fast, as a proposition of 
 Euclid does with a man who hath long ago forgot the proof. 
 Both indeed are upon a similar footing. We rest in both, be- 
 cause we have long done so, and think we received them at first 
 upon good evidence, though that evidence be quite forgot. 
 
 When we know a man's principles, we judge by them, rather 
 than by the degree of his understanding, how he will determine 
 in any point which is connected with them. 
 
 Thus, [the judgment of most men who judge for themselves is 
 
134 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 
 
 governed by fixed principles ; and, I apprehend, that the con- 
 duct of most men who have any self-government, and any con- 
 sistency of conduct, is governed by fixed purposes.] 
 
 A man of breeding may, in his natural temper, be proud, pas- 
 sionate, revengeful, and in his morals a very bad man ; yet, in 
 good company, he can stifle every passion that is inconsistent 
 with good breeding, and be humane, modest, complaisant, even 
 to those whom in his heart he despises or hates. Why is this 
 man, who can command all his passions before company, a slave 
 to them in private ? The reason is plain : he has a fixed resolu- 
 tion to be a man of breeding, but hath no such resolution to 'be 
 a man of virtue. He hath combated his most violent passions a 
 thousand times before he became master of them in company. 
 The same resolution and perseverance would have given him the 
 command of them when alone. 
 
 A fixed resolution retains its influence upon the conduct, even 
 when the motives to it are not in view, in the same manner as a 
 fixed principle retains its influence upon the belief, when the 
 evidence of it is forgot. The former may be called a habit of 
 the will, the latter a habit of the understanding. By such habits 
 chiefly, men are governed in their opinions and in their practice. 
 
 A man who has no general fixed purposes may be said, as 
 Pope says of most women (I hope unjustly), to have no character 
 at all. He will be honest or dishonest, benevolent or malicious, 
 compassionate or cruel, as the tide of his passions and affections 
 drives him. This, however, I believe, is the case of but a few 
 in advanced life, and these, with regard to conduct, the weakest 
 and most contemptible of the species. 
 
 A man of some constancy may change his general purposes 
 once or twice in life, seldom more. From the pursuit of pleasure 
 in early life, he may change to that of ambition, and from ambi- 
 tion to avarice. But every man who uses his reason in the con- 
 duct of life, will have some end, to which he gives a preference 
 above all others. To this he steers his course ; his projects and 
 his actions will be regulated by it. Without this, there would 
 be no consistency in his conduct. He would be like a ship in 
 the ocean, which is bound to no port, under no government, but 
 left to the mercy of winds and tides. 
 
 We observed before, that [there are moral rules respecting 
 the attention we ought to give to objects, and respecting our deli- 
 berations, which are no less evident than mathematical axioms. 
 The same thing may be observed with respect to our fixed pur- 
 poses, whether particular or general.] 
 
 Is it not self-evident, that, after due deliberation, we ought to 
 resolve upon that conduct, or that course of conduct, which, to 
 our sober judgment, appears to be best and most approvable ? — 
 that we ought to be firm and steady in adhering to such resolu- 
 
COROLLARIES. . \ 35 
 
 tions, while we are persuaded that they are right ; but open to 
 conviction, and ready to change our course, when we have good 
 evidence that it is wrong. 
 
 Fickleness, inconstancy, facility, on the one hand ; wilfulness, 
 inflexibility, and obstinacy, on the other, are moral qualities, 
 respecting our purposes, which every one sees to be wrong. A 
 manly firmness, grounded upon rational conviction, is the pro- 
 per mean which every man approves and reveres. 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 COROLLARIES. 
 
 I. Of transient and momentary acts of the will. — From what 
 has been said concerning the will, it appears, [first, That, as 
 some acts of the will are transient and momentary, so others are 
 permanent, and may continue for a long time, or even through 
 the whole course of our rational life.] 
 
 When I will to stretch out my hand, that will is at an end as 
 soon as the action is done. It is an act of the will which begins 
 and ends in a moment. But when I will to attend to a mathe- 
 matical proposition, to examine the demonstration and the con- 
 sequences that may be drawn from it, this will may continue for 
 hours. It must continue as long as my attention continues ; 
 for no man attends to a mathematical proposition longer than he 
 wills. 
 
 The same thing may be said of deliberation, with regard, 
 either to any point of conduct, or with regard to any general 
 course of conduct. We will to deliberate as long as we do 
 deliberate ; and that may be for days or for weeks. 
 
 A purpose or resolution, which we have shown to be an act 
 of the will, may continue for a great part of life, or for the 
 whole, after we are of age to form a resolution. 
 
 Thus, a merchant may resolve, that, after he has made such a 
 fortune by traffic, he will give it up, and retire to a country 
 life. He may continue this resolution for thirty or forty years, 
 and execute it at last ; but he continues it no longer than he 
 wills, for he may at any time change his resolution. 
 
 [There are, therefore, acts of the will which are not transient 
 and momentary, which may continue long, and grow into a habit.] 
 This deserves the more to be observed, because a very eminent 
 philosopher has advanced a contrary principle, to wit, That 
 all the acts of the will are transient and momentary ; and from 
 that principle has drawn very important conclusions with regard 
 to what constitutes the moral character of man. 
 
igg ESSAY II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 II. [A second corollary is, That nothing in a man, wherein 
 the will is not concerned, can justly be accounted either virtuous 
 or immoral.] 
 
 That no blame can be imputed to a man for what is altogether 
 involuntary, is so evident in itself, that no arguments can make 
 it more evident. The practice of all criminal courts, in all 
 enlightened nations, is founded upon it. 
 
 If it should be thought an objection to this maxim, that, by 
 the laws of all nations, children often suffer for the crimes of 
 parents, in which they had no hand, the answer is easy. 
 
 Yoy, first, Such is the connexion between parents and chil- 
 dren, that the punishment of a parent must hurt his children 
 whether the law will or not. If a man is fined, or imprisoned ; 
 if he loses life, or limb, or estate, or reputation, by the hand of 
 justice, his children suffer by necessary consequence. Secondly, 
 When laws intend to appoint any punishment of innocent chil- 
 dren for the father's crime, such laws are either unjust, or they 
 are to be considered as acts of police, and not of jurisprudence, 
 and are intended as an expedient to deter parents more effectu- 
 ally from the commission of the crime. The innocent children, 
 in this case, are sacrified to the public good, in like manner as, 
 to prevent the spreading of the plague, the sound are shut up 
 with the infected in a house or ship that has the infection. 
 
 figr By the law of England, if a man is killed by an ox goring 
 him, or a cart running over him, though there be no fault or 
 neglect in the owner, the ox or the cart is a deodand, and is 
 confiscated to the church. The legislature surely did not intend 
 to punish the ox as a criminal, far less the cart. The intention 
 evidently was, to inspire the people with a sacred regard to the 
 life of man. 
 
 When the parliament of Paris, with a similar intention, 
 ordained the house in which Ravilliac* was born, to be razed to 
 the ground, and never to be rebuilt, it would be great weakness 
 to conclude, that that wise judicature intended to punish the 
 house. 
 
 If any judicature should, in any instance, find a man guilty, 
 and an object of punishment, for what they allowed to be alto- 
 gether involuntary, all the world would condemn them as men 
 who knew nothing of the first and most fundamental rules of 
 justice. 
 
 I have endeavoured to show, that, in our attention to objects, 
 in order to form a right judgment of them ; in our deliberation 
 about particular actions, or about general rules of conduct ; in 
 our purposes and resolutions, as well as in the execution of 
 them, the will has a principal share. If any man could be found, 
 who, in the whole course of his life, had given due attention to 
 
 * The assassin of Henri Quatre. 
 
COROLLARIES. 
 
 137 
 
 things that concern him, had deliberated duly and impartially 
 about his conduct, had formed his resolutions, and executed 
 them according to his best judgment and capacity, surely such 
 a man might hold up his face before God and man, and plead 
 innocence. He must be acquitted by the impartial Judge, 
 whatever his natural temper was, whatever his passions and affec- 
 tions, as far as they were involuntary. 
 
 III. [A third corollary, That all virtuous habits, when we 
 distinguish them from virtuous actions, consist in fixed purposes 
 of acting according to the rules of virtue, as often as we have 
 opportunity.] 
 
 We can conceive in a man a greater or a less degree of steadi- 
 ness to his purposes or resolutions ; but that the general tenor 
 of his conduct should be contrary to them, is impossible. 
 
 The man who has a determined resolution to do his duty in 
 every instance, and who adheres steadily to his resolution, is a 
 perfect man. The man who has a determined purpose of carry- 
 ing on a course of action which he knows to be wrong, is a hard- 
 ened offender. Between these extremes there are many inter- 
 mediate degrees of virtue and vice. 
 
ESSAY III. 
 
 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
 PART I. 
 
 OF THE MECHANICAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN GENERAL. 
 
 I. Actions of men classified, — In the strict philosophical 
 sense, nothing can be called the action of a man, but what he 
 previously conceived and willed or determined to do. In morals, 
 we commonly employ the word in this sense, and never impute 
 any thing to a man as his doing, in which his will was not inter- 
 posed. But when moral imputation is not concerned, we call 
 many things actions of the man, which he neither previously con- 
 ceived nor willed. [Hence the actions of men have been distin- 
 guished into three classes, the voluntary, the involuntary , and 
 the mixed. By the last are meant such actions as are under the 
 command of the will, but are commonly performed without any 
 interposition of will.] 
 
 We cannot avoid using the word action in this popular sense, 
 without deviating too much from the common use of language ; 
 and it is in this sense we use it when we inquire into the princi- 
 ples of action in the human mind. 
 
 By principles of action, I understand every thing that incites 
 us to act. 
 
 If there were no incitements to action, active power would be 
 given us in vain. Having no motive to direct our active exer- 
 tions, the mind would, in all cases, be in a state of perfect indif- 
 ference, to do this or that, or nothing at all. The active power 
 would either not be exerted at all, or its exertions would be per- 
 fectly unmeaning and frivolous, neither wise nor foolish, neither 
 good nor bad. To every action that is of the smallest import- 
 ance, there must be some incitement, some motive, some reason. 
 
 II. Knowledge of the principles of action important. — It is 
 therefore a most important part of the philosophy of the human 
 mind, to have a distinct and just view of the various principles 
 
OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. J 39 
 
 of action which the Author of our being hath planted in our 
 nature, to arrange them properly, and to assign to every one its 
 rank. 
 
 [By this it is, that we may discover the end of our being, and 
 the part which is assigned us upon the theatre of life.] In this 
 part of the human constitution, the noblest work of God that 
 falls within our notice, we may discern most clearly the charac- 
 ter of him who made us, and how he would have us to employ 
 that active power which he hath given us. 
 
 I cannot without great diffidence enter upon this subject, 
 observing that almost every author of reputation, who has given 
 attention to it, has a system of his own ; and that no man has 
 been so happy as to give general satisfaction to those who came 
 after him. 
 
 There is a branch of knowledge much valued, and very justly, 
 which we call knowledge of the world, knowledge of mankind, 
 knowledge of human nature : this, I think, consists in knowing 
 from what principles men generally act ; and it is commonly the 
 fruit of natural sagacity joined with experience. 
 
 A man of sagacity, who has had occasion to deal in interest- 
 ing matters, with a great variety of persons of different age, sex, 
 rank, and profession, learns to judge what may be expected from 
 men in given circumstances ; and how they may be most effec- 
 tually induced to act the part which he desires. To know this 
 is of so great importance to men in active life, that it is called 
 knowing men, and knowing human nature. 
 
 This knowledge may be of considerable use to a man who 
 would speculate upon the subject we have proposed, but is not, 
 by itself, sufficient for that purpose. 
 
 III. Difficulties attending an investigation of the principles of 
 human actions. — The man of the world conjectures, perhaps with 
 great probability, how a man will act in certain given circum- 
 stances ; and this is all he wants to know. [To enter into a 
 detail of the various principles which influence the actions of 
 men, to give them distinct names, to define them, and to ascer- 
 tain their different provinces, is the business of a philosopher, 
 and not of a man of the world; and, indeed, it is a matter 
 attended with great difficulty from various causes.] 
 
 First, On account of the great number of active principles that 
 influence the actions of men. 
 
 Man has, not without reason, been called an epitome of the 
 universe. His body, by which his mind is greatly affected, being 
 a part of the material system, is subject to all the laws of inani- 
 mate matter. During some part of his existence, his state is 
 very like that of a vegetable. He rises, by imperceptible 
 degrees, to the animal, and, at last, to the rational life, and has 
 the principles that belong to all. 
 
140 ESSAY III.— PART I. CHAP. I. 
 
 Another cause of trie difficulty of tracing trie various principles 
 of action in man, is, That the same action, nay, the same course 
 and train of action, may proceed from very different principles. 
 
 Men who are fond of a hypothesis, commonly seek no other 
 proof of its truth, but that it serves to account for the appearances 
 which it is brought to explain. This is a very slippery kind of 
 proof in every part of philosophy, and never to be trusted ; but 
 least of all, when the appearances to be accounted for are human 
 actions. 
 
 Most actions proceed from a variety of principles concurring 
 in their direction ; and according as we are disposed to judge 
 favourably or unfavourably of the person, or of human nature in 
 general, we impute them wholly to the best, or wholly to the 
 worst, overlooking others which had no small share in them. 
 
 [The principles from which men act can be discovered only in 
 these two ways ; by attention to the conduct of other men, or by 
 attention to our own conduct, and to what we feel in ourselves. 
 There is much uncertainty in the former, and much difficulty in 
 the latter.] 
 
 Men differ much in their characters ; and we can observe the 
 conduct of a few only of the species. Men differ not only from 
 other men, but from themselves at different times, and on different 
 occasions ; according as they are in the company of their 
 superiors, inferiors, or equals ; according as they are in the eye 
 of strangers, or of their familiars only, or in the view of no 
 human eye ; according as they are in good or bad fortune, or in 
 good or bad humour. We see but a small part of the actions of 
 our most familiar acquaintance ; and what we see may lead us to 
 a probable conjecture, but can give no certain knowledge of the 
 principles from which they act. 
 
 A man may, no doubt, know with certainty the principles from 
 which he himself acts, because he is conscious of them. But 
 this knowledge requires an attentive reflection upon the opera- 
 tions of his own mind, which is very rarely to be found. It is 
 perhaps more easy to find a man who has formed a just notion of 
 the character of man in general, or of those of his familiar 
 acquaintance, than one who has a just notion of his own cha- 
 racter. 
 
 Most men, through pride and self-flattery, are apt to think 
 themselves better than they really are ; and some, perhaps from 
 melancholy, or from false principles of religion, are led to think 
 themselves worse than they really are. 
 
 IV. Third cause of the difficulty of tracing the principles of 
 action in man. — It requires, therefore, a very accurate and 
 impartial examination of a man's own heart, to be able to form 
 a distinct notion of the various principles which influence his 
 conduct. [That this is a matter of great difficulty, we may judge 
 
OP THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. \^ 
 
 from the very different and contradictory systems of philosophers 
 upon this subject, from the earliest ages to this day.] 
 
 During the age of Greek philosophy, the Platonist, the Peri- 
 patetic, the Stoic, the Epicurean, had each his own system. In 
 the dark ages, the Schoolmen and the Mystics had systems dia- 
 metrically opposite ; and, since the revival of learning, no con- 
 troversy hath been more keenly agitated, especially among British 
 philosophers, than that about the principles of action in the 
 human constitution. 
 
 They have determined, to the satisfaction of the learned, the 
 forces by which the planets and comets traverse the boundless 
 regions of space ; but have not been able to determine, with any 
 degree of unanimity, the forces which every man is conscious of 
 in himself, and by which his conduct is directed. 
 
 [Some admit no principle but self-love ; others resolve all into 
 love of the pleasures of sense, variously* modified by the associa- 
 tion of ideas ; others admit disinterested benevolence along with 
 self-love ; others reduce all to reason and passion ; others to pas- 
 sion alone ; nor is there less variety about the number and distri- 
 bution of the passions.] 
 
 The names we give to the various principles of action, have so 
 little precision, even in the best and purest writers in every lan- 
 guage, that, on this account, there is no small difficulty in giving 
 them names, and arranging them properly. 
 
 The words, appetite, passion, affection, interest, reason, cannot 
 be said to have one definite signification. They are taken some- 
 times in a larger, and sometimes in a more limited sense. The 
 same principle is sometimes called by one of those names, some- 
 times by another ; and principles of a very different nature are 
 often called by the same name. 
 
 To remedy this confusion of names, it might perhaps seem 
 proper to invent new ones. But there are so few entitled to this 
 privilege, that I shall not lay claim to it ; but shall endeavour to 
 class the various principles of human action as distinctly as I am 
 able, and to point out their specific differences ; giving them such 
 names as may deviate from the common use of the words as 
 little as possible. 
 
 There are some principles of action which require no atten- 
 tion, no deliberation, no will. These, for distinction's sake, we 
 shall call mechanical. Another class we may call animal, as they 
 seem common to man with other animals. A third class we may 
 call rational, being proper to a man as a rational creature. 
 
142 ESSAY III.— PART I. CHAP. II. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF INSTINCT. 
 
 I. Of instinct in man. — The mechanical principles of action 
 may, I think, be reduced to two species, instincts and habits. 
 
 [By instinct, I mean a natural blind impulse to certain actions, 
 without having any end in view, without deliberation, and very 
 often without any conception of what we do.] 
 
 ISF Thus a man breathes while he is alive, by the alternate 
 contraction and relaxation of certain muscles, by which the 
 chest, and of consequence the lungs, are contracted and dilated. 
 There is no reason to think that an infant new-born knows that 
 breathing is necessary to life in its new state, that he knows how 
 it must be performed, or even that he has any thought or concep- 
 tion of that operation ; yet he breathes as soon as he is born, with 
 perfect regularity, as if he had been taught, and got the habit by 
 long practice. 
 
 By the same kind of principle, a new-born child, when its 
 stomach is emptied, and nature has brought milk into the 
 mother's breast, sucks and swallows its food as perfectly as if it 
 knew the principles of that operation, and had got the habit of 
 working according to them. 
 
 Sucking and swallowing are very complex operations. Ana- 
 tomists describe about thirty pairs of muscles that must be 
 employed in every draught. Of those muscles, every one must 
 be served by its proper nerve, and can make no exertion but by 
 some influence communicated by the nerve. The exertion of all 
 those muscles and nerves is not simultaneous. They must suc- 
 ceed each other in a certain order, and their order is no less 
 necessary than the exertion itself. 
 
 This regular train of operations is carried on according to the 
 nicest rules of art, by the infant, who has neither art, nor sci- 
 ence, nor experience, nor habit. 
 
 That the infant feels the uneasy sensation of hunger, I admit ; 
 and that it sucks no longer than till this sensation be removed. 
 But who informed it that this uneasy sensation might be re- 
 moved, or by what means ? That it knows nothing of this is 
 evident ; for it jvill as readily suck a finger, or a bit of stick, as 
 the nipple. 
 
 By a like principle it is, that infants cry when they are pained 
 or hurt ; that they are afraid when left alone, especially in the 
 dark ; that they start when in danger of falling ; that they are 
 terrified by an angry countenance, or an angry tone of voice ; and 
 are soothed and comforted by a placid countenance, and by soft 
 and gentle tones of voice. 
 
OP INSTINCT. 1 43 
 
 II. Of instinct in inferior animals. — [In the animals we are 
 best acquainted with, and which we look upon as the more per- 
 fect of the brute-creation, we see much the same instincts as in 
 the human kind, or very similar ones, suited to the particular 
 state and manner of life of the animal.] 
 
 Besides these, there are in brute-animals instincts peculiar to 
 each tribe, by which they are fitted for defence, for offence, or 
 for providing for themselves, and for their offspring. 
 
 It is not more certain, that nature hath furnished various ani- 
 mals with various weapons of offence and defence, than that the 
 same nature hath taught them how to use them ; — the bull and 
 the ram to butt, the horse to kick, the dog to bite, the lion to 
 use his paws, the boar his tusks, the serpent his fangs, and the 
 bee and wasp their sting. 
 
 The manufactures of animals, if we may call them by that 
 name, present us with a wonderful variety of instincts, belong- 
 ing to particular species, whether of the social or of the solitary 
 kind ; — the nests of birds, so similar in their situation and archi- 
 tecture in the same kind, so various in different kinds ; the 
 webs of spiders, and of other spinning animals ; the ball of the 
 silk -worm ; the nests of ants and other mining animals ; the 
 combs of wasps, hornets, and bees; the dams and houses of 
 beavers. 
 
 The instinct of animals is one of the most delightful and 
 instructive parts of a most pleasant study, that of natural his- 
 tory, and deserves to be more cultivated than it has yet been. 
 
 Every manufacturing art among men was invented by some 
 man, improved by others, and brought to perfection by time and 
 experience. Men learn to work in it by long practice, which 
 produces a habit. The arts of men vary in every age, and in 
 every nation, and are found only in those who have been taught 
 them. 
 
 The manufactures of animals differ from those of men in many 
 striking particulars. 
 
 No animal of the species can claim the invention. No animal 
 ever introduced any new improvement, or any variation from 
 the former practice. Every one of the species has equal skill 
 from the beginning, without teaching, without experience or 
 habit. Every one has its art by a kind of inspiration. I do not 
 mean that it is inspired with the principles or rules of the art, 
 but with the ability and inclination of working in it to perfection, 
 without any knowledge of its principles, rules, or end. 
 
 The more sagacious animals may be taught to do many things 
 which they do not by instinct. What they are taught to do, 
 they do with more or less skill, according to their sagacity and 
 their training. But, in their own arts, they need no teaching 
 nor training, nor is the art ever improved or lost. Bees gather 
 
144 ESSAY III— PART I. CHAP. II. 
 
 their honey and their wax, they fabricate their combs and rear 
 their young, at this day, neither better nor worse than they did 
 when Virgil so sweetly sung their works. 
 
 The work of every animal is indeed like the works of nature, 
 perfect in its kind, and can bear the most critical examination of 
 the mechanic or the mathematician. One example from the ani- 
 mal last mentioned may serve to illustrate this. 
 
 Bees, it is well known, construct their combs with small cells 
 on both sides, fit both for holding their store of honey, and for 
 rearing their young. There are only three possible figures of 
 the cells, which can make them all equal and similar, without 
 any useless interstices. These are the equilateral triangle, the 
 square, and the regular hexagon. 
 
 It is well known to mathematicians, that there is not a fourth 
 way possible, in which a plane may be cut into little spaces that 
 shall be equal, similar, and regular, without leaving any interstices. 
 Of the three, the hexagon is the most proper, both for conveni- 
 ency and strength. Bees, as if they knew this, make their cells 
 regular hexagons. 
 
 As the combs have cells on both sides, the cells may either be 
 exactly opposite, having partition against partition, or the bot- 
 tom of a cell may rest upon the partitions between the cells on 
 the other side, which will serve as a buttress to strengthen it. 
 The last way is best for strength ; accordingly, the bottom of 
 each cell rests against the point where three partitions meet on 
 the other side, which gives it all the strength possible. 
 
 The bottom of a cell may either be one plane perpendicular 
 to the side-partitions, or it may be composed of several planes, 
 meeting in a solid angle in the middle point. It is only in one 
 of these two ways, that all the cells can be similar without losing 
 room. And, for the same intention, the planes of which the 
 bottom is composed, if there be more than one, must be three in 
 number, and neither more nor fewer. 
 
 It has been demonstrated, that, by making the bottoms of the 
 cells to consist of three planes meeting in a point, there is a 
 saving of material and labour no way inconsiderable. The bees, 
 as if acquainted with these principles of solid geometry, follow 
 them most accurately ; the bottom of each cell being composed 
 of three planes which make obtuse angles with the side-par- 
 titions, and with one another, and meet in a point in the middle 
 of the bottom ; the three angles of this bottom being supported 
 by three partitions on the other side of the comb, and the point 
 of it by the common intersection of those three partitions. 
 
 One instance more of the mathematical skill displayed in the 
 structure of a honey-comb deserves to be mentioned. 
 
 It is a curious mathematical problem, at what precise angle 
 the three planes which compose the bottom of a cell, ought to 
 
OF INSTINCT. 145 
 
 meet, in order to make the greatest possible saving, or the least 
 expense of material and labour. 
 
 This is one of those problems, belonging to the higher parts 
 of mathematics, which are called problems of maxima and minima. 
 It has been resolved by some mathematicians, particularly by 
 the ingenious Mr. Maclarurin, by a fluxionary calculation, which 
 is to be found in the Transactions of the Royal Society of Lon- 
 don. He has determined precisely the angle required ; and he 
 found, by the most exact mensuration the subject could admit, 
 that it is the very angle in which the three planes in the bottom 
 of the cell of a honeycomb do actually meet. 
 
 Shall we ask here, Who taught the bee the properties of solids, 
 and to resolve problems of maxima and minima ? If a honey- 
 comb were a work of human art, every man of common sense 
 would conclude, without hesitation, that he who invented the 
 construction must have understood the principles on which it is 
 constructed. 
 
 We need not say, that bees know none of these things. gsg° They 
 work most geometrically, without any knowledge of geometry ; 
 somewhat like a child, who, by turning the handle of an organ, 
 makes good music, without any knowledge of music. 
 
 The art is not in the child, but in him who made the organ. 
 In like manner, when a bee makes its combs so geometrically, 
 the geometry is not in the bee, but in that great Geometrician 
 who made the bee, and made all things in number, weight, and 
 measure. 
 
 III. Some human instincts transitory, others permanent. — To 
 return to instincts in man. Those are most remarkable which 
 appear in infancy, when we are ignorant of every thing necessary 
 to our preservation, and therefore must perish, if we had not an 
 invisible Guide, who leads us blindfold in the way we should 
 take, if we had eyes to see it. 
 
 Besides the instincts which appear only in infancy, and are 
 intended to supply the want of understanding in that early 
 period, there are many which continue through life, and which 
 supply the defects of our intellectual powers in every period, 
 Of these we may observe three classes. 
 
 First. There are many things necessary to be done for our 
 preservation, which, even when we will to do, we know not the 
 means by which they must be done. 
 
 A man knows that he must swallow his food before it can 
 nourish him. But this action requires the co-operation of many 
 nerves and muscles, of which he knows nothing ; and if it were 
 to be directed solely by his understanding and will, he would 
 starve before he learned how to perforin it. 
 
 Here instinct comes in to his aid. He needs do no more than 
 will to swallow. All the requisite motions of nerves and muscles 
 
 L 
 
14g ESSAY III. CHAP. II. 
 
 immediately take place in their proper order, without his know- 
 ing or willing any thing about them. 
 
 If we ask here, Whose will do these nerves and muscles obey ? 
 Not his, surely, to whom they belong. He knows neither their 
 names, nor nature, nor office ; he never thought of them. They 
 are moved by some impulse, of which the cause is unknown, 
 without any thought, will, or intention on his part ; that is, they 
 are moved instinctively. 
 
 This is the case, in some degree, in every voluntary motion 
 of our body. Thus, I will to stretch out my arm. The effect 
 immediately follows. But we know that the arm is stretched 
 out by the contraction of certain muscles ; and that the muscles 
 are contracted by the influence of the nerves. I know nothing, 
 I think nothing, either of nerves or muscles, when I stretch out 
 my arm ; yet this nervous influence, and this contraction of the 
 muscles, uncalled by me, immediately produce the effect which I 
 willed. This is as if a weight were to be raised, which can be 
 raised only by a complication of levers, pullies, and other me- 
 chanical powers, that are behind the curtain, and altogether 
 unknown to me. I will to raise the weight ; and no sooner is 
 this volition exerted, than the machinery behind the curtain 
 falls to work, and raises the weight. 
 
 If such a case should happen, we would conclude that there was 
 some person behind the curtain, who knew my will, and put the 
 machine in motion to execute it. 
 
 The case of my willing to stretch out my arm, or to swallow 
 my food, has evidently a great similarity to this. But who it is 
 that stands behind the curtain, and sets the internal machinery 
 agoing, is hid from us : so strangely and wonderfully are we 
 made. This, however, is evident, that those internal motions 
 are not willed, nor intended by us, and therefore are instinctive. 
 
 IV. A second case in which we have need of instinct, even 
 in advanced life, is, when the action must be so frequently re- 
 peated, that to intend and will it every time it is done, would 
 occupy too much of our thought, and leave no room for other 
 necessary employments of the mind. 
 
 We must breathe often every minute, whether awake or asleep. 
 We must often close the eyelids, in order to preserve the lustre 
 of the eye. [If these things required particular attention and 
 volition every time they are done, they would occupy all our 
 thought. Nature, therefore, gives an impulse to do them as often 
 as is necessary, without any thought at all. They consume no 
 time, they give not the least interruption to any exercise of the 
 mind ; because they are done by instinct.] 
 
 V. A third case, in which we need the aid of instinct, is, 
 when the action must be done so suddenly, that there is no 
 time to think and determine. B^When a man loses his balance, 
 
OF INSTINCT 147 
 
 either on foot or on horseback, he makes an instantaneous effort 
 to recover it by instinct. The effort would be in vain, if it 
 waited the determination of reason and will. 
 
 When any thing threatens our eyes, we wink hard, by instinct, 
 and can hardly avoid doing so, even when we know that the 
 stroke is aimed in jest, and that we are perfectly safe from dan- 
 ger. I have seen this tried upon a wager, which a man was to 
 gain if he could keep his eyes open, while another aimed a stroke 
 at them in jest. The difficulty of doing this shows that there 
 may be a struggle between instinct and will ; and that it is not 
 easy to resist the impulse of instinct, even by a strong resolution 
 not to yield to it. 
 
 Thus the merciful Author of our nature hath adapted our in- 
 stincts to the defects and to the weakness of our understanding. 
 In infancy, we are ignorant of every thing ; yet many things must 
 be done by us for our preservation : these are done by instinct. 
 When we grow up, there are many motions of our limbs and 
 bodies necessary, which can be performed only by a curious and 
 complex internal machinery — a machinery of which the bulk of 
 mankind are totally ignorant, and which the most skilful anatomist 
 knows but imperfectly. All this machinery is set agoing by in- 
 stinct. We need only to will the external motion, and all the 
 internal motions previously necessary to the effect take place of 
 themselves, without our will or command. 
 
 Some actions must be so often repeated, through the whole 
 of life, that, if they required attention and will, we should be 
 able to do nothing else : these go on regularly by instinct. 
 
 Our preservation from danger often requires such sudden ex- 
 ertions, that there is no time to think and to determine : ac- 
 cordingly we make such exertions by instinct. 
 
 VI. Fourth case in which instinct, probably, is requisite. — 
 Another thing in the nature of man, which I take to be partly, 
 though not wholly, instinctive, is his proneness to imitation. 
 
 Aristotle observed, long ago, that man is an imitative animal, 
 He is so in more respects then one. He is disposed to imitate 
 what he approves. In all arts, men learn more, and more 
 agreeably, by example than by rules. Imitation by the . chisel, 
 by the pencil, by description prosaic and poetical, and by action 
 and gesture, have been favourite and elegant entertainments 
 of the whole species. In all these cases, however, the imita- 
 tion is intended and willed, and therefore cannot be said to be 
 instinctive. 
 
 But I apprehend that human nature disposes us to the imitation 
 of those among whom we live, when we neither desire nor will it. 
 
 figp" Let an Englishman of middle age take up his residence in 
 Edinburgh or Glasgow ; although he has not the least intention to 
 use the Scots' dialect, but a firm resolution to preserve his own pure 
 
 l 2 
 
148 ESSAY III. CHAP. II 
 
 and unmixed, he will find it very difficult to make good his 
 intention. He will, in a course of years, fall, insensibly and 
 without intention, into the tone and accent, and even into the 
 words and phrases, of those he converses with ; and nothing can 
 preserve him from this but a strong disgust to every Scotticism, 
 which perhaps may overcome the natural instinct. 
 
 It is commonly thought that children often learn to stammer 
 by imitation ; yet I believe no person ever desired or willed to 
 learn that quality. 
 
 I apprehend that instinctive imitation has no small influence 
 in forming the peculiarities of provincial dialects ; the peculiari- 
 ties of voice, gesture, and manner, which we see in some fami- 
 lies ; the manners peculiar to different ranks, and different pro- 
 fessions ; and perhaps even in forming national characters, and 
 the human character in general. 
 
 The instances that history furnishes of wild men, brought up 
 from early years without the society of any of their own species, 
 are so few, that w r e cannot build conclusions upon them with 
 great certainty. But all I have heard of agreed in this, that 
 the wild man gave but very slender indications of the rational 
 faculties ; and with regard to his mind, was hardly distinguish- 
 able from the more sagacious of the brutes. 
 
 There is. a considerable part of the lowest rank in every 
 nation, of whom it cannot be said that any pains have been 
 taken by themselves, or by others, to cultivate their understand- 
 ing, or to form their manners ; yet we see an immense differ- 
 ence between them and the wild man. 
 
 This difference is wholly the effect of society ; and I think it 
 is in a great measure, though not wholly, the effect of unde- 
 signed and instinctive imitation. 
 
 VII. Judgment and belief influenced, to a certain extent, by 
 instinct. — Perhaps, [not only our actions, but even oux judgment 
 and belief, are in some cases guided by instinct, that is, by a na- 
 tural and blind impulse.] 
 
 When we consider man as a rational creature, it may seem 
 right that he should have no belief but what is grounded upon 
 evidence, probable or demonstrative ; and it is, I think, com- 
 monly taken for granted, that it is always evidence, real or 
 apparent, that determines our belief. 
 
 If this be so, the consequence is, that in no case can there 
 be any belief till we find evidence, or at least what, to our judg- 
 ment, appears to be evidence. I suspect it is not so ; but that, 
 on the contrary, before we grow up to the full use of our 
 rational faculties, we do believe, and must believe, many things 
 without any evidence at all. 
 
 The faculties which we have in common with brute animals 
 are of earlier growth than reason. We are irrational animals 
 
OF INSTINCT. J^Cj 
 
 for a considerable time before we can properly be called 
 rational. 
 
 The operations of reason spring up by imperceptible degrees ; 
 nor is it possible for us to trace accurately the order in which 
 they rise. The power of reflection, by which only we could 
 trace the progress of our growing faculties, comes too late to 
 answer that end. Some operations of brute animals look so like 
 reason, that they are not easily distinguished from it. Whe- 
 ther brutes have any thing that can properly be called belief, I 
 cannot say ; but their actions show something that looks very 
 like it. 
 
 VIII. If there be any instinctive belief in man, it is proba- 
 bly of the same kind with that which we ascribe to brutes, and 
 may be specifically different from that rational belief which is 
 grounded on evidence ; but that there is something in man which 
 we call belief, which is not grounded on evidence, I think, must 
 be granted. 
 
 We need to be informed of many things before we are ca- 
 pable of discerning the evidence on which they rest. Were 
 our belief to be withheld till we are capable, in any degree, 
 of weighing evidence, we should lose all the benefit of that 
 instruction and information, without which we could never 
 attain the use of our rational faculties. 
 
 Man would never acquire the use of reason if he were not 
 brought up in the society of reasonable creatures. The benefit 
 he receives from society is derived partly from imitation of what 
 he sees others do, partly from the instruction and information 
 they communicate to him, without which he could neither be 
 preserved from destruction, nor acquire the use of his rational 
 powers. 
 
 Children have a thousand things to learn, and they learn 
 many things every day ; more than will be easily believed by those 
 who have never given attention to their progress. 
 
 " Oportet discentem credere" is a common adage. Children have 
 every thing to learn, and in order to learn, they must believe their 
 instructors : they need a greater stock of faith from infancy to 
 twelve or fourteen than ever after. But how shall they get this 
 stock, so necessary to them ? If their faith depend upon evidence, 
 the stock of evidence, real or apparent, must bear proportion to 
 their faith. But such, in reality, is their situation, that when their 
 faith must be greatest, the evidence is least. They believe a thou- 
 sand things before they ever spend a thought upon evidence. 
 Nature supplies the want of evidence, and gives the man instinct- 
 ive kind of faith without evidence. 
 
 \_(\)They believe implicitly whatever they are told, and receive 
 with assurance the testimony of every one, without ever thinking 
 of a reason why they should do so.] 
 
150 ESSAY III. CHAP. II. 
 
 A parent or a master might command them to believe, but in 
 vain, for belief is not in our power ; but in the first part of life it is 
 governed by mere testimony in matters of fact, and by mere autho- 
 rity in all other matters, no less than by evidence in riper years. 
 
 It is not the words of the testifier, but his belief, that pro- 
 duces this belief in a child ; for children soon learn to distinguish 
 what is said in jest, from what is said in good earnest. What 
 appears to them to be said in jest, produces no belief: they glory 
 in showing that they are not to be imposed on. When the signs 
 of belief in the speaker are ambiguous, it is pleasant to observe 
 with what sagacity they pry into his features, to discern whe- 
 ther he really believes what he says, or only counterfeits belief. 
 As soon as this point is determined, their belief is regulated by 
 his. If he be doubtful, they are doubtful ; if he be assured, 
 they are also assured. 
 
 It is well known what a deep impression religious principles, 
 zealously inculcated, make upon the minds of children. The ab- 
 surdities of ghosts and hobgoblins, early impressed, have been 
 known to stick so fast, even in enlightened minds, as to baffle 
 all rational conviction. 
 
 When we grow up to the use of reason, testimony attended 
 with certain circumstances, or even authority, may afford a ra- 
 tional ground of belief ; but with children, without any regard 
 to circumstances, either of them operates like demonstration. 
 And as they seek no reason, nor can give any reason, for this 
 regard to testimony and to authority, it is the effect of a natural 
 impulse, and may be called instinct. 
 
 [ (2) Another instance of belief which appears to be instinctive, 
 is that which children show even in infancy, that an event which 
 they have observed in certain circumstances, will happen again in 
 like circumstances.'] A child of half a year old, who has once 
 burned his finger by putting it in the candle, will not put it 
 there again. And if you make a show of putting it in the 
 candle by force, you see the most manifest signs that he believes 
 he shall meet with the same calamity. 
 
 IX. Mr. Hume hath shown very clearly, that [this belief is 
 not the effect either of reason or experience.] He endeavours to 
 account for it by the association of ideas. Though I am not 
 satisfied with his account of this phenomenon, I shall not now 
 examine it ; because it is sufficient for the present argument, 
 that this belief is not grounded on evidence, real or apparent, 
 which I think he clearly proves. 
 
 A person who has lived so long in the world, as to observe 
 that nature is governed by fixed laws, may have some rational 
 ground to expect similar events in similar circumstances ; but 
 this cannot be the case of the child. His belief, therefore, is not 
 grounded on evidence. It is the result of his constitution. 
 
OF HABIT. 25| 
 
 Nor is it the less so, though it should arise from the associa- 
 tion of ideas. For what is called the association of ideas is a law 
 of nature in our constitution ; which produces its effects without 
 any operation of reason on our part, and in a manner of which 
 we are entirely ignorant. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF HABIT. 
 
 I. Vulgar definition of habit. — Habit differs from instinct, not 
 in its nature, but in its origin ; the latter being natural, the 
 former acquired. Both operate without will or intention, with- 
 out thought, and therefore may be called mechanical principles. 
 
 [Habit is commonly defined, a facility of doing a thing, ac- 
 quired by having done it frequently .] This definition is suffi- 
 cient for habits of art: but the habits which may, with pro- 
 priety, be called principles of action, must give more than a 
 facility, they must give an inclination or impulse to do the action ; 
 and that, in many cases, habits have this force, cannot be 
 doubted. 
 
 How many awkward habits, by frequenting improper com- 
 pany, are children apt to learn, in their address, motion, looks, 
 gesture, and pronunciation. They acquire such habits, com- 
 monly, from an undesigned and instinctive imitation, before they 
 can judge of what is proper and becoming. 
 
 When they are a little advanced in understanding, they may 
 easily be convinced that such a thing is unbecoming, they may 
 resolve to forbear it ; but when the habit is formed, such a ge- 
 neral resolution is not of itself sufficient ; for the habit will 
 operate without intention ; and particular attention is necessary, 
 on every occasion, to resist its impulse, until it be undone by 
 the habit of opposing it. 
 
 It is owing to the force of habits, early acquired by imitation, 
 that a man who has grown up to manhood in the lowest rank of 
 life, if fortune raise him to a higher rank, very rarely acquires 
 the air and manners of a gentleman. 
 
 When to that instinctive imitation, which I spoke of before, 
 we join the force of habit, it is easy to see, that these mechanical 
 principles have no small share in forming the manners and cha- 
 racter of most men. 
 
 The difficulty of overcoming vicious habits has, in all ages, 
 been a common topic of theologians and moralists ; and we see 
 too many sad examples to permit us to doubt of it. 
 
 There are good habits, in a moral sense, as well as bad ; and 
 it is certain, that the stated and regular performance of what we 
 
152 ESSAY III. CHAP. Ill 
 
 approve, not only makes it easy, but makes us uneasy in the 
 omission of it. This is the case, even when the action derives 
 all its goodness from the opinion of the performer. A good 
 illiterate Roman Catholic does not sleep sound if he goes to 
 bed without telling his beads, and repeating prayers which he 
 does not understand. 
 
 Aristotle makes wisdom, prudence, good sense, science, and 
 art, as well as the moral virtues and vices, to be habits. If he 
 meant no more, by giving this name to all those intellectual 
 and moral qualities, than that they are all strengthened and con- 
 tinued by repeated acts, this is undoubtedly true. I take the 
 word in a less extensive sense, when I consider habits as princi- 
 ples of action. I conceive it to be a part of our constitution, 
 that what we have been accustomed to do, we acquire, not only 
 a facility, but a proneness to do on like occasions ; so that it 
 requires a particular will and effort to forbear it ; but to do it, 
 requires very often no will at all. We are carried by habit as 
 by a stream in swimming, if we make no resistance. 
 
 II. The art of speaking, the strongest illustration of the force of 
 habit. — [Every art furnishes examples both of the power of habits 
 and of their utility ; no one more than the most common of all 
 arts, the art of speaking.] 
 
 Articulate language is spoken, not by nature, but by art. It 
 is no easy matter to children to learn the simple sounds of lan- 
 guage ; I mean, to learn to pronounce the vowels and consonants. 
 It would be much more difficult, if they were not led by instinct 
 to imitate the sounds they hear ; for the difficulty is vastly 
 greater of teaching the deaf to pronounce the letters and words, 
 though experience shows that it can be done. 
 
 What is it that makes this pronunciation so easy at last which 
 was so difficult at first ? It is habit. 
 
 But from what cause does it happen, that a good speaker no 
 sooner conceives what he would express, than the letters, sylla- 
 bles and words arrange themselves according to innumerable 
 rules of speech, while he never thinks of these rules ? He means 
 to express certain sentiments. In order to do this properly, 
 a selection must be made of the materials, out of many thou- 
 sands. He makes this selection without any expense of time 
 or thought. The materials selected must be arranged in a 
 particular order, according to innumerable rules of grammar, 
 logic, and rhetoric, and accompanied with a particular tone and 
 emphasis. He does all this, as it were, by inspiration, without 
 thinking of any of these rules, and without breaking one of them. 
 
 This art, if it were not more common, would appear more won- 
 derful than that a man should dance blindfold amidst a thou- 
 sand burning ploughshares, without being burnt; yet all this 
 may be done by habit. 
 
OF HABIT. 153 
 
 It appears evident, that as, without instinct, the infant could 
 not live to become a man, so, without habit, man would remain 
 an infant through life, and would be as helpless, as unhandy, as 
 speechless, and as much a child in understanding at threescore as 
 at three. 
 
 [I see no reason to think, that we shall ever be able to assign 
 the physical cause, either of instinct or of the power of habit.] 
 
 Both seem to be parts of our original constitution. Their end 
 and use is evident ; but we can assign no cause of them, but the 
 will of Him who made us. 
 
 III. [With regard to instinct, which is a natural propensity , 
 this will perhaps be easily granted ; but it is no less true with 
 regard to that power and inclination which we acquire by habit.] 
 
 No man can show a reason why our doing a thing frequently 
 should produce either facility or inclination to do it. 
 
 The fact is so notorious, and so constantly in our eye, that we 
 are apt to think no reason should be sought for it, any more than 
 why the sun shines. But there must be a cause of the sun's 
 shining, and there must be a cause of the power of habit. 
 
 We see nothing analogous to it in inanimate matter, or in 
 things made by human art. A clock or a watch, a wagon or a 
 plough, by the custom of going, does not learn to go better, or 
 require less moving force. The earth does not increase in fer- 
 tility by the custom of bearing crops. 
 
 g§P° It is said, that trees and other vegetables, by growing long 
 in an unkindly soil or climate, sometimes acquire qualities by 
 which they can bear its inclemency with less hurt. This, in the 
 vegetable kingdom, has some resemblance to the power of habit ; 
 but, in inanimate matter, I know nothing that resembles it. 
 
 BgF A stone loses nothing of its weight by being long sup- 
 ported, or made to move upward. A body, by being tossed about 
 ever so long, or ever so violently, loses nothing of its inertia, 
 nor acquires the least disposition to change its state. 
 
154 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. I. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 OP ANIMAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF APPETITES. 
 
 I. Definition of animal principles of action. — Having dis- 
 coursed of the mechanical principles of action, I proceed to 
 consider those I called animal. 
 
 They are [such as operate upon the will and intention, but do 
 not suppose any exercise of judgment or reason ; and are most of 
 them to be found in some brute animals, as well as in man.] 
 
 In this class, the first kind I shall call appetites, taking that 
 word in a stricter sense than it is sometimes taken, even by good 
 writers. 
 
 The word appetite is sometimes limited, so as to signify only 
 the desire of food when we hunger ; sometimes it is extended 
 so as to signify any strong desire, whatever be its object. With- 
 out pretending to censure any use of the word which custom hath 
 authorized, I beg leave to limit it to a particular class of desires, 
 which are distinguished from all others by the following marks. 
 
 First. Every appetite is accompanied with an uneasy sensation 
 proper to it, which is strong or weak, in proportion to the desire 
 we have of the object. Secondly. Appetites are not constant, 
 but periodical, being sated by their objects for a time, and re- 
 turning after certain periods. Such is the nature of those princi- 
 ples of action, to which I beg leave, in this essay, to appropriate 
 the name of appetites. Those that are chiefly observable in man, 
 as well as in most other animals, are hunger, thirst, and lust. 
 
 [If we attend to the appetite of hunger, we shall find in it two 
 ingredients, an uneasy sensation, and a desire to eat.] The de- 
 sire keeps pace with the sensation, and ceases when it ceases. 
 When a man is sated with eating, both the uneasy sensation and 
 the desire to eat cease for a time, and return after a certain 
 interval. So it is with other appetites. 
 
 In infants, for some time after they come into the world, the 
 uneasy sensation of hunger is probably the whole. We cannot 
 suppose in them, before experience, any conception of eating, 
 nor, consequently, any desire of it. They are led by mere in- 
 stinct to suck when they feel the sensation of hunger. But 
 when experience has connected, in their imagination, the uneasy 
 sensation with the means of removing it, the desire of the last 
 comes to be so associated with the first, that they remain through 
 life inseparable ; and we give the name of hunger to the principle 
 that is made up of both. 
 
OF APPETITES. \ 55 
 
 That the appetite of hunger includes the two ingredients I 
 have mentioned, will not, I apprehend, be questioned. I take 
 notice of it the rather because we may, if 1 mistake not, find a 
 similar composition in other principles of action. They are made 
 up of different ingredients, and may be analyzed into the parts 
 that enter into their composition. 
 
 If one philosopher should maintain, that hunger is an uneasy 
 sensation, another, that it is a desire to eat, they seem to differ 
 widely; for a desire and a sensation are very different things, 
 and have no similitude. But they are both in the right; for 
 hunger includes both an uneasy sensation and a desire to eat. 
 
 Although there has been no such dispute among philosophers 
 as we have supposed with regard to hunger, yet there have been 
 similar disputes with regard to other principles of action ; and it 
 deserves to be considered whether they may not be terminated in 
 a similar manner. 
 
 II. [The ends for which our natural appetites are given are 
 too evident to escape the observation of any man of the least 
 reflection. Two of those I named are intended for the pre- 
 servation of the individual, and the third for the continuance of 
 the species.] 
 
 The reason of mankind would be altogether insufficient for 
 these ends, without the direction and call of appetite. 
 
 Though a man knew that his life must be supported by eating, 
 reason could not direct him when to eat, or what ; how much, or 
 how often. In all these things, appetite is a much better guide 
 than our reason. Were reason only to direct us in this matter, 
 its calm voice would often be drowned in the hurry of business, 
 or the charms of amusement. But the voice of appetite rises 
 gradually, and, at last, becomes loud enough to call off* our atten- 
 tion from any other employment. 
 
 Every man must be convinced, that, without our appetites, 
 even supposing mankind inspired with all the knowledge requi- 
 site for answering their ends, the race of men must have perished 
 long ago ; but, by their means, the race is continued from one 
 generation to another, whether men be savage or civilized, know- 
 ing or ignorant, virtuous or vicious. 
 
 By the same means, every tribe of brute-animals, from the 
 whale that ranges the ocean to the least microscopic insect, has 
 been continued from the beginning of the world to this day ; nor 
 has good evidence been found, that any one species which God 
 made has perished.* 
 
 Nature has given to every animal, not only an appetite for its 
 food, but taste and smell, by which it distinguishes the food 
 proper for it. 
 
 It is pleasant to see a caterpillar, which nature intended to 
 
 * This assertion appears to be contradicted by recent geological discoveries. 
 
156 ESSAY III -PART II. CHAP. I. 
 
 live upon the leaf of one species of plant, travel over a hundred 
 leaves of other kinds without tasting one, till it comes to that 
 which is its natural food, which it immediately falls on, and de- 
 vours greedily. 
 
 Most caterpillars feed only upon the leaf of one species of 
 plant, and nature suits the season of their production to the food 
 that is intended to nourish them. Many insects and animals have 
 a greater variety of food ; but, of all animals, man has the greatest 
 variety, being able to subsist upon almost every kind of vegetable 
 or animal food, from the bark of trees to the oil of whales. 
 
 I believe our natural appetites may be made more violent by 
 excessive indulgence, and that, on the other hand, they may be 
 weakened by starving. The first is often the effect of a perni- 
 cious luxury, the last may sometimes be the effect of want, some- 
 times of superstition. I apprehend that nature has given to our 
 appetites that degree of strength which is most proper for us ; 
 and that whatever alters their natural tone, either in excess or 
 in defect, does not mend the work of nature, but may mar and 
 pervert it. 
 
 A man may eat from appetite only. So the brutes commonly 
 do. He may eat to please his taste, when he has no call of appe- 
 tite. I believe a brute may do this also. He may eat for the 
 sake of health, when neither appetite nor taste invites. This, as 
 far as I am able to judge, brutes never do. 
 
 From so many different principles, and from many more, the 
 same action may be done ; and this may be said of most human 
 actions. From this, it appears, that very different and contrary 
 theories may serve to account for the actions of men. The causes 
 assigned may be sufficient to produce the effect, and yet not be 
 the true causes. 
 
 To act merely from appetite is neither good nor ill in a moral 
 view. It is neither an object of praise nor of blame. No man 
 claims any praise because he eats when he is hungry, or rests 
 when he is weary. On the other hand, he is no object of blame, 
 if he obeys the call of appetite when there is no reason to hinder 
 him. In this, he acts agreeably to his nature. 
 
 III. From this we may observe, that [the definition of virtu- 
 ous actions, given by the ancient Stoics, and adopted by some 
 modern authors, is imperfect. They denned virtuous actions to 
 be such as are according to nature J\ What is done according to 
 the animal part of our nature, which is common to us with the 
 brute-animals, is in itself neither virtuous nor vicious, but per- 
 fectly indifferent. Then only it becomes vicious, when it is done 
 in opposition to some principle of superior importance and autho- 
 rity. And it may be virtuous, if done for some important or 
 worthy end. 
 
 Appetites, considered in themselves, are neither social princi- 
 
OF APPETITES. \ 57 
 
 pies of action, nor selfish. They cannot be called social, because 
 they imply no concern for the good of others. Nor can they 
 justly be called selfish, though they be commonly referred to that 
 class. An appetite draws us to a certain object, without regard 
 to its being good for us, or ill. There is no self-love implied in 
 it any more than benevolence. We see, that, in many cases, 
 appetite may lead a man to what he knows will be to his hurt. 
 To call this acting from self-love, is to pervert the meaning of 
 words. It is evident, that, in every case of this kind, self-love is 
 sacrificed to appetite. 
 
 IV. There are some principles of the human frame very like 
 to our appetites, though they do not commonly get that name. 
 
 Men are made for labour, either of body or mind. Yet exces- 
 sive labour hurts the powers of both. To prevent this hurt, 
 nature hath given to men, and other animals, an uneasy sensa- 
 tion, which always attends excessive labour, and which we call 
 fatigue, weariness, lassitude. This uneasy sensation is conjoined 
 with the desire of rest, or intermission of our labour. And thus 
 nature calls us to rest when we are weary, in the same manner 
 as to eat when we are hungry. 
 
 In both cases, there is a desire of a certain object, and an un- 
 easy sensation accompanying that desire. In both cases, the 
 desire is satiated by its object, and returns after certain intervals. 
 In this only they differ, that in the appetites first mentioned, the 
 uneasy sensation arises at intervals without action, and leads to 
 a certain action : in weariness, the uneasy sensation arises from 
 action too long continued, and leads to rest. 
 
 But nature intended that we should be active, and we need 
 some principle to incite us to action, when we happen not to be 
 invited by any appetite or passion. 
 
 For this end, when strength and spirits are recruited by rest, 
 nature has made total inaction as uneasy as excessive labour. 
 
 We may call this the principle of activity. It is most conspi- 
 cuous in children, who cannot be supposed to know how useful 
 and necessary it is for their improvement to be constantly em- 
 ployed. Their constant activity therefore appears not to proceed 
 from their having some end constantly in view, but rather from 
 this, that they desire to be always doing something, and feel un- 
 easiness in total inaction. 
 
 V. The principle of activity belongs to every period of life. — 
 Nor is this principle confined to childhood ; it has great effects 
 in advanced life. 
 
 When a man has neither hope, nor fear, nor desire, nor pro- 
 ject, nor employment, of body or mind, one might be apt to 
 think him the happiest mortal upon earth, having nothing to 
 do but to enjoy himself: but we find him, in fact, the most 
 unhappy. 
 
 He is more weary of inaction than ever he was of excessive 
 
158 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. I. 
 
 labour. He is weary of the world, and of his own existence ; 
 and is more miserable than the sailor wrestling with a storm, or 
 the soldier mounting a breach. 
 
 This dismal state is commonly the lot of the man who has 
 neither exercise of body nor employment of mind, gsgr For the 
 mind, like water, corrupts and putrifles by stagnation, but by 
 running purines and refines. 
 
 Besides the appetites which nature hath given us for useful 
 and necessary purposes, we may create appetites which nature 
 never gave. 
 
 The frequent use of things which stimulate the nervous sys- 
 tem produces a languor when their effect is gone off, and a 
 desire to repeat them. By this means a desire of a certain object 
 is created, accompanied by an uneasy sensation. Both are re- 
 moved for a time by the object desired; but they return after 
 a certain interval. This differs from natural appetite, only in 
 being acquired by custom. Such are the appetites which some 
 men acquire for the use of tobacco, for opiates, and for intoxi- 
 cating liquors. 
 
 These are commonly called habits, and justly. But there are 
 different kinds of habits, even of the active sort, which ought to 
 be distinguished. Some habits produce only a facility of doing 
 a thing, without any inclination to do it. All arts are habits of 
 this kind; but they cannot be called principles of action. Other 
 habits produce a proneness to do an action, without thought 
 or intention. These we considered before as mechanical principles 
 of action. There are other habits which produce a desire of a 
 certain object, and an uneasy sensation till it is obtained. It is 
 this last kind only that I call acquired appetites. 
 
 VI. [As it is best to preserve our natural appetites in that 
 tone and degree of strength which nature gives them, so we 
 ought to beware of acquiring appetites which nature never gave. 
 They are always useless, and very often hurtful.] 
 
 Although, as was before observed, there be neither virtue nor 
 vice in acting from appetite, there may be much of either in the 
 management of our appetites. 
 
 When appetite is opposed by some principle drawing a con- 
 trary way, there must be a determination of the will, which shall 
 prevail, and this determination may be, in a moral sense, right 
 or wrong. 
 
 Appetite, even in a brute-animal, may be restrained by a 
 stronger principle opposed to it. A dog, when he is hungry, and 
 has meat set before him, may be kept from touching it by the 
 fear of immediate punishment. In this case, his fear operates 
 more strongly than his desire. 
 
 Do we attribute any virtue to the dog on this account? I 
 think not. Nor should we ascribe any virtue to a man in a like 
 case. The animal is carried by the strongest moving force. This 
 
OF APPETITES. ■ J^() 
 
 requires no exertion, no self-government, but passively to yield 
 to the strongest impulse. This, I think, brutes always do ; there- 
 fore we attribute to them neither virtue nor vice. We consider 
 them as being neither objects of moral approbation nor dis- 
 approbation. 
 
 VII. The government of appetites gives a superiority to man 
 over brute animals. —But it may happen that, when appetite 
 draws one way, it may be opposed, not by any appetite or pas- 
 sion, but by some cool principle of action, which has authority 
 without any impulsive force. For example, by some interest, 
 which is too distant to raise any passion or emotion, or by some 
 consideration of decency or of duty. 
 
 In cases of this kind, the man is convinced that he ought not 
 to yield to appetite ; yet there is not an equal or a greater im- 
 pulse to oppose it. There are circumstances, indeed, that con- 
 vince the judgment ; but these are not sufficient to determine 
 the will against a strong appetite, without self-government. 
 
 [I apprehend that brute animals have no poiver of self-go- 
 vernment. From their constitution, they must be led by the 
 appetite or passion which is strongest for the time. 
 
 On this account, they have, in all ages, and among all nations, 
 been thought incapable of being governed by laws, though some 
 of them may be subjects of discipline^ 
 
 The same would be the condition of man, if he had no power 
 to restrain appetite but by a stronger contrary appetite or pas- 
 sion. It would be to no purpose to prescribe laws to him for 
 the government of his actions. You might as well forbid the 
 wind to blow, as forbid him to follow whatever happens to give 
 the strongest present impulse. 
 
 Every one knows, that when appetite draws one way, duty, 
 decency, or even interest, may draw the contrary way ; and that 
 appetite may give a stronger impulse than any one of these, or 
 even all of them conjoined. Yet it is certain that in every case 
 of this kind, appetite ought to yield to any of these principles 
 when it stands opposed to them. It is in such cases that self- 
 government is necessary. 
 
 The man who suffers himself to be led by appetite to do what 
 he knows he ought not to do, has an immediate and natural 
 conviction that he did wrong, and might have done otherwise ; 
 and therefore he condemns himself, and confesses that he yielded 
 to an appetite which ought to have been under his command. 
 
 [Thus it appears, that though our natural appetites have in 
 themselves neither virtue nor vice ; though the acting merely 
 from appetite, when there is no principle of greater authority to 
 oppose it, be a matter indifferent ; yet there may be a great deal 
 of virtue or of vice in the management of our appetites ; and that 
 the power of self-government is necessary for their regulation.] 
 
160 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. II. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF DESIRES. 
 
 I. Distinction between appetites and desires twofold. — An- 
 other class of animal principles of action in man, I shall, for 
 want of a better specific name, call desires. 
 
 [They are distinguished from appetites by this : That (1) there 
 is not an uneasy sensation proper to each, and always accompa- 
 nying it ; and that (2) they are not periodical, but constant, not 
 being sated with their objects for a time, as appetites are.] 
 
 The desires I have in view are chiefly these three : the de- 
 sire of power, the desire of esteem, and the desire of knowledge. 
 
 We may, I think, perceive some degree of these principles 
 in brute-animals of the more sagacious kind ; but in man they 
 are much more "conspicuous, and have a larger sphere. 
 
 In a herd of black cattle there is a rank and subordination. 
 When a stranger is introduced into the herd, he must fight 
 every one till his rank is settled. Then he yields to the stronger 
 and assumes authority over the weaker. The case is much the 
 same in the crew of a ship of war. 
 
 As soon as men associate together, the desire of superiority 
 discovers itself. In barbarous tribes, as well as among the gre- 
 garious kinds of animals, rank is determined by strength, cou- 
 rage, swiftness, or such other qualities. Among civilized na- 
 tions, many things of a different kind give power and rank — 
 places in government, titles of honour, riches, wisdom, elo- 
 quence, virtue, and even the reputation of these. All these are 
 either different species of power, or means of acquiring it ; and 
 when they are sought for that end, must be considered as in- 
 stances of the desire of power. 
 
 II. Of esteem and contempt. — The desire of esteem is not pe- 
 culiar to man. A dog exults in the approbation and applause 
 of his master, and is humbled by his displeasure. But in man 
 this desire is much more conspicuous, and operates in a thousand 
 different ways. 
 
 [Hence it is that so very few are proof against flattery, when 
 it is not very gross. We wish to be well in the opinion of others, 
 and therefore are prone to interpret in our own favour the signs 
 of their good opinion, even when they are ambiguous.] 
 
 There are few injuries that are not more easy to be borne than 
 contempt. 
 
 We cannot always avoid seeing, in the conduct of others, 
 things that move contempt ; but, in all polite circles, the signs 
 of it must be suppressed, otherwise men could not converse to- 
 gether. 
 
OF DESIRES. \Q\ 
 
 As there is no quality, common to good and bad men, more 
 esteemed than courage, nor any thing in a man more the object 
 of contempt than cowardice ; hence every man desires to be 
 thought a man of courage ; and the reputation of cowardice is 
 worse than death. How many have died to avoid being thought 
 cowards ! How many, for the same reason, have done what made 
 them unhappy to the end of their lives ! 
 
 I believe many a tragical event, if traced to its source in hu- 
 man nature, might be referred to the desire of esteem, or the 
 dread of contempt. 
 
 III. In brute animals there is so little that can be called know- 
 ledge, that the desire of it can make no considerable figure in 
 them. Yet I have seen a cat, when brought into a new habita- 
 tion, examine with care every corner of it, and anxious to know 
 every lurking place, and the avenues to it. And I believe the 
 same thing may be observed in many other species, especially in 
 those that are liable to be hunted by man, or by other animals. 
 
 But the desire of knowledge in the human species, is a prin- 
 ciple that cannot escape our observation. 
 
 The curiosity of children is the principle that occupies most 
 of their time while they are awake. What they can handle they 
 examine on all sides, and often break in pieces, in order to dis- 
 cover what is within. 
 
 When men grow up, their curiosity does not cease, but is 
 employed upon other objects. Novelty is considered as one 
 great source of the pleasures of taste, and indeed is necessary, 
 in one degree or other, to give a relish to them all. 
 
 When we speak of the desire of knowledge as a principle of 
 action in man, we must not confine it to the pursuits of the 
 philosopher, or of the literary man. The desire of knowledge 
 discovers itself, in one person, by an avidity to know the scan- 
 dal of the village, and who makes love, and to whom ; in an- 
 other, to know the economy of the next family ; in another, to 
 know what the post brings ; and in another to trace the path of 
 a new comet. 
 
 When men show an anxiety, and take pains to know what is 
 of no moment, and can be of no use to themselves or to others, 
 this is trifling, and vain curiosity. It is a culpable weakness 
 and folly ; but still it is the wrong direction of a natural prin- 
 ciple, and shows the force of that principle, more than when it 
 is directed to matters worthy to be known. 
 
 IV. I think it unnecessary to use arguments to show that [the 
 desires of power, of esteem, and of knowledge, are natural prin- 
 ciples in the constitution of man.] Those who are not con- 
 vinced of this by reflecting upon their own feelings and senti- 
 ments, will not easily be convinced by arguments. 
 
 [Power, esteem and knowledge, are so useful for many pur- 
 
 M 
 
\Q2 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. II. 
 
 poses, that it is easy to resolve the desire of them into other 
 principles. Those who do so must maintain that we never de- 
 sire these objects for their own sakes, but as means only of pro- 
 curing pleasure, or something which is a natural object of desire. 
 This, indeed, was the doctrine of Epicurus ; and it had its vo- 
 taries in modern times. But it has been observed that men 
 desire posthumous fame, which can procure no pleasure.]* 
 
 Epicurus himself, though he believed that he should have no 
 existence after death, was so desirous to be remembered with 
 esteem, that, by his last will, he appointed his heirs to comme- 
 morate his birth annually, and to give a monthly feast to his dis- 
 ciples, upon the twentieth day of the moon. What pleasure 
 could this give to Epicurus when he had no existence ? On this 
 account, Cicero justly observes, that his doctrine was refuted by 
 his own practice. 
 
 Innumerable instances occur in life, of men who sacrifice ease, 
 pleasure, and every thing else, to the lust of power, of fame, or 
 even of knowledge. It is absurd to suppose, that men should 
 sacrifice the end to what they desire only as the means of pro- 
 moting that end. 
 
 V. Such natural desires not selfish principles. — [The natural 
 desires I have mentioned are, in themselves, neither virtuous nor 
 vicious. They are parts of our constitution, and ought to be 
 regulated and restrained, when they stand in competition with 
 more important principles. But to eradicate them, if it were 
 possible (and I believe it is not), would only be like cutting off 
 a leg or an arm, that is, making ourselves other creatures than 
 God has made us.] 
 
 They cannot, with propriety, be called selfish principles, though 
 they have commonly been accounted such. 
 
 When power is desired for its own sake, and not as the means 
 in order to obtain something else, this desire is neither selfish nor 
 social. When a man desires power as the means of doing good 
 to others, this is benevolence. When he desires it only as the 
 means of promoting his own good, this is self-love. But when 
 he desires it for its own sake, this only can properly be called the 
 desire of power ; and it implies neither self love nor benevolence. 
 The same thing may be applied to the desires of esteem and of 
 knowledge. 
 
 VI. Our desires auxiliary to the maintenance of morals. — 
 The wise intention of nature in giving us these desires, is no less 
 evident than in giving our natural appetites. 
 
 [Without the natural appetites, reason, as was before ob- 
 served, would be insufficient, either for the preservation of 
 the individual, or the continuation of the species ; and without 
 the natural desires we have mentioned, human virtue would 
 * The expectation is accompanied by present pleasure. 
 
OF DESIRES. 163 
 
 be insufficient to influence mankind to a tolerable conduct in 
 society.] 
 
 To these natural desires, common to good and to bad men, it 
 is owing, that a man, who has little or no regard to virtue, may 
 notwithstanding be a good member of society. It is true, indeed, 
 that perfect virtue, joined with perfect knowledge, would make 
 both our appetites and desires unnecessary incumbrances of our 
 nature ; but as human knowledge and human virtue are both 
 very imperfect, these appetites and desires are necessary supple- 
 ments to our imperfections. 
 
 Society among men could not subsist without a certain degree 
 of that regularity of conduct which virtue prescribes. To this 
 regularity of conduct, men who have no virtue are induced by a 
 regard to character, sometimes by a regard to interest. 
 
 [Even in those who are not destitute of virtue, a regard to 
 character is often an useful auxiliary to it, when both principles 
 concur in their direction.] 
 
 VII. The pursuits of power, of fame, and of knowledge, re- 
 quire self-command no less than virtue does. In our behaviour 
 towards our fellow-creatures, they generally lead to that very 
 conduct which virtue requires. I say generally, for this, no 
 doubt, admits of exceptions, especially in the case of ambition, 
 or the desire of power. 
 
 The evils which ambition has produced in the world are a 
 common topic of declamation. But it ought to be observed, that 
 where it has led to one action hurtful to society, it has led to ten 
 thousand that are beneficial to it. And we justly look upon the 
 want of ambition as one of the most unfavourable symptoms in 
 a man's temper. 
 
 The desires of esteem and of knowledge are highly useful to 
 society, as well as the desire of power, and, at the same time, are 
 less dangerous in their excesses. 
 
 Although actions proceeding merely from the love of power, 
 of reputation, or of knowledge, cannot be accounted virtuous, 
 or be entitled to moral approbation ; yet we allow them to be 
 manly, ingenuous, and suited to the dignity of human nature ; 
 and therefore they are entitled to a degree of estimation, supe- 
 rior to those which proceed from mere appetite. 
 
 Alexander the Great deserved that epithet in the early part of 
 his life, when ease and pleasure, and every appetite, were sacri- 
 ficed to the love of glory and power. But when we view him 
 conquered by oriental luxury, and using his power to gratify his 
 passions and appetites, he sinks in our esteem, and seems to for- 
 feit the title which he had acquired. 
 
 Sardanapalus, who is said to have pursued pleasure as eagerly 
 as Alexander pursued glory, never obtained from mankind the 
 appellation of the Great. 
 
 m 2 
 
1(54 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. II. 
 
 Appetite is the principle of most of the actions of brutes, and 
 we account it brutal in a man to employ himself chiefly in the 
 gratification of his appetites. [The desires of power, of esteem, 
 and of knowledge, are capital parts in the constitution of man ; 
 and the actions proceeding from them, though not properly vir- 
 tuous, are human and manly ; and they claim a just superiority 
 over those that proceed from appetite.] This, I think, is the 
 universal and unbiassed judgment of mankind. Upon what 
 ground this judgment is founded, may deserve to be considered 
 in its proper place. 
 
 VI II. [The desires we have mentioned are not only (1) highly 
 useful in society, and in their nature (2) more noble than our 
 appetites, they are likewise (3) the most proper engines that can 
 be used in the education and discipline of men."] 
 
 In training brute-animals to such habits as they are capable of, 
 the fear of punishment is the chief instrument to be used. But 
 in training men of ingenuous disposition, ambition to excel, and 
 the love of esteem, are much nobler and more powerful engines, 
 by which they may be led to worthy conduct, and trained to 
 good habits. 
 
 To this we may add, that the desires we have mentioned 
 are very friendly to real virtue, and make it more easy to be 
 acquired. 
 
 A man that is not quite abandoned must behave so in society 
 as to preserve some degree of reputation. This every man de- 
 sires to do, and the greater part actually do it. In order to this, 
 he must acquire the habit of restraining his appetites and pas- 
 sions within the bounds which common decency requires, and so 
 as to make himself a tolerable member of society, if not an useful 
 and agreeable one. 
 
 It cannot be doubted that many, from a regard to character 
 and to the opinion of others, are led to make themselves both 
 useful and agTeeable members of society, in whom a sense of 
 duty has but a small influence. 
 
 Thus men, living in society, especially in polished society, are 
 tamed and civilized by the principles that are common to good 
 and bad men. They are taught to bring their appetites and 
 passions under due restraint before the eyes of men, which makes 
 it more easy to bring them under the rein of virtue. 
 
 ®SF As a horse that is broken is more easily managed than an 
 unbroken colt, so the man who has undergone the discipline of 
 society is more tractable, and is in an excellent state of prepara- 
 tion for the discipline of virtue ; and that self-command, which 
 is necessary in the race of ambition and honour, is an attainment 
 of no small importance in the course of virtue. 
 
 For this reason, I apprehend, they err very grossly who con- 
 ceive the life of a hermit to be favourable to a course of virtue. 
 
OF DESIRES. Jg5 
 
 The hermit, no doubt, is free from some temptations to vice, but 
 he is deprived of many strong inducements to self-government, 
 as well as of every opportunity of exercising the social virtues. 
 
 [A very ingenious author has resolved our moral sentiments 
 respecting the virtues of self-government, into a regard to the 
 opinion of men. This I think is giving a great deal too much to 
 the love of esteem, and putting the shadow of virtue in place of 
 the substance ; but that a regard to the opinion of others is, in 
 most instances of our external behaviour, a great inducement to 
 good conduct, cannot be doubted. For, whatever men may prac- 
 tise themselves, they will always approve of that in others which 
 they think right.] 
 
 IX. Of acquired desires. — [It was before observed, that, be- 
 sides the appetites which nature has given us, we may acquire 
 appetites which, by indulgence, become as important as the na- 
 tural. The same thing may be applied to desires.'] 
 
 One of the most remarkable acquired desires is that of money, 
 which, in commercial states, will be found in most men, in one 
 degree or other, and, in some men, swallows up every other 
 desire, appetite and passion. 
 
 The desire of money can then only be accounted a principle 
 of action, when it is desired for its own sake, and not merely as 
 the means of procuring something else. 
 
 It seems evident, that there is in misers such a desire of money; 
 and, I suppose, no man will say that it is natural, or a part of 
 our original constitution. It seems to be the effect of habit. 
 
 In commercial nations, money is an instrument by which 
 ahnost every thing may be procured that is desired. Being 
 useful for many different purposes as the means, some men lose 
 sight of the end, and terminate their desire upon the means. 
 [Money is also a species of power, putting a man in condition to 
 do many things which he could not do without it ; and power is 
 a natural object of desire, even when it is not exercised.] 
 
 In like manner, a man may acquire the desire of a title of 
 honour, of an equipage, of an estate. 
 
 Although our natural desires are highly beneficial to society, 
 and even aiding to virtue, yet acquired desires are not only use- 
 less, but hurtful and even disgraceful. 
 
 [No man is ashamed to own, that he loves power, that he loves 
 esteem, that he loves knowledge, for their own sake. There may 
 be an excess in the love of these things, which is a blemish ; but 
 there is a degree of it, which is natural, and is no blemish.] To 
 love money, titles or equipage, on any other account than as 
 they are useful or ornamental, is allowed by all to be weakness 
 and folly. 
 
 The natural desires I have been considering, though they can- 
 not be called social principles of action in the common sense 
 
1(3(3 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. III. 
 
 that word, since it is not their object to procure any good or 
 benefit to others, yet they have such a relation to society, as to 
 show most evidently the intention of nature to be, that man 
 should live in society. 
 
 The desire of knowledge is not more natural than is the desire 
 of communicating our knowledge. Even power would be less 
 valued if there were no opportunity of showing it to others. It 
 derives half its value from that circumstance. And as to the 
 desire of esteem, it can have no possible gratification but in 
 society. 
 
 [These parts of our constitution, therefore, are evidently in- 
 tended for social life ; and it is not more evident that birds were 
 made for flying and fishes for swimming, than that man, endowed 
 with a natural desire of power, of esteem, and of knowledge, is 
 made, not for the savage and solitary state, but for living in 
 society.] 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GENERAL. 
 
 I. We have seen how, by instinct and habit, a kind of me- 
 chanical principle, man, without any expense of thought, with- 
 out deliberation or will, is led to many actions necessary for 
 his preservation and well-being, which, without those princi- 
 ples, all his skill and wisdom would not have been able to ac- 
 complish. 
 
 It may perhaps be thought that his deliberate and voluntary 
 actions are to be guided by his reason. 
 
 [But it ought to be observed, that he is a voluntary agent 
 long before he has the use of reason. Reason and virtue, the 
 prerogatives of man, are of the latest growth.] They come to 
 maturity by slow degrees, and are too weak, in the greater part 
 of the species, to secure the preservation of individuals and of 
 communities, and to produce that varied scene of human life, in 
 which they are to be exercised and improved. 
 
 Therefore the wise Author of our being hath implanted in 
 human nature many inferior principles of action, which, with 
 little or no aid of reason or virtue, preserve the species, and 
 produce the various exertions, and the various changes and re- 
 volutions which we observe upon the theatre of life. 
 
 In this busy scene, reason and virtue have access to act their 
 parts, and do often produce great and good effects ; but whether 
 they interpose or not, there are actors of an inferior order that 
 will carry on the play, and produce a variety of events, good or 
 bad. 
 
OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GENERAL. JgY 
 
 Reason, if it were perfect, would lead men to use the proper 
 means of preserving their own lives, and continuing their kind. 
 But the Author of our being hath not thought fit to leave this 
 task to reason alone, otherwise the race would long ago have 
 been extinct. He hath given us, in common with other ani- 
 mals, appetites, by which those important purposes are secured, 
 whether men be wise or foolish, virtuous or vicious. 
 
 Reason, if it were perfect, would lead men neither to lose the 
 benefit of their active powers by inactivity, nor to overstrain 
 them by excessive labour. But nature hath given a powerful 
 assistant to reason, by making inactivity a grievous punishment to 
 itself ; and by annexing the pain of lassitude to excessive labour. 
 
 Reason, if it were perfect, would lead us to desire power, 
 knowledge, and the esteem and affection of our fellow-men, as 
 means of promoting our own happiness, and of being useful to 
 others. Here, again, Nature, to supply the defects of reason, 
 hath given us a strong natural desire of those objects, which leads 
 us to pursue them without regard to their utility. 
 
 II. Objects of our desires and our affections different. — [These 
 principles we have already considered ; and we may observe, that 
 all of them have things, not persons, for their object. They 
 neither imply any good nor ill affections towards any other per- 
 son, nor even towards ourselves. They cannot, therefore, with 
 propriety, be called either selfish or social.~\ But there are various 
 principles of action in man, which have persons for their imme- 
 diate object, and imply, in their very nature, our being well or ill 
 affected to some person, or at least to some animated being. 
 
 Such principles I shall call by the general name of affections, 
 whether they dispose to do good or hurt to others. 
 
 Perhaps, in giving them this general name, I extend the 
 meaning of the word affection beyond its common use in dis- 
 course. Indeed, our language seems in this to have departed 
 a little from analogy : for we use the verb affect, and the par- 
 ticiple affected, in an indifferent sense, so that they may be 
 joined either with good or ill. A man may be said to be 
 ill affected towards another man, or well affected. But the word 
 affection, which, according to analogy, ought to have the same 
 latitude of signification with that from which it is derived, and 
 therefore ought to be applicable to ill affections as well as to 
 good, seems, by custom, to be limited to good affections. 
 When we speak of having affection for any person, it is always 
 understood to be a benevolent affection. 
 
 Malevolent principles, such as anger, resentment, envy, are 
 not commonly called affections, but rather passions. 
 
 I take the reason of this to be, that the malevolent affections 
 are almost always accompanied with that perturbation of mind 
 which we properly call passion ; and this passion, being the 
 most conspicuous ingredient, gives its name to the whole. 
 
\Q$ ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP . Ill 
 
 Even love, when it goes beyond a certain degree, is called a 
 passion. But it gets not that name when it is so moderate as 
 not to discompose a man's mind, nor deprive him in any mea- 
 sure of the government of himself. 
 
 As we give the name of passion, even to benevolent affection 
 when it is so vehement as to discompose the mind, so, I think, 
 without trespassing much against propriety of words, we may 
 give the name of affection even to malevolent principles, when 
 unattended with that disturbance of mind which commonly, 
 though not always, goes along with them, and which has made 
 them get the name of passions. 
 
 The principles which lead us immediately to desire the good 
 of others, and those that lead us to desire their hurt, agree in 
 this, that persons, and not things, are their immediate object. 
 Both imply our being some way affected towards the person. 
 They ought therefore to have some common name to express 
 what is common in their nature ; and I know no name more 
 proper for this than affection. 
 
 III. Taking affection, therefore, in this extensive sense, our 
 affections are very naturally divided into benevolent and malevo- 
 lent, according as they imply our being well or ill affected to- 
 wards their object. 
 
 There are some things common to all benevolent affections, 
 others wherein they differ. 
 
 They differ both in the feeling, or sensation, which is an in- 
 gredient in all of them, and in the objects to which they are 
 directed. 
 
 They all agree in two things, to wit, That the feeling which 
 accompanies them is agreeable ; and that they imply a desire of 
 good and happiness to their object. 
 
 The affection we bear to a parent, to a child, to a benefac- 
 tor, to a person in distress, to a mistress, differ not more in 
 their object than in the feelings they produce in the mind. We 
 have not names to express the differences of these feelings, but 
 every man is conscious of a difference. Yet, with all this differ- 
 ence, they agree in being agreeable feelings. 
 
 I know no exception to this rule, if we distinguish, as we 
 ought, the feeling which naturally and necessarily attends the 
 kind affection from those which accidentally, in certain circum- 
 stances, it may produce. 
 
 The parental affection is an agreeable feeling ; but it makes 
 the misfortune or misbehaviour of a child give a deeper wound 
 to the mind. Pity is an agreeable feeling, yet distress, which 
 we are not able to relieve, may give a painful sympathy. Love 
 to one of the other sex is an agreeable feeling ; but where it 
 does not meet with a proper return, it may give the most pun- 
 gent distress. 
 I The joy and comfort of human life consists in the reciprocal 
 
OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GENERAL. \QQ 
 
 exercise of kind affections, and without them life would be un- 
 desirable J 
 
 It has been observed by Lord Shaftesbury, and by many other 
 judicious moralists, That even the epicure and the debauchee, 
 who are thought to place all their happiness in the gratifications 
 of sense, and to pursue these as their only object, can find no 
 relish in solitary indulgences of this kind, but in those only that 
 are mixed with social intercourse, and a reciprocal exchange of 
 kind affections. 
 
 Cicero has observed, that the word convivium, which in Latin 
 signifies a feast, is not borrowed from eating or from drinking, but 
 from that social intercourse which, being the chief part of such 
 an entertainment, gives the name to the whole. 
 
 Mutual kind affections are undoubtedly the balm of life, 'and 
 of all the enjoyments common to good and bad men, are the 
 chief. If a man had no person whom he loved or esteemed, no 
 person who loved or esteemed him, how wretched must his con- 
 dition be ! Surely a man capable of reflection would choose to 
 pass out of existence, rather than to live in such a state. 
 
 It has been, by the poets, represented as the state of some 
 bloody and barbarous tyrants ; but poets are allowed to paint a 
 little beyond the life. Atreus is represented as saying, Oderint 
 dum metuunt. "I care not for their hatred, providing they 
 dread my power." I believe there never was a man so disposed 
 towards all mankind. The most odious tyrant that ever was, 
 will have his favourites, whose affection he endeavours to deserve 
 or to bribe, and to whom he bears some good will. 
 
 [We may therefore lay it down as a principle, that all bene- 
 volent affections are, in their nature, agreeable ; and that, next 
 to a good conscience, to which they are always friendly, and 
 never can be adverse, they make the capital part of human hap- 
 piness^ 
 
 [IV. Another ingredient essential to every benevolent affection, 
 and from which it takes the name, is a desire of the good and 
 happiness of the object.'] 
 
 The object of benevolent affection, therefore, must be some 
 being capable of happiness. When we speak of affection to a 
 house, or to any inanimate thing, the word has a different mean- 
 ing. For that which has no capacity of enjoyment, or of suf- 
 fering, may be an object of liking or disgust, but cannot possibly 
 be an object either of benevolent or malevolent affection. 
 
 A thing may be desired either on its own account, or as the 
 means in order to something else. That only can properly be 
 called an object of desire, which is desired upon its own ac- 
 count ; and it is only such desires that I call principles of action. 
 When any thing is desired as the means only, there must be an 
 end for which it is desired ; and the desire of the end is, in 
 this case, the principle of action. The means are desired only 
 
170 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. III. 
 
 as they tend to that end ; and if different, or even contrary means 
 tended to the same end, they would be equally desired. 
 
 On this account I consider those affections only as benevolent, 
 where the good of the object is desired ultimately, and not as 
 the means only, in order to something else. 
 
 [To say that we desire the good of others, only in order to 
 procure some pleasure or good to ourselves, is to say that there 
 is no benevolent affection in human nature.] 
 
 This, indeed, has been the opinion of some philosophers, both 
 in ancient and in later times. I intend not to examine this opi- 
 nion in this place, conceiving it proper to give that view of the 
 principles of action in man, which appears to me to be just, 
 before I examine the systems wherein they have been mistaken 
 or misrepresented. 
 
 I observe only at present, that [it appears as unreasonable to 
 resolve all our benevolent affections into self-love, as it would be 
 to resolve hunger and thirst into self-love.] 
 
 These appetites are necessary for the preservation of the indi- 
 vidual. Benevolent affections are no less necessary for the pre- 
 servation of society among men, without which man would 
 become an easy prey to the beasts of the field. 
 
 We are placed in this world by the Author of our being, sur- 
 rounded with many objects that are necessary or useful to us, 
 and with many that may hurt us. We are led, not by reason 
 and self-love only, but by many instincts, and appetites, and 
 natural desires, to seek the former and to avoid the latter. 
 
 But of all the things of this world, man may be the most 
 useful, or the most hurtful to man. Every man is in the power 
 of every man with whom he lives. Every man has power to 
 do much good to his fellow-men, and to do more hurt. 
 
 We cannot live without the society of men ; and it would be 
 impossible to live in society, if men were not disposed to do 
 much of that good to men, and but little of that hurt, which 
 it is in their power to do. 
 
 But how shall this end, so necessary to the existence of 
 human society, and consequently to the existence of the human 
 species, be accomplished ? 
 
 [If we judge from analogy, we must conclude, that in this, 
 as in other parts of our conduct, our rational principles are 
 aided by principles of an inferior order, similar to those by 
 which many brute*animals live in society with their species ; 
 and that by means of such principles, that degree of regularity 
 is observed, which we find in all societies of men, whether wise 
 or foolish, virtuous or vicious.] 
 
 The benevolent affections planted in human nature, appear 
 therefore no less necessary for the preservation of the human 
 species, than the appetites of hunger and thirst. 
 
171 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 OF THE PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 I. Of natural affection. — Having premised these things in 
 general concerning benevolent affections, I shall now attempt 
 some enumeration of them. 
 
 1. The first I mention is that of parents and children, and 
 other near relations. 
 
 This we commonly call natural affection. Every language 
 has a name for it. It is common to us with most of the brute- 
 animals ; and is variously modified in different animals, according 
 as it is more or less necessary for the preservation of the species. 
 
 Many of the insect tribe need no other care of parents, than 
 that the eggs be laid in a proper place, where they shall have 
 neither too little nor too much heat, and where the animal, as 
 soon as it is hatched, shall find its natural food. This care the 
 parent takes, and no more. 
 
 In other tribes, the young must be lodged in some secret 
 place, where they cannot be easily discovered by their enemies. 
 They must be cherished by the warmth of the parent's body. 
 They must be suckled, and fed at first with tender food ; at- 
 tended in their excursions, and guarded from danger, till they 
 have learned by experience, and by the example of their parents, 
 to provide for their own subsistence and safety. With what 
 assiduity and tender affection this is done by the parents, in 
 every species that requires it, is well known. 
 
 The eggs of the feathered tribe are commonly hatched by in- 
 cubation of the dam, who leaves off at once her sprightly mo- 
 tions and migrations, and confines herself to her solitary and 
 painful task, cheered by the song of her mate upon a neigh- 
 bouring bough, and sometimes fed by him, sometimes relieved 
 in her incubation, while she gathers a scanty meal, and with 
 the greatest dispatch returns to her post. 
 
 The young birds of many species are so very tender and de- 
 licate, that man, with all his wisdom and experience, would not 
 be able to rear one to maturity. But the parents, without any 
 experience, know perfectly how to rear sometimes a dozen or 
 more at one brood, and to give every one its portion in due 
 season. They know the food best suited to their delicate con- 
 stitution, which is sometimes afforded by nature, sometimes 
 must be cooked and half digested in the stomach of the parent. 
 
 In some animals, nature hath furnished the female with a kind 
 of second womb, into which the young retire occasionally, for 
 food, warmth, and the conveniency of being carried about with 
 the mother. 
 
172 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 It would be endless to recount all the various ways in which 
 the parental affection is expressed by brute-animals. 
 
 [He must, in my apprehension, have a very strange complexion 
 of understanding, who can survey the various ways in which the 
 young of the various species are reared, without wonder, without 
 pious admiration of that manifold Wisdom, which hath so skil- 
 fully fitted means to ends, in such an infinite variety of ways.] 
 
 In all the brute-animals we are acquainted with, the end of 
 the parental affection is completely answered hi a short time ; 
 and then it ceases as if it had never been. 
 
 II. Duration of parental affection limited in inferior animals ; 
 not so in the human species. — [The infancy of man is longer and 
 more helpless than that of any other animal. The parental affec- 
 tion is necessary for many years ; it is highly useful through 
 life ; and therefore it terminates only with life. It extends to 
 children's children without any diminution of its force.] 
 
 How common is it to see a young woman, in the gayest period 
 of life, who has spent her days in mirth, and her nights in pro- 
 found sleep, without solicitude or care, all at once transformed 
 into the careful, the solicitous, the watchful nurse of her dear 
 infant : doing nothing by day but gazing upon it, and serving 
 • it in the meanest offices ; by night, depriving herself of sound 
 sleep for months, that it may lie safe in her arms. Forgetful of 
 herself, her whole care is centred in this little object. 
 
 Such a sudden transformation of her whole habits, and occu- 
 pation, and turn of mind, if we did not see it every day, would 
 appear a more wonderful metamorphosis than any that Ovid has 
 described. 
 
 This, however, is the work of nature, and not the effect of 
 reason and reflection. For we see it in the good and in the bad, 
 in the most thoughtless, as well as in the thoughtful. 
 
 Nature has assigned different departments to the father and 
 mother in rearing their offspring. This may be seen in many 
 brute-animals ; and that it is so in the human species, was long 
 ago observed by Socrates, and most beautifully illustrated by 
 him, as we learn from Xenophon's " (Economics." The pa- 
 rental affection in the different sexes is exactly adapted to the 
 office assigned to each. The father would make an awkward 
 nurse to a new-born child, and the mother too indulgent a guar- 
 dian. But both act with propriety and grace in their proper 
 sphere. 
 
 It is very remarkable, that when the office of rearing a child 
 is transferred from the parent to another person, nature seems to 
 transfer the affection along with the office. A wet nurse, or 
 even a dry nurse, has commonly the same affection for her nurs- 
 ling as if she had borne it. The fact is so well known, that 
 
OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J 73 
 
 nothing needs be said to confirm it ; and it seems to be the work 
 of nature. 
 
 III. Parental affection the effect of our natural constitution. — 
 Our affections are not immediately in our power, as our outward 
 actions are. Nature has directed them to certain objects. We 
 may do kind offices without affection ; but we cannot create an 
 affection which nature has not given. 
 
 Reason might teach a man that his children are particularly 
 committed to his care by the providence of God, and, on that 
 account, that he ought to attend to them as his particular charge ; 
 but reason could not teach him to love them more than other 
 children of equal merit, or to be more afflicted for their misfor- 
 tunes or misbehaviour. 
 
 [It is evident, therefore, that that peculiar sensibility of affec- 
 tion, with regard to his own children, is not the effect of rea- 
 soning or reflection, but the effect of that constitution which 
 nature has given him.] 
 
 There are some affections which we may call rational, because 
 they are grounded upon an opinion of merit in the object. The 
 parental affection is not of this kind. For though a man's affec- 
 tion to his child may be increased by merit, and diminished by 
 demerit, I think no man will say, that it took its rise from an 
 opinion of merit. It is not opinion that creates the affection^ 
 but affection often creates opinion. It is apt to pervert the 
 judgment, and create an opinion of merit where there is none. 
 
 The absolute necessity of this parental affection, in order to 
 the continuance of the human species, is so apparent, that there 
 is no need of arguments to prove it. The rearing of a child from 
 its birth to maturity requires so much time and care, and such 
 infinite attentions, that, if it were to be done merely from consi- 
 derations of reason and duty, and were not sweetened by affec- 
 tion in parents, nurses and guardians, there is reason to doubt, 
 whether one child in ten thousand would ever be reared. 
 
 IV. Further uses of parental affection. — [Beside the absolute 
 necessity of this part of the human constitution to the preserva- 
 tion of the species, its utility is very great, (1) for tempering the 
 giddiness and impetuosity of youth, and (2) improving its know- 
 ledge by the prudence and experience of age, for (3) encouraging 
 industry and frugality in the parents, in order to provide for 
 their children, (4) for the solace and support of parents under the 
 infirmities of old age ; not to mention that (5) it probably gave 
 rise to the first civil governments.] 
 
 It does not appear that the parental, and other family affec- 
 tions, are, in general, either too strong or too weak for answer- 
 ing their end. If they were too weak, parents would be most 
 apt to err on the side of undue severity ; if too strong, of undue 
 
174 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 indulgence. As they are in fact, I believe no man can say, that 
 the errors are more general on one side than on the other. 
 
 "When these affections are exerted according to their intention, 
 under the direction of wisdom and prudence, the economy of 
 such a family is a most delightful spectacle, and furnishes the 
 most agreeable and affecting subject to the pencil of the painter, 
 and to the pen of the orator and poet. 
 
 V. 2. The next benevolent affection I mention is gratitude to 
 benefactors. 
 
 That good offices are, by the very constitution of our nature, 
 apt to produce good-will towards the benefactor, in good and 
 bad men, in the savage and in the civilized, cannot surely be 
 "denied by any one, in the least acquainted with human nature. 
 
 The danger of perverting a man's judgment by good deeds, 
 where he ought to have no bias, is so well known, that it is dis- 
 honourable in judges, in witnesses, in electors to offices of trust, 
 to accept of them ; and, in all civilized nations, they are, in such 
 cases, prohibited, as the means of corruption. 
 
 Those who would corrupt the sentence of a judge, the testi- 
 mony of a witness, or the vote of an elector, know well, that they 
 must not make a bargain, or stipulate what is to be done in 
 return. This would shock every man who has the least preten- 
 sion to morals. If the person can only be prevailed upon to 
 accept the good office, as a testimony of pure and disinterested 
 friendship, it is left to work upon his gratitude. He finds him- 
 self under a kind of moral obligation to consider the cause of his 
 benefactor and friend in the most favourable light. He finds it 
 easier to justify his conduct to himself, by favouring the interest 
 of his benefactor, than by opposing it. 
 
 Thus the principle of gratitude is supposed, even in the nature 
 of a bribel Bad men know how to make this natural principle 
 the most effectual means of corruption. The very best things 
 may be turned to a bad use. But the natural tendency of this 
 principle, and the intention of nature in planting it in the human 
 breast, are, evidently, to promote good-will among men, and to 
 give to good offices the power of multiplying their kind, like 
 seed sown in the earth, which brings a return, with increase. 
 
 Whether there be, or be not, in the more sagacious brutes, 
 something that may be called gratitude, I will not dispute. We 
 must allow this important difference between their gratitude and 
 that of the human kind, that, in the last, the mind of the bene- 
 factor is chiefly regarded, in the first, the external action only. 
 A brute-animal will be as kindly affected to him who feeds it in 
 order to kill and eat it as to him who does it from affection. 
 
 A man may be justly entitled to our gratitude, for an office 
 that is useful, though it be, at the same time, disagreeable ; and 
 
OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J^5 
 
 not only for doing, but for forbearing what he had a right to do. 
 Among men, it is not every beneficial office that claims our 
 gratitude, but such only as are not due to us in justice. A favour 
 alone gives a claim to gratitude ; and a favour must be something 
 more than justice requires. It does not appear that brutes have 
 any conception of justice. They can neither distinguish hurt 
 from injury, nor a favour from a good office that is due. 
 
 VI. 3, A third natural benevolent affection is, pity and com- 
 passion towards the distressed. 
 
 Of all persons, those in distress stand most in need of our good 
 offices. And, for that reason, the Author of Nature hath planted 
 in the breast of every human creature a powerful advocate to 
 plead their cause. 
 
 In man, and in some other animals, there are signs of distress, 
 which nature hath both taught them to use, and taught all men 
 to understand without any interpreter. These natural signs are 
 more eloquent than language ; they move our hearts, and produce 
 a sympathy, and a desire to give relief. 
 
 / There are few hearts so hard, but great distress will conquer 
 their anger, their indignation, and every malevolent affection. | 
 
 We sympathise even with the traitor and with the assassin, 
 when we see him led to execution. It is only self-preservation, 
 and the public good, that makes us reluctantly assent to his being 
 cut off from among men. 
 
 The practice of the Canadian nations toward their prisoners 
 would tempt one to think, that they have been able to root out 
 the principle of compassion from their nature. But this, I 
 apprehend, would be a rash conclusion. It is only a part of the 
 prisoners of war that they devote to a cruel death. This gratifies 
 the revenge of the women and children who have lost their hus- 
 bands and fathers in the war. The other prisoners are kindly 
 used, and adopted as brethren.* 
 
 Compassion with bodily pain is no doubt weakened among 
 these savages, because they are trained from their infancy to be 
 superior to death, and to every degree of pain ; and he is thought 
 unworthy of the name of a man, who cannot defy his tormentors, 
 and sing his death-song in the midst of the most cruel tortures. 
 He who can do this, is honoured as a brave man, though an 
 enemy. But he must perish in the experiment. 
 
 A Canadian has the most perfect contempt for every man who 
 thinks pain an intolerable evil. And nothing is so apt to stifle 
 compassion as contempt, and an apprehension, that the evil suf- 
 fered is nothing but what ought to be manfully borne. 
 
 It must also be observed, that savages set no bounds to their 
 revenge. Those who find no protection in laws and government 
 
 * This illustration has lost its propriety by the extension of civilization in 
 Canada. 
 
17(3 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 never think themselves safe, but in the destruction of their enemy. 
 And one of the chief advantages of civil government is, that it 
 tempers the cruel passion of revenge, and opens the heart to 
 compassion with every human woe. 
 
 It seems to be false religion only, that is able to check the 
 tear of compassion. 
 
 We are told, that, in Portugal and Spain, a man condemned 
 to be burned as an obstinate heretic, meets with no compassion, 
 even from the multitude. It is true, they are taught to look 
 upon him as an enemy to God, and doomed to hell -fire. But 
 should not this very circumstance move compassion ? Surely it 
 would, if they were not taught, that, in this case, it is a crime to 
 show compassion, or even to feel it.* 
 
 VII. 4. A fourth benevolent affection is, esteem of the wise 
 and the good. 
 
 The worst men cannot avoid feeling this in some degree. 
 Esteem, veneration, devotion, are different degrees of the same 
 affection. The perfection of wisdom, power and goodness, which 
 belongs only to the Almighty, is the object of the last. 
 
 It may be a doubt, whether this principle of esteem, as well as 
 that of gratitude, ought to be ranked in the order of animal 
 principles, or if they ought not rather to be placed in a higher 
 order. They are certainly more allied to the rational nature than 
 the others that have been named ; nor is it evident, that there is 
 any thing in brute-animals that deserves the same name. 
 
 There is indeed a subordination in a herd of cattle, and in a 
 nock of sheep, which, I believe, is determined by strength and 
 courage, as it is among savage tribes of men. I have been 
 informed, that, in a pack of hounds, a stanch hound acquires a 
 degree of esteem in the pack ; so that, when the dogs are wan- 
 dering in quest of the scent, if he opens, the pack immediately 
 closes in with him, when they would not regard the opening 
 of a dog of no reputation. This is something like a respect to 
 wisdom. 
 
 But I have placed esteem of the wise and good in the order of 
 animal principles, not from any persuasion that it is to be found 
 in brute-animals, but because, I think, it appears in the most 
 unimproved and in the most degenerate part of our species, even 
 in those in whom we hardly perceive any exertion, either of 
 reason or virtue. 
 
 I will not, however, dispute with any man who thinks that it 
 deserves a more honourable name than that of an animal prin- 
 ciple. It is of small importance what name we give it, if we are 
 satisfied that there is such a principle in the human constitution. 
 
 VIII. 5. Friendship is another benevolent affection. 
 
 * The infamous ceremony of the Auto de fe, here alluded to, was abolished 
 by Napoleon Buonaparte in 1 808. 
 
OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J 77 
 
 Of this we have some instances famous in history : few indeed ; 
 but sufficient to show, that human nature is susceptible of that 
 extraordinary attachment, sympathy and affection, to one or a 
 few persons, which the ancients thought alone worthy of the 
 name of friendship. 
 
 The Epicureans found it very difficult to reconcile the exist- 
 ence of friendship to the principles of their sect. They were not 
 so bold as to deny its existence. They even boasted that there 
 had been more attachments of that kind between Epicureans 
 than in any other sect. But the difficulty was, to account for 
 real friendship upon Epicurean principles. They went into dif- 
 ferent hypotheses upon this point, three of which are explained 
 by Torquatus the Epicurean, in Cicero's book, " De Finibus." 
 
 Cicero, in his reply to Torquatus, examines all the three, and 
 shows them all to be either inconsistent with the nature of true 
 friendship, or inconsistent with the fundamental principles of the 
 Epicurean sect. 
 
 [As to the friendship which the Epicureans boasted of among 
 those of their sect, Cicero does not question the fact, but ob- 
 serves, that, as there are many whose practice is worse than their 
 principles, so there are some whose principles are worse than 
 their practice, and that the bad principles of these Epicureans 
 were overcome by the goodness of their nature.] 
 
 IX. 6. Among the benevolent affections, the passion of love 
 between the sexes cannot be overlooked. 
 
 Although it is commonly the theme of poets, it is not un- 
 worthy of the pen of the philosopher, as it is a most important 
 part of the human constitution. 
 
 It is no doubt made up of various ingredients, as many other 
 principles of action are, but it certainly cannot exist without a 
 very strong benevolent affection toward its object; in whom it 
 finds, or conceives, every thing that is amiable and excellent, 
 and even something more than human. I consider it here, only 
 as a benevolent affection natural to man. And that it is so, no 
 man can doubt who ever felt its force. 
 
 It is evidently intended by nature to direct a man in the 
 choice of a mate, with whom he desires to live, and to rear an 
 offspring. 
 
 It has effectually secured this end in all ages, and in every 
 state of society. 
 
 [The passion of love, and the parental affection, are counter- 
 parts to each other ; and when they are conducted with pru- 
 I dence, and meet with a proper return, are the source of all do- 
 mestic felicity, the greatest, next to that of a good conscience, 
 ■which this world affords.] 
 
 As, in the present state of things, pain often dwells near to 
 pleasure, and sorrow to joy, it needs not be thought strange, 
 
178 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 that a passion, fitted and intended by nature to yield the greatest 
 worldly felicity, should, by being ill-regulated, or wrong directed, 
 prove the occasion of the most pungent distress. 
 
 But its joys and its griefs, its different modifications in the 
 different sexes, and its influence upon the character of both, 
 though very important subjects, are fitter to be sung than said ; 
 and I leave them to those who have slept upon the two-topped 
 Parnassus. 
 
 X. 7. The last benevolent affection I shall mention is, what 
 we commonly call public spirit, that is, an affection to any com- 
 munity to which we belong. 
 
 If there be any man quite destitute of this affection, he must 
 be as great a monster as a man born with two heads. Its effects 
 are manifest in the whole of human life, and in the history of 
 all nations. 
 
 The situation of a great part of mankind, indeed, is such, 
 that their thoughts and views must be confined within a very 
 narrow sphere, and be very much engrossed by their private 
 concerns. "With regard to an extensive public, such as a state 
 or nation, they are like a drop to the ocean, so that they have 
 rarely an opportunity of acting with a view to it. 
 
 In many, whose actions may affect the public, and whose rank 
 and station lead them to think of it, private passions may be an 
 overmatch for public spirit. All that can be inferred from this 
 is, that their public spirit is weak, not that it does not exist. 
 
 If a man wishes well to the public, and is ready to do good to 
 it rather than hurt, when it costs him nothing, he has some affec- 
 tion to it, though it may be scandalously weak in degree. 
 
 I believe every man has it in one degree or another. What 
 man is there who does not resent satirical reflections upon his 
 country, or upon any community of which he is a member ? 
 
 Whether the affection be to a college or to a cloister, to a 
 clan or to a profession, to a party or to a nation, it is public- 
 spirit. These affections differ, not in kind, but in the extent 
 of their object. 
 
 The object extends as our connexions extend; and a sense of 
 the connexion carries the affection along with it to every com- 
 munity to which we can apply the pronouns we and our. 
 
 Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace, 
 His country next, and then all human race. — Pope. 
 
 Even in the misanthrope, this affection is not extinguished. 
 It is overpowered by the apprehension he has of the worthless- 
 ness, the baseness, and the ingratitude of mankind. Convince 
 him, that there is any amiable quality in the species, and imme- 
 diately his philanthropy revives, and rejoices to find an object on 
 which it can exert itself. 
 
OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J 79 
 
 XL Necessity for submitting public spirit to the control of 
 reason and virtue, evident. — [Public spirit has this in common 
 with every subordinate principle of action, that, when it is not 
 under the government of reason and virtue, it may produce 
 much evil as well as good.] Yet, where there is least of reason 
 and virtue to regulate it, its good far overbalances its ill. 
 
 [It sometimes kindles or inflames animosities between com- 
 munities, or contending parties, and makes them treat each 
 other with little regard to justice. It kindles wars between 
 nations, and makes them destroy one another for trifling causes.] 
 But, without it, society could not subsist, and every community 
 would be a rope of sand. 
 
 When under the direction of reason and virtue, it is the very 
 image of God in the soul. It diffuses its benign influence as far 
 as its power extends, and participates in the happiness of God, 
 and of the whole creation. 
 
 These are the benevolent affections which appear to me to be 
 parts of the human constitution. 
 
 If any one thinks the enumeration incomplete, and that there 
 are natural benevolent affections, which are not included under 
 any of those that have been named, I shall very readily listen 
 to such a correction, being sensible that such enumerations are 
 very often incomplete. 
 
 If others should think that any, or all, the affections I have 
 named are acquired by education, or by habits and associations 
 grounded on self-love, and are not original parts of our consti- 
 tution ; this is a point upon which, indeed, there has been much 
 subtile disputation in ancient and modern times, and which, I 
 believe, must be determined from what a man, by careful reflec- 
 tion, may feel in himself, rather than from what he observes in 
 others. But I decline entering into this dispute, till I shall 
 have explained that principle of action which we commonly call 
 self-love. 
 
 XII. I shall conclude this subject with some reflections upon 
 the benevolent affections. 
 
 [The first is, that all of them, in as far as they are benevolent, 
 in which view only I consider them, agree very much in the con- 
 duct they dispose us to, with regard to their objects.] 
 
 They dispose us to do them good as far as we have power and 
 opportunity ; to wish them well, when we can do them no good ; 
 to judge favourably, and often partially, of them ; to sympathise 
 with them in their afflictions and calamities ; and to rejoice with 
 them in their happiness and good fortune. 
 
 It is impossible that there can be benevolent affection without 
 sympathy, both with the good and bad fortune of the object; 
 and it appears to be impossible that there can be sympathy 
 without benevolent affection. Men do not sympathise with one 
 
 n 2 
 
180 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 whom they hate ; nor even with one to whose good or ill they 
 are perfectly indifferent. 
 
 We may sympathise with a perfect stranger, or even with an 
 enemy whom we see in distress ; but this is the effect of pity ; 
 and if we did not pity him, we should not sympathise with him. 
 
 I take notice of this the rather, because a very ingenious 
 author* in his " Theory of Moral Sentiments," gives a very dif- 
 ferent account of the origin of sympathy. It appears to me to be 
 the effect of benevolent affection, and to be inseparable from it. 
 
 [A second reflection is, that the constitution of our nature very 
 powerfully invites us to cherish and cultivate in our minds the 
 benevolent affections^ 
 
 The agreeable feeling which always attends them as a present 
 reward, appears to be intended by nature for this purpose. 
 
 Benevolence, from its nature, composes the mind, warms the 
 heart, enlivens the whole frame, and brightens every feature of 
 the countenance. It may justly be said to be medicinal both to 
 soul and body. We are bound to it by duty ; we are invited to 
 it by interest ; and because both these cords are often feeble, we 
 have natural kind affections to aid them in their operation, and 
 supply their defects; and these affections are joined with a 
 manly pleasure in their exertion. 
 
 [A third reflection is, that the natural benevolent affections 
 furnish the most irresistible proof, that the Author of our nature 
 intended that we should live in society, and do good to our fellow - 
 men as we have opportunity ; since this great and important part 
 of the human constitution has a manifest relation to society, and 
 can have no exercise nor use in a solitary state.] 
 
 [The last reflection is, that the different principles of action 
 have different degrees of dignity, and rise one above another in 
 our estimation, when we make them objects of contemplation.] 
 
 We ascribe no dignity to instincts or to habits. They lead us 
 only to admire the wisdom of the Creator, in adapting them so 
 perfectly to the manner of life of the different animals in which 
 they are found. Much the same may be said of appetites. They 
 serve rather for use than ornament. 
 
 i The desires of knowledge, of power, and of esteem, rise higher 
 in our estimation, and we consider them as giving dignity and 
 ornament to man.*- The actions proceeding from them, though 
 not properly virtuous, are manly and respectable, and claim a 
 just superiority over those that proceed merely from appetite. 
 This, I think, is the uniform judgment of mankind. 
 
 If we apply the same kind of judgment to our benevolent 
 affections, they appear not only manly and respectable, but 
 amiable in a high degree. 
 
 They are amiable even in brute-animals. We love the meek- 
 
 * Adam Smith. 
 
OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. JgJ 
 
 ness of the lamb, the gentleness of the dove, the affection of a 
 dog to his master. We cannot, without pleasure, observe the 
 timid ewe, who never showed the least degree of courage in her 
 own defence, become valiant and intrepid in defence of her lamb, 
 and boldly assault those enemies, the very sight of whom was 
 wont to put her to flight. 
 
 How pleasant is it to see the family economy of a pair of 
 little birds in rearing their tender offspring ; the conjugal affec- 
 tion and fidelity of the parents ; their cheerful toil and industry 
 in providing food to their family ; their sagacity in concealing 
 their habitation ; the arts they use, often at the peril of their 
 own lives, to decoy hawks, and other enemies, from their dwel- 
 ling-place, and the affliction they feel when some unlucky boy 
 has robbed them of the dear pledges of their affection, and frus- 
 trated all their hopes of their rising family ? 
 
 If kind affection be amiable in brutes, it is not less so in our 
 own species. Even the external signs of it have a powerful 
 charm. 
 
 B§F Every one knows that a person of accomplished good 
 breeding, charms every one he converses with. And what is this 
 good breeding ? If we analyse it, we shall find it to be made 
 up of looks, gestures, and speeches, which are the natural signs 
 of benevolence and good affection. { He who has got the habit 
 of using these signs with propriety, and without meanness, is a 
 well-bred and a polite man. J 
 
 What is that beauty in the features of the face, particularly of 
 the fair sex, which all men love and admire ? I believe it con- 
 sists chiefly in the features which indicate good affections. ! Every 
 indication of meekness, gentleness, and benignity, is a beauty. \ 
 On the contrary, every feature that indicates pride, passion, envy, 
 and malignity, is a deformity. 
 
 Kind affections, therefore, are amiable in brutes. Even the 
 signs and shadows of them are highly attractive in our own spe- 
 cies. Indeed they are the joy and the comfort of human life, 
 not to good men only, but even to the vicious and dissolute. 
 ( Without society, and the intercourse of kind affection, man is 
 a gloomy, melancholy and joyless being.] His mind oppressed 
 with cares and fears, he cannot enjoy the balm of sound sleep : 
 in constant dread of impending danger, he starts at the rustling 
 of a leaf. His ears are continually upon the stretch, and every 
 zephyr brings some sound that alarms him. 
 
 When he enters into society, and feels security in the good 
 affection of friends and neighbours, it is then only that his fear 
 vanishes, and his mind is at ease. His courage is raised, his un- 
 derstanding is enlightened, and his heart dilates with joy. 
 
 IMF Human society may be compared to a heap of embers, 
 which when placed asunder, can retain neither their light nor 
 
Igg ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. V. 
 
 heat, amidst the surrounding elements ; but when brought toge- 
 ther they mutually give heat and light to each other ; the flame 
 breaks forth, and not only defends itself, but subdues every thing 
 around it, 
 
 [The security, the happiness, and the strength of human so- 
 ciety, spring solely from the reciprocal benevolent affections of 
 its members.] 
 
 The benevolent affections, though they be all honourable and 
 lovely, are not all equally so. There is a subordination among 
 them ; and the honour we pay to them generally corresponds to 
 the extent of their object. 
 
 The good husband, the good father, the good friend, the good 
 neighbour, we honour as a good man, worthy of our love and 
 affection. But the man in whom these more private affections 
 are swallowed up in zeal for the good of his country, and of 
 mankind, who goes about doing good, and seeks opportunities of 
 being useful to his species, we revere as more than a good man, 
 as a hero, as a good angel. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. 
 
 I. Of emulation and resentment. — Are there, in the consti- 
 tution of man, any affections that may be called malevolent ? 
 What are they ? And what is their use and end ? 
 
 To me there seem to be two, which we may call by that name. 
 [They are emulation and resentment. These I take to be parts 
 of the human constitution, given us by our Maker for good ends, 
 and, when properly directed and regulated, of excellent use.] 
 But, as their excess or abuse, to which human nature is very 
 prone, is the source and spring of all the malevolence that 
 is to be found among men, it is on that account I call them 
 malevolent. 
 
 If any man thinks that they deserve a softer name, since they 
 may be exercised according to the intention of nature, without 
 malevolence, to this I have no objection. 
 
 By emulation, I mean, a desire of superiority to our rivals in 
 any pursuit, accompanied with an uneasiness at being surpassed. 
 
 Human life has justly been compared to a race. The prize is 
 superiority in one kind or another. But the species or forms (if 
 I may use the expression) of superiority among men are infinitely 
 diversified. 
 
 There is no man so contemptible in his own eyes, as to hinder 
 him from entering the lists in one form or another ; and he will 
 always find competitors to rival him in his own way. 
 
OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. Jg3 
 
 We see emulation among brute-animals. Dogs and horses 
 contend each with his kind in the race. Many animals of the 
 gregarious kind contend for superiority in their flock or herd, 
 and show manifest signs of jealousy when others pretend to 
 rival them. 
 
 The emulation of the brute-animals is mostly confined to swift- 
 ness, or strength, or favour with their females. But the emula- 
 tion of the human kind has a much wider field. 
 
 In every profession, and in every accomplishment of body or 
 mind, real or imaginary, there are rivalships. Literary men 
 rival one another in literary abilities. Artists in their several 
 arts. The fair sex in their beauty and attractions, and in the 
 respect paid them by the other sex. 
 
 In every political society, from a petty corporation up to the 
 national administration, there is a rivalship for power and in- 
 fluence. 
 
 Men have a natural desire of power without respect to the 
 power of others. This we call ambition. But the desire of 
 superiority, either in pow T er, or in any thing we think worthy of 
 estimation, has a respect to rivals, and is what we properly call 
 emulation. 
 
 The stronger the desire is, the more pungent will be the un- 
 easiness of being found behind, and the mind will be the more 
 hurt by this humiliating view. 
 
 IT. [Emulation has a manifest tendency to improvement. 
 Without it life w T ould stagnate, and the discoveries of art and 
 genius would be at a stand.] This principle produces a constant 
 fermentation in society, by which, though dregs may be pro- 
 duced, the better part is purified and exalted to a perfection 
 which it could not otherwise attain. 
 
 We have not sufficient data for a comparison of the good and 
 bad efTects which this principle actually produces in society ; but 
 there is ground to think of this, as of other natural principles, 
 that the good overbalances the ill. As far as it is under the 
 dominion of reason and virtue, its effects are always good ; when 
 left to be guided by passion and folly, they are often very bad. 
 
 Reason directs us to strive for superiority, only in things that 
 have real excellence, otherwise we spend our labour for that 
 which proflteth not. To value ourselves for superiority in things 
 that have no real w r orth, or none, compared with what they cost, 
 is to be vain of our own folly ; and to be uneasy at the supe- 
 riority of others in such things, is no less ridiculous. 
 
 Reason directs us to strive for superiority only in things in 
 our power, and attainable by our exertion, otherwise we shall be 
 like the frog in the fable, who swelled herself till she burst, in 
 order to equal the ox in magnitude. 
 
 To check all desire of things not attainable, and every uneasy 
 
134 ESSAY III.- PART II. CHAP. V. 
 
 thought in the want of them, is an obvious dictate of prudence, 
 as well as of virtue and religion. 
 
 If emulation be regulated by such maxims of reason, and all 
 undue partiality to ourselves be laid aside, it will be a powerful 
 principle of our improvement, without hurt to any other person. 
 It will give strength to the nerves, and vigour to the mind, in 
 every noble and manly pursuit. 
 
 III. [But dismal are its effects, when it is not under the direc- 
 tion of reason and virtue. It has often the most malignant 
 influence on men's opinions, on their affections, and on their 
 actions.] 
 
 It is an old observation, that affection follows opinion ; and it 
 is undoubtedly true in many cases. A man cannot be grateful 
 without the opinion of a favour done him. He cannot have 
 deliberate resentment without the opinion of an injury ; nor 
 esteem without the opinion of some estimable quality ; nor com- 
 passion without the opinion of suffering. 
 
 But it is no less true, that opinion sometimes follows affection, 
 not that it ought, but that it actually does so, by giving a false 
 bias to our judgment. We are apt to be partial to our friends, 
 and still more to ourselves. 
 
 Hence the desire of superiority leads men to put an undue 
 estimation upon those things wherein they excel, or think they 
 excel. And, by this means, pride may feed itself upon the very 
 dregs of human nature. 
 
 The same desire of superiority may lead men to undervalue 
 those things wherein they either despair of excelling, or care not 
 to make the exertion necessary for that end. The grapes are 
 sour, said the fox, when he saw them beyond his reach. The 
 same principle leads men to detract from the merit of others, and 
 to impute their brightest actions to mean or bad motives. 
 
 He who runs a race feels uneasiness at seeing another out- 
 strip him. This is uncorrupted nature, and the work of God 
 within him. But this uneasiness may produce either of two very 
 different effects. It may incite him to make more vigorous exer- 
 tions, and to strain every nerve to get before his rival. This is 
 fair and honest emulation. This is the effect it is intended to 
 produce. [But if he has not fairness and candour of heart, he 
 will look with an evil eye upon his competitor, and will endea- 
 vour to trip him, or to throw a stumbling-block in his way. This 
 is pure envy, the most malignant passion that can lodge in the 
 human breast ; which devours, as its natural food, the fame and 
 the happiness of those who are most deserving of our esteem.] 
 
 If there be, in some men, a proneness to detract from the 
 character, even of persons unknown or indifferent, in others an 
 avidity to hear and to propagate scandal, to what principle in 
 human nature must w r e ascribe these qualities ? The failings of 
 
OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. 1g5 
 
 others surely add nothing to our worth, nor are they, in them- 
 selves, a pleasant subject of thought or of discourse. But they 
 flatter pride, by giving an opinion of our superiority to those 
 from whom we detract. 
 
 Is it not possible, that the same desire of superiority may have 
 some secret influence upon those who love to display their elo- 
 quence in declaiming upon the corruption of human nature, and 
 the wickedness, fraud and insincerity of mankind in general ? It 
 ought always to be taken for granted, that the declaimer is an 
 exception to the general rule, otherwise he would rather choose, 
 even for his own sake, to draw a veil over the nakedness of his 
 species. But hoping that his audience will be so civil as not to 
 include him in the black description, he rises superior by the 
 depression of the species, and stands alone, like Noah in the an- 
 tediluvian world. This looks like envy against the human race. 
 
 IV. Effects of emulation in brute-animals. — It would be end- 
 less, and no ways agreeable, to enumerate all the evils and all the 
 vices which passion and folly beget upon emulation. Here, as 
 in most cases, the corruption of the best things is the worst. [In 
 brute-animals, emulation has little matter to work upon, and its 
 effects, good or bad, are few.] It may produce battles of cocks 
 and battles of bulls, and little else that is observable. But in 
 mankind, it has an infinity of matter to work upon, and its good 
 or bad effects, according as it is well or ill regulated and directed, 
 multiply in proportion. 
 
 [The conclusion to be drawn from what has been said upon 
 this principle is, That emulation, as far as it is a part of our 
 constitution, is highly useful and important in society ; that in 
 the wise and good, it produces the best effects without any harm ; 
 but in the foolish and vicious, it is the parent of a great part of 
 the evils of life, and of the most malignant vices that stain human 
 nature.] 
 
 We are next to consider resentment. 
 
 V. Definition of resentment. — [Nature disposes us, when we 
 are hurt, to resist and retaliate. Besides the bodily pain occa- 
 sioned by the hurt, the mind is ruffled, and a desire raised to 
 retaliate upon the author of the hurt or injury. This, in general, 
 is what we call anger or resentment.'] 
 
 A very important distinction is made by Bishop Butler between 
 sudden resentment, which is a blind impulse arising from our 
 constitution, and that which is deliberate. The first may be 
 raised by hurt of any kind ; but the last can only be raised by 
 injury, real or conceived. 
 
 The same distinction is made by Lord Karnes, in his " Ele- 
 ments of Criticism." What Butler calls sudden, he calls in- 
 stinctive. 
 
 We have not, in common language, different names for these 
 
186 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. V. 
 
 different kinds of resentment ; but the distinction is very neces- 
 sary, in order to our having just notions of this part of the 
 human constitution. It corresponds perfectly with the distinc- 
 tion I have made between the animal and rational principles of 
 action. [For this sudden or instinctive resentment, is an animal 
 principle common to us with brute-animals. But that resentment 
 which the authors I have named call deliberate, must fall under 
 the class of rational principles.] 
 
 It is to be observed, however, that, by referring it to that 
 class, I do not mean, that it is always kept within the bounds 
 that reason prescribes, but only that it is proper to man as a 
 reasonable being, capable, by his rational faculties, of distin- 
 guishing between hurt and injury ; a distinction which no brute 
 animal can make. 
 
 Both these kinds of resentment are raised, whether the hurt 
 or injury be done to ourselves, or to those we are interested in. 
 
 Wherever there is any benevolent affection towards others, we 
 resent their wrongs, in proportion to the strength of our affec- 
 tion. Pity and sympathy with the sufferer, produce resentment 
 against the author of the suffering, as naturally as concern for 
 ourselves produces resentment of our own wrongs. 
 
 VI. I shall first consider that resentment which I call animal, 
 which Butler calls sudden, and Lord Karnes instinctive. 
 
 In every animal to which Nature hath given the power of 
 hurting its enemy, we see an endeavour to retaliate the ill that 
 is done to it. Even a mouse will bite when it cannot run away. 
 
 Perhaps there may be some animals to whom nature hath 
 given no offensive weapon. To such, anger and resentment 
 would be of no use ; and I believe we shall find, that they never 
 show any sign of it. But there are few of this kind. 
 
 Some of the more sagacious animals can be provoked to fierce 
 anger, and retain it long. Many of them show great animosity 
 in defending their young, who hardly show any in defending 
 themselves. Others resist every assault made upon the flock or 
 herd to which they belong. Bees defend their hive, wild beasts 
 their den, and birds their nest. 
 
 [This sudden resentment operates in a similar manner in men 
 and in brutes, and appears to be given by nature to both for the 
 same end, namely, for defence, even in cases ivhere there is no 
 time for deliberation.] IglF It may be compared to that natural 
 instinct, by which a man, who has lost his balance and begins to 
 fall, makes a sudden and violent effort to recover himself, with- 
 out any intention or deliberation. 
 
 In such efforts, men often exert a degree of muscular strength 
 beyond what they are able to exert by a calm determination of 
 the will, and thereby save themselves from many a dangerous fall. 
 
 By a like violent and sudden impulse, nature prompts us to 
 
OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. J g7 
 
 repel hurt upon the cause of it, whether it be man or beast. 
 The instinct before mentioned is solely defensive, and is prompted 
 by fear. This sudden resentment is offensive, and is prompted 
 by anger, but with a view to defence. 
 
 [M an, in his present state, is surrounded with so many dangers 
 from his own species, from brute-animals, from every thing 
 around him, that he has need of some defensive armour that 
 shall always be ready in the moment of danger. His reason is 
 of great use for this purpose, when there is time to apply it. 
 But, in many cases, the mischief would be done before reason 
 could think of the means of preventing it.] 
 
 [The wisdom of nature hath provided two means to supply 
 this defect of our reason. (1) One of these is the instinct before 
 mentioned, by which the body, upon the appearance of danger, 
 is instantly, and without thought or intention, put in that pos- 
 ture which is proper for preventing the danger, or lessening it.] 
 t^F Thus, we wink hard when our eyes are threatened ; we bend 
 the body to avoid a stroke ; we make a sudden effort to recover 
 our balance, when in danger of falling. By such means we are 
 guarded from many dangers which our reason would come too 
 late to prevent. 
 
 [(2) But as offensive arms are often the surest means of defence, 
 by deterring the enemy from an assault, nature hath also pro- 
 vided man, and other animals, with this kind of defence, by that 
 sudden resentment of which we now speak, which outruns the 
 quickest determinations of reason, and takes fire in an instant, 
 threatening the enemy with retaliation.] 
 
 [The first of these principles {instinct) operates upon the 
 defender only ; but this {resentment) operates both upon the 
 defender and the assailant, inspiring the former with courage 
 and animosity, and striking terror into the latter.] ggp" It pro- 
 claims to all assailants, what our ancient Scottish kings did 
 upon their coins, by the emblem of a thistle, with this motto, 
 " Nemo me impune lacesset." By this, in innumerable cases, 
 men and beasts are deterred from doing hurt, and others thereby 
 secured from suffering it. 
 
 But as resentment supposes an object on whom we may retali- 
 ate, how comes it to pass, that in brutes very often, and some- 
 times in our own species, we see it wreaked upon inanimate 
 things, which are incapable of suffering by it ? 
 
 Perhaps it might be a sufficient answer to this question, That 
 nature acts by general laws, which, in some particular cases may 
 go beyond, or fall short of their intention, though they be ever 
 so well adapted to it in general. 
 
 But I confess it seems to me impossible, that there should be 
 resentment against a thing, which at that very moment is consi- 
 dered as inanimate, and consequently incapable either of intend- 
 
Igg ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. V. 
 
 ing hurt, or of being punished. For what can be more absurd, 
 than to be angry with the knife for cutting me, or with the 
 weight for falling upon my toes ? There must therefore, I con- 
 ceive, be some momentary notion or conception that the object 
 of our resentment is capable of punishment ; and if it be natural, 
 before reflection, to be angry with things inanimate, it seems 
 to be a necessary consequence, that it is natural to think that 
 they have life and feeling. 
 
 VII. Children and rude nations generally ascribe life and 
 intelligence to inanimate things. — [Several phenomena in human 
 nature lead us to conjecture that, in the earliest period of life, 
 we are apt to think every object about us to be animated. Judg- 
 ing of them by ourselves, we ascribe to them the feelings we are 
 conscious of in ourselves.] So we see a little girl judges of her 
 doll and of her play-things. And so we see rude nations judge 
 of the heavenly bodies, of the elements, and of the sea, rivers, 
 and fountains.* 
 
 If this be so, it ought not to be said, that by reason and ex- 
 perience, we learn to ascribe life and intelligence to things which 
 we before considered as inanimate. It ought rather to be said, 
 [That by reason and experience we learn that certain things are 
 inanimate, to which at first we ascribed life and intelligence.] 
 
 If this be true, it is less surprising that, before reflection, we 
 should for a moment relapse into this prejudice of our early 
 years, and treat things as if they had life, which we once believed 
 to have it. 
 
 It does not much affect our present argument, whether this 
 be, or be not the cause, why a dog pursues and gnashes at the 
 stone that hurt him ; and why a man in a passion, for losing at 
 play, sometimes wreaks his vengeance on the cards or dice. 
 
 Jt is not strange that a blind animal impulse should sometimes 
 lose its proper direction. In brutes this has no bad consequence ; 
 in men the least ray of reflection corrects it, and shows its 
 absurdity. 
 
 [It is sufficiently evident, upon the whole, that this sudden, or 
 animal resentment, is intended by nature for our defence. It 
 prevents mischief by the fear of punishment.] KgF It is a kind 
 of penal statute, promulgated by nature, the execution of which 
 is committed to the sufferer. 
 
 It may be expected indeed, that one who judges in his own 
 cause, will be disposed to seek more than an equitable redress. 
 But this disposition is checked by the resentment of the other 
 party. 
 
 Yet, in the state of nature, injuries once begun, will often be 
 reciprocated between the parties, until mortal enmity is pro- 
 
 * Vide sec. 1. chap. iii. Essay IV. seq. 
 
OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. \ §9 
 
 duced, and each party thinks himself safe only in the destruction 
 of his enemy. 
 
 This right of redressing and punishing our own wrongs, so apt 
 to be abused, is one of those natural rights, which, in political 
 society, is given up to the laws, and to the civil magistrate ; and 
 this indeed is one of the capital advantages we reap from the 
 political union, that the evils arising from ungoverned resentment 
 are in a great degree prevented. 
 
 VIII. Although deliberate resentment does not properly belong 
 to the class of animal principles ; yet, as both have the same 
 name, and are distinguished only by philosophers, and as in real 
 life they are commonly intermixed, I shall here make some 
 remarks upon it. 
 
 [A small degree of reason and reflection teaches a man that 
 injury only, and not mere hurt, is a just object of resentment to 
 a rational creature.] A man may suffer grievously by the hand 
 of another^ not only without injury, but with the most friendly 
 intention ; as in the case of a painful surgical operation. Every 
 man of common sense sees, that to resent such suffering, is not 
 the part of a man, but of a brute. 
 
 Mr. Locke mentions a gentleman who, having been cured of 
 madness by a very harsh and offensive operation, with great sense 
 of gratitude, owned the cure as the greatest obligation he could 
 have received, but could never bear the sight of the operator, 
 because it brought back the idea of that agony which he had 
 endured from his hands. 
 
 In this case we see distinctly the operation both of the animal, 
 and of the rational principle. The first produced an aversion to 
 the operator, which reason was not able to overcome ; and prob- 
 ably in a weak mind might have produced lasting resentment 
 and hatred. But, in this gentleman, reason so far prevailed, as to 
 make him sensible that gratitude, and not resentment, was due. 
 
 Suffering may give a bias to the judgment, and make us appre- 
 hend injury where no injury is done. But, I think, without an 
 apprehension of injury, there can be no deliberate resentment. 
 
 Hence, among enlightened nations, hostile armies fight with- 
 out anger or resentment. The vanquished are not treated as 
 offenders, but as brave men who have fought for their country 
 unsuccessfully, and who are entitled to every office of humanity 
 consistent with the safety of the conquerors. 
 
 IX. Agreements and disagreements between deliberate and mere 
 animal resentment. — [If we analyze that deliberate resentment 
 which is proper to rational creatures, we shall find that though it 
 agrees with that which is merely animal in some respects, it differs 
 in others. Both are accompanied with an uneasy sensation, which 
 disturbs the peace of the mind. Both prompt us to seek redress 
 of our sufferings, and security from harm. But, in deliberate 
 
190 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. VI. 
 
 resentment, there must be an opinion of injury done or intended. 
 And an opinion of injury implies an idea of justice, and conse- 
 quently a moral faculty, .] 
 
 The very notion of an injury is, that it is less than we may 
 justly claim ; as, on the contrary, the notion of a favour is that 
 it is more than we can justly claim. Whence it is evident, that 
 justice is the standard, by which both a favour and an injury 
 are to be weighed and estimated. Their very nature and defini- 
 tion consist in their exceeding or falling short of this standard. 
 No man, therefore, can have the idea either of a favour or of an 
 injury, who has not the idea of justice. 
 
 That very idea of justice which enters into cool and deliberate 
 resentment, tends to restrain its excesses. For as there is injus- 
 tice in doing an injury, so there is injustice in punishing it 
 beyond measure. 
 
 f To a man of candour and reflection, consciousness of the 
 frailty of human nature, and that he has often stood in need of 
 forgiveness himself, the pleasure of renewing good understand- 
 ing, after it has been interrupted, the inward approbation of a 
 generous and forgiving disposition, and even the irksomeness and 
 uneasiness of a mind ruffled by resentment, plead strongly against 
 its excesses.,) 
 
 Upon the whole, when we consider, That, on the one hand, 
 every benevolent affection is pleasant in its nature, is health to 
 the soul, and a cordial to the spirits ; that nature has made even 
 the outward expression of benevolent affections in the counte- 
 nance, pleasant to every beholder, and the chief ingredient of 
 beauty in the human face divine ; that, on the other hand, every 
 malevolent affection, not only in its faulty excesses, but in its 
 moderate degrees, is vexation and disquiet to the mind, and even 
 gives deformity to the countenance, it is evident that, by these 
 signals, nature loudly admonishes us to use the former as our 
 daily bread, both for health and pleasure, but to consider the 
 latter as a nauseous medicine, which is never to be taken with- 
 out necessity ; and even then in no greater quantity than the 
 necessity requires. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF PASSION. 
 
 I. Passion, Disposition, Opinion. — Before I proceed to con- 
 sider the rational principles of action, it is proper to observe, that 
 [there are some things belonging to the mind, which have great 
 influence upon human conduct, by exciting or allaying, inflaming 
 or cooling the animal principles we have mentioned. 
 
OF PASSION. 1 9J 
 
 Three of this kind deserve particular consideration. I shall 
 call them by the names of passion, disposition, and opinion.~\ 
 
 The meaning of the word passion is not precisely ascertained, 
 either in common discourse, or in the writings of philosophers. 
 
 II. Definition of passion. — I think it is commonly put to sig- 
 nify [some agitation of mind, which is opposed to that state of 
 tranquillity and composure, in which a man is most master of 
 himself.] 
 
 The word iraOos, which answers to it in the Greek language, 
 is, by Cicero, rendered by the word perturbatio. 
 
 W5F It has always been conceived to bear analogy to a storm 
 at sea, or to a tempest in the air. It does not therefore signify 
 any thing in the mind that is constant and permanent, but some- 
 thing that is occasional, and has a limited duration, like a storm 
 or tempest. 
 
 Passion commonly produces sensible effects even upon the body. 
 It changes the voice, the features, and the gesture. The exter- 
 nal signs of passion have, in some cases, a great resemblance to 
 those of madness ; in others, to those of melancholy. It gives 
 often a degree of muscular force and agility to the body, far 
 beyond what it possesses in calm moments. 
 
 The effects of passion upon the mind are not less remarkable. 
 It turns the thoughts involuntarily to the objects related to it, 
 so that a man can hardly think of any thing else. It gives often 
 a strange bias to the judgment, making a man quicksighted in 
 every thing that tends to inflame his passion, and to justify it, 
 but blind to every thing that tends to moderate and allay it. 
 HaF Like a magic lantern, it raises up spectres and apparitions 
 that have no reality, and throws false colours upon every object. 
 It can turn deformity into beauty, vice into virtue, and virtue 
 into vice. 
 
 The sentiments of a man under its influence will appear 
 absurd and ridiculous, not only to other men, but even to him- 
 self when the storm is spent and is succeeded by a calm. Pas- 
 sion often gives a violent impulse to the will, and makes a man 
 do what he knows he shall repent as long as he lives. 
 
 That such are the effects of passion, I think all men agree. 
 They have been described in lively colours by poets, orators 
 and moralists, in all ages. But men have given more attention 
 to the effects of passion than to its nature ; and while they 
 have copiously and elegantly described the former, they have 
 not precisely defined the latter. 
 
 III. [The controversy between the ancient Peripatetics and 
 the Stoics, with regard to the passions, was probably owing to 
 their affixing different meanings to the word.~\ The one sect 
 maintained, that the passions are good, and useful parts of our 
 constitution, while they are held under the government of 
 
192 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 
 
 reason. The other sect, conceiving that nothing is to be 
 called passion which does not, in some degree, cloud and 
 darken the understanding, considered all passion as hostile to 
 reason, and therefore maintained, that in the wise man passion 
 should have no existence, but be utterly exterminated. 
 
 If both sects had agreed about the definition of passion, they 
 would probably have had no difference. But while one con- 
 sidered passion only as the cause of those bad effects which it 
 often produces, and the other considered it as fitted by nature 
 to produce good effects, while it is under subjection to reason, it 
 does not appear that what one sect justified was the same thing 
 which the other condemned. Both allowed that no dictate of 
 passion ought to be followed in opposition to reason. Their 
 difference, therefore, was verbal more than real, and was owing 
 to their giving different meanings to the same word. 
 
 IV. [The precise meaning' of this word seems not to be more 
 clearly ascertained among modem philosophers.'] 
 
 Mr. Hume gives the name of passion to every principle of 
 action in the human mind ; and, in consequence of this, main- 
 tains, that every man is, and ought to be led by his passions, 
 and that the use of reason is to be subservient to the passions. 
 
 Dr. Hutcheson, considering all the principles of action as so 
 many determinations or motions of the will, divides them into 
 the calm and the turbulent. The turbulent, he says, are our 
 appetites and our passions. Of the passions, as well as of the 
 calm determinations, he says, that " some are benevolent, others 
 are selfish ; that anger, envy, indignation, and some others, may 
 be either selfish or benevolent, according as they arise from some 
 opposition to our own interests, or to those of our friends, or 
 persons beloved or esteemed." 
 
 It appears, therefore, that this excellent author gives the name 
 of passions, not to every principle of action, but to some, and to 
 those only when they are turbulent and vehement, not when 
 they are calm and deliberate. 
 
 Our natural desires and affections may be so calm as to leave 
 room for reflection, so that we find no difficulty in deliberating 
 coolly, whether, in such a particular instance, they ought to be 
 gratified or not. On other occasions, they may be so importu- 
 nate as to make deliberation very difficult, urging us, by a kind 
 of violence, to their immediate gratification. 
 
 Thus, a man may be sensible of an injury without being 
 inflamed. He judges coolly of the injury, and of the proper 
 means of redress.( This is resentment without passion. It leaves 
 to the man the entire command of himself. \ 
 
 On another occasion, the same principle of resentment rises 
 into a flame. His blood boils within him ; his looks, his voice, 
 and his gesture are changed ; he can think of nothing but imme- 
 
OF PASSION. 193 
 
 diate revenge, and feels a strong impulse, without regard to 
 consequences, to say and do things which his cool reason cannot 
 justify. This is the passion of resentment. 
 
 What has been said of resentment may easily be applied to 
 other natural desires and affections. When they are so calm as 
 neither to produce any sensible effects upon the body, nor to 
 darken the understanding and weaken the power of self-com- 
 mand, they are not called passions. But the same principle, 
 when it becomes so violent as to produce these effects upon the 
 body and upon the mind, is a passion, or, as Cicero very properly 
 calls it, a perturbation, 
 
 V. Humes paradoxes generally reducible to abuses of words. — 
 It is evident that this meaning of the word passion accords much 
 better with its common use in language, than that which Mr. 
 Hume gives it. 
 
 [When he says, (1) that men ought to be governed by their 
 passions only, and (2) that the use of reason is to be subservient 
 to the passions, this, at first hearing, appears a shocking para- 
 dox, repugnant to good morals and to common sense ; but, like 
 most other paradoxes, when explained according to his meaning, 
 it is nothng but an abuse of words. ,] 
 
 For if we give the name of passion to every principle of action, 
 in every degree, and give the name of reason solely to the power 
 of discerning the fitness of means to ends, it will be true, that 
 the use of reason is to be subservient to the passions. 
 
 [As I wish to use words as agreeably as possible to their com- 
 mon use in language, I shall, by the word passion, mean, not any 
 principle of action distinct from those desires and affections 
 before explained, but such a degree of vehemence in them, or in 
 any of them, as is apt to produce those effects upon the body or 
 upon the mind which have been above described.*] 
 
 Our appetites, even when vehement, are not, I think, very 
 commonly called passions, yet they are capable of being inflamed 
 to rage, and in that case their effects are very similar to those 
 of the passions ; and what is said of one may be applied to 
 both. 
 
 VI. Common division of the passions. — Having explained what 
 I mean by passions, I think it unnecessary to enter into any enu- 
 meration of them, since they differ, not in kind, but rather in 
 degree, from the principles already enumerated. 
 
 The common division of the passions into desire and aversion, 
 hope and fear, joy and grief, has been mentioned almost by every 
 author who has treated of them, and needs no explication. But 
 we may observe, that these are ingredients or modifications, not 
 of the passions only, but of every principle of action, animal and 
 rational. 
 
 * Vide Definition of Passion, sec. ii. of this chap. 
 O 
 
194 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. VI. 
 
 All of them imply the desire of some object ; and the desire 
 of an object cannot be without aversion to its contrary ; and, 
 according as the object is present or absent, desire and aversion 
 will be variously modified into joy or grief, hope or fear. It is 
 evident, that desire and aversion, joy and grief, hope and fear, 
 may be either calm and sedate, or vehement and passionate. 
 
 VII. Influence of passion. — Passing these, therefore, as com- 
 mon to all principles of action, whether calm or vehement, I 
 shall only make some observations on passion in general, which 
 tend to show its influence on human conduct. 
 
 [First, It is passion that makes us liable to strong temptations. 
 Indeed, if we had no passions, we should hardly be under any 
 temptation to wrong conduct. For, when we view things calmly, 
 and free from any of the false colours which passion throws upon 
 them, we can hardly fail to see the right and the wrong, and to 
 see that the first is more eligible than the last.] 
 
 I believe a cool and deliberate preference of ill to good is never 
 the first step into vice. 
 
 " When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and 
 that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make 
 one wise, she took of the fruit thereof and did eat, and gave also 
 to her husband with her and he did eat ; and the eyes of them 
 both were opened." Inflamed desire had blinded the eyes of 
 their understanding. 
 
 Fix'd on the fruit she gazed, which to behold 
 Might tempt alone ; and in her ears the sound 
 Yet rung of his persuasive words impregn'd 
 With reason to her seeming, and with truth. 
 
 Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste, 
 
 Of virtue to make wise, what hinders then 
 
 To reach and feed at once both body and mind? — Milton. 
 
 Thus our first parents were tempted to disobey their Maker, 
 and all their posterity are liable to temptation from the same 
 cause. ( Passion, or violent appetite, first blinds the understand- 
 ing, and then perverts the will. N 
 
 [It is passion, therefore, and the vehement motions of appetite, 
 that make us liable, in our present state, to strong temptations 
 to deviate from our duty. This is the lot of human nature in 
 the present period of our existence.] 
 
 ( Human virtue must gather strength by struggle and effort.^ 
 Iggp As infants, before they can walk without stumbling, must 
 be exposed to many a fall and bruise ; as wrestlers acquire their 
 strength and agility by many a combat and violent exertion; so 
 it is in the noblest powers of human nature, as well as the mean- 
 est, and even in virtue itself. 
 
 It is not only made manifest by temptation and trial, but by 
 these means it acquires its strength and vigour. 
 
OF passion. 295 
 
 Men must acquire patience by suffering, and fortitude by 
 being exposed to danger, and every other virtue by situations 
 that put it to trial and exercise. 
 
 This, for any thing we know, may be necessary in the nature 
 of things. It is certainly a law of nature with regard to man. 
 
 Whether there may be orders of intelligent and moral crea- 
 tures who never were subject to any temptation, nor had their 
 virtue put to any trial, we cannot without presumption deter- 
 mine. But it is evident, that this neither is, nor ever was the 
 lot of man, not even in the state of innocence. 
 
 Sad, indeed, would be the condition of man, if the temptations 
 to which, by the constitution of his nature, and by his circum- 
 stances, he is liable, were irresistible. Such a state would not at 
 all be a state of trial and discipline. 
 
 Our condition here is such, that, on the one hand, passion 
 often tempts and solicits us to do wrong; on the other hand, 
 reason and conscience oppose the dictates of passion. The flesh 
 lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh. And 
 upon the issue of this conflict, the character of the man and his 
 fate depend. 
 
 If reason be victorious, his virtue is strengthened ; he has the 
 inward satisfaction of having fought a good fight in behalf of his 
 duty, and the peace of his mind is preserved. 
 
 If, on the other hand, passion prevails against the sense of 
 duty, the man is conscious of having done what he ought not, 
 and might not have done. His own heart condemns him, and he 
 is guilty to himself. 
 
 This conflict between the passions of our animal nature and 
 the calm dictates of reason and conscience, is not a theory in- 
 vented to solve the phenomena of human conduct ; it is a fact, of 
 which every man who attends to his own conduct is conscious. 
 
 giT In the most ancient philosophy, of which we have any 
 account, I mean that of the Pythagorean school, the mind of man 
 was compared to a state or commonwealth, in which there are 
 various powers, some that ought to govern, and others that ought 
 to be subordinate. 
 
 The good of the whole, which is the supreme law in this, 
 as in every commonwealth, requires that this subordination be 
 preserved, and that the governing powers have always the ascend- 
 ant over the appetites and the passions. All wise and good con- 
 duct consists in this. All folly and vice in the prevalence of 
 passion over the dictates of reason. 
 
 [This philosophy was adopted by Plato ; and it is so agreeable 
 to what every man feels in himself, that it must always prevail 
 with men who think without bias to a system.] 
 
 The governing powers, of which these ancient philosophers 
 speak, are the same which I call the rational principles of action 
 
 o 2 
 
196 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 
 
 and which I shall have occasion to explain. I only mention 
 them here, because, without a regard to them, the influence of 
 the passions, and their rank in our constitution, cannot be dis- 
 tinctly understood. 
 
 VIII. [A secoiid observation is, that the impulse of passion is 
 not always to what is bad, but very often to what is good, and 
 what our reason approves. There are some passions, as Dr. 
 Hutcheson observes, that are benevolent, as well as others that 
 are selfish.] 
 
 The affections of resentment and emulation, with those that 
 spring from them, from their very nature, disturb and disquiet 
 the mind, though they be not carried beyond the bounds which 
 reason prescribes ; and therefore they are commonly called pas- 
 sions, even in their moderate degrees. From a similar cause, the 
 benevolent affections, which are placid in their nature, and are 
 rarely carried beyond the bounds of reason, are very seldom called 
 passions. We do not give the name of passion to benevolence, 
 gratitude or friendship. Yet [we must except from this general 
 rule, love between the sexes, which, as it commonly discomposes 
 the mind, and is not easily kept within reasonable bounds, is 
 always called a passion.] 
 
 All our natural desires and affections are good and necessary 
 parts of our constitution ; and passion, being only a certain 
 degree of vehemence in these, its natural tendency is to good, 
 and it is by accident that it leads us wrong. 
 
 Passion is very properly said to be blind. It looks not beyond 
 the present gratification. It belongs to reason to attend to the 
 accidental circumstances which may sometimes make that- grati- 
 fication improper or hurtful. When there is no impropriety in 
 it, much more when it is our duty, passion aids reason, and gives 
 additional force to its dictates. 
 
 Sympathy with the distressed may bring them a charitable 
 relief, when a calm sense of duty would be too weak to produce 
 the effect. 
 
 Objects, either good or ill, conceived to be very distant, when 
 they are considered coolly, have not that influence upon men 
 which in reason they ought to have. gg^ Imagination, like the 
 eye, diminisheth its objects in proportion to their distance. The 
 passions of hope and fear must be raised, in order to give such 
 objects their due magnitude in the imagination, and their due 
 influence upon our conduct. 
 
 The dread of disgrace and of the civil magistrate, and the 
 apprehension of future punishment, prevent many crimes, which 
 bad men, without these restraints, would commit, and contribute 
 greatly to the peace and good order of society. 
 
 [There is no bad action which some passion may not prevent ; 
 nor is there any external good action, of which some passion may 
 
OF PASSION. 197 
 
 not be the main spring ; and, it is very probable, that even 
 the passions of men, upon the whole, do more good to society 
 than hurt.'] 
 
 The ill that is done draws our attention more, and is imputed 
 solely to human passions. The good may have better motives, 
 and charity leads us to think that it has ; but, as we see not the 
 heart, it is impossible to determine what share men's passions 
 may have in its production. 
 
 IX. [The last observation is, that if we distinguish, in the 
 effects of our passions, those which are altogether involuntary, 
 and without the sphere of our power, from the effects which may 
 be prevented by an exertion, perhaps a great exertion, of self- 
 government ; we shall find the first to be good and highly useful, 
 and the last only to be bad.] 
 
 Not to speak of the effects of moderate passions upon the 
 health of the body, to which some agitation of this kind seems 
 to be no less useful than storms and tempests to the salubrity of 
 the air ; every passion naturally draws our attention to its object, 
 and interests us in it. 
 
 The mind of man is naturally desultory, and when it has no 
 interesting object in view, roves from one to another, without 
 fixing its attention upon any one. A transient and careless 
 glance is all that we bestow upon objects in which we take no 
 concern. It requires a strong degree of curiosity, or some more 
 important passion, to give us that interest in an object which is 
 necessary to our giving attention to it. And, without attention, 
 we can form no true and stable judgment of any object. 
 
 Take away the passions, and it is not easy to say how great a 
 part of mankind would resemble those frivolous mortals, who 
 never had a thought that engaged them in good earnest. 
 
 It is not mere judgment or intellectual ability that enables a 
 man to excel in any art or science. He must have a love and 
 admiration of it bordering upon enthusiasm, or a passionate 
 desire of the fame, or of some other advantage to be got by that 
 excellence. Without this, he would not undergo the labour and 
 fatigue of his faculties which it requires. So that, I think, we 
 may with justice allow no small merit to the passions, even in 
 the discoveries and improvements of the arts and sciences. 
 
 If the passions for fame and distinction were extinguished, it 
 would be difficult to find men ready to undertake the cares and 
 toils of government ; and few perhaps would make the exertions 
 necessary to raise themselves above the ignoble vulgar. 
 
 The involuntary signs of the passions and dispositions of the 
 mind, in the voice, features, and action, are a part of the human 
 constitution which deserves admiration. The signification of 
 those signs is known to all men by nature, and previous to all 
 experience. 
 
198 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. VII. 
 
 |jgr They are so many openings into the souls of our fellow 
 men, by which their sentiments become visible to the eye. They 
 are a natural language common to mankind, without which it 
 would have been impossible to have invented any artificial 
 language. 
 
 X. [It is from the natural signs of the passions and disposi- 
 tions of the mind, that the human form derives its beauty ; that 
 painting, poetry, and music, derive their expression ; that elo~ 
 quence derives its greatest force, and conversation its greatest 
 charm.] 
 
 ( The passions, when kept within their proper bounds, give life 
 and vigour to the whole man. ) Without them man would be a 
 slug. We see what polish and animation the passion of love, 
 when honourable and not unsuccessful, gives to both sexes. 
 
 The passion for military glory raises the brave commander in 
 the day of battle, far above himself, making his countenance to 
 shine, and his eyes to sparkle. The glory of Old England warms 
 the heart even of the British tar, and makes him despise every 
 danger. 
 
 As to the bad effects of passion, it must be acknowledged that 
 it often gives a strong impulse to what is bad, and what a man 
 condemns himself for, as soon as it is done. But he must be 
 conscious that the impulse, though strong, was not irresistible, 
 otherwise he could not condemn himself. 
 
 We allow that a sudden and violent passion, into winch a man 
 is surprised, alleviates a bad action ; but if it was irresistible, it 
 would not only alleviate, but totally exculpate, which it never 
 does, either in the judgment of the man himself, or of others. 
 
 To sum up all, passion furnishes a very strong instance of the 
 truth of the common maxim, that the corruption of the best 
 things is worst. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF DISPOSITION. 
 
 T. [By disposition I mean a state of mind ivhich, while it lasts, 
 gives a tendency, or proneness, to be moved by certain animal 
 principles, rather than by others ; while, at another time, another 
 state of mind, in the same person, may give the ascendant to 
 other animal principles.] 
 
 It was before observed, that it is a property of our appetites 
 to be periodical, ceasing for a time, when sated by their objects, 
 and returning regularly after certain periods. 
 
 Even those principles which are not periodical, have their ebbs 
 and flows occasionally, according to the present disposition of 
 the mind. 
 
OF DISPOSITION. 1 99 
 
 Among some of the principles of action there is a natural affi- 
 nity, so that one of the tribe naturally disposes to those which 
 are allied to it. 
 
 Such an affinity has been observed by many good authors to 
 be among all the benevolent affections. The exercise of one 
 benevolent affection gives a proneness to the exercise of others. 
 
 There is a certain placid and agreeable tone of mind which is 
 common to them all, which seems to be the bond of that con- 
 nexion and affinity they have with one another. 
 
 The malevolent affections have also an affinity, and mutually 
 dispose to each other, by means, perhaps, of that disagreeable 
 feeling common to them all, which makes the mind sore and 
 uneasy. 
 
 II. [As far as we can trace the causes of the different dispositions 
 of the mind, they seem to be in some cases owing (1) to those asso- 
 ciating powers of the principles of action, which have a natural 
 affinity, and are prone to keep company with one another ; 
 sometimes (2) to accidents of good or bad fortune, and sometimes, 
 no doubt, (3) the state of the body may have influence upon the 
 disposition of the mind.] 
 
 At one time the state of the mind, like a serene unclouded 
 sky, shows every thing in the most agreeable light. Then a 
 man is prone to benevolence, compassion, and every kind affec- 
 tion ; unsuspicious, not easily provoked. 
 
 The poets have observed that men have their mollia tempora 
 fandi, when they are averse from saying or doing a harsh thing ; 
 and artful men watch these occasions, and know how to improve 
 them to promote their ends. 
 
 III. The excellent consequences of good humour.— This dispo- 
 sition, I think, we commonly call good humour, of which, in the 
 fair sex, Mr. Pope says, 
 
 [ Good humour only teaches charms to last, 
 Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past. 
 
 [(1) There is no disposition more comfortable to the person 
 himself, or more agreeable to others, than good humour. (2) It 
 is to the mind, what good health is to the body, putting a man 
 in the capacity of enjoying every thing that is agreeable in life, 
 and of using every faculty without clog or impediment. (3) 
 It disposes to contentment with our lot, (4) to benevolence to all 
 men, (5) to sympathy with the distressed. (6) It presents every 
 object in the most favourable light, and (7) disposes us to avoid 
 giving or taking offence.] 
 
 [This happy disposition seems to be the natural fruit of a good 
 conscience, and a firm belief that the world is under a wise and 
 benevolent administration ; jand, when it springs from this root, 
 it is an habitual sentiment of piety^J 
 
200 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VII. 
 
 Good humour is likewise apt to be produced by happy success, 
 or unexpected good fortune. Joy and hope are favourable to it ; 
 vexation and disappointment are unfavourable.] 
 
 The only danger of this disposition seems to be, that if we 
 are not upon our guard, it may degenerate into levity, and 
 indispose us to a proper degree of caution, and of attention to 
 the future consequences of our actions. 
 
 IV. [There is a disposition opposite to good humour which we 
 call bad humour, of which the tendency is directly contrary, and 
 therefore its influence is as malignant as that of the other is 
 salutary.] 
 
 Bad humour alone is sufficient to make a man unhappy ; it 
 tinges every object with its own dismal colour ; and, like a part 
 that is galled, is hurt by every thing that touches it. It takes 
 offence where none was meant, and disposes to discontent, jea- 
 lousy, envy, and, in general, to malevolence. 
 
 V. Elation, magnanimity, a sense of honour and pride. — An- 
 other couple of opposite dispositions are elation of mind, on the 
 one hand, and depression on the other. 
 
 These contrary dispositions are both of an ambiguous nature ; 
 their influence may be good or bad, according as they are 
 grounded on true or false opinion, and according as they are 
 regulated. 
 
 That elation of mind which arises from a just sense of the dig- 
 nity of our nature, and of the powers and faculties with which 
 God hath endowed us, is true magnanimity, and disposes a man 
 to the noblest virtues, and the most heroic actions and enterprises. 
 
 There is also an elation of mind which arises from a conscious- 
 ness of our worth and integrity, such as Job felt, when he said, 
 " Till I die, I will not remove my integrity from me. My 
 righteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go ; my heart shall 
 not reproach me while I live." This may be called the pride of 
 virtue ; but it is a noble pride. It makes a man disdain to do 
 what is base or mean. This is the true sense of honour. 
 
 But there is an elation of mind arising from a vain opinion 
 of our having talents, or worth, which we have not ; or from 
 putting an undue value upon any of our endowments of mind, 
 body, or fortune. This is pride, the parent of many odious vices ; 
 such as arrogance, undue contempt of others, self-partiality, and 
 vicious self-love. 
 
 VI. Depression, humility, meanness. — The opposite disposi- 
 tion to elation of mind, is depression, which also has good or bad 
 effects, according as it is grounded upon true or false opinion. 
 
 [A just sense of the weakness and imperfections of human 
 nature, and of our own personal faults and defects, is true 
 humility. It is not to think of ourselves above tvhat we ought 
 to think :] a most salutary and amiable disposition ;; of great 
 
OF DISPOSITION. 20\ 
 
 price in the sight of God and man./ Nor is it inconsistent with 
 real magnanimity and greatness of soul. They may dwell toge- 
 ther with great advantage and ornament to both, and be faithful 
 monitors against the extremes to which each has the greatest 
 tendency.] 
 
 But there is a depression of mind which is the opposite to 
 magnanimity, which debilitates the springs of action, and freezes 
 every sentiment that should lead to any noble exertion or en- 
 terprise. 
 
 Suppose a man to have no belief of a good administration of 
 the world, no conception of the dignity of virtue, no hope of 
 happiness in another state. Suppose him, at the same time, in 
 a state of extreme poverty and dependence, and that he has no 
 higher aim than to supply his bodily wants, or to minister to the 
 pleasure, or flatter the pride, of some being as worthless as him- 
 self. Is not the soul of such a man depressed as much as his 
 body or his fortune ? And, if fortune should smile upon him 
 while he retains the same sentiments, he is only the slave of for- 
 tune. His mind is depressed to the state of a brute, and his 
 human faculties serve only to make him feel that depression. 
 
 Depression of mind may be owing to melancholy, a distemper 
 of mind which proceeds from the state of the body, which throws 
 a dismal gloom upon every object of thought, cuts all the sinews 
 of action, and often gives rise to strange and absurd opinions in 
 religion, or in other interesting matters. Yet, where there is 
 real worth at bottom, some rays of it will break forth even in 
 this depressed state of mind. 
 
 ®3F A remarkable instance of this was exhibited in Mr. Simon 
 Brown, a dissenting clergyman in England, who, by melancholy, 
 was led into the belief that his rational soul had gradually de- 
 cayed within him, and at last was totally extinct. From this 
 belief he gave up his ministerial function, and would not even 
 join with others in any act of worship, conceiving it to be a pro- 
 fanation to worship God without a soul. 
 
 In this dismal state of mind, he wrote an excellent defence of 
 the Christian religion, against Tindal's " Christianity as old as 
 the Creation." To the book he prefixed an epistle dedicatory 
 to Queen Caroline, wherein he mentions, " That he was once 
 a man, but, by the immediate hand of God, for his sins, his 
 very thinking substance has, for more than seven years, been 
 continually wasting away, till it is wholly perished out of him, 
 if it be not utterly come to nothing." And, having heard of 
 her Majesty's eminent piety, he begs the aid of her prayers. 
 
 The book was published after his death without the dedica- 
 tion, which, however, having been preserved in manuscript, was 
 afterwards printed in the " Adventurer," No. 88. 
 
 Thus this good man, when he believed that he had no soul, 
 
202 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 
 
 showed a most generous and disinterested concern for those who 
 had souls. 
 
 As depression of mind may produce strange opinions, espe- 
 cially in the case of melancholy, so our opinions may have a very 
 considerable influence, either to elevate or to depress the mind, 
 even where there is no melancholy. 
 
 Suppose, on the one hand, a man who believes that he is destined 
 to an eternal existence ; that he who made, and who governs the 
 world, maketh account of him, and hath furnished him with the 
 means of attaining a high degree of perfection and glory. With 
 this man compare, on the other hand, the man who believes no- 
 thing at all, or who believes that his existence is only the play 
 of atoms, and that, after he hath been tossed about by blind 
 fortune for a few years, he shall again return to nothing. Can 
 it be doubted, that the former opinion leads to elevation and great- 
 ness of mind, the latter to meanness and depression ? 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 OF OPINION. 
 
 I. Influence of opinion upon our animal principles. — When 
 we come to explain the rational principles of action, it will 
 appear that opinion is an essential ingredient in them. Here we 
 are only to consider its influence upon the animal principles. 
 Some of those I have ranked in that class cannot, I think, exist 
 in the human mind without it. 
 
 Gratitude supposes the opinion of a favour done or intended ; 
 resentment the opinion of an injury; esteem the opinion of 
 merit ; the passion of love supposes the opinion of uncommon 
 merit and perfection in its object. 
 
 Although natural affection to parents, children, and near re- 
 lations, is not grounded on the opinion of their merit, it is much 
 increased by that consideration. So is every benevolent affection. 
 On the contrary, real malevolence can hardly exist without the 
 opinion of demerit in the object. 
 
 There is no natural desire or aversion, which may not be 
 restrained by opinion. v Thus, if a man were athirst, and had a 
 strong desire to drink, the opinion that there was poison in the 
 cup would make him forbear. 
 
 It is evident that hope and fear, which every natural desire or 
 affection may create, depend upon the opinion of future good 
 or ill. 
 
 [Thus it appears that our passions, our dispositions, and our 
 opinions, have great influence upon our animal principles, to 
 strengthen or weaken, to excite or restrain them ; and, by that 
 means, have great influence upon human actions and characters.] 
 
OF OPINION. 20S 
 
 II. [That brute animals have both passions and dispositions 
 similar, in many respects, to those of men, cannot be doubted. 
 Whether they have opinions, is not so clear. I think they have 
 not, in the proper sense of the word.] But, waving all dispute 
 upon this point, it will be granted that opinion in men has a 
 much wider field than in brutes. No man will say, that they 
 have systems of theology, morals, jurisprudence or politics ; or 
 that they can reason from the laws of nature, in mechanics, 
 medicine, or agriculture. 
 
 They feel the evils or enjoyments that are present ; probably 
 they imagine those which experience has associated with what 
 they feel. But they can take no large prospect either of the 
 past or of the future, nor see through a train of consequences. 
 
 j^° A dog may be deterred from eating what is before him, 
 by the fear of immediate punishment, which he has felt on like 
 occasions ; but he is never deterred by the consideration of 
 health, or of any distant good. 
 
 |gp I have been credibly informed that a monkey having once 
 been intoxicated with strong drink, in consequence of which it 
 burnt its foot in the fire, and had a severe fit of sickness, could 
 never after be induced to drink any thing but pure water. I be- 
 lieve this is the utmost pitch which the faculties of brutes can reach. 
 
 III. [From the influence of opinion upon the conduct of man- 
 kind, we may learn that it is one of the chief instruments to be 
 used in the discipline and government of men.~\ 
 
 All men, in the early part of life, must be under the discipline 
 and government of parents and tutors. . Men who live in society 
 must be under the government of laws and magistrates, through 
 life. The government of men is undoubtedly one of the noblest 
 exertions of human power. And it is of great importance that 
 those who have any share, either in domestic or civil government, 
 should know the nature of man, and how he is to be trained 
 and governed. J 
 
 Of all instruments of government, opinion is the sweetest, and 
 the most agreeable to the nature of man. Obedience that flows 
 from opinion, is real freedom, which every man desires. That 
 which is extorted by fear of punishment, is slavery; a yoke 
 which is always galling, and which every man will shake off 
 when it is in his power. 
 
 The opinions of the bulk of mankind have always been, and 
 will always be, what they are taught by those whom they esteem 
 to be wise and good ; and therefore, in a considerable degree, 
 are in the power of those who govern them. 
 
 ( Man, uncorrupted by bad habits and bad opinions, is of all 
 animals the most tractable ; corrupted by these, he is of all ani- 
 mals the most untractable. ) 
 
 IV. Analogy between the discipline of body and mind.^-I appre- 
 
204 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 
 
 hend, therefore, that, if ever civil government shall be brought 
 to perfection, it must be the principal care of the state to make 
 good citizens by proper education, and proper instruction and 
 discipline. 
 
 0§F The most useful part of medicine is that which strength- 
 ens the constitution, and prevents diseases by good regimen ; 
 the rest is somewhat like propping a ruinous fabric at great ex- 
 pense, and to little purpose. The art of government is the me- 
 dicine of the mind, and the most useful part of it is that which 
 prevents crimes and bad habits, and trains men to virtue and good 
 habits, by proper education and discipline. 
 ■ The end of government is to make the society happy, which 
 can only be done by making it good and virtuous. / 
 
 That men in general will be good or bad members of society, 
 according to the education and discipline by which they have 
 been trained, experience may convince us. 
 
 The present age has made great advances in the art of training 
 men to military duty. It will not be said that those who enter 
 into that service are more tractable than their fellow-subjects of 
 other professions. And I know not why it should be thought 
 impossible to train men to equal perfection in the other duties 
 of good citizens. 
 
 What an immense difference is there, for the purpose of war, 
 between an army properly trained, and a militia hastily drawn 
 out of the multitude ? What should hinder us from thinking 
 that, for every purpose of civil government, there may be a like 
 difference between a civil society properly trained to virtue, good 
 habits and right sentiments, and those civil societies which we 
 now behold ? — But I fear I shall be thought to digress from my 
 subject into Utopian speculation. 
 
 Y. Man actuated by no sense of duty, considered. — [To make 
 an end of what I have to say upon the animal principles of 
 action, we may take a complex view of their effect in Hfe, by 
 supposing a being actuated by principles of no higher order, to 
 have no conscience or sense of duty, only let us allow him that 
 superiority of understanding, and that power of self-government 
 which man actually has. Let us speculate a little upon this 
 imaginary being, and consider what conduct and tenor of action 
 might be expected from him.] 
 
 It is evident he would be a very different animal from a brute, 
 and perhaps not very different, in appearance, from what a great 
 part of mankind is. 
 
 He would be capable of considering the distant consequences 
 of his actions, and of restraining or indulging his appetites, 
 desires, and affections, from the consideration of distant good 
 or evil. 
 
 He would be capable of choosing some main end of his life, 
 
OF OPINION. 205 
 
 and planning such a rule of conduct as appeared most subservient 
 to it. Of this, we have reason to think no brute is capable. 
 
 We can, perhaps, conceive such a balance of the animal prin- 
 ciples of action, as, with very little self-government, might make 
 a man to be a good member of society, a good companion, and 
 to have many amiable qualities. 
 
 The balance of our animal principles, I think, constitutes 
 what we call a man's natural temper ; which may be good or bad 
 with regard to his virtue. 
 
 A man in whom the benevolent aifections, the desire of esteem 
 and good humour, are naturally prevalent, who is of a calm and 
 dispassionate nature, who has the good fortune to live with good 
 men, and associate with good companions, may behave properly 
 with little effort. 
 
 His natural temper leads him, in most cases, to do what 
 virtue requires. And if he happens not to be exposed to those 
 trying situations, in which virtue crosses the natural bent of his 
 temper, he has no great temptation to act amiss. 
 
 But perhaps a happy natural temper, joined with such a happy 
 situation, is more ideal than real, though no doubt some men 
 make nearer approaches to it than others. 
 
 The temper and the situation of men is commonly such, that 
 the animal principles alone, without self-government, would 
 never produce any regular and consistent train of conduct. 
 
 One principle crosses another. Without self-government, that 
 which is strongest at the time will prevail. And that which is 
 weakest at one time may, from passion, from a change of dis- 
 position or of fortune, become strongest at another time. 
 
 Every natural appetite, desire, and affection, has its own pre- 
 sent gratification only in view. [A man, therefore, who has no 
 other leader than these, would be like a ship in the ocean with- 
 out hands, which cannot be said to be destined to any port. He 
 would have no character at all, but be benevolent or spiteful, 
 pleasant or morose, honest or dishonest, as the present wind 
 of passion or tide of humour moved him.] 
 
 VI. [Every man who pursues an end, be it good or bad, must 
 be active when he is disposed to be indolent ; he must rein 
 every passion and appetite that would lead him out of his road.] 
 
 Mortification and self-denial are found not in the paths of 
 virtue only ; they are common to every road that leads to an end, 
 be it ambition, or avarice, or even pleasure itself. Every man 
 who maintains an uniform and consistent character, must sweat 
 and toil, and often struggle with his present inclination. 
 
 Yet those who steadily pursue some end in life, though they 
 must often restrain their strongest desires, and practise much 
 self-denial, have, upon the whole, more enjoyment than those 
 who have no end at all, but to gratify the present prevailing 
 inclination. 
 
^06 ESSAY III.— PART TIL CHAP. I. 
 
 fiST A dog that is made for the chase, cannot enjoy the hap- 
 piness of a dog without that exercise. Keep him within doors, 
 feed him with the most delicious fare, give him all the plea- 
 sures his nature is capable of, he soon becomes a dull, torpid, 
 unhappy animal. No enjoyment can supply the want of that 
 employment which nature has made his chief good. Let him 
 hunt, and neither pain nor hunger, nor fatigue seem to be evils. 
 Deprived of this exercise, he can relish nothing. Life itself 
 becomes burdensome. 
 
 It is no disparagement to the human kind to say, that man, 
 as well as the dog, is made for hunting, and cannot be happy 
 but in some vigorous pursuit. He has indeed nobler game to 
 pursue than the dog, but he must have some pursuit, other- 
 wise life stagnates, all the faculties are benumbed, the spirits 
 flag, and his existence becomes an unsurmoun table burden.? 
 
 Even the mere foxhunter, who has no higher pursuit"' than 
 his dogs, has more enjoyment than he who has no pursuit at 
 all. He has an end in view, and this invigorates his spirits, 
 makes him despise pleasure, and bear cold, hunger, and fatigue, 
 as if they were no evils. 
 
 " Manet sub Jove frigido 
 Venator, tenerse conjugis immemor ; 
 Seu visa est catulis cerva fidelibus 
 Seu rupit teretes Marsus aper plagas." 
 
 " The hunter, chill'd by midnigbt Jove 
 Forgets his tender, wedded love, 
 Whether his faithful hounds pursue, 
 And hold the bounding hind in view : 
 Or Marsian boar, fierce-foaming, foils 
 The chace, and breaks the spreading toils." 
 
 PART III. 
 
 OF THE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THERE ARE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN MAN. 
 
 I. Mechanical principles* of action produce their effect 
 without any will or intention on our part. We may, by a 
 voluntary effort, hinder the effect; but if it be not hindered by 
 will and effort, it is produced without them. 
 
 Animal principles of action require intention and will in their 
 operation, but not judgment. They are, by ancient moralists, 
 very properly called caecce cupidities, blind desires. 
 
 Having treated of these two classes, [I proceed to the third, 
 * Vide Essay III. chap, ill., sect. 1, p. 151. 
 
RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN MAN. gQT 
 
 the rational principles of action in man ; which have that name, 
 because they can have no existence in beings not endowed with 
 reason, and, in all their exertions, require, not only intention 
 and will, but judgment or reason.] 
 
 That talent which we call reason, by which men that are adult 
 and of a sound mind, are distinguished from brutes, idiots, and 
 infants, has, in all ages, among the learned and unlearned, been 
 conceived to have two offices, to regulate our belief, and to regu- 
 late our actions and conduct. 
 
 Whatever we believe, we think agreeable to reason, and, on 
 that account, yield our assent to it. Whatever we disbelieve, 
 we think contrary to reason, and, on that account, dissent from 
 it. Reason, therefore, is allowed to be the principle by which 
 our belief and opinions ought to be regulated. 
 
 But reason has been no less universally conceived to be a 
 principle, by which our actions ought to be regulated. 
 
 To act reasonably, is a phrase no less common in all languages, 
 than to judge reasonably. We immediately approve of a man's 
 conduct, when it appears that he had good reason for what he 
 did. And every action we disapprove, we think unreasonable, 
 or contrary to reason. 
 
 A way of speaking so universal among men, common to the 
 learned and the unlearned in all nations, and in all languages, 
 must have a meaning. To suppose it to be words without mean- 
 ing, is to treat, with undue contempt, the common sense of 
 mankind. 
 
 Supposing this phrase to have a meaning, we may consider in 
 what way reason may serve to regulate human conduct, so that 
 some actions of men are to be denominated reasonable, and 
 others unreasonable. 
 
 I take it for granted, that there can be no exercise of reason 
 without judgment, nor, on the other hand, any judgment of 
 things abstract and general, without some degree of reason. 
 
 If, therefore, there be any principles of action in the human 
 constitution, which, in their nature, necessarily imply such judg- 
 ment, they are the principles which we may call rational, to dis- 
 tinguish them from animal principles, which imply desire and 
 will, but not judgment; and from mechanical, which imply 
 neither will nor intention. 
 
 II. Humes error as to one of the chief offices of reason. — Every 
 deliberate human action must be done either as the means, or as 
 an end ; as the means to some end, to which it is subservient, 
 or as an end, for its own sake, and without regard to any thing 
 beyond it. 
 
 That it is a part of the office of reason to determine, what 
 are the proper means to any end which we desire, no man ever 
 denied. But some philosophers, particularly Mr. Hume, think 
 
^08 ESSAY III.— PART IIT. CHAP. II. 
 
 that it is no part of the office of reason to determine the ends we 
 ought to pursue, or the preference due to one end above another. 
 This, he thinks, is not the office of reason, but of taste or feeling. 
 
 If this be so, reason cannot, with any propriety, be called a 
 principle of action. Its office can only be to minister to the 
 principles of action, by discovering the means of their gratifi- 
 cation. Accordingly, Mr. Hume maintains, that reason is no 
 principle of action; but that it is, and ought to be, the servant 
 of the passions. 
 
 I shall endeavour to show, that, among the various ends of 
 human actions, there are some, of which, without reason, we 
 could not even form a conception ; and that, as soon as they are 
 conceived, a regard to them is, by our constitution, not only a 
 principle of action, but a leading and governing principle, to 
 which all our animal principles are subordinate, and to which 
 they ought to be subject. 
 
 These I shall call rational principles ; because they can exist 
 only in persons endowed with reason, and because, to act from 
 these principles, is what has always been meant by acting accord- 
 ing to reason. 
 
 The ends of human actions I have in view, are two, to wit, 
 what is good for us upon the whole, and what appears to be our 
 duty. They are very strictly connected, lead to the same course 
 of conduct, and co-operate with each other; and, on that ac- 
 count, have commonly been comprehended under one name, that 
 of reason. But as they may be disjoined, and are really distinct 
 principles of action, I shall consider them separately. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE WHOLE. 
 
 I. Chief spring of our early actions. — It will not be denied 
 that man, when he comes to years of understanding, is led by 
 his rational nature, to form the conception of what is good for 
 him upon the whole. 
 
 How early in life this general notion of good enters into the 
 mind, I cannot pretend to determine. It is one of the most 
 general and abstract notions we form. 
 
 Whatever makes a man more happy, or more perfect, is good, 
 and is an object of desire as soon as we are capable of forming 
 the conception of it. The contrary is ill, and is an object of 
 aversion. 
 
 In the first part of life we have many enjoyments of various 
 kinds ; but very similar to those of brute-animals. ^ 
 
 They consist in the exercise of our senses ana powers of 
 
OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE WHOLE. gQ9 
 
 motion, the gratification of our appetites, and the exertions of 
 our kind affections. These are chequered with many evils of 
 pain, and fear, and disappointment, and sympathy with the suf- 
 fering of others. 
 
 But the goods and evils of this period of life are of short 
 duration, and soon forgot. The mind being regardless of the 
 past, and unconcerned about the future, we have then no other 
 measure of good but the present desire ; no other measure of 
 evil but the present aversion. 
 
 Every animal desire has some particular and present object, 
 and looks not beyond that object to its consequences, or to the 
 connexions it may have with other things. 
 
 The present object, which is most attractive, or excites the 
 strongest desire, determines the choice, whatever be its conse- 
 quences. The present evil that presses most is avoided, though 
 it should be the road to a greater good to come, or the only way 
 to escape a greater evil. [This is the way in which brutes act, 
 and the way in which men must act, till they come to the use of 
 reason.] 
 
 II. The conception of what is good or ill for us upon the whole, 
 the offspring of reason. — As we grow up to understanding, we 
 extend our view both forward and backward. We reflect upon 
 what is past, and, by the lamp of experience, discern what will 
 probably happen in time to come. We find that many things 
 which we eagerly desired, were too dearly purchased, and that 
 things grievous for the present, like nauseous medicines, may 
 be salutary in the issue. 
 
 I We learn to observe the connexions of things, and the conse- 
 quences of our actions ; and, taking an extended view of our 
 existence, past, present, and future, we correct our first notions 
 of good and ill, and form the conception of what is good or ill 
 upon the whole ; which must be estimated, not from the present 
 feeling, or from the present animal desire or aversion, but from 
 a due consideration of its consequences, certain or probable, 
 during the whole/ of our existence, i 
 
 That which, taken with all its discoverable connexions and 
 consequences, brings more good than ill, I call good upon the 
 whofa. 
 
 That brute animals have any conception of this good, I see no 
 reason to believe. And it is evident, that man cannot have the 
 conception of it, till reason be so far advanced, that he can 
 seriously reflect upon the past, and take a prospect of the future 
 part of his existence. 
 
 [It appears therefore, that the very conception of what is good 
 or ill for us upon the whole, is the offspring of reason, and can 
 be only in beings endowed with reason. And if this conception 
 give rise to any principle of action in man, which he had not 
 
 p 
 
210 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. II- 
 
 before, that principle may very properly be called a rational 
 principle of action.] 
 
 I pretend not in this to say any thing that is new, but what 
 reason suggested to those who first turned their attention to the 
 philosophy of morals. I beg leave to quote one passage from 
 Cicero, in his first book of " Offices ;" wherein, with his usual ele- 
 gance, he expresses the substance of what I have said. And 
 there is good reason to think that Cicero borrowed it from Panae- 
 tius, a Greek philosopher, whose books of Offices are lost. 
 
 " Sed inter hominem et belluam hoc maxime interest, quod 
 hsec tantum quantum sensu movetur, ad id solum quod adest, 
 quodque prsesens est se accommodat, paululum admodum sen- 
 tiens prseteritum aut futurum : homo autem quoniam rationis 
 est particeps, per quam consequentia cernit, causas rerum videt, 
 earumque praegressus et quasi antecessiones non ignorat : simili- 
 tudines comparat, et rebus prsesentibus adjungit atque annectit 
 futuras ; facile totius vitae cursum videt, ad eamque degendam 
 preparat res necessarias." — Lib. I. sect. iv. 
 
 " But between man and the lower animals, there is in other 
 respects the greatest difference. The latter, guided by the im- 
 pulse of their senses alone, are confined to what is present, or 
 near, with a very slight knowledge of the past or the future. 
 Man, however, who partakes of reason, distinguishes the causes 
 and the consequences of events, observes the progress, compares 
 similar circumstances, connects the past with the future, easily 
 surveys the whole course of life, and makes the necessary provi- 
 sion for its well-being." — Book I. sect. iv. 
 
 III. [I observe, in the next place, that as soon as we have the 
 conception of what is good or ill for us upon the whole, we are 
 led, by our constitution, to seek the good and avoid the ill ; and 
 this becomes not only a principle of action, but a leading or 
 governing principle, to which all our animal principles ought to 
 be subordinate.] 
 
 I am very apt to think, with Dr. Price, that, in intelligent 
 beings, the desire of what is good, and aversion to what is ill, is 
 necessarily connected with the intelligent nature ; and that it is 
 a contradiction to suppose such a being to have the notion of 
 good without the desire of it, or the notion of ill without aver- 
 sion to it. Perhaps there may be other necessary connexions 
 between understanding and the best principles of action, which 
 our faculties are too weak to discern. That they are necessarily 
 connected in him who is perfect in understanding, we have good 
 reason to believe. 
 
 To prefer a greater good, though distant, to a less that is pre- 
 sent ; to choose a present evil, in order to avoid a greater evil, or 
 to obtain a greater good, is, in the judgment of all men, wise and 
 reasonable conduct ; and, when a man acts the contrary part, all 
 
OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE WHOLE. %\\ 
 
 men will acknowledge, that he acts foolishly and unreasonably. 
 Nor will it be denied, that, in innumerable cases in common life, 
 our animal principles draw us one way, while a regard to what is 
 good on the whole, draws us the contrary way. Thus the flesh 
 lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh, and 
 these two are contrary. ( That in every conflict of this kind the 
 rational principle ought to prevail, and the animal to be subor- 
 dinate, is too evident to need, or to admit of proof. } 
 
 Thus, I think, it appears, that [to pursue what is good upon 
 the whole, and to avoid what is ill upon the whole, is a rational 
 principle of action) grounded upon our constitution as reasonable 
 creatures.] 
 
 It appears that it is not without just cause, that this principle 
 of action has in all ages been called reason, in opposition to our 
 animal principles, which in common language are called by the 
 general name of the passions. 
 
 The first not only operates in a calm and cool manner, like 
 reason, but implies real judgment in all its operations. The 
 second, to wit, the passions, are blind desires, of some particular 
 object, without any judgment or consideration, whether it be 
 good for us upon the whole, or ill. 
 
 It appears also, that the fundamental maxim of prudence and 
 of all good morals,( That the passions ought, in all cases, to be 
 under the dominion of reason, is not only self-evident, when 
 rightly understood, but is expressed according to the common 
 use and propriety of language. ; 
 
 The contrary maxim maintained by Mr. Hume, can only be 
 defended by a gross and palpable abuse of words. For, in order 
 to defend it, he must include under the passions, that very prin- 
 ciple which has always, in all languages, been called reason, and 
 never was, in any language, called a passion. And from the 
 meaning of the word reason he must exclude the most important 
 part of it, by which we are able to discern and to pursue what 
 appears to be good upon the whole. And thus, including the 
 most important part of reason under passion, and making the 
 least important part of reason to be the whole, he defends his 
 favourite paradox, that reason is, and ought to be, the servant of 
 the passions. 
 
 IV. Office of practical reason. — [To judge of what is true or 
 false in speculative points, is the office of speculative reason ; 
 and to judge of what is good or ill for us upon the whole, is the 
 office of practical reason.] Of true and false there are no de- 
 grees ; but of good and ill there are many degrees, and many 
 kinds ; and men are very apt to form erroneous opinions concern- 
 ing them ; misled by their passions, by the authority of the mul- 
 titude, and by other causes. 
 
 Wise men, in all ages, have reckoned it a chief point of wisdom, 
 
 p2 
 
2\2 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. II. 
 
 to make a right estimate of the goods and evils of life. They 
 have laboured to discover the errors of the multitude on this 
 important point, and to warn others against them. 
 
 The ancient moralists, though divided into sects, all agreed 
 in this, that opinion has a mighty influence upon what we 
 commonly account the goods and ills of life, to alleviate or to 
 aggravate them. 
 
 The Stoics carried this so far, as to conclude that they all 
 depend on opinion. Yldvra 'TitoX-ti^ls was a favourite maxim 
 with them. 
 
 We see, indeed, that the same station or condition of life 
 which makes one man happy, makes another miserable, and to 
 a third is perfectly indifferent. We see men miserable through 
 life, from vain fears, and anxious desires, grounded solely upon 
 wrong opinions. We see men wear themselves out with toilsome 
 days, and sleepless nights, in pursuit of some object which they 
 never attain ; or which, when attained, gives little satisfaction, 
 perhaps real disgust. 
 
 The evils of life, which every man must feel, have a very dif- 
 ferent effect upon different men. What sinks one into despair 
 and absolute misery, rouses the virtue and magnanimity of 
 another, who bears it as the lot of humanity, and as the disci- 
 pline of a wise and merciful Father in heaven. I He rises supe- 
 rior to adversity, and is made wiser and better by it, and conse- 
 quently happier, f 
 
 It is therefore of the last importance, in the conduct of life, 
 to have just opinions with respect to good and evil ; and surely 
 it is the province of reason to correct wrong opinions, and to lead 
 us into those that are just and true. 
 
 It is true indeed, that men's passions and appetites too often 
 draw them to act contrary to their cool judgment and opinion of 
 what is best for them. " Video meliora proboque, deteriora 
 sequor," — (I perceive and approve of better things, I follow 
 worse,) is the case in every wilful deviation from our true in- 
 terest and our duty. 
 
 When this is the case, the man is self-condemned, he sees that 
 he acted the part of a brute, when he ought to have acted the 
 part of a man. He is convinced that reason ought to have 
 restrained his passion, and not to have given the rein to it. 
 
 When he feels the bad effects of his conduct, he imputes them 
 to himself, and would be stung with remorse for his folly, though 
 he had no account to make to a superior Being. He has sinned 
 against himself, and brought upon his own head the punishment 
 which his folly deserved. 
 
 From this we may see, that this rational principle of a regard 
 to our good upon the whole, gives us the conception of a right 
 and a wrong in human conduct, at least of a wise and a foolish. 
 
THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE. ^\S 
 
 It produces a kind of self-approbation, when the passions and 
 appetites are kept in their due subjection to it ; and a kind of 
 remorse and compunction, when it yields to them. 
 
 In these respects, this principle is so similar to the moral prin- 
 ciple, or conscience, and so interwoven with it, that both are 
 commonly comprehended under the name of reason. [This simi- 
 larity led many of the ancient philosophers, and some among the 
 moderns, to resolve conscience, or a sense of duty, entirely into a 
 regard to what is good for us upon the whole.] 
 
 That they are distinct principles of action, though both lead to 
 the same conduct in life, I shall have occasion to show, when I 
 come to treat of conscience. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 
 
 I. Question of the ancient moralists, " What is the greatest 
 good V — It has been the opinion of the wisest men, in all ages, 
 that this principle, of a regard to our good upon the whole, in a 
 man duly enlightened, leads to the practice of every virtue. 
 
 This was acknowledged, even by Epicurus ; and the best 
 moralists among the ancients derived all the virtues from this 
 principle. For, among them, the whole of morals was reduced 
 to this question, what is the greatest good ? Or what course of 
 conduct is best for us upon the whole ? 
 
 In order to resolve this question, they divided goods into three 
 classes, the goods of the body ; the goods of fortune, or external 
 goods j and the goods of the mind ; meaning, by the last, wisdom 
 and virtue. 
 
 Comparing these different classes of goods, they showed, with 
 convincing evidence, that the goods of the mind are, in many 
 respects, superior to those of the body and of fortune, not only 
 I as they have more dignity, are more durable, and less exposed 
 to the strokes of fortune, but chiefly as they are the only goods 
 in our power, and which depend wholly on our conduct. 
 
 II. Fallacy of the Epicurean doctrine. — Epicurus himself 
 maintained, that the wise man may be happy in the tranquillity 
 of his mind, even when racked with pain, and struggling with 
 adversity. 
 
 They observed very justly, that the goods of fortune, and even 
 those of the body, depend much on opinion ; and that, when our 
 opinion of them is duly corrected by reason, we shall find them 
 of small value in themselves. 
 
 [How can he be happy who places his happiness in things which 
 it is not in his power to attain, or in things from which, when 
 
214 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. III. 
 
 attained, a fit of sickness, or a stroke of fortune, may tear him 
 asunder ?] 
 
 The value we put upon things, and our uneasiness in the want 
 of them, depend upon the strength of our desires ; correct the 
 desire, and the uneasiness ceases. 
 
 The fear of the evils of body and of fortune, is often a 
 greater evil than the things We fear. As the wise man mode- 
 rates his desires by temperance, so to real or imaginary dangers 
 he opposes the shield of fortitude and magnanimity, which raises 
 him above himself, and makes him happy and triumphant in those 
 moments wherein others are most miserable. 
 
 III. Doctrine of the Stoics not original. — These oracles of 
 reason led the Stoics so far as to maintain, that all desires and 
 fears, with regard to things not in our power, ought to be totally 
 eradicated; that virtue is the only good ; that what we call the 
 goods of the body and of fortune, are really things indifferent, 
 which may, according to circumstances, prove good or ill, and 
 therefore have no intrinsic goodness in themselves ; that our sole 
 business ought to be, to act our part well, and to do what is 
 I right, without the least concern about things not in our power, 
 which we ought, with perfect acquiescence, to leave to the care 
 of Him who governs the world. 
 
 [This noble and elevated conception of human wisdom and 
 duty was taught by Socrates, free from the extravagances which 
 the Stoics afterwards joined with it.] We see it in the Alci- 
 biades of Plato ; from which Juvenal hath taken it in his tenth 
 satire, and adorned it with the graces of poetry. 
 
 Omnibus in terris quse sunt a gadibus usque 
 Auroram et Ganger), pauci dignoscere possunt 
 Vera bona, atque illis multum diversa, remota 
 Ervoris nebula. Quid enim ratione timemus? 
 Aut cupimus? Quid tarn dextra pede concupis ut te 
 Conatus non pceniteat, votique peracti? 
 Nil ergo optabunt homines'? Si consilium vis, 
 Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus, quid 
 Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris. 
 Nam pro jucundis aptissima quae que dabunt Dii. 
 Charior est illis homo quam sibi. Nos animorum 
 Impulsu, et caeca magnaque cupidine ducti, 
 Conjugium petimus, partumque uxoris; at illis 
 Notum quipueri, qualisque futura sit uxor. 
 Fortem posce animum, et mortis terrore carentem, 
 Qui spatium vitae extremum inter munera ponat 
 Naturae ; qui ferre queat quoscunque labores, 
 Nesciat irasci, cupiat nihil, et potiores 
 Herculis aerumnas credat, saevosque labores 
 Et venere, et coenis, et plumis, Sardanapali. 
 
 Monstro quid ipse tibi possis dare. Semita certc 
 Tranquillae per virtutem patet unica vitaa. 
 Nullum numen abest si sit prudentia; sed te 
 Nos facimus fortuna Deam, cceloque locamus. 
 
THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 215 
 
 " In all lands that extend from Gades to the east and the Ganges, few can 
 distinguish true good things, and those greatly different from them, the cloud 
 of error being removed : for what, with reason, do we fear or desire ? What do 
 you contrive so prosperously, that you may not repent of your endeavours and 
 of your accomplished wish? Shall men, therefore, wish for nothing? If you 
 wish for advice, permit the gods themselves to consider what may suit us and 
 be useful to our affairs. For instead of what are pleasant, the gods will give 
 things that are fittest. Man is dearer to them than to himself. Led by the 
 impulse of our minds, and by a blind and great desire, we ask marriage and fruit- - 
 fulness in a wife ; but the gods alone know what sort those children and that 
 wife may prove to be. Ask for a mind firm and free from the fear of death, 
 which counts the last stage of life amongst the gifts of nature, — which can 
 endure any troubles whatsoever, — is unconscious of anger, — covets nothing, — 
 and which thinks the sufferings of Hercules and his cruel labours preferable 
 to the lasciviousness, luxury, and plumes of Sardanapalus. I point out what 
 you yourself may give to yourself, — undoubtedly the only path to a tranquil 
 life lies open through virtue. You would have no divinity, O Fortune, if we 
 had prudence; but we make you a goddess, and place you in heaven." 
 
 Even Horace, in his serious moments, falls into this system. 
 
 Nil admirari, prope res est una Numici, 
 Solaque .quag possit facere et servare beatum. 
 " Not to admire, is of all means the best, 
 The only means, to make, and keep us blest." 
 
 "We cannot but admire the Stoical system of morals, even 
 when we think that, in some points, it went beyond the pitch of 
 human nature. The virtue, the temperance, the fortitude, and 
 magnanimity of some who sincerely embraced it, amidst all the 
 flattery of sovereign power and the luxury of a court, will be 
 everlasting monuments to the honour of that system, and to the 
 honour of human nature. 
 
 That a due regard to what is best for us upon the whole, in an 
 enlightened mind, leads to the practice of every virtue, may be 
 argued from considering what we think best for those for whom 
 we have the strongest affection, and whose good we tender as 
 our own. In judging for ourselves, our passions and appetites 
 are apt to bias our judgment ; but when we judge for others, 
 this bias is removed, and we judge impartially. 
 
 What is it then that a wise man would wish as the greatest 
 good to a brother, a son, or a friend ? 
 
 Is it that he may spend his life in a constant round of the 
 pleasures of sense, and fare sumptuously every day ? 
 r No, surely : we wish him to be a man of real virtue and worth. 
 We may wish for him an honourable station in life ; but only 
 with this condition, that he acquit himself honourably in it, and 
 acquire just reputation, by being useful to his country and to 
 mankind. We would a thousand times rather wish him honour- 
 ably to undergo the labours of Hercules, than to dissolve in 
 pleasure with Sardanapalus. \ 
 
 Such would be the wish of every man of understanding for 
 
216 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. III. 
 
 I the friend whom he loves as his own soul. Such things, there- 
 fore, he judges to be best for him upon the whole; and if he 
 judges otherwise for himself, it is only because his judgment is 
 perverted by animal passions and desires. 
 
 IV. Recapitulation of what has been advanced relative to the 
 rational principles of action. — The sum of what has been said 
 in these three chapters amounts to this : 
 
 [ (1) There is a principle of action in men that are adult and 
 of a sound mind, which, in all ages, has been called reason, and 
 set in opposition to the animal principles which we call the pas- 
 sions.'] [(2) The ultimate object of this principle is what we 
 judge to be good upon the whole.] This is not the object of 
 any of our animal principles, they being all directed to parti- 
 cular objects, without any comparison with others, or any consi- 
 deration of their being good or ill upon the whole. 
 
 [ (3) What is good upon the whole cannot even be conceived 
 without the exercise of reason , and therefore cannot be an object 
 to beings that have not some degree of reason.] 
 
 [ (4) As soon as we have the conception of this object, we are 
 led, by our constitution, to desire and pursue it.] It justly claims 
 a preference to all objects of pursuit that can come in compe- 
 tition with it. In preferring it to any gratification that opposes 
 it, or in submitting to any pain or mortification which it requires, 
 we act according to reason ; and every such action is accompanied 
 with self-approbation and the approbation of mankind. The 
 contrary actions are accompanied with shame and self-condemna- 
 tion in the agent, and with contempt in the spectator, as foolish 
 and unreasonable. 
 
 [ (5) The right application of this principle to our conduct 
 requires an extensive prospect of human life, and a correct judg- 
 ment and estimate of its goods and evils, with respect to their 
 intrinsic worth and dignity, their constancy and duration, and 
 their attainableness.] He must be a wise man, indeed, if any 
 such man there be, who can perceive, in every instance, or even 
 in every important instance, what is best for him upon the whole, 
 if he have no other rule to direct his conduct. 
 / However, [ (6) according to the best judgment which wise 
 men have been able to form, this principle leads to the practice 
 of every virtue.'] It leads directly to the virtues of prudence, 
 temperance, and fortitude. And, when we consider ourselves 
 as social creatures, whose happiness or misery is very much con- 
 nected with that of our fellow-men ; when we consider, that 
 there are many benevolent affections planted in our constitution, 
 whose exertions make a capital part of our good and enjoyment ; 
 from these considerations, this principle leads us also, though 
 more indirectly, to the practice of justice, humanity, and all the 
 social virtues. ? 
 
DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 
 
 217 
 
 It is true, that a regard to our own good cannot, of itself, pro- 
 duce any benevolent affection. But, if such affections be a part 
 of our constitution, and if the exercise of them make a capital 
 part of our happiness, a regard to our own good ought to lead 
 us to cultivate and exercise them, as every benevolent affection 
 makes the good of others to be our own. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 
 
 I. The rational principle of action not the only regulator of 
 human conduct. — Having explained the nature of this principle 
 of action, and shown in general the tenor of conduct to which it 
 leads, I shall conclude what relates to it, by pointing out some 
 of its defects, if it be supposed, as it has been by some philo- 
 sophers, to be the only regulating principle of human conduct. 
 
 [Upon that supposition, it would (1) neither be a sufficiently 
 plain rule of conduct, (2) nor would it raise the human character 
 to that degree of perfection of which it is capable, (3) nor would 
 it yield so much real happiness as when it is joined with another 
 rational principle of action, to wit, a disinterested regard to 
 duty.] 
 
 First, I apprehend the greater part of mankind can never 
 attain such extensive views of human life, and so correct a judg- 
 ment of good and ill, as^ the right application of this principle 
 requires. 
 
 The authority of the poet before quoted is of weight in this 
 point. "Pauci dignoscere possunt vera bona, remota erroris 
 nebula."* The ignorance of the bulk of mankind concurs with 
 the strength of their passions to lead them into error in this 
 most important point. 
 
 Every man, in his calm moments, wishes to know what is best 
 for him on the whole, and to do it. But the difficulty of disco- 
 vering it clearly, amid such variety of opinions, and the impor- 
 tunity of present desires, tempt men to give over the search, 
 and to yield to the present inclination. 
 
 Though philosophers and moralists have taken much laudable 
 pains to correct the errors of mankind in this great point, their 
 instructions are known to few ; they have little influence upon 
 the greater part of those to whom they are known, and sometimes 
 little even upon the philosopher himself. 
 
 [Speculative discoveries gradually spread from the knowing 
 to the ignorant, and diffuse themselves over all, so that, with 
 
 * Page 214. 
 
gig ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 regard to them, the world, it may be hoped, will still be growing 
 wiser. But the errors of men, with regard to what is truly good 
 or ill, after being discovered and refuted in every age, are still 
 prevalent.] 
 
 Men stand in need of a sharper monitor to their duty than 
 a dubious view of distant good. There is reason to believe, that 
 a present sense of duty has, in many cases, a stronger influence 
 than the apprehension of distant good would have of itself. And 
 it cannot be doubted, that a sense of guilt and demerit is a more 
 pungent reprover than the bare apprehension of having mistaken 
 our true interest. 
 
 JI5F The brave soldier, in exposing himself to danger and 
 death, is animated, not by a cold computation of the good and 
 the ill, but by a noble and elevated sense of military duty. 
 
 A philosopher shows, by a copious and just induction, what is 
 our real good and what our ill. But this kind of reasoning is 
 not easily apprehended by the bulk of men. It has too little 
 force upon their minds to resist the sophistry of the passions. 
 They are apt to think, that if such rules be good in the general, 
 they may admit of particular exceptions, and that what is good 
 for the greater part, may, to some persons, on account of parti- 
 cular circumstances, be ill. 
 
 Thus, I apprehend, that, [if we had no plainer rule to direct 
 our conduct in life than a regard to our greatest good, the great- 
 est part of mankind would be fatally misled, even by ignorance 
 of the road to it.] 
 
 II. [Secondly, Though a steady pursuit of our own real good 
 may, in an enlightened mind, produce a kind of virtue which is 
 entitled to some degree of approbation, yet it can never produce 
 the noblest kind of virtue, which claims our highest love and 
 esteem.] 
 
 "VYe account him a wise man who is wise for himself; and if 
 he prosecutes this end through difficulties and temptations that 
 lie in his way, his character is far superior to that of the man 
 who, having the same end in view, is continually starting out of 
 the road to it, from an attachment to his appetites and passions, 
 and doing every day what he knows he shall heartily repent. 
 
 Yet, after all, this wise man, whose thoughts and cares are 
 all centred ultimately in himself, who indulges even his social 
 affections only with a view to his own good, is not the man 
 whom we cordially love and esteem. 
 
 ggf° Like a cunning merchant, he carries his goods to the best 
 market, and watches every opportunity of putting them off to 
 the best account. He does well and wisely. But it is for him- 
 self. We owe him nothing upon this account. Even when lie 
 does good to others, he means only to serve himself ; and there- 
 fore has no just claim to their gratitude or affection. 
 
DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE. gjC) 
 
 This surely, if it be virtue, is not the noblest kind, but 
 a low and mercenary species of it. It can neither give a noble 
 elevation to the mind that possesses it, nor attract the esteem 
 and love of others. 
 
 Our cordial love and esteem is due only to the man whose 
 soul is not contracted within itself, but embraces a more exten- 
 sive object : who loves virtue, not for her dowry only, but for 
 her own sake : whose benevolence is not selfish, but generous 
 and disinterested : who, forgetful of himself, has the common 
 good at heart, not as the means only, but as the end : who ab- 
 hors what is base, though he were to be a gainer by it, and 
 loves that which is right, although he should suffer by it. 
 
 Such a man we esteem the perfect man, compared with whom 
 he who has no other aim but good to himself, is a mean and 
 despicable character. 
 
 Disinterested goodness and rectitude is the glory of the 
 Divine Nature, without which he might be an object of fear 
 or hope, but not of true devotion. And it is the image of this 
 divine attribute, in the human character, that is the glory of 
 man. 
 
 To serve God, and be useful to mankind, without any con- 
 cern about our own good and happiness, is, I believe, beyond 
 the pitch of human nature. But to serve God, and be useful 
 to men, merely to obtain good to ourselves, or to avoid ill, is 
 servility, and not that liberal service which true devotion and 
 real virtue require. 
 
 III. Thirdly, Though one might be apt to think that he 
 has the best chance for happiness, who has no other end of his 
 deliberate actions but his own good ; yet a little consideration 
 may satisfy us of the contrary. 
 
 [A concern for our own good is not a principle that, of itself, 
 gives any enjoyment. On the contrary, it is apt to fill the mind 
 with fear, and care, and anxiety. And these concomitants of 
 this principle, often give pain and uneasiness, that overbalance 
 the good they have in view.] 
 
 \j$W We may here compare, in point of present happiness, 
 two imaginary characters ; the first, of the man who has no 
 other ultimate end of his deliberate actions but his own good ; 
 and who has no regard to virtue or duty, but as the means to 
 that end. The second character is that of the man who is not 
 indifferent with regard to his own good, but has another ulti- 
 mate end perfectly consistent with it, to wit, a disinterested 
 love of virtue, for its own sake, or a regard to duty as an end.] 
 
 Comparing these two characters in point of happiness, that 
 we may give all possible advantage to the selfish principle, we 
 shall suppose the man who is actuated solely by it, to be so far 
 enlightened as to see it his interest to live soberly, righteously, 
 
220 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 
 
 and godly in the world, and that he follows the same course of 
 conduct from the motive of his own good only, which the other 
 does, in a great measure, from a sense of duty and rectitude. 
 
 We put the case so as that the difference between these two 
 persons may be, not in what they do, but in the motive from 
 which they do it -^ and, I think, there can be no doubt that he 
 who acts from the noblest and most generous motive, will have 
 most happiness in his conduct, j 
 
 The one labours only for hire, without any love to the work. 
 The other loves the work, and thinks it the noblest and most 
 honourable he can be employed in. To the first, the mortifica- 
 tion and self-denial which the course of virtue requires, is a 
 grievous task, which he submits to only through necessity. To 
 the other it is victory and triumph in the most honourable 
 warfare. 
 
 It ought further to be considered, That although wise men 
 have concluded that virtue is the only road to happiness, this 
 conclusion is founded chiefly upon the natural respect men have 
 for virtue, and the good or happiness that is intrinsic to it and 
 arises from the love of it. If we suppose a man, as we now 
 do, altogether destitute of this principle, who considered virtue 
 only as the means to another end, there is no reason to think 
 that he would ever take it to be the road to happiness, but 
 would wander for ever, seeking this object where it is not to be 
 found. 
 
 [IV. Do the roads of duty and happiness coincide ? — The road 
 of duty is so plain, that the man who seeks it, with an upright 
 heart, cannot greatly err from it. But the road to happiness, if 
 that be supposed the only end our nature leads us to pursue, 
 would be found dark and intricate, full of snares and dangers, 
 and therefore not to be trodden without fear, and care, and per- 
 plexity.] 
 
 The happy man, therefore, is not he whose happiness is his 
 only care, but he who, with perfect resignation, Reaves the care 
 \of his happiness to Him who made him, while he pursues with 
 ardour the road of his "duty. 
 
 This gives an elevation to his mind, which is real happiness. 
 Instead of care, and fear, and anxiety, and disappointment, it 
 brings joy and triumph. It gives a relish to every good we en- 
 joy, and brings good out of evil. 
 
 And as no man can be indifferent about his happiness, the 
 good man has the consolation to know that he consults his hap- 
 piness most effectually, when, without any painful anxiety about 
 future events, he does his duty. 
 
 Thus, I think, it appears, That although a regard to our 
 good, upon the whole, be a rational principle in man, yet, if 
 it be supposed the only regulating principle of our conduct, 
 
OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, ETC. ^2\ 
 
 it would be a more uncertain rule, it would give far less per- 
 ( fection to the human character, and far less happiness, than 
 } when joined with another rational principle, to wit, a regard to 
 \duty. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, RECTITUDE, MORAL OBLIGATION. 
 
 I. A sense of interest or a sense of duty, or both, necessary to the 
 social state. — A being endowed with the animal principles of 
 action only, may be capable of being trained to certain purposes 
 by discipline, as we see many brute animals are, but would be 
 altogether incapable of being governed by law. 
 
 The subject of law must have the conception of a general rule 
 of conduct, which, without some degree of reason, he cannot 
 have. He must likewise have a sufficient inducement to obey 
 the law, even when his strongest animal desires draw him the 
 contrary way. 
 
 This inducement may be a sense of interest, or a sense of duty, 
 or both concurring. 
 
 These are the only principles I am able to conceive, which 
 can reasonably induce a man to regulate all his actions according 
 to a certain general rule or law. They may therefore be justly 
 called the rational principles of action, since they can have no 
 place but in a being endowed with reason, and since it is by 
 them only, that man is capable either of political or of moral 
 government. 
 
 g£P Without them, human life would be like a ship at sea with- 
 out hands, left to be carried by winds and tides as they happen. 
 It belongs to the rational part of our nature to intend a certain 
 port, as the end of the voyage of life ; to take the advantage of 
 winds and tides when they are favourable, and to. bear up against 
 them when they are unfavourable. 
 
 A sense of interest may induce us to do this, when a suitable 
 reward is set before us. But there is a nobler principle in the 
 constitution of man, which, in many cases, gives a clearer and 
 more certain rule of conduct, than a regard merely to interest 
 would give, and a principle, without which man would not be a 
 moral agent. 
 
 A man is prudent when he consults his real interest, but he 
 cannot be virtuous, if he has no regard to duty. 
 
 II. Of a sense of duty only. — I proceed now to consider this 
 regard to duty as a rational jwinciple of action in man, and as 
 that principle alone by which he is capable of virtue or vice. 
 
222 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. V. 
 
 I shall first offer some observations with regard to the general 
 notion of duty, and its contrary, or of right and wrong in hu- 
 man conduct, and then consider how we come to judge and de- 
 termine certain things in human conduct to be right, and others 
 to be wrong. 
 
 With regard to the notion or conception of duty, I take it to 
 be too simple to admit of a logical definition. 
 
 We can define it only by synonymous words or phrases, or by 
 its properties and necessary concomitants, as when we say that 
 [it is what we ought to do, what is fair and honest, what is ap- 
 provable, what every man professes to be the rule of his con- 
 duct, what all men praise, and what is in itself laudable, though 
 no man should praise it.] 
 
 I observe, in the next place, That the notion of duty cannot 
 be resolved into that of interest, or what is most for our hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Every man may be satisfied of this who attends to his own 
 conceptions, and the language of all mankind shows it. When 
 ( I say, this is my interest, I mean one thing ; when I say, it is 
 my duty, I mean another thing. ^ And though the same course of 
 action, when rightly understood, may be both my duty and my 
 interest, the conceptions are very different. Both are reasonable 
 motives to action, but quite distinct in their nature. 
 
 I presume it will be granted, that in every man of real worth, 
 there is a principle of honour, a regard to what is honourable or 
 dishonourable, very distinct from a regard to his interest. ( It is 
 folly in a man to disregard his interest, but to do what is disho- 
 nourable is baseness A The first may move our pity, or, in some 
 cases, our contempt, but the last provokes our indignation. 
 
 [As these two principles are different in their nature, and not 
 resolvable into one, so the principle of honour is evidently supe- 
 rior in dignity to that of inter est. ~\ 
 
 No man would allow him to be a man of honour, who should 
 plead his interest to justify what he acknowledged to be disho- 
 nourable I but to sacrifice interest to honour never costs a blush. J) 
 
 It likewise will be allowed by every man of honour, that this 
 principle is not to be resolved into a regard to our reputation 
 among men, otherwise the man of honour would not deserve to 
 be trusted in the dark. He would have no aversion to lie, or 
 cheat, or play the coward, when he had no dread of being dis- 
 covered. 
 
 I take it for granted, therefore, that every man of real honour 
 feels an abhorrence of certain actions, because they are in them- 
 selves base, and feels an obligation to certain other actions, 
 because they are in themselves what honour requires, and this 
 independently of any consideration of interest or reputation. 
 
OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, ETC. g^3 
 
 [This is an immediate moral obligation. — This principle of 
 honour, which is acknowledged by all men who pretend to cha- 
 racter, is only another name for what w T e call a regard to duty, 
 to rectitude, to propriety of conduct. It is a moral obligation 
 which obliges a man to do certain things because they are right, 
 and not to do other things because they are wrong.] 
 
 Ask the man of honour, why he thinks himself obliged to pay 
 a debt of honour ? The very question shocks him. To suppose 
 that he needs any other inducement to do it but the principle of 
 honour, is to suppose that he has no honour, no worth, and 
 deserves no esteem. 
 
 There is, therefore, a principle in man, which, when he acts 
 according to it, gives him a consciousness of worth, and when 
 he acts contrary to it, a sense of demerit. 
 
 [III. The notion of this principle invariable, its extent not so. 
 — From the varieties of education, of fashion, of prejudices, and 
 of habits, men may differ much in opinion with regard to the 
 extent of this principle, and of what it commands and forbids ; 
 but the notion of it, as far as it is carried, is the same in all. It 
 is that which gives a man real worth, and is the object of moral 
 approbation.] 
 
 Men of rank call it honour, and too often confine it to certain 
 virtues that are thought most essential to their rank. The vul- 
 gar call it honesty, probity, virtue, conscience. Philosophers 
 have given it the names of the moral sense, the moral faculty, 
 rectitude. 
 
 The universality of this principle in men that are grown up to 
 years of understanding and reflection, is evident. The words 
 that express it, the names of the virtues which it commands, and 
 of the vices which it forbids, the ought and ought not which ex- 
 press its dictates, make an essential part of every language.^The 
 natural affections of respect to worthy characters, of resentment 
 of injuries, of gratitude for favours, of indignation against the 
 worthless, are parts of the human constitution which suppose a 
 right and a wrong in conduct. ) Many transactions that are found 
 necessary in the rudest societies go upon the same supposition. 
 In all testimony, in all promises, and in all contracts, there is 
 necessarily implied a moral obligation on one party, and a trust 
 in the other, grounded upon this obligation. 
 
 IV. Reality of moral distinctions. — The variety of opinions 
 among men in points of morality, is not greater, but, as I ap- 
 prehend, much less than in speculative points ; and this variety 
 is as easily accounted for from the common causes of error, in the 
 one case as in the other ; so that it is not more evident, that 
 there is a real distinction between true and false, in matters of 
 speculation, than that there is a real distinction between right 
 and wrong in human conduct. 
 
2^4 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. V. 
 
 Mr. Hume's authority, if there were any need of it, is of 
 weight in this matter, because he was not wont to go rashly into 
 vulgar opinions. 
 
 " Those," says he, " who have denied the reality of moral 
 distinctions, may be ranked among the disingenuous disputants 
 (who really do not believe the opinions they defend, but engage 
 in the controversy, from affectation, from a spirit of opposition, 
 or from a desire of showing wit and ingenuity superior to the 
 rest of mankind) ; nor is it conceivable that any human creature 
 could ever seriously believe that all characters and actions were 
 alike entitled to the regard and affection of every one. 
 
 " Let a man's insensibility be ever so great, he must often be 
 touched with the images of right and wrong ; and let his preju- 
 dices be ever so obstinate, he must observe that others are sus- 
 ceptible of like impressions. The only way, therefore, of con- 
 vincing an antagonist of this kind is to leave him to himself. For, 
 finding that nobody keeps up the controversy with him, it is pro- 
 bable he will at last, of himself, from mere weariness, come 
 over to the side of common sense and reason." 
 
 What we call right and honourable in human conduct, was, by 
 the ancients, called honestum, to kciXov ; of which Tully says, 
 " Quod vere dicimus, etiamsi a nullo laudetur, natura esse lau- 
 dabile." De Officiis, lib. i. sect. S. 
 
 All the ancient sects, except the Epicureans, distinguished the 
 honestum from the utile, as we distinguish what is a man's duty 
 from what is his interest. 
 
 The word officium (KaOrJKov) extended both to the honestum and 
 the utile: so that every reasonable action, proceeding either 
 from a sense of duty or a sense of interest, was called officium. 
 It is defined by Cicero to be, " Id quod cur factum sit ratio pro- 
 babilis reddi potest." — Such a one as a fair and reasonable ac- 
 count may be given for the doing of it. We commonly render 
 it by the word duty, but it is more extensive ; for the word duly, 
 in the English language, I think, is commonly applied only to 
 what the ancients called honestum. Cicero, and Pannsetius be- 
 fore him, treating of offices, first point out those that are 
 grounded upon the honestum, and next those that are grounded 
 upon the utile. 
 
 V. The most ancient philosophical system concerning the prin- 
 ciples of action in the human mind, and, I think, the most 
 agreeable to Nature, is that which we find in some fragments of 
 the ancient Pythagoreans, and which is adopted by Plato, and 
 explained in some of his dialogues. 
 
 According to this system, there is a leading principle in the 
 soul, which, like the supreme power in a commonwealth, has 
 authority and right to govern. This leading principle they called 
 reason. It is that which distinguishes men that are adult from 
 
OF THE NOTION OF t>UTY, ETC. ^25 
 
 brutes, idiots, and infants. The inferior principles, which are 
 under the authority of the leading principle, are our passions 
 and appetites, which we have in common with the bmtesy 
 
 Cicero adopts this system, and expresses it well in few words. 
 " Duplex enim est vis animorum atque naturae. Una pars in 
 appetitu posita est, quae hominem hue et illuc rapit, quae est 
 op/JLTj graece, altera in ratione, quae docet, et explanat quid 
 faciendum fugiendumve sit. Ita sit ut ratio praesit appetitus 
 obtemperet." — " For the impulse of our minds and nature is two- 
 fold ; one part consists in appetite, which hurries man hither 
 and thither, which is op^rj in Greek ; the other in reason, which 
 teaches and explains what is to be done, what to be avoided. 
 ^Whence it is that reason should guide, appetite obey. "J 
 
 ** This division of our active principles Can hardly indeed be 
 accounted a discovery of philosophy, because it has been common 
 to the unlearned in all ages of the world, and seems to be dictated 
 by the common sense of mankind. 
 
 What I would now observe concerning this common division 
 of our active powers, is, that the leading principle, which is 
 called reason, comprehends both a regard to what is right and 
 honourable, and a regard to our happiness upon the whole. 
 
 Although these be really two distinct principles of action, it is 
 very natural to comprehend them under one name, because both 
 are leading principles, both suppose the use of reason, and, 
 when rightly understood, both lead to the same course of life. 
 1ST They are like two fountains whose streams unite and run in 
 ^the same channel. 
 
 When a man, on one occasion, consults his real happiness in 
 things not inconsistent with his duty, though in opposition to the 
 solicitation of appetite or passion ; and when, on another occa- 
 sion, without any selfish consideration, he does what is right and 
 honourable, because it is so ; in both these cases, he acts reason- 
 ably ; every man approves of his conduct, and calls it reasonable, 
 or according to reason. 
 
 So that, when we speak of reason as a principle of action in 
 man, it includes a regard both to the honestum and to the utile. 
 Both are combined under one name ; and accordingly the dic- 
 tates of both, in the Latin tongue, were combined under the 
 name officium, and in the Greek under KaOrJKov. 
 
 VI. Moral obligation a relation. — [If we examine the abstract 
 notion of duty, or moral obligation, it appears to be neither any 
 real quality of the action considered by itself, nor of the agent 
 considered without respect to the action, but a certain relation 
 between the one and the other.] 
 
 When we say a man ought to do such a thing, the ought, 
 which expresses the moral obligation, has a respect, on the one 
 hand, to the person who ought, and, on the other, to the action 
 
 Q 
 
226 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. V. 
 
 which he ought to do. Those two correlates are essential to 
 every moral obligation ; take away either, and it has no exist- 
 ence. So that, if we seek the place of moral obligation among 
 the categories, it belongs to the category of relation. 
 
 [There are many relations of things, of which we have the 
 most distinct conception, without being able to define them logi- 
 cally. Equality and proportion are relations between quantities, 
 which every man understands, but no man can define."] 
 
 Moral obligation is a relation of its own kind, which every 
 man understands, but is perhaps too simple to admit of logical 
 definition. Like all other relations, it may be changed or anni- 
 hilated by a change in any of the two related things, I mean the 
 agent or the action. 
 
 VII. Perhaps it may not be improper to point out briefly 
 the circumstances, both in the action and in the agent, which are 
 necessary to constitute moral obligation. The universal agree- 
 ment of men in these, shows that they have one and the same 
 notion of it. 
 
 With regard to the action, it must be a voluntary action, or 
 prestation of the person obliged, and not of another. There 
 can be no moral obligation upon a man to be six feet high. Nor 
 can I be under a moral obligation that another person should do 
 such a thing. His actions must be imputed to himself, and mine 
 only to me, either for praise or blame. 
 
 I need hardly mention, that a person can be under a moral 
 obligation only to things within the sphere of his natural power. 
 
 As to the party obliged, it is evident, there can be no moral 
 obligation upon an inanimate thing. To speak of moral obliga- 
 tion upon a stone or a tree is ridiculous, because it contradicts 
 every man's notion of moral obligation. 
 
 The person obliged must have understanding and will, and 
 some degree of active power. He must not only have the natural 
 faculty of understanding, but the means of knowing his obligation. 
 ^An invincible ignorance of this destroys all moral obligation. ) 
 
 The opinion of the agent in doing the action gives it its moral 
 denomination. If he does a materially good action, without any 
 belief of its being good, but from some other principle, it is no 
 good action in him. And if he does it with the belief of its 
 being ill, it is ill in him. 
 
 Thus, if a man should give to his neighbour a potion which he 
 really believes will poison him, but which, in the event, proves 
 salutary, and does much good ; in moral estimation, he is a poi- 
 soner, and not a benefactor. 
 
 These qualifications of the action and of the agent, in moral 
 obligation, are self-evident; and the agreement of all men in 
 them shows, that all men have the same notion and a distinct 
 notion of moral obligation. 
 
227 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF THE SENSE OF DUTY. 
 
 I. The moral sense, — the moral faculty, — conscience. — We 
 are next to consider, how we learn to judge and determine, that 
 this is right, and that is wrong. 
 
 The abstract notion of moral good and ill would be of no use 
 to direct our life, if we had not the power of applying it to par- 
 ticular actions, and determining what is morally good, and what 
 is morally ill. 
 
 Some philosophers, with whom I agree, ascribe this to an ori- 
 ginal power or faculty in man, which they call the moral sense, 
 the moral faculty, conscience. Others think, that our moral 
 sentiments may be accounted for without supposing any original 
 sense or faculty appropriated to that purpose, and go into very 
 different systems to account for them. 
 
 I am not, at present, to take any notice of those systems, 
 because the opinion first mentioned seems to me to be the truth, 
 to wit, that, by an original power of the mind, when we come to 
 years of understanding and reflection, we not only have the no- 
 tions of right and wrong in conduct, but perceive certain things 
 to be right, and others to be wrong. 
 
 The name of the moral sense, though more frequently given to 
 conscience since Lord Shaftesbury and Dr. Hutcheson wrote, is 
 not new. The " sensus recti et honesti," is a phrase not unfre- 
 quent among the ancients, neither is the sense of duty among us. 
 
 II. This analogy excusable. — [It has got this name of sense, 
 no doubt, from some analogy which it is conceived to bear to 
 the external senses. And if we have just notions of the office of 
 the external senses, the analogy is very evident, and I see no 
 reason to take offence, as some have done, at the name of the 
 moral sense,~\ 
 
 The offence taken at this name seems to be owing to this, that 
 philosophers have degraded the senses too much, and deprived 
 them of the most important part of their office. 
 
 We are taught, that, by the senses, we have only certain ideas 
 which we could not have otherwise. They are represented as 
 powers by which we have sensations and ideas, not as powers by 
 which we judge. 
 
 This notion of the senses I take to be very lame, and to 
 contradict what nature and accurate reflection teach concerning 
 them. 
 
 A man who has totally lost the sense of seeing, may retain 
 very distinct notions of the various colours ; but he cannot judge 
 of colours, because he has lost the sense by which alone he could 
 
 q2 
 
ggg ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 
 
 judge. By my eyes I not only have the ideas of a square and a 
 circle, but I perceive this surface to be a square, that to be 
 a circle. 
 
 By my ear, I not only have the idea of sounds, loud and soft, 
 acute and grave, but I immediately perceive and judge this sound 
 to be loud, that to be soft, this to be acute, that to be grave. 
 Two or more synchronous sounds I perceive to be concordant, 
 others to be discordant. 
 
 These are judgments of the senses. They have always been 
 called and accounted such, by those whose minds are not tinc- 
 tured by philosophical theories. They are the immediate testi- 
 mony of nature by our senses; and we are so constituted by 
 nature, that we must receive their testimony, for no other reason 
 but because it is given by our senses. 
 
 In vain do sceptics endeavour to overturn this evidence by 
 metaphysical reasoning. Though we should not be able to answer 
 their arguments, we believe our senses still, and rest our most 
 important concerns upon their testimony. 
 
 If this be a just notion of our external senses, as I conceive it 
 is, our moral faculty may, I think, without impropriety, be called 
 the moral sense. 
 
 III. Further shown. — In its dignity it is, without doubt, far 
 superior to every other power of the mind ; but [there is this 
 analogy between it and the external senses, that, as by them we 
 have not only the original conceptions of the various qualities of 
 bodies, but the original judgments that this body has such a 
 quality, that such another ; so by our moral faculty, we have 
 both the original conceptions of right and wrong in conduct, of 
 merit and demerit, and the original judgments that this con- 
 duct is right, that is wrong ; that this character has worth, that, 
 demerit.] 
 
 The testimony of our moral faculty, like that of the external 
 senses, is the testimony of nature, and we have the same reason 
 to rely upon it. 
 
 The truths immediately testified by the external senses are the 
 first principles from which we reason, with regard to the mate- 
 rial world, and from which all our knowledge of it is deduced. 
 
 The truths immediately testified by our moral faculty, are the 
 first principles of all moral reasoning, from which all our know- 
 ledge of our duty must be deduced. 
 
 IV. [By moral reasoning, I understand all reasoning that is 
 brought to prove that such conduct is right, and deserving of 
 moral approbation, or that it is ivrong, or that it is indifferent, 
 and, in itself, neither morally good nor ill.] 
 
 I think all we can properly call moral judgments are reducible 
 to one or other of these, as all human actions, considered in a 
 moral view, are either good, or bad, or indifferent. 
 
OF THE SENSE OF DUTY. gg9 
 
 I know the term moral reasoning is often used by good writers 
 in a more extensive sense ; but as the reasoning I now speak of 
 is of a peculiar kind, distinct from all others, and therefore ought 
 to have a distinct name, I take the liberty to limit the name of 
 moral reasoning to this kind. 
 
 Let it be understood, therefore, that [in the reasoning I call 
 moral, the conclusion always is, that something in the conduct 
 of moral agents is good or bad, in a greater or a less degree, or 
 indifferent.] 
 
 [All reasoning must be grounded on first principles. This 
 holds in moral reasoning, as in all other kinds. There must, 
 therefore, be in morals, as in all other sciences, first or self- 
 evident principles, on which all moral reasoning is grounded, 
 and on which it ultimately rests.] From such self-evident prin- 
 ciples, conclusions may be drawn synthetically with regard to 
 the moral conduct of life ; and particular duties or virtues may 
 be traced back to such principles, analytically. »But, without 
 such principles, we can no more establish any conclusion in morals, 
 than we can build a castle in the air, without any foundation. 
 
 An example or two will serve to illustrate this. 
 
 [It is a first principle in morals, that we ought not to do to 
 another what we should think wrong to be done to us in like 
 circumstances.] If a man is not capable of perceiving this in 
 his cool moments, when he reflects seriously, he is not a moral 
 agent, nor is he capable of being convinced of it by reasoning. 
 
 From what topic can you reason with such a man ? You may 
 possibly convince him by reasoning, that it is his interest to ob- 
 serve this rule ; but this is not to convince him that it is his 
 duty. To reason about justice with a man who sees nothing to 
 be just or unjust ; or about benevolence with a man who sees 
 nothing in benevolence preferable to malice, is like reasoning 
 with a blind man about colour, or with a deaf man about sound. 
 
 HF It is a question in morals that admits of reasoning, whether, 
 by the law of nature, a man ought to have only one wife ? 
 
 We reason upon this question, by balancing the advantages 
 and disadvantages to the family, and to society in general, that 
 aie naturally consequent both upon monogamy and polygamy. 
 And if it can be shown that the advantages are greatly upon the 
 side of monogamy, we think the point is determined. 
 
 But if a man does not perceive that he ought to regard the 
 good of society, and the good of his wife and children, the rea- 
 soning can have no effect upon him, because he denies the first 
 principle upon which it is grounded. 
 
 Suppose again, that we reason for monogamy from the inten- 
 tion of nature, discovered by the proportion of males and of 
 females that are born ; a proportion which corresponds perfectly 
 with monogamy, but by no means with polygamy. This argu- 
 
230 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 
 
 ment can have no weight with a man who does not perceive that 
 he ought to have a regard to the intention of nature. 
 
 Thus we shall find that all moral reasonings rest upon one or 
 more first principles of morals, whose truth is immediately per- 
 ceived without reasoning, by all men come to years of under- 
 standing. 
 
 V. Universality of first principles. — And [this indeed is com- 
 mon to every branch of human knowledge that deserves the name 
 of science. There must be first principles proper to that science, 
 by which the whole superstructure is supported.] 
 
 The first principles of all the sciences must be the immediate 
 dictates of our natural faculties ; nor is it possible that we 
 should have any other evidence of their truth. And in different 
 sciences, the faculties which dictate their first principles are very 
 different. 
 
 @§F Thus, in astronomy and in optics, in which such wonderful 
 discoveries have been made, that the unlearned can hardly believe 
 them to be within the reach of human capacity, the first prin- 
 ciples are phenomena attested solely by that little organ, the 
 human eye. If we disbelieve its report, the whole of those two 
 noble fabrics of science falls to pieces like the visions of the 
 night. 
 
 The principles of music all depend upon the testimony of the 
 ear. The principles of natural philosophy, upon the facts at- 
 tested by the senses. The principles of mathematics, upon the 
 necessary relations of quantities considered abstractly, such as, 
 that equal quantities added to equal quantities make equal sums, 
 and the like ; which necessary relations are immediately per- 
 ceived by the understanding. 
 
 The science of politics borrows its principles from what we 
 know by experience of the character and conduct of man. We 
 consider not what he ought to be, but what he is, and thence 
 conclude what part he will act in different situations and circum- 
 stances. From such principles we reason concerning the causes 
 and effects of different forms of government, laws, customs, and 
 manners. If man were either a more perfect or a more imper- 
 fect, a better or a worse creature than he is, politics would be a 
 different science from what it is. 
 
 VI. The first principles of morals are the immediate dictates of 
 the moral faculty. They show us, not what man is, but what he 
 ought to be. Whatever is immediately perceived to be just, 
 honest, and honourable, in human conduct, carries moral obli- 
 gation along with it, and the contrary carries demerit and blame ; 
 and, from those moral obligations that are immediately perceived, 
 all other moral obligations must be deduced by reasoning. 
 
 He that will judge of the colour of an object, must consult his 
 eyes, in a good light, when there is no medium or contiguous 
 
OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. £>31 
 
 objects that may give it a false tinge. But in vain will he con- 
 sult every other faculty in this matter. 
 
 In like manner, he that will judge of the first principles of 
 
 J morals, must consult his conscience or moral faculty when he is f 
 calm and dispassionate, unbiassed by interest, affection, or fashion.^ 
 ( As we rely upon the clear and distinct testimony of our eyes, 
 concerning the colours and figures of the bodies about us, we 
 have the same reason to rely with security upon the clear and 
 unbiassed testimony of our conscience, with regard to what we 
 ought and ought not to do.y In many cases, moral worth and 
 demerit are discerned no less clearly by the last of those natural 
 faculties, than figure and colour by the first. 
 
 The faculties which nature hath given us, are the only engines 
 we can use to find out the truth. We cannot indeed prove, that 
 those faculties are not fallacious, unless God should give us 
 new faculties to sit in judgment upon the old. But we are born 
 under a necessity of trusting them.* 
 
 Every man in his senses believes his eyes, his ears, and his 
 other senses. He believes his consciousness, with respect to his 
 own thoughts and purposes ; his memory, with regard to what is 
 past ; his understanding, with regard to abstract relations of things ; 
 and his taste, with regard to what is elegant and beautiful. And 
 he has the same reason, and, indeed, is under the same necessity 
 of believing the clear and unbiassed dictates of his conscience, 
 with regard to what is honourable and what is base. 
 
 VII. Recapitulation. — [The sum of what has been said in this 
 chapter is, (1) that, by an original power of the mind, which we 
 call conscience, or the moral faculty , we have the conceptions of 
 right and wrong in human conduct, of merit and demerit, of duty 
 and moral obligation, and our other moral conceptions ; and that, 
 (2) by the same faculty, we perceive some things in human con- 
 duct to be right, and others to be wrong ; (3) that the first prin- 
 ciples of morals are the dictates of this faculty ; and (4) that we 
 have the same reason to rely upon those dictates, as upon the 
 determinations of our senses, or of our other natural faculties.] 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. 
 
 I. Of affections and feelings included in our moral judgments. 
 — Our moral judgments are not like those we form in specula- 
 tive matters, dry and unaffecting, but, from their nature, are 
 * Vide Essay IV. chap. vi. sect. 1. 
 
232 ESSAY III.— PART BE. CHAP. VII. 
 
 necessarily accompanied with affections and feelings ; which we 
 are now to consider. 
 
 It was before observed, that every human action, considered 
 in a moral view, appears to us good, or bad, or indifferent. When 
 we judge the action to be indifferent, neither good nor bad, 
 though this be a moral judgment, it produces no affection nor 
 feeling, any more than our judgments in speculative matters. 
 
 But we approve of good actions, and disapprove of bad ; and 
 this approbation and disapprobation, when we analyse it, appears 
 to include, not only a moral judgment of the action, but some 
 affection, favourable or unfavourable, towards the agent, and 
 same feeling in ourselves. 
 
 ( Nothing is more evident than this, that moral worth, even in 
 a\tranger, with whom we have not the leasfconnexion, never 
 fails to produce some degree of esteem mixed with good will.\ 
 
 The esteem which we have for a man on account of his moral 
 worth, is different from that which is grounded upon his intel- 
 lectual accomplishments, his birth, fortune, and connexion with 
 us. 
 
 I§F Moral worth, when it is not set off by eminent abilities, 
 and external advantages, is like a diamond in the mine, which is 
 rough and unpolished, and perhaps crusted over with some baser 
 material that takes away its lustre. 
 
 t But, when it is attended with these advantages, it is like a 
 diamond cut, polished, and set. J Then its lustre attracts every 
 eye. Yet these things which add so much to its appearance, add 
 but little to its rgal value. 
 
 II. [We must further observe, that esteem and benevolent re- 
 gard, not only accompany real worth by the constitution of our 
 nature, but are perceived to be really and properly due to it ; 
 and that, on the contrary, unworthy conduct really merits dis- 
 like and indignation.] 
 
 There is no judgment of the heart of man more clear or more 
 irresistible than this, — that esteem and regard are really due to 
 good conduct, and the contrary to base and unworthy conduct. 
 Nor can we conceive a greater depravity in the heart of man, 
 than it would be to see and acknowledge worth without feeling 
 any respect to it ; or to see and acknowledge the highest worth- 
 lessness without any degree of dislike and indignation. 
 
 The esteem that is due to worthy conduct is not lessened 
 when a man is conscious of it in himself. Nor can he help 
 having some esteem for himself, when he is conscious of those 
 qualities for which he most highly esteems others. 
 
 Self-esteem, grounded upon external advantages, or the gifts 
 of fortune, is pride. When it is grounded upon a vain conceit 
 of inward worth which we do not possess, it is arrogance and 
 self-deceit. [But when a man, without thinking of himself 
 
OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. ggg 
 
 more highly than he ought to think, is conscious of that inte- 
 grity of heart and uprightness of conduct, which he most highly 
 esteems in others, and values himself duly upon this account ; 
 this perhaps may be called the pride of virtue, but it is not a 
 vicious pride. ( It is a noble and magnanimous disposition, with- 
 out which there can be no steady virtue.] 
 
 ( A man who has a character with himself which he values, will 
 disdain to act in a manner unworthy of it. J The language of his 
 heart will be like that of Job, " My righteousness I hold fast, and 
 will not let it go ; my heart shall not reproach me while I live." 
 
 A good man owes much to his character with the world, and 
 will be concerned to vindicate it from unjust imputations. But 
 he owes much more to his character with himself. / For if his 
 heart condemns him not, he has confidence towards God ; and 
 he can more easily bear the lash of tongues than the reproach of 
 his own mind. ) 
 
 The sense of honour, so much spoken of, and so often mis- 
 applied, is nothing else, when rightly understood, but the dis- 
 dain which a man of worth feels to do a dishonourable action, 
 though it should never be known nor suspected. 
 
 A good man will have a much greater abhorrence against doing 
 a bad action, than even against having it unjustly imputed to 
 him. The last may give a wound to his reputation, but the first 
 gives a wound to his conscience, which is more difficult to heal, 
 and more painful to endure. 
 
 III. Moral disapprobation. — [Let us, on the other hand, con- 
 sider how we are affected by disapprobation, either of the conduct 
 of others or of our own.] 
 
 Every thing we disapprove in the conduct of a man, lessens 
 him in our esteem. There are indeed brilliant faults, which, 
 having a mixture of good and ill in them, may have a very dif- 
 ferent aspect, according to the side on which we view them, 
 /in such faults of our friends, and much more of ourselves, we 
 are disposed to view them on the best side, and on the contrary 
 side in those to whom we are ill affected. ) 
 
 This partiality, in taking things by the' best or by the worst 
 I handle, is the chief cause of wrong judgment with regard to the 
 (character of others, and of self-deceit with regard to our own. 
 
 But when we take complex actions to pieces, and view every 
 part by itself, ill conduct of every kind lessens our esteem of a 
 man, as much as good conduct increases it.^" It is apt to turn 
 love into indifference, indifference into contempt, and contempt 
 into aversion and abhorrence. ) 
 
 When a man is conscious of immoral conduct in himself, it 
 lessens his self-esteem. It depresses and humbles his spirit, and 
 makes his countenance to fall. He could even punish himself 
 for his misbehaviour, if that could wipe out the stain. There is 
 
^34 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VII. 
 
 a sense of dishonour and worthlessness arising from guilt, as well 
 as a sense of honour and worth arising from worthy conduct. 
 ( And this is the case, even if a man could conceal his guilt from 
 all the world. \ 
 
 IV. We are next to consider the agreeable or uneasy feelings, 
 in the breast of the spectator or judge, which naturally accom- 
 pany moral approbation and disapprobation. 
 
 There is no affection that is not accompanied with some agree- 
 able or uneasy emotion. It has often been observed, that all the 
 benevolent affections give pleasure, and the contrary ones pain, 
 in one degree or another. 
 
 HUT When we contemplate a noble character, though but in 
 ancient history, or even in fiction ; like a beautiful object, it 
 gives a lively and pleasant emotion to the spirits. It warms the 
 heart, and invigorates the whole frame. ( Like the beams of the 
 sun, it enlivens the face of nature, and diffuses heat and light all 
 around. V 
 
 We feel a sympathy with every noble and worthy character 
 that is represented to us. We rejoice in his prosperity, we are 
 afflicted in his distress. We even catch some sparks of that 
 celestial fire that animated his conduct, and feel the glow of his 
 virtue and magnanimity. 
 
 [This sympathy is the necessary effect of our judgment of his 
 conduct, and of the approbation and esteem due to it ; for real 
 sympathy is always the effect of some benevolent affection, such 
 as esteem, love, pity, or humanity.] 
 
 When the person whom we approve is connected with us by 
 acquaintance, friendship, or blood, the pleasure we derive from 
 his conduct is greatly increased. We claim some property in his 
 worth, and are apt to value ourselves on account of it. This 
 shows a stronger degree of sympathy, which gathers strength 
 from every social tie. 
 
 V. But the highest pleasure of all is, when we are conscious of 
 good conduct in ourselves. This, in sacred scripture, is called 
 the testimony of a good conscience ; and it is represented, not 
 only in the sacred writings, but in the writings of all moralists, 
 of every age and sect, as the purest, the most noble and valuable 
 of all human enjoyments. 
 
 C Surely, were we to place the chief happiness of this life (a 
 thing that has been so much sought after) in any one kind of 
 enjoyment, that which arises from the consciousness of integrity, 
 and a uniform endeavour to act the best part in our station, 
 would most justly claim the preference to all other enjoyments 
 the human mind is capable of, on account of its dignity, the 
 intenseness of the happiness it affords, its stability and duration, 
 its being in our power, and its being proof against all accidents 
 of time and fortune. \ 
 
OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. 6)35 
 
 8ggF On the other hand, the view of a vicious character, like 
 that of an ugly and deformed object, is disagreeable. It gives 
 disgust and abhorrence. 
 
 If the unworthy person be nearly connected with us, we have 
 a very painful sympathy indeed. We blush even for the smaller 
 faults of those we are connected with, and feel ourselves, as it 
 were, dishonoured by their ill conduct. 
 
 But, when there is a high degree of depravity in any person 
 connected with us, we are deeply humbled and depressed by it. 
 The sympathetic feeling has some resemblance to that of guilt, 
 though it be free from all guilt. We are ashamed to see our 
 acquaintance ; we would, if possible, disclaim all connexion with 
 the guilty person. We wish to tear him from our hearts, and to 
 blot him out of our remembrance. 
 
 Time, however, alleviates those sympathetic sorrows which 
 arise from bad behaviour in our friends and connexions, if we 
 are conscious that we had no share in their guilt. 
 
 VI. Social ties auxiliary to virtue, unfavourable to vice. — ■ 
 [The wisdom of God, in the constitution of our nature, hath 
 intended, that this sympathetic distress should interest us the 
 
 (more deeply in the good behaviour, as well as in the good fortune, 
 Jof our friends ; and that thereby friendship, relation, and every 
 /social tie, should be aiding to virtue and unfavourable to vice.] 
 ^ How common is it, even in vicious parents, to be deeply 
 afflicted when their children go into these courses in which per- 
 haps they have gone before them, and, by their example, shown 
 them the way. 
 
 If bad conduct in those in whom we are interested, be uneasy 
 and painful, it is so much more when we are conscious of it in 
 ourselves. This uneasy feeling has a name in all languages. We 
 call it remorse. 
 
 It has been described in such frightful colours by writers 
 sacred and profane, by writers of every age and of every persua- 
 sion, even by Epicureans, that I will not attempt the description 
 of it. 
 
 VII. Consequences of remorse. — It is on account of the un- 
 easiness of this feeling, that bad men take so much pains to get 
 rid of it, and to hide, even from their own eyes, as much as pos- 
 sible, the pravity of their conduct. [Hence arise (1) all the arts 
 of self-deceit, by which men varnish their crimes, or endeavour 
 to wash out the stain of guilt. Hence (2) the various methods 
 of expiation which superstition has invented, to solace the con- 
 science of the criminal, and give some cooling to his parched 
 breast. Hence also arise, very often, (3) the efforts of men of 
 bad hearts to excel in some amiable quality, which may be a 
 kind of counterpoise to their vices, both in the opinion of others 
 and in their own.] 
 
236 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VII. 
 
 For no man can bear the thought of being absolutely destitute 
 of all worth. The consciousness of this would make him detest 
 himself, hate the light of the sun, and fly, if possible, out of 
 existence. 
 
 VIII. Operations of the faculty called moral sense. — I have 
 now endeavoured to delineate the natural operations of that prin- 
 ciple of action in man, which we call the moral sense, the moral 
 faculty, conscience. We know nothing of our natural faculties, 
 but by their operations within us. Of their operations in our 
 own minds, we are conscious, and we see the signs of their ope- 
 rations in the minds of others. [Of this faculty the operations 
 appear to be, the judging ultimately of what is right, what is 
 wrong, and what is indifferent, in the conduct of moral agents ; 
 the approbation of good conduct and disapprobation of bad in 
 consequence of that judgment, and the agreeable emotions which 
 attend obedience, and disagreeable which attend disobedience to 
 its dictates.] 
 
 The Supreme Being, who has given us eyes to discern what 
 may be useful and what hurtful to our natural life, hath also 
 given us this light within to direct our moral conduct. 
 
 (Moral conduct is the business of every man; and therefore 
 he knowledge of it ought to be within the reach of all. \ 
 
 Epicurus reasoned acutely and justly to show, that a regard 
 to our present happiness should induce us to the practice of 
 temperance, justice, and humanity. But the bulk of mankind 
 cannot follow long trains of reasoning. |The loud voice of the 
 passions drowns the calm and still voice of reasoning. \ 
 
 Conscience commands and forbids with more authority, and, 
 in the most common and most important points of conduct, with- 
 out the labour of reasoning. Its voice is heard by every man, 
 and cannot be disregarded with impunity. 
 
 The sense of guilt makes a man at variance with himself. He 
 sees that he is what he ought not to be. He has fallen from the 
 dignity of his nature, and has sold his real worth for a thing of 
 no value. He is conscious of demerit, and cannot avoid the 
 dread of meeting with its reward. 
 
 On the other hand, he who pays a sacred regard to the dictates 
 
 of his conscience, cannot fail of a present reward, and a reward 
 
 proportioned to the exertion required in doing his duty. 
 
 | The man who, in opposition to strong temptation, by a noble 
 
 ^effort maintains his integrity, is the happiest man on earth, j The 
 
 . more severe his conflict has been, the greater is his triumph. 
 
 The consciousness of inward worth gives strength to his heart, 
 
 and makes his countenance to shine. Tempests may beat and 
 
 floods roar ; but he stands firm as a rock, in the joy of a good 
 
 conscience, and confidence of Divine approbation.} 
 
 [To this I shall only add, what every man's conscience die- 
 
OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. Qffl 
 
 tates, that he who does his duty, from the conviction that it is 
 right and honourable, and what he ought to do, acts from a 
 nobler principle, and with more inward satisfaction, than he who 
 is bribed to do it, merely from the consideration of a reward pre- 
 sent or future.] 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. 
 
 I. Our judgment of moral conduct advances from infancy by 
 insensible degrees. — I shall now conclude this Essay with some 
 observations concerning this power of the mind which we call 
 conscience, by which its nature may be better understood. 
 
 The first is, that, like all our other powers, it comes to matu- 
 rity by insensible degrees, and may be much aided in its strength 
 and vigour by proper culture. 
 
 All the human faculties have their infancy and their state of 
 maturity. 
 
 The faculties which we have in common with the brutes ap- 
 pear first, and have the quickest growth. In the first period of 
 life, children are not capable of distinguishing right from wrong 
 in human conduct ; neither are they capable of abstract reason- 
 ing in matters of science. Their judgment of moral conduct, as 
 well as their judgment of truth, advances by insensible degrees, 
 like the corn and the grass. 
 
 iiF In vegetables, first the blade or the leaf appears, then the 
 flower, and last of all the fruit, the noblest production of the 
 three, and that for which the others were produced. These 
 succeed one another in a regular order. They require moisture 
 and heat and air and shelter to bring them to maturity, and may 
 be much improved by culture. According to the variations of 
 soil, season, and culture, some plants are brought to much 
 greater perfection than others of the same species. { But no 
 variation of culture or season or soil can make grapes grow from 
 thorns, or figs from thistles. J 
 
 We may observe a similar progress in the faculties of the 
 mind : for there is a wonderful analogy among all the works of 
 God, from the least even to the greatest. 
 
 The faculties of man unfold themselves in a certain order, ap- 
 pointed by the great Creator. In their gradual progress, they 
 may be greatly assisted or retarded, improved or corrupted, by 
 education, instruction, example, exercise, and by the society 
 J and conversation of men, which, like soil and culture in plants, 
 i^may produce great changes to the better or to the worse. J 
 
 II. [But these means can never produce any new faculties, 
 nor any other than were originally planted in the mind by the 
 
238 ESSAY IIT.-PART TI. CHAP. VIII. 
 
 Author of nature. And what is common to the whole species, in 
 all the varieties of instruction and education, of improvement 
 and degeneracy, is the work of God, and not the operation of 
 second causes.^ 
 
 Such we may justly account conscience, or the faculty of dis- 
 tinguishing right conduct from wrong ; since it appears, and in all 
 nations and -ages has appeared, in men that are come to maturity. 
 
 The seeds, as it were, of moral discernment are planted in 
 the mind by Him that made us : they grow up in their proper 
 season, and are at first tender and delicate, and easily warped. 
 Their progress depends very much upon their being duly culti- 
 vated and properly exercised. 
 
 It is so with the power of reasoning, which all acknowledge 
 to be one of the most eminent natural faculties of man. It ap- 
 pears not in infancy. It springs up, by insensible degrees, as 
 we grow to maturity. £ But its strength and vigour depend so 
 much upon its being duly cultivated and exercised, that we see 
 many individuals, nay, many nations, in which it is hardly to be 
 perceived. ! 
 
 Our intellectual discernment is not so strong and vigorous by 
 nature, as to secure us from errors in speculation. On the con- 
 trary, we see a great part of mankind, in every age, sunk in 
 gross ignorance of things that are obvious to the more enlight- 
 ened, and fettered by errors and false notions, which the human 
 understanding, duly improved, easily throws off. 
 
 III. Scepticism twofold. — [It would be extremely absurd, from 
 the errors and ignorance of mankind, to conclude (1) that there 
 is no such thing as truth; or (2) that ma?i has not a natural 
 faculty of discerning it, and distinguishing it from error.]* 
 
 In like manner, our moral discernment of what we ought, and 
 what we ought not to do, is not so strong and vigorous by 
 nature, as to secure us from very gross mistakes with regard to 
 our duty. 
 
 In matters of conduct, as well as in matters of speculation, 
 we are liable to be misled by prejudices of education, or by 
 wrong instruction. But, in matters of conduct, we are also 
 very liable to have our judgment warped by our appetites and 
 passions, by fashion, and by the contagion of evil example. 
 
 We must not therefore think, because man has the natural 
 power of discerning what is right and what is wrong, that he has 
 no need of instruction ; that this power has no need of cultiva- 
 tion and improvement ; that he may safely rely upon the sug- 
 gestions of his mind, or upon opinions he has got, he knows 
 not how. 
 f fiaF What should we think of a man who, because he has by 
 nature the power of moving all his limbs, should therefore con- 
 * Vide Locke's Essays, book I. sect. 2. Introduction. 
 
OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. £>39 
 
 elude that he needs not be taught to dance, or to fence, to ride, 
 or to swim? All these exercises are performed by that power 
 of moving our limbs, which we have by nature ; but they will 
 be performed very awkwardly and imperfectly by those who 
 have not been trained to them, and practised in them. / 
 
 What should we think of the man who, because he has the 
 power by nature of distinguishing what is true from wliat is 
 false, should conclude that he has no need to be taught mathe- 
 matics, or natural philosophy, or other sciences ? It is by the 
 natural power of human understanding that every thing in those 
 sciences has been discovered, and that the truths they contain 
 are discerned. But the understanding, left to itself, without the 
 aid of instruction, training, habit, and exercise, would make 
 very small progress, as every one sees, in persons uninstructed 
 in those matters. 
 
 IV. [Our natural power of discerning between right and wrong 
 needs the aid of instruction, education, exercise, and habit, as 
 well as our other natural powers.] 
 
 There are persons who, as the scripture speaks, have, by 
 reason of use, their senses exercised to discern both good and 
 evil ; by that means, they have a much quicker, clearer, and 
 more certain judgment in morals than others. 
 
 The man who neglects the means of improvement in the know- 
 ledge of his duty, may do very bad things, while he follows the 
 light of his mind. And though he be not culpable for acting 
 according to his judgment, he may be very culpable for not 
 using the means of having his judgment better informed. 
 
 V. It may be observed, That there are truths, both specula- 
 tive and moral, which a man left to himself would never discover ; 
 yet, when they are fairly laid before him, he owns and adopts them, 
 not barely upon the authority of his teacher, but upon their own 
 intrinsic evidence, and perhaps wonders that he could be so blind 
 as not to see them before. 
 
 $W Like a man whose son has been long abroad, and sup- 
 posed dead. After many years the son returns, and is not 
 known by his father. He, would never find that this is his son. 
 But, when he discovers himself, the father soon finds, by many 
 circumstances, that this is his son who was lost, and can be no 
 other person. 
 
 [Truth has an affinity with the human understanding, which 
 error has not. And right principles of conduct have an affinity 
 with a candid mind, which wrong principles have not.] When 
 they are set before it in a just light, a well disposed mind recog- 
 nises this affinity, feels their authority, and perceives them to 
 be genuine. It was this, I apprehend, that led Plato to con- 
 ceive that the knowledge we acquire in the present state, is only 
 reminiscence of what, in a former state, we were acquainted with. 
 
240 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 
 
 A man born and brought up in a savage nation, may be taught 
 to pursue injury with unrelenting malice, to the destruction of 
 his enemy. Perhaps when he does so, his heart does not con- 
 demn him. 
 
 Yet, if he be fair and candid, and, when the tumult of passion 
 is over, have the virtues of clemency, generosity, and forgive- 
 ness, iaid before him, as they were taught and exemplified by 
 the Divine Author of our religion, he will see, that it is more 
 noble to overcome himself, and subdue a savage passion, than 
 to destroy his enemy. He will see, that to make a friend of an 
 enemy, and to overcome evil with good, is the greatest of all 
 victories, and gives a manly and a rational delight, with which the 
 brutish passion of revenge deserves not to be compared. He will 
 see, that hitherto he acted like a man to his friends, but like a 
 brute to his enemies : now he knows how to make his whole cha- 
 racter consistent, and one part of it to harmonize with another. 
 
 He must indeed be a great stranger to his own heart, and to 
 the state of human nature, who does not see that he has need of 
 all the aid which his situation affords him, in order to know 
 how he ought to act in many cases that occur. 
 
 VI. [A second observation is, That conscience is peculiar to 
 man. We see not a vestige of it in brute-animals. It is one of 
 those prerogatives by which we are raised above them.] 
 
 Brute-animals have many faculties in common with us. They 
 see, and hear, and taste, and smell, and feel. They have their 
 pleasures and pains. They have various instincts and appetites. 
 They have an affection for their offspring, and some of them for 
 their herd or flock. Dogs have a wonderful attachment to their 
 masters, and give manifest signs of sympathy with them. 
 
 We see, in brute-animals, anger and emulation, pride and 
 shame. Some of them are capable of being trained by habit, and 
 by rewards and punishments, to many things useful to man. 
 
 All this must be granted ; and if our perception of what we 
 ought, and what we ought not to do, could be resolved into any 
 of these principles, or into any combination of them, it would 
 follow, that some brutes are moral agents, and accountable for 
 their conduct. 
 
 But common sense revolts against this conclusion. A man 
 who seriously charged a brute with a crime, would be laughed 
 at. They may do actions hurtful to themselves, or to man. 
 They may have qualities, or acquire habits, that lead to such 
 actions ; and this is all we mean when we call them vicious. 
 But they cannot be immoral ; nor can they be virtuous. They 
 are not capable of self-government ; and, when they act accord- 
 ing to the passion or habit which is strongest at the time, they 
 act according to the nature that God has given them, and no 
 more can be required of them. 
 
OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. ^41 
 
 They cannot lay down a rule to themselves, which they are 
 not to transgress, though prompted by appetite, or ruffled by 
 passion. We see no reason to think that they can form the con- 
 ception of a general rule, or of obligation to adhere to it. 
 
 They have no conception of a promise or contract ; nor can 
 you enter into any treaty with them. They can neither affirm 
 nor deny, nor resolve, nor plight their faith. If nature had made 
 them capable of these operations, we should see the signs of 
 them in their motions and gestures. 
 
 [The most sagacious brutes never invented a language, nor 
 learned the use of one before invented. They never formed a 
 plan of government, nor transmitted inventions to their pos- 
 terity.] 
 
 These things, and many others that are obvious to common 
 observation, show, that there is just reason why mankind have 
 always considered the brute-creation as destitute of the noblest 
 faculties with which God hath endowed man, and particularly of 
 that faculty which makes us moral and accountable beings. 
 
 VII. [The next observation is, That conscience is evidently 
 intended by nature to be the immediate guide and director of our 
 conduct, after we arrive at the years of understanding.] 
 
 There are many things which, from their nature and structure, 
 show intuitively the end for which they were made. 
 
 $gW A man who knows the structure of a watch or clock, can 
 have no doubt in concluding that it was made to measure time. 
 And he that knows the structure of the eye, and the properties 
 of light, can have as little doubt whether it was made that we 
 might see by it. 
 
 In the fabric of the body, the intention of the several parts 
 is, in many instances, so evident, as to leave no possibility of 
 doubt. Who can doubt whether the muscles were intended to 
 move the parts in which they were inserted ? Whether the 
 bones were intended to give strength and support to the body ; 
 and some of them to guard the parts which they inclose ? 
 
 When we attend to the structure of the mind, the intention of 
 its various original powers is no less evident. Is it not evident, 
 that the external senses are given, that we may discern those 
 qualities of bodies which may be useful or hurtful to us ? 
 Memory, that we may retain the knowledge we have acquired : 
 judgment and understanding, that we may distinguish what is 
 true from what is false ? 
 
 VIII. The intention or end of our active powers obvious. — The 
 natural appetites of hunger and thirst, the natural affections of 
 parents to their offspring, and of relations to each other, the 
 natural docility and credulity of children, the affections of pity 
 and sympathy with the distressed, the attachment we feel to 
 neighbours, to acquaintance, and to the laws and constitution of 
 
 R 
 
\ 
 
 24g ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 
 
 our country; these are parts of our constitution, which plainly 
 point out their end, so that he must be blind, or very inattentive, 
 who does not perceive it. [Even the passions of anger and 
 resentment, appear very plainly to be a kind of defensive armour, 
 given by our Maker to guard us against injuries, and to deter the 
 injurious.] 
 
 Thus it holds generally with regard both to the intellectual 
 and active powers of man, that the intention for which they are 
 given is written in legible characters upon the face of them. 
 
 IX. Office of conscience. — [Nor is this the case of any of them 
 more evidently than of conscience. Its intention is manifestly 
 implied in its office ; which is, to show us what is good, what 
 bad, and what indifferent in human conduct.] 
 
 It judges of every action before it is done. For we can rarely 
 act so precipitately, but we have the consciousness that what we 
 are about to do is right, or wrong, or indifferent. Like the 
 bodily eye, it naturally looks forward, though its attention may 
 be turned back to the past. 
 
 To conceive, as some seem to have done, that its office is only 
 to reflect on past actions, and to approve or disapprove, is, as if 
 a man should conceive, that the office of his eyes is only to look 
 back upon the road he has travelled, and to see whether it be 
 clean or dirty ; a mistake which no man can make who has made 
 the proper use of his eyes. 
 
 Conscience prescribes measures to every appetite, affection, and 
 passion, and says to every other principle of action, so far thou 
 may est go, but no farther. 
 
 We may indeed transgress its dictates, but we cannot trans- 
 gress them with innocence, nor even with impunity. 
 
 [We condemn ourselves, or, in the language of Scripture, 
 our heart condemns us, whenever we go beyond the rules of right 
 and wrong which conscience prescribes. 
 
 Other principles of action may have more strength, but this 
 only has authority.'] Its sentence makes us guilty to ourselves, 
 and guilty in the eyes of our Maker, whatever other principle 
 may be set in opposition to it. 
 
 It is evident therefore, that this principle has, from its nature, 
 an authority to direct and determine with regard to our conduct; 
 to judge, to acquit, or to condemn, and even to punish ; an 
 authority which belongs to no other principle of the human 
 mind. 
 
 KSF It is the candle of the Lord set up within us, to guide our 
 steps. Other principles may urge and impel, but this only 
 authorises. Other principles ought to be controlled by this ; 
 this may be, but never ought to be, controlled by any other, and 
 never can be with innocence. 
 
 The authority of conscience over the other active principles of 
 
OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. 243 
 
 the mind, I do not consider as a point that requires proof by 
 argument, but as self-evident. For it implies no more than this, 
 That in all cases a man ought to do his duty. He only who 
 does in all cases what he ought to do, is the perfect man. 
 
 X. Stoical perfection ideal. — [Of this perfection in the human 
 nature, the Stoics formed the idea, and held it forth in their 
 writings as the goal to which the race of life ought to be directed. 
 Their wise man was one in whom a regard to the hones turn swal- 
 lowed up every other principle of action.] 
 
 The wise man of the Stoics, like the perfect orator of the rheto- 
 ricians, was an ideal character, and was, in some respects, carried 
 beyond nature ; yet it was perhaps the most perfect model of 
 virtue, that ever was exhibited to the heathen world ; and some 
 of those who copied after it, were ornaments to human nature. 
 
 XI. [The last observation is, That the moral faculty or con- 
 science is both an active and an intellectual power of the mind.] 
 
 It is an active power, as every truly virtuous action must be 
 more or less influenced by it. Other principles may concur with 
 it, and lead the same way ; but no action can be called morally 
 good, in which a regard to what is right has not some influence. 
 Thus a man who has no regard to justice, may pay his just debt, 
 from no other motive, but that he may not be thrown into prison. 
 I In this action there is no virtue at all. j 
 
 The moral principle, in particular cases, may be opposed by 
 any of our animal principles. Passion or appetite may urge to 
 what we know- to be wrong. In every instance of this kind, the 
 moral principle ought to prevail, and the more difficult its con- 
 quest is, it is the more glorious. 
 
 [In some cases, a regard to what is right may be the sole 
 motive, without the concurrence or opposition of any other prin- 
 ciple of action ; as when a judge or an arbiter determines a plea 
 between two indifferent persons, solely from a regard to justice. 
 
 Thus we see, that conscience, as an active principle, sometimes 
 concurs with other active principles, sometimes opposes them, 
 and sometimes is the sole principle of action.] 
 
 I endeavoured before to show, that a regard to our own good 
 upon the whole is not only a rational principle of action, but a 
 leading principle, to which all our animal principles are subordi- 
 nate. As there are, therefore, two regulating or leading princi- 
 ples in the constitution of man, a regard to what is best for us 
 upon the whole, and a regard to duty, it may be asked, Which 
 of these ought to yield if they happen to interfere ? 
 
 XII. Extravagance of Mysticism. — Some well meaning per- 
 sons have maintained, [That all regard to ourselves and to our 
 own happiness ought to be extinguished ; that we should love 
 virtue for its own sake only, even though it were to be accom- 
 panied with eternal misery.] 
 
 r 2 
 
244 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 
 
 This seems to have been the extravagance of some Mystics, 
 which perhaps they were led into, in opposition to a contrary 
 extreme of the schoolmen of the middle ages, who. made the 
 desire of good to ourselves to be the sole motive to action, and 
 virtue to be approvable only on account of its present or future 
 reward. 
 
 Juster views of human nature will teach us to avoid both these 
 extremes. 
 
 On the one hand, the disinterested love of virtue is undoubt- 
 edly the noblest principle in human nature, and ought never to 
 stoop to any other. 
 
 On the other hand, there is no active principle which God 
 hath planted in our nature that is vicious in itself, or that ought 
 to be eradicated, even if it were in our power. 
 
 They are all useful and necessary in our present state. The 
 perfection of human nature consists, not in extinguishing, but in 
 restraining them within their proper bounds, and keeping them 
 in due subordination to the governing principles. 
 - XIII. [As to the supposition of an opposition between the two 
 governing principles, that is, between a regard to our happiness 
 upon the whole, and a regard to duty, this supposition is merely 
 imaginary. There can be no such opposition.] 
 
 While the world is under a wise and benevolent administra- 
 tion, it is impossible that any man should, in the issue, be a loser 
 by doing his duty. ^ Every man, therefore, who believes in God, 
 while he is careful to do his duty, may safely leave the care of 
 his happiness to Him who made him. He is conscious that he 
 consults the last most effectually, by attending to the firstj 
 
 Indeed, if we suppose a man to be an atheist in his belief, and, 
 at the same time, by wrong judgment, to believe that virtue is 
 contrary to his happiness upon the whole, this case, as Lord 
 Shaftesbury justly observes, is without remedy. It will be 
 impossible for the man to act so as not to contradict a leading 
 principle of his nature. He must either sacrifice his happiness 
 to virtue, or virtue to happiness ; and is reduced to this miserable 
 dilemma, whether it be best to be a fool or a knave. 
 
 [This shows the strong connexion between morality and the 
 principles of natural religion; as the last only can secure a man 
 from the possibility of an apprehension, that he may play the 
 fool by doing his duty.] 
 
 Hence even Lord Shaftesbury, in his gravest work, concludes, 
 That virtue without piety is incomplete. Without piety it loses 
 its brightest example, its noblest object, and its firmest support. 
 
 XIV. [I conclude with observing, That conscience, or the 
 moral faculty, is likewise an intellectual power. ,] 
 
 By it solely we have the original conceptions or ideas of right 
 and wrong in human conduct. And of right and wrong, there 
 
OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE, g^^ 
 
 are not only many different degrees, but many different species. 
 Justice and injustice, gratitude and ingratitude, benevolence and 
 malice, prudence and folly, magnanimity and meanness, decency 
 and indecency, are various moral forms, all comprehended under 
 the general notion of right and wrong in conduct, all of them 
 objects of moral approbation or disapprobation, in a greater or a 
 less degree. 
 
 The conception of these, as moral qualities, we have by our 
 moral faculty ; and by the same faculty, when we compare them 
 together, we perceive various moral relations among them. Thus 
 we perceive that justice is entitled to a small degree of praise, 
 but injustice to a high degree of blame ; and the same may be 
 said of gratitude and its contrary. When justice and gratitude 
 interfere, gratitude must give place to justice, and unmerited 
 beneficence must give place to both. 
 
 Many such relations between the various moral qualities com- 
 pared together, are immediately discerned by our moral faculty. 
 A man needs only to consult his own heart to be convinced of 
 them. 
 
 All our reasonings in morals, in natural jurisprudence, in the 
 law of nations, as well as our reasonings about the duties of 
 natural religion, and about the moral government of the Deity, 
 must be grounded upon the dictates of our moral faculty, as first 
 principles. 
 
 As this faculty, therefore, furnishes the human mind with 
 many of its original conceptions or ideas, as well as with the first 
 principles of many important branches of human knowledge, it 
 may justly be accounted an intellectual, as well as an active 
 power of the mindr 
 
ESSAY IV. 
 
 OF THE LIBERTY OF MORAL AGENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY AND NECESSITY STATED. 
 
 I. Moral liberty. — By the liberty of a moral agent, I under- 
 stand, a power over the determinations of his own will. 
 
 If, in any action, he had power to will what he did, or not to 
 will it, in that action he is free. But if, in every voluntary 
 action, the determination of his will be the necessary conse- 
 quence of something involuntary in the state of his mind, or of 
 something in his external circumstances, he is not free ; he has 
 not what I call the liberty of a moral agent, but is subject to 
 necessity. 
 
 This liberty supposes the agent to have understanding and 
 will ; for the determinations of the will are the sole object about 
 which this power is employed ; and there can be no will without, 
 at least, such a degree of understanding as gives the conception 
 of that which we will. 
 
 [The liberty of a moral agent implies, not only a conception 
 of what he wills, but some degree of practical judgment or 
 reason.] 
 
 For if he has not the judgment to discern one determination 
 to be preferable to another, either in itself, or for some purpose 
 which he intends, what can be the use of a power to determine ? 
 His determinations must be made perfectly in the dark, without 
 reason, motive, or end. They can neither be right nor wrong, 
 wise nor foolish. Whatever the consequences may be, they 
 cannot be imputed to the agent, who had not the capacity of 
 foreseeing them, or of perceiving any reason for acting otherwise 
 than he did. 
 
 We may perhaps be able to conceive a being endowed with 
 power over the determinations of his will, without any light in 
 his mind to direct that power to some end. But such power 
 would be given in vain. No exercise of it could be either 
 blamed or approved. As nature gives no power in vain, I see 
 no ground to ascribe a power over the determinations of the 
 will to any being who has no judgment to apply it to the direction 
 
THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY, ETC. £47 
 
 of his conduct, no discernment of what he ought or ought not 
 to do. 
 
 For that reason, in this Essay, I speak only of the liberty of 
 moral agents, who are capable of acting well or ill, wisely or 
 foolishly, and this, for distinction's sake, I shall call moral 
 liberty. 
 
 II. The voluntary actions of brutes determined by the present 
 predominant passion. — What kind, or what degree of liberty 
 belongs to brute animals, or to our own species, before any use 
 of reason, I do not know. We acknowledge that they have not 
 the power of self-government. [Such of their actions as may 
 be called voluntary, seem to be invariably determined by the 
 passion or appetite, or affection or habit, which is strongest at 
 the time.] 
 
 This seems to be the law of their constitution, to which they 
 yield, as the inanimate creation does, without any conception of 
 the law, or any intention of obedience. 
 
 But of civil or moral government, which are addressed to the 
 rational powers, and require a conception of the law and an 
 intentional obedience, they are, in the judgment of all mankind, 
 incapable. Nor do I see what end could be served by giving 
 them a power over the determinations of their own will, unless to 
 make them intractable by discipline, which we see they are not. 
 
 III. [The effect of moral liberty is, That it is in the power of 
 the agent to do well or ill.] (This power, like every other gift 
 of God, may be.abusedj The right use of this gift of God is to 
 do well and wisely, as far as his best judgment can direct him, 
 and thereby merit esteem and approbation. The abuse of it is 
 to act contrary to what he knows or suspects to be his duty and 
 his wisdom, and thereby justly merit disapprobation and blame. 
 
 IV. [By necessity, I understand the want of that moral liberty 
 which I have above defined.] 
 
 If there can be a better and a worse in actions on the system 
 of necessity, let us suppose a man necessarily determined in all 
 cases to will and to do what is best to be done, he would surely 
 be innocent and inculpable. But, as far as I am able to judge, 
 he would not be entitled to the esteem and moral approbation 
 of those who knew and believed this necessity. What was, by 
 an ancient author, said of Cato, might indeed be said of him. 
 He was good because he could not be otherwise. But this saying, 
 if understood literally and strictly, is not the praise of Cato, but 
 of his constitution, which was no more the work of Cato, than 
 his existence. 
 
 On the other hand, if a man be necessarily determined to do 
 ill, this case seems to me to move pity, but not disapprobation. 
 He was ill, because he could not be otherwise. Who can blame 
 him ? Necessity has no law. 
 
 If he knows that he acted under this necessity, has he not just 
 
y 
 
 243 ESSAY IV. CHAP. I. 
 
 ground to exculpate himself? The blame, if there be any, is 
 not in him, but in his constitution. If he be charged by his 
 Maker with doing wrong, may he not expostulate with him, and 
 say, Why hast thou made me thus ? I may be sacrificed at thy 
 pleasure for the common good, like a man that has the plague, 
 but not for ill desert ; for thou knowest that what I am charged 
 with is thy work, and not mine. 
 
 Y. [Such are my notions of moral liberty and necessity, and 
 of the consequences inseparably connected with both the one and 
 the other.] 
 
 This moral liberty a man may have, though it do not extend 
 to all his actions, or even to all his voluntary actions. He does 
 many things by instinct, many things by the force of habit with- 
 out any thought at all, and consequently without will. In the 
 first part of life, he has not the power of self-government any 
 more than the brutes. That power over the determinations of 
 his own will, which belongs to him in ripe years, is limited, as 
 all his powers are ; and it is perhaps beyond the reach of his 
 understanding to define its limits with precision. We can only 
 say, in general, that it extends to every action for which he is 
 accountable. 
 
 This power is given by his Maker, and at his pleasure, whose 
 gift it is : it may be enlarged or diminished, continued or with- 
 drawn. LNo power in the creature can be independent of the 
 Creator.) His hook is in its nose ; he can give it line as far as 
 he sees fit, and when he pleases, can restrain it, or turn it 
 whithersoever he will. Let this be always understood, when we 
 ascribe liberty to man, or to any created being. 
 
 VI. [Supposing it therefore to be true, That man is a free 
 agent, it may be true, at the same time, that his liberty may be 
 impaired or lost, (1) by disorder of body or mind, as in melan- 
 choly, or in madness ; it may be impaired or lost (2) by vicious 
 habits ; it may, in particular cases, (3) be restrained by Divine 
 interposition.] 
 
 We call a man a free agent in the same way as we call him 
 a reasonable agent. In many things he is not guided by reason, 
 but by principles similar to those of the brutes. His reason is 
 weak at best. It is liable to be impaired or lost, by his own 
 fault, or by other means. In like manner, he may be a free 
 agent, though his freedom of action may have many similar 
 limitations. 
 
 The liberty I have described has been represented by some 
 philosophers as inconceivable, and as involving an absurdity. 
 
 " Liberty, they say, consists only in a power to act as we will; 
 and it is impossible to conceive in any being a greater liberty 
 than this. Hence it follows, that liberty does not extend to the 
 determinations of the will, but only to the actions consequent to 
 
THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY, ETC. ^AQ 
 
 its determination, and depending upon the will. To say that 
 we have power to will such an action, is to say, that we may will 
 it, if we will. This supposes the will to be determined by a 
 prior will ; and, for the same reason, that will must be deter- 
 mined by a will prior to it, and so on in an infinite series of 
 wills, which is absurd. To act freely, therefore, can mean 
 nothing more than to act voluntarily ; and this is all the liberty 
 that can be conceived in man, or in any being." 
 
 This reasoning, first, I think, advanced by Hobbes, has been 
 very generally adopted by the defenders of necessity. It is 
 grounded upon a definition of liberty totally different from that 
 which I have given, and therefore does not apply to moral 
 liberty,* as above defined. 
 
 VII. Three additional meanings of the word liberty. — [But it 
 is said that this is the only liberty that is possible, that is con- 
 ceivable, that does not involve an absurdity.] 
 
 It is strange, indeed ! if the word liberty has no meaning but 
 this one. I shall mention three, all very common. The objec- 
 tion applies to one of them, but to neither of the other two. 
 
 [Liberty is sometimes opposed to external force or confine- 
 ment of the body. Sometimes it is opposed to obligation by 
 law, or by lawful authority. Sometimes it is opposed to 
 necessity.] 
 
 1 . It is opposed to confinement of the body by superior force. 
 So we say a prisoner is set at liberty when his fetters are knocked 
 off, and he is discharged from confinement. This is the liberty 
 defined in the objection ; and I grant that this liberty extends 
 not to the will, neither does the confinement, because the will 
 cannot be confined by external force. 
 
 2. Liberty is opposed to obligation by law, or lawful authority. 
 This liberty is a right to act one way or another, in things which 
 the law has neither commanded nor forbidden ; and this liberty 
 is meant when we speak of a man's natural liberty, his civil 
 liberty, his Christian liberty. It is evident that this liberty, as 
 well as the obligation opposed to it, extends to the will: for it 
 is the will to obey that makes obedience ; the will to transgress 
 that makes a transgression of the law. Without will there can 
 be neither obedience nor transgression. Law supposes a power 
 to obey or to transgress ; it does not take away this power, but 
 proposes the motives of duty and of interest, leaving the power 
 to yield to them, or to take the consequence of transgression. 
 
 3. Liberty is opposed to necessity, and in this sense it extends 
 to the determinations of the will only, and not to what is conse- 
 quent to the will. 
 
 In every voluntary action, the determination of the will is the 
 first part of the action, upon which alone the moral estimation of 
 * Vide sect. i. and ii. of this chapter. 
 
250 ESSAY IV. CHAP. I. 
 
 it depends. It has been made a question among philosophers, 
 Whether, in every instance, this determination be the necessary 
 consequence of the constitution of the person, and the circum- 
 stances in which he is placed ; or whether he had not power in 
 many cases, to determine this way or that ? 
 
 This has, by some, been called the philosophical notion of 
 liberty and necessity ; but it is by no means peculiar to philoso- 
 phers. The lowest of the vulgar have, in all ages, been prone 
 to have recourse to this necessity, to exculpate themselves or 
 their friends in what they do wrong, though, in the general 
 tenor of their conduct, they act upon the contrary principle. 
 
 VIII. Whether this notion of moral liberty be conceivable or 
 not, every man must judge for himself. To me there appears no 
 difficulty in conceiving it. I consider the determination of the 
 will as an effect. This effect must have a cause which had power 
 to produce it ; and the cause must be either the person himself, 
 whose will it is, or some other being. The first is as easily con- 
 ceived as the last. If the person was the cause of that deter- 
 mination of his own will, he was free in that action, and it is 
 justly imputed to him, whether it be good or bad. But, if 
 another being was the cause of this determination, either 'by 
 producing it immediately, or by means and instruments under 
 his direction, then the determination is the act and deed of that 
 being, and is solely imputable to him. 
 
 But it is said, " That nothing is in our power but what depends 
 upon the will, and therefore the will itself cannot be in our 
 power." 
 
 I answer, That this is a fallacy arising from taking a common 
 saying in a sense which it never was intended to convey, and in a 
 sense contrary to what it necessarily implies. 
 
 In common life, when men speak of what is, or is not, in a 
 man's power, they attend only to the external and visible effects, 
 which only can be perceived, and which only can affect them. 
 Of these, it is true, that nothing is in a man's power, but what 
 depends upon his will, and this is all that is meant by this com- 
 mon saying. 
 
 But this is so far from excluding his will from being in his 
 power, that it necessarily implies it. For to say that what de- 
 pends upon the will is in a man's power, but the will is not in 
 his power, is to say that the end is in his power, but the means 
 necessary to that end are not in his power, which is a con- 
 tradiction. 
 
 [In many propositions which we express universally, there is 
 an exception necessarily implied, and therefore always under- 
 stood. Thus when we say, that all things depend upon God, 
 God himself is necessarily excepted. In like manner, when we 
 say, that all that is in our power depends upon the will, the will 
 
OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, ETC. 251 
 
 itself is necessarily excepted: [for if the will be not, nothing 
 else can be in our power.] Every effect must be in the power of 
 its cause. The determination of the will is an effect, and there- 
 fore must be in the power of its cause, whether that cause be 
 the agent himself, or some other being. 
 
 From what has been said in this chapter, I hope the notion of 
 moral liberty will be distinctly understood, and that it appears 
 that this notion is neither inconceivable, nor involves any ab- 
 surdity or contradiction. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, ACTION, AND ACTIVE POWER. 
 
 I. Tlie use of ambiguous terms has impeded our reasonings 
 about moral liberty. — The writings upon liberty and necessity 
 have been much darkened, by the ambiguity of the words used 
 in reasoning upon that subject. The words cause and effect, action 
 and active power, liberty and necessity, are related to each other. 
 The meaning of one determines the meaning of the rest. When we 
 attempt to define them, we can only do it by synonymous words 
 which need definition as much. There is a strict sense in which 
 those words must be used, if we speak and reason clearly about 
 moral liberty ; but to keep to this strict sense is difficult, be- 
 cause in all languages they have, by custom, got a great latitude 
 of signification. 
 
 As we camiot reason about moral liberty, without using those 
 ambiguous words, it is proper to point out, as distinctly as pos- 
 sible, their proper and original meaning, in which they ought to 
 be understood in treating of this subject, and to show from what 
 causes they have become so ambiguous in all languages 3 as to 
 darken and embarrass our reasonings upon it. 
 
 [Every thing that begins to exist, must have a cause of its ex- 
 istence, which had power to give it existence.] [And every 
 thing that undergoes any change, must have some cause of that 
 change.] 
 
 That neither existence, nor any mode of existence, can begin 
 without an efficient cause, is a principle that appears very early 
 in the mind of man ; and it is so universal, and so firmly rooted 
 in human nature, that the most determined scepticism cannot 
 .eradicate it. 
 
 It is upon this principle that we ground the rational belief of 
 a Deity. \ But that is not the only use to which we apply it. 
 Every man's conduct is governed by it every day, and almost 
 every hour of his life. And if it were possible for any man to 
 root out this principle from his mind, he must give up every 
 
252 ESSAY IV. CHAP. II. 
 
 thing that is called common prudence, and be fit only to be con- 
 fined as insane. 
 
 From this principle it follows, that every thing which under- 
 goes any change, must either be the efficient cause of that change 
 in itself, or it must be changed by some other being. 
 
 In the first case it is said to have active power, and to act in 
 producing that change. In the second case it is merely passive, 
 or is acted upon, and the active power is in that being only which 
 produces the change. 
 
 II. Active power. — The name of a cause and of an agent, is 
 properly given to that being only, which, by its active power, 
 produces some change in itself, or in some other being. The 
 change, whether it be of thought, of will, or of motion, is the 
 effect. Active power, therefore, is a quality in the cause, which 
 enables it to produce the effect. And the exertion of that active 
 power in producing the effect, is called action, agency, efficiency. 
 
 [In order to the production of any effect, there must be in the 
 cause not only power, but the exertion of that power : for power 
 that is not exerted produces no effect.] 
 
 All that is necessary to the production of any effect, is power, 
 is an efficient cause to produce the effect, and the exertion of 
 that power : for it is a contradiction to say, that the cause has 
 power to produce the effect, and exerts that power, and yet the 
 effect is not produced. The effect cannot be in his power, un- 
 less all the means necessary to its production be in his power. 
 
 It is no less a contradiction to say, that a cause has power to 
 produce a certain effect, but that he cannot exert that power : 
 for power which cannot be exerted is no power, and is a contra- 
 diction in terms. 
 
 To prevent mistake, it is proper to observe, that a being may 
 have a power at one time which it has not at another. It may 
 commonly have a power, which, at a particular time, it has not. 
 Thus, a man may commonly have power to walk or to run ; but 
 he has not this power when asleep, or when he is confined by 
 superior force. In common language, he may be said to have a 
 power which he cannot then exert. But this popular expression 
 means only that he commonly has this power, and will have it 
 when the cause is removed which at present deprives him of it : 
 for when we speak strictly and philosophically, it is a contradic- 
 tion to say that he has this power, at that moment when he is 
 deprived of it. 
 
 [These, I think, are necessary consequences from the prin- 
 ciple first mentioned, that every change which happens in nature 
 must have an efficient cause which had power to produce it.] 
 
 III. [Another principle, which appears very early in the mind 
 of man, is, That ive are efficient causes in our deliberate and 
 voluntary actions.] 
 
OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, ETC. gfjg 
 
 We are conscious of making an exertion, sometimes with dif- 
 ficulty, in order to produce certain effects. An exertion made 
 deliberately and voluntarily, in order to produce an effect, im- 
 plies a conviction that the effect is in our power. No man can 
 deliberately attempt what he does not believe to be in his power. 
 The language of all mankind, and their ordinary conduct in life, 
 demonstrate, that they have a conviction of some active power in 
 themselves to produce certain motions in their own and in other 
 bodies, and to regulate and direct their own thoughts. This con- 
 viction we have so early in life, that we have no remembrance 
 when, or in what way, we acquired it. 
 
 That such a conviction is at first the necessary result of our 
 constitution, and that it can never be entirely obliterated, is, I 
 think, acknowledged by one of the most zealous defenders of 
 necessity. — " Free Discussion," &c. p. 298. " Such are the influ- 
 ences to which all mankind, without distinction, are exposed, that 
 they necessarily refer actions (I mean refer them ultimately) first 
 of all to themselves and others ; and it is a long time before they 
 begin to consider themselves and others as instruments in the hand 
 of a superior agent. Consequently, the associations which refer 
 actions to themselves, get so confirmed, that they are never en- 
 tirely obliterated ; and therefore the common language, and the 
 common feelings of mankind, will be adapted to the first, the 
 limited and imperfect, or rather erroneous, view of things." 
 
 It is very probable that the very conception or idea of active 
 power, and of efficient causes, is derived from our voluntary 
 exertions in producing effects ; and that, if we were not con- 
 scious of such exertions, we should have no conception at all of 
 a cause, or of active power, and consequently no conviction of 
 the necessity of a cause of every change which we observe in 
 nature. 
 
 IV. [It is certain that we can conceive no kind of active power 
 but what is similar or analogous to that which we attribute to our- 
 selves ; that is, a power which is exerted by will and with under- 
 standing. Our notion, even of Almighty power, is derived 
 from the notion of human power, by removing from the former 
 those imperfections and limitations to which the latter is sub- 
 jected.] 
 
 It may be difficult to explain the origin of our conceptions and 
 belief concerning efficient causes and active power. [The com- 
 mon theory, that all our ideas are ideas of sensation or reflection, 
 and that all our belief is a perception of the agreement or the 
 disagreement of those ideas, appears to be repugnant, both to 
 the idea of an efficient cause, and to the belief of its necessity.] 
 
 An attachment to that theory has led some philosophers to 
 deny that we have any conception of an efficient cause, or of 
 active power, because efficiency and active power are not ideas, 
 
£54 ESSAY IV. CHAP. n. 
 
 either of sensation or reflection. They maintain, therefore, that 
 a cause is only something prior to the effect, and constantly con- 
 joined with it. This is Mr. Hume's notion of a cause, and seems 
 to be adopted by Dr. Priestley, who says, " That a cause cannot 
 be defined to be any thing, but such previous circumstances as 
 are constantly followed by a certain effect, the constancy of the 
 result making us conclude, that there must be a sufficient reason, 
 in the nature of the things, why it should be produced in those 
 circumstances." 
 
 But theory ought to stoop to fact, and not fact to theory. 
 Every man who understands the language knows, that neither 
 priority, nor constant conjunction, nor both taken together, 
 imply efficiency. Every man, free from prejudice, must assent 
 to what Cicero has said : " Itaque non sic causa intelligi debet, 
 ut quod cuique antecedat, id et causa sit, sed quod cuique 
 efficienter antecedit."' — " That which precedes any thing is 
 not to be considered as its cause, but that which precedes it 
 efficiently" 
 
 [The very dispute, whether we have the conception of an 
 efficient cause, shows that we have. For though men may dis- 
 pute about things which have no existence, they cannot dispute 
 about things of which they have no conception.] 
 
 V. Recapitulation. — What has been said in this chapter is 
 intended to show, That the conception of causes, of action and 
 of active power, in the strict and proper sense of these words, is 
 found in the minds of all men very early, even in the daw r n of 
 their rational life. It is therefore probable, that, in all lan- 
 guages, the words by which these conceptions were expressed 
 were at first distinct and unambiguous ; yet it is certain, that, 
 among the most enlightened nations, these words are applied to 
 so many things of different natures, and used in so vague a man- 
 ner, that it is very difficult to reason about them distinctly. 
 
 This phenomenon, at first view, seems very unaccountable. 
 But a little reflection may satisfy us, that it is a natural conse- 
 quence of the slow and gradual progress of human knowledge. 
 
 And since the ambiguity of these words has so great influence 
 upon our reasoning about moral liberty, and furnishes the 
 strongest objections against it, it is not foreign to our subject to 
 show whence it arises. [When we know the causes that have 
 produced this ambiguity, we shall be less in danger of being mis- 
 led by it, and the proper and strict meaning of the words will 
 more evidently appear.] 
 
255 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CAUSES OF THE AMBIGUITY OF THOSE WORDS. 
 
 I. Premature conclusion as to objects indued with motion. — 
 When we turn our attention to external objects, and begin to 
 exercise our rational faculties about them, we find, that there 
 are some motions and changes in them, which we have power 
 to produce, and that they have many which must have some 
 other cause. Either the objects must have life and active power, 
 as we have, or they must be moved or changed by something 
 that has life and active power, as external objects are moved 
 by us. 
 
 [Our first thoughts seem to be, That the objects in which we 
 perceive such motion have understanding and active power as we 
 have.] 
 
 "Savages," says the Abbe Raynal, "wherever they see motion 
 which they cannot account for, there they suppose a soul."* 
 
 All men may be considered as savages in this respect, until 
 they are capable of instruction, and of using their faculties in a 
 more perfect manner than savages do. 
 
 The rational conversations of birds and beasts in iEsop's Fables 
 do not shock the belief of children. To them they have that 
 probability which we require in an epic poem. Poets give us a 
 great deal of pleasure, by clothing every object with intellectual 
 and moral attributes in metaphor and in other figures. May not 
 the pleasure which we take in this poetical language, arise, in 
 part, from its correspondence with our earliest sentiments ? 
 
 II. However this may be, the [Abbe Raynal's observation is 
 sufficiently confirmed, both from fact, and from the structure of 
 all languages.] 
 
 Rude nations do really believe sun, moon and stars, earth, sea 
 and air, fountains and lakes, to have understanding and active 
 power. To pay homage to them, and implore their favour, is a 
 kind of idolatry natural to savages. 
 
 All languages carry in their structure the marks of their being 
 formed when this belief prevailed. [The distinction of verbs 
 and participles into active and passive, which is found in all lan- 
 guages, must have been originally intended to distinguish what 
 is really active from what is merely passive ; and, in all lan- 
 guages, we find active verbs applied to those objects, in which, 
 according to the Abbe Raynal's observation, savages suppose a 
 soul J] 
 
 Thus we say the sun rises and sets, and comes to the meridian, 
 the moon changes, the sea ebbs and flows, the winds blow. 
 
 * Vide sect. vii. chap. 5, Essay III. 
 
256 ESSAY IV chap. in. 
 
 Languages were formed by men who believed these objects to 
 have life and active power in themselves. It was therefore pro- 
 per and natural to express their motions and changes by active 
 verbs. 
 
 III. [There is no surer way of tracing the sentiments of nations 
 before they have records than by the structure of their language, 
 which, notwithstanding the changes produced in it by time, will 
 always retain some signatures of the thoughts of those by whom 
 it was invented. When we find the same sentiments indicated 
 in the structure of all languages, those sentiments must have 
 been common to the human species when languages were 
 invented.] 
 
 When a few of superior intellectual abilities find leisure for 
 speculation, they begin to philosophize, and soon discover, that 
 many of those objects which, at first, they believed to be intel- 
 ligent and active, are really lifeless and passive. This is a very 
 important discovery. It elevates the mind, emancipates from 
 many vulgar superstitions, and invites to farther discoveries of 
 the same kind. 
 
 As philosophy advances, life and activity in natural objects 
 retire, and leave them dead and inactive. Instead of moving 
 voluntarily, we find them to be moved necessarily ; instead of 
 acting, we find them to be acted upon ; and nature appears as 
 one great machine, where one wheel is turned by another, that 
 by a third ; and how far this necessary succession may reach, the 
 philosopher does not know. 
 
 IV. [ The weakness of human reason makes men prone, when 
 they leave one extreme, to rush into the opposite;* and thus philo- 
 sophy, even in its infancy, may lead men from idolatry and poly- 
 theism into atheism, and from ascribing active power to inani- 
 mate beings, to conclude all things to be carried on by neces- 
 
 Whatever origin we ascribe to the doctrines of atheism and of 
 fatal necessity, it is certain, that both may be traced almost as 
 far back as philosophy ; and both appear to be the opposites of 
 the earliest sentiments of men. 
 
 It must have been by the observation and reasoning of the 
 speculative few, that those objects were discovered to be inani- 
 mate and inactive, to which the many ascribed life and activity. 
 But while the few are convinced of this, they must speak the 
 language of the many in order to be understood. tf^T So we 
 see, that when the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, which agrees 
 with vulgar prejudice and with vulgar language, has been uni- 
 versally rejected by philosophers, they continue to use the phrase- 
 ology that is grounded upon it, not only in speaking to the vul- 
 gar, but in speaking to one another. They say, The sun rises 
 * As, from dogmatism to scepticism. 
 
OF THE AMBIGUITY OF THOSE WORDS. 257 
 
 and sets, and moves annually through all the signs of the zodiac, 
 while they believe that he never leaves his place. 
 
 [In like manner, those active verbs and participles, which 
 were applied to the inanimate objects of nature, when they were 
 believed to be really active, continue to be applied to them after 
 they are discovered to be passive, .] 
 
 V. [ The forms of language, once established by custom, are 
 not so easily changed as the notions on which they were originally 
 founded. While the sounds remain, their signification is gra- 
 dually enlarged or altered.] This is sometimes found, even in 
 those sciences in which the signification of words is the most 
 accurate and precise. Thus, in arithmetic, the word number, 
 among the ancients, always signified so many units, and it would 
 have been absurd to apply it either to unity or to any part of an 
 unit ; but now we call unity, or any part of unity, a number. 
 With them, multiplication always increased a number, and divi- 
 sion diminished it ; but we speak of multiplying by a fraction, 
 which diminishes, and of dividing by a fraction, which increases 
 the number. We speak of dividing or multiplying by unity, 
 which neither diminishes nor increases a number. These forms 
 of expression, in the ancient language, would have been absurd. 
 
 VI. A chief cause of the imperfection of language. — [By such 
 changes, in the meaning of words, @gr the language of every civil- 
 ized nation resembles old furniture new modelled, in which many 
 things are put to uses for which they were not originally intended, 
 and for which they are not perfectly fitted.] 
 
 This is one great cause of the imperfection of language, and it 
 appears very remarkably in those verbs and participles which are 
 active in their form, but are frequently used so as to have 
 nothing active in their signification. 
 
 Hence we are authorised by custom to ascribe action and 
 active power to things which we believe to be passive. The 
 proper and original signification of every word, which at first 
 signified action and causation, is buried and lost under that vague 
 meaning which custom has affixed to it. 
 
 That there is a real distinction, and perfect opposition, between 
 acting and being acted upon, every man may be satisfied who is 
 capable of reflection. And that this distinction is perceived by 
 all men as soon as they begin to reason, appears by the distinc- 
 tion between active and passive verbs, which is original in all 
 languages, though, from the causes that have been mentioned, 
 they come to be confounded in the progress of human im- 
 provement. 
 
 VII. ^Another way in which philosophy has contributed very 
 much to the ambiguity of the words under our consideration, de- 
 serves to be mentioned.] 
 
 The first step into natural philosophy, and what hath com- 
 
 s 
 
£58 ESSAY IV. CHAP. III. 
 
 monly been considered as its ultimate end, is the investigation of 
 the causes of the phenomena of nature ; that is, the causes of 
 those appearances in nature which are not the effects of human 
 power. " Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas," is the sen- 
 timent of every mind that has a turn to speculation. 
 
 The knowledge of the causes of things promises no less the 
 enlargement of human power than the gratification of human 
 curiosity; and therefore, among the enlightened part of man- 
 kind, this knowledge has been pursued in all ages with an avidity 
 proportioned to its importance. 
 
 In nothing does the difference between the intellectual powers 
 of man and those of brutes appear more conspicuous than in this. 
 For in them we perceive no desire to investigate the causes of 
 things, nor indeed any^sign that they have the proper notion of 
 a cause. 
 
 [There is reason, however, to apprehend, that, in this investi- 
 gation, men have wandered much in the dark, and that their 
 success has by no means been equal to their desire and expec- 
 tation.] 
 
 We easily discover an established order and connexion in the 
 phenomena of nature. We learn, in many cases, from what has 
 happened, to know what will happen. The discoveries of this 
 kind, made by common observation, are many, and are the foun- 
 dation of common prudence in the conduct of life. Philosophers, 
 by more accurate observation and experiment, have made many 
 more ; by which arts are improved, and human power, as well as 
 human knowledge, is enlarged. 
 
 But, as to the real causes of the phenomena of nature, how 
 little do we know ! [all our knowledge of things external, must 
 be grounded upon the information of our senses ; but causation 
 and active power are not objects of sense ; nor is that always the 
 cause of a phenomenon which is prior to it, and constantly con- 
 joined with it; otherwise night would be the cause of day, and 
 day the cause of the following night.] 
 
 It is to this day problematical, whether all the phenomena of 
 the material system be produced by the immediate operation of 
 the First Cause, according to the laws which his w T isdom deter- 
 mined, or whether subordinate causes are employed by him in 
 the operations of nature ; and, if they be, what their nature, 
 their number, and their different offices are ? And whether, in 
 all cases, they act by commission, or, in some, according to their 
 discretion ? 
 
 When we are so much in the dark with regard to the real 
 causes of the phenomena of nature, and have a strong desire to 
 know them, it is not strange, that ingenious men should form 
 numberless conjectures and theories, by which the soul, hunger- 
 ing for knowledge, is fed with chaff instead of wheat. 
 
OF THE AMBIGUITY OF THOSE WORDS. ^59 
 
 VII T. Absurd theories of philosophers to explain causation. — 
 In a very ancient system, love and strife were made the causes of 
 things. In the Pythagorean and Platonic system, matter, ideas, 
 and an intelligent mind. By Aristotle, matter, form, and priva- 
 tion. Des Cartes thought, that matter, and a certain quantity 
 of motion given at first by the Almighty, are sufficient to account 
 for all the phenomena of the natural world. Leibnitz, that the 
 universe is made up of monades, active and percipient, which, by 
 their active power received at first, produce all the changes they 
 undergo. 
 
 While men thus wandered in the dark in search of causes, 
 unwilling to confess their disappointment, they vainly conceived 
 every thing they stumbled upon to be a cause, and the proper 
 notion of a cause is lost, by giving the name to numberless things 
 which neither are nor can be causes. 
 
 IX. Not mischievous. — [This confusion of various things under 
 the name of causes, is the more easily tolerated, because however 
 hurtful it may be to sound philosophy, it has little influence upon 
 the concerns of life.] A constant antecedent, or concomitant, of 
 the phenomenon whose cause is sought, may answer the purpose 
 of the inquirer, as well as if the real cause were known. @§ir Thus 
 a sailor desires to know the cause of the tides, that he may know 
 when to expect high water : he is told that it is high water when 
 the moon is so many hours past the meridian : and now he thinks 
 he knows the cause of the tides. What he takes for the cause 
 answers his purpose, and his mistake does him no harm. 
 
 Those philosophers seem to have had the justest views of nature, 
 as well as of the weakness of human understanding, who, giving 
 up the pretence of discovering the causes of the operations of 
 nature, have applied themselves to discover, by observation and 
 experiment, the rules, or laws of nature according to which the 
 phenomena of nature are produced. 
 
 In compliance with custom, or perhaps, to gratify the avidity 
 of knowing the causes of things, we call the laws of nature causes 
 and active powers. So we speak of the powers of gravitation, of 
 magnetism, of electricity. 
 
 We call them causes of many of the phenomena of nature ; 
 and such they are esteemed by the ignorant, and by the half 
 learned. 
 
 [But those of juster discernment see, that laws of nature are 
 not agents. They are not endowed with active power, and there- 
 fore cannot be causes in the proper sense. They are only the 
 rules according to which the unknown cause acts.] 
 
 Thus it appears, that our natural desire to know the causes of 
 the phenomena of nature, our inability to discover them, and 
 the vain theories of philosophers employed in this search, have 
 made the word cause and the related words so ambiguous, and to 
 
 s 2 
 
260 ESSAY IV. CHAP. III. 
 
 signify so many things of different natures, that they have in a 
 manner lost their proper and original meaning, and yet we have 
 no other words to express it. 
 
 Every thing joined with the effect, and prior to it, is called its 
 cause. An instrument, an occasion, a reason, a motive, an end, 
 are called causes. And the related words effect, agent, power, 
 are extended in the same vague manner. 
 
 [Were it not that the terms cause and agent have lost their 
 proper meaning in the crowd of meanings that have been given 
 them, we should immediately perceive a contradiction in the 
 terms necessary cause and necessary agent.~\ And although the 
 loose meaning of those words is authorised by custom, the ar- 
 biter of language, and therefore cannot be censured, perhaps 
 cannot always be avoided, yet we ought to be upon our guard, 
 that we be not misled by it to conceive things to be the same 
 which are essentially different. 
 
 To say that man is a free agent, is no more than to say that, 
 in some instances, he is truly an agent and a cause, and is not 
 merely acted upon as a passive instrument. On the contrary, to 
 say that he acts from necessity, is to say that he does not act at 
 all, that he is no agent, and that, for any thing we know, there is 
 only one agent in the universe, who does every thing that is done, 
 whether it be good or ill. 
 
 If this necessity be attributed even to the Deity, the conse- 
 quence must be, that there neither is nor can be a cause at all ; 
 that nothing acts, but every thing is acted upon ; nothing moves, 
 but every thing is moved ; all is passion without action ; all 
 instrument without an agent ; and that every thing that is, or 
 was, or shall be, has that necessary existence in its season which 
 we commonly consider as the prerogative of the First Cause. 
 
 This I take to be the genuine and the most tenable system of 
 necessity. It was the system of Spinoza, though he was not the 
 first that advanced it ; for it is very ancient. And if this system 
 be true, our. reasoning to prove the existence of a first cause of 
 every thing that begins to exist, must be given up as fallacious. 
 
 X. Proof of a Deity on these principles presents no difficulty. 
 ■ — If it be evident to the human understanding, as I take it to be, 
 that what begins to exist must have an efficient cause, which had 
 power to give or not to give it existence ; and if it be true, that 
 effects well and wisely fitted for the best purposes, demonstrate 
 intelligence, wisdom, and goodness, in the efficient cause, as well 
 as power, the proof of a Deity from these principles is very easy 
 and obvious to all men that can reason. 
 
 If, on the other hand, our belief that every thing that begins 
 to exist has a cause, be got only by experience ; and if, as Mr. 
 Hume maintains, the only notion of a cause be something prior 
 to the effect, which experience has shown to be constantly con- 
 
OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. 261 
 
 joined with such an effect, I see not how, from these principles, 
 it is possible to prove the existence of an intelligent cause of the 
 universe. 
 
 Mr. Hume seems to me to reason justly from his definition of 
 a cause, when, in the person of an Epicurean, he maintains, that 
 with regard to a cause of the universe, we can conclude nothing ; 
 because it is a singular effect. We have no experience that such 
 effects are always conjoined with such a cause. Nay, the cause 
 which we assign to this effect, is a cause which no man hath seen, 
 nor can see, and therefore experience cannot inform us that it 
 has ever been conjoined with any effect. He seems to me to 
 reason justly from his definition of a cause, when he maintains, 
 that any thing may be the cause of any thing ; since priority and 
 constant conjunction is all that can be conceived in the notion of 
 a cause. 
 
 Another zealous defender of the doctrine of necessity says, 
 that " a cause cannot be denned to be any thing but such pre- 
 vious circumstances as are constantly followed by a certain effect, 
 the constancy of the result making us conclude, that there must 
 be a sufficient reason, in the nature of things, why it should be 
 produced in those circumstances." 
 
 This seems to me to be Mr. Hume's definition of a cause in 
 other words, and neither more nor less ; but I am far from think- 
 ing that the author of it will admit the consequences which Mr. 
 Hume draws from it, however necessary they may appear to 
 others. 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. 
 
 I. The modern advocates for the doctrine of necessity lay the 
 stress of their cause upon the influence of motives. 
 
 " Every deliberate action," they say, " must have a motive. 
 When there is no motive on the other side, this motive must 
 determine the agent : when there are contrary motives, the 
 strongest must prevail : we reason from men's motives to their 
 actions, as we do from other causes to their effects : if man be a 
 free agent, and be not governed by motives, all his actions must 
 be mere caprice, rewards and punishments can have no effect, 
 and such a being must be absolutely ungovernable." 
 
 In order therefore to understand distinctly, in what sense we 
 ascribe moral liberty to man, it is necessary to understand what 
 influence we allow to motives. To prevent misunderstanding, 
 which has been very common upon this point, I offer the follow- 
 ing observations : 
 
ESSAY IV. CHAP. IV. 
 
 I. I grant that all rational beings are influenced, and ought to 
 he influenced by motives. But the influence of motives is of a 
 very different nature from that of efficient causes. They are 
 neither causes nor agents. They suppose an efficient cause, and 
 can do nothing without it. We cannot, without absurdity, sup- 
 pose a motive, either to act, or to be acted upon ; it is equally 
 incapable of action and of passion ; because it is not a thing that 
 exists, but a thing that is conceived ; it is what the schoolmen 
 called an ens rationis. Motives, therefore, may influence to action, 
 but they do not act. They may be compared to advice, or ex- 
 hortation, which leaves a man still at liberty. For in vain is 
 
 ; advice given when there is not a power either to do, or to for- 
 bear, what it recommends. In like manner, motives suppose 
 liberty in the agent, otherwise they have no influence at all. 
 
 It is a law of nature, with respect to matter, that every motion 
 and change of motion is proportional to the force impressed, and 
 in the direction of that force. The scheme of necessity supposes 
 a similar law to obtain in all the actions of intelligent beings ; 
 which, with little alteration, may be expressed thus : every action, 
 or change of action, in an intelligent being, is proportional to 
 the force of motives impressed, and in the direction of that 
 force. 
 
 The law of nature respecting matter is grounded upon this 
 principle — that matter is an inert, inactive substance, which does 
 not act, but is acted upon ; and the law of necessity must be 
 grounded upon the supposition, that an intelligent being is an 
 inert, inactive substance, which does not act, but is acted upon. 
 
 II. [2. Rational beings, in proportion as they are wise and 
 good, will act according to the best motives; and every rational 
 being, who does otherwise, abuses his liberty.] The most per- 
 fect being, in every thing where there is a right and a wrong, a 
 better and a worse, always infallibly acts according to the best 
 motives. This indeed is little else than an identical proposition ; 
 for it is a contradiction to say, that a perfect being does what 
 is wrong or unreasonable. But to say, that he does not act 
 freely, because he always does what is best, is to say, that the 
 proper use of liberty destroys liberty, and that liberty consists 
 only in its abuse. 
 
 The moral perfection of the Deity consists, not in having no 
 power to do ill, otherwise, as Dr. Clarke justly observes, there 
 would be no ground to thank him for his goodness to us any 
 more than for his eternity or immensity ; but his moral perfection 
 consists in this, that, when he has power to do every thing, a 
 
 i power which cannot be resisted, he exerts that power only in 
 doing what is wisest and best. To be subject to necessity is to 
 have no power at all; for power and necessity are opposite*. 
 Wc grant, therefore, that motives have influence, similar to that 
 
OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. ggg 
 
 of advice or persuasion ; but this influence is perfectly consistent 
 with liberty, and indeed supposes liberty. 
 
 III. [3. Whether every deliberate action must have a motive, 
 depends on the meaning we put upon the word deliberate^ If, 
 by a deliberate action, we mean an action wherein motives are 
 weighed, which seems to be the original meaning of the word, 
 surely there must be motives, and contrary motives, otherwise 
 they could not be weighed. But if a deliberate action means 
 only, as it commonly does, an action done by a cool and calm 
 determination of the mind, with forethought and will, I believe 
 there are innumerable such actions done without a motive. 
 
 This must be appealed to every man's consciousness. I do 
 many trifling actions every day, in which, upon the most careful 
 reflection, I am conscious of no motive ; and to say that I may 
 be influenced by a motive of which I am not conscious, is, in the 
 first place, an arbitrary supposition without any evidence, and 
 then, it is to say, that I may be convinced by an argument which 
 never entered into my thought. 
 
 Cases frequently occur, in which an end that is of some import- 
 ance may be answered equally well by any one of several different 
 means. In such cases, a man who intends the end finds not the 
 least difficulty in taking one of these means, though he be 
 firmly persuaded, that it has no title to be preferred to any of 
 the others. 
 
 To say that this is a case that cannot happen, is to contradict 
 the experience of mankind ; for surely igF a man who has occa- 
 sion to lay out a shilling, or a guinea, may have two hundred that 
 are of equal value, both to the giver and to the receiver, any 
 one of which will answer his purpose equally well. To say, 
 that, if such a case should happen, the man could not execute 
 his purpose, is still more ridiculous, though it have the autho- 
 rity of some of the schoolmen, who determined, that the ass, 
 between two equal bundles of hay, would stand still till it died 
 of hunger. 
 
 IV. [If a man could not act without a motive, he would have no 
 power at all; for motives are not in our power ; and he that has 
 not power over a necessary mean, has not power over the end.] 
 
 That an action done without any motive can neither have 
 merit nor demerit, is much insisted on by the writers for neces- 
 sity, and triumphantly, as if it were the very hinge of the con- 
 troversy. I grant it to be a self-evident proposition, and I know 
 no author that ever denied it. 
 
 How insignificant soever, in moral estimation, the actions may 
 be which are done without any motive, they are of moment in 
 the question concerning moral liberty. For, if there ever was 
 any action of this kind, motives are not the sole causes of human 
 actions. And if we have the power of acting without a motive, 
 
2g4 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IV. 
 
 that power, joined to a weaker motive, may counterbalance a 
 stronger. 
 
 V. [4. It can never be proved, that when there is a motive on 
 one side only, that motive must determine the action.] 
 
 According to the laws of reasoning, the proof is incumbent on 
 those who hold the affirmative ; and I have never seen a shadow 
 of argument which does not take for granted the thing in ques- 
 Y tion, to wit, that motives are the sole causes of actions ._) 
 
 Is there no such thing as wilfulness, caprice, or obstinacy 
 among mankind? If there be not, it is wonderful that they 
 should have names in all languages. If there be such things, a 
 single motive, or even many motives, may be resisted, 
 
 VI. Motives of the same kind may be compared. — [5. When it 
 is said, that of contrary motives the strongest always prevails, 
 this can neither be affirmed nor denied with understanding, until 
 we know distinctly what is meant by the strongest motive.] 
 
 I do not find, that those who have advanced this as a self- 
 evident axiom, have ever attempted to explain what they mean 
 by the strongest motive, or have given any rule by which we may 
 judge which of two motives is the strongest. 
 
 How shall we know whether the strongest motive always pre- 
 vails, if we know not which is strongest ? There must be some 
 test by which their strength is to be tried, some balance in which 
 they may be weighed, otherwise, to say that the strongest motive 
 always prevails, is to speak without any meaning. We must 
 therefore search for this test or balance, since they who have laid 
 so much stress upon this axiom, have left us wholly in the dark 
 as to its meaning. I grant, that when the contrary motives are 
 of the same kind, and differ only in quantity, it may be easy to 
 say which is the strongest. Thus a bribe of a thousand pounds 
 is a stronger motive than a bribe of a hundred pounds. But 
 when the motives are of different kinds, as money and fame, 
 duty and worldly interest, health and strength, riches and honour, 
 by what rule shall w r e judge which is the strongest motive ? 
 
 Either we measure the strength of motives, merely by their 
 prevalence, or by some other standard distinct from their preva- 
 lence. 
 
 If we measure their strength merely by their prevalence, and 
 by the strongest motive mean only the motive that prevails, it 
 will be true indeed that the strongest motive prevails ; but the 
 proposition will be identical, and mean no more than that the 
 strongest motive is the strongest motive. From this surely no 
 conclusion can be drawn. 
 
 [If it should be said, that by the strength of a motive is not 
 meant its prevalence, but the cause of its prevalence ; that we 
 measure the cause by the effect, and from the superiority of the 
 effect conclude the superiority of the cause, as we conclude that 
 
OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. 265 
 
 to be the heaviest weight which bears clown the scale : I answer, 
 that, according to this explication of the axiom, it takes for 
 granted that motives are the causes, and the sole causes of actions.] 
 Nothing is left to the agent, but to be acted upon by the mo- 
 tives, as the balance is by the weights. The axiom supposes, 
 that the agent does not act, but is acted upon ; and, from this 
 supposition, it is concluded that he does not act. This is to 
 reason in a circle, or rather it is not reasoning but begging the 
 question. 
 
 Bgp Contrary motives may very properly be compared to advo- 
 cates pleading the opposite sides of a cause at the bar. It would 
 be very weak reasoning to say, that such an advocate is the most 
 powerful pleader, because sentence was given on his side. The 
 sentence is in the power of the judge, not of the advocate. It 
 is equally weak reasoning, in proof of necessity, to say, such a 
 motive prevailed, therefore it is the strongest ; since the defend- 
 ers of liberty maintain that the determination was made by the 
 man, and not by the motive. 
 
 VII. [We are therefore brought to this issue, that unless 
 some measure of the strength of motives can be found distinct 
 from their prevalence, it cannot be determined, whether the 
 strongest motive always prevails or not. If such a measure can 
 be found and applied, we may be able to judge of the truth of 
 this maxim, but not otherwise.] 
 
 Every thing that can be called a motive is addressed either to 
 the animal or to the rational part of our nature. Motives of the 
 former kind are common to us with the brutes ; those of the 
 latter are peculiar to rational beings. We shall beg leave, for 
 distinction's sake, to call the former, animal motives, and the 
 latter, rational. 
 
 Hunger is a motive in a dog to eat ; so is it in a man. Ac- 
 cording to the strength of the appetite, it gives a stronger or a 
 weaker impulse to eat. And the same thing may be said of 
 every other appetite and passion. Such animal motives give an 
 impulse to the agent, to which he yields with ease ; and, if the 
 impulse be strong, it cannot be resisted without an effort which 
 requires a greater or a less degree of self-command. Such motives 
 I are not addressed to the rational powers. Their influence is im- 
 mediately upon the will. We feel their influence, and judge of 
 their strength, by the conscious effort which is necessary to resist 
 them. 
 
 VIII. Animal test of the strength of motives. — When a man 
 is acted upon by contrary motives of this kind, he finds it easy 
 to yield to the strongest. They are like two forces pushing him 
 in contrary directions. To yield to the strongest, he needs only 
 to be passive. By exerting his own force, he may resist ; but 
 this requires an effort of which he is conscious. [The strength 
 
ESSAY IV. CHAP. IV. 
 
 of motives of this kind is perceived, not by our judgment, but 
 by our feeling ; and that is the strongest of contrary motives to 
 which he can yield with ease, or which it requires an effort of 
 self-command to resist ; and this we may call the animal test of 
 the strength of motives.] 
 
 If it be asked, whether, in motives of this kind, the strongest 
 always prevails ? I answer, That in brute-animals I believe it does. 
 They do not appear to have any self-command ; an appetite or 
 passion in them is overcome only by a stronger contrary one. 
 On this account, they are not accountable for their actions, nor 
 can they be the subjects of law. 
 
 But in men who are able to exercise their rational powers, 
 and have any degree of self-command, the strongest animal mo- 
 tive does not always prevail. (The flesh does not always prevail 
 against the spirit, though too often it does.^) And if men were 
 necessarily determined by the strongest animal motive, they 
 could no more be accountable, or capable of being governed by 
 law, than brutes are. 
 
 IX. Rational motives defined. — Let us next consider rational 
 motives, to which the name of motive is more commonly and 
 more properly given. Their influence is upon the judgment, 
 by convincing us that such an action ought to be done, that it is 
 our duty, or conducive to our real good, or to some end which 
 we have determined to pursue. 
 
 They do not give a blind impulse to the will as animal motives 
 do. They convince, but they do not impel, unless, as may 
 often happen, they excite some passion of hope, or fear, or de- 
 sire. Such passions may be excited by conviction, and may 
 operate in its aid as other animal motives do. But there may be 
 conviction without passion; and [the conviction of what we 
 ought to do, in order to some end which we have judged fit to be 
 pursued, is what I call a rational motive.'] 
 
 Brutes, I think, cannot be influenced by such motives. They 
 have not the conception of ought and ought not. Children ac- 
 quire these conceptions as their rational powers advance ; and 
 they are found in all of ripe age, who have the human faculties. 
 
 X. Rational test of the strength of motives. — [If there be any 
 competition between rational motives, it is evident that the 
 strongest, in the eye of reason, is that which it is most our duty 
 and our real happiness to follow.] Our duty and our real hap- 
 piness are ends which are inseparable ; and they are the ends 
 which every man, endowed with reason, is conscious he ought 
 to pursue in preference to all others. [This we may call the 
 rational test of the strength of motives. A motive winch is the 
 strongest, according to the animal test, may be, and very often 
 is, the weakest according to the rational.'] 
 
 [The grand and the important competition of contrary motives 
 
OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES, 267 
 
 is between the animal, on the one hand, and the rational on the 
 other. This is the conflict between the flesh and the spirit, upon 
 the event of which the character of men depends.] 
 
 If it be asked, which of these is the strongest motive ? The 
 answer is, That the first is commonly strongest, when they are 
 tried by the animal test. If they were not so, human life would 
 be no state of trial. It would not be a warfare, nor would vir- 
 tue require any effort or self-command. No man would have 
 any temptation to do wrong. But when we try the contrary 
 motives by the rational test, it is evident that the rational mo- 
 tive is always the strongest. 
 
 And now, I think, it appears that the strongest motive, ac- 
 cording to either of the tests I have mentioned, does not always 
 
 [In every wise and virtuous action, the motive that prevails is 
 the strongest, according to the rational test, but commonly the 
 weakest according to the animal. In every foolish, and in every 
 vicious action, the motive that prevails is commonly the strong- 
 est according to the animal test, but always the weakest according 
 to the rational.] 
 
 XI. [6. It is true, that we reason from men's motives to their 
 actions, and in many cases with great probability, but never with 
 absolute certainty. And to infer from this, that men are neces- 
 sarily determined by motives, is very weak reasoning.] 
 
 For, let us suppose, for a moment, that men have moral liberty, 
 
 I would ask, what use may they be expected to make of this 
 
 liberty ? It may surely be expected that, of the various actions 
 
 within the sphere of their power, they will choose what pleases 
 
 them most for the present, or what appears to be most for their 
 
 (real, though distant good. When there is a competition be- 
 
 j tween these motives, the foolish will prefer present gratification ; 
 
 vthe wise, the greater and more distant good. 
 
 Now, is not this the very way in which we see men act ? Is 
 it not from the presumption that they act in this way, that we 
 reason from their motives to their actions ? Surely it is. Is it 
 not weak reasoning, therefore, to argue, that men have not li- 
 berty, because they act in that very way in which they would 
 act if they had liberty ? It would surely be more like reasoning, 
 to draw the contrary conclusion from the same premises. 
 
 XII. [7. Nor is it better reasoning to conclude, that if men 
 j are not necessarily determined by motives, all their actions must 
 
 be capricious.] 
 
 To resist the strongest animal motives when duty requires, is 
 so far from being capricious, that it is, in the highest degree, 
 wise and virtuous. And we hope this is often done by good 
 men. \ 
 
 To act against rational motives, must always be foolish, vicious, 
 
£gg ESSAVIV. CHAP. IV. 
 
 or capricious. And it cannot be denied that there are too 
 many such actions done. But is it reasonable to conclude, that 
 because liberty may be abused by the foolish and the vicious, 
 therefore it can never be put to its proper use, which is to act 
 wisely and virtuously ? 
 
 XIII. [8. It is equally unreasonable to conclude, that if men 
 are not necessarily determined by motives, rewards and punishments 
 would have no effect. With wise men they will have their due 
 effect ; but not always with the foolish and the vicious.] 
 
 Let us consider what effect rewards and punishments do really, 
 and in fact, produce, and what may be inferred from that 
 effect, upon each of the opposite systems of liberty and of ne- 
 cessity. 
 
 I take it for granted that, in fact, the best and wisest laws, 
 both human and divine, are often transgressed, notwithstanding 
 the rewards and punishments that are annexed to them. If any 
 man should deny this fact, I know not how to reason with him. 
 
 From this fact, it may be inferred with certainty, upon the 
 supposition of necessity, that, in every instance of transgression, 
 the motive of reward or punishment was not of sufficient strength 
 to produce obedience to the law. This implies a fault in the 
 lawgiver ; but there can be no fault in the transgressor who acts 
 mechanically by the force of motives. §gp° We might as well 
 impute a fault to the balance, when it does not raise a weight 
 of two pounds by the force of one pound. 
 
 XIV. The supposition of necessity precludes rewards and pu- 
 nishments — liberty gives efficacy to both. — [Upon the supposition 
 of necessity, there can be neither reward nor punishment, in the 
 proper sense, as those words imply good and ill desert.] Reward 
 and punishment are only ,tools employed to produce a mechani- 
 cal effect. When the effect is not produced, the tool must be 
 unfit or wrong applied. 
 
 Upon the supposition of liberty, rewards and punishments will 
 have a proper effect upon the wise and the good ; but not so upon 
 the foolish and the vicious, when opposed by their animal passions 
 or bad habits ; and this is just what we see to be the fact. Upon 
 this supposition, the transgression of the law implies no defect in 
 the law, no fault in the lawgiver ; the fault is solely in the trans- 
 gressor. And it is upon this supposition only that there can be 
 either reward or punishment, in the proper sense of the words, 
 because it is only on this supposition that there can be good or ill 
 desert. \ 
 
269 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GOVERNMENT. 
 
 I. Mechanical and moral government. — When it is said that 
 liberty would make us absolutely ungovernable by God or man ; 
 to understand the strength of this conclusion, it is necessary to 
 know distinctly what is meant by government. There are two 
 kinds of government^ very different in their nature. The one 
 we may, for distinction's sake, call mechanical government, the 
 other moral. The first is the government of beings which have 
 no active power, but are merely passive and acted upon ; the ' 
 second, of intelligent and active beings. 
 
 $ST An instance of mechanical government may be, That of a 
 master or commander of a ship at sea. Supposing her skilfully 
 built, and furnished with every thing proper for the destined 
 voyage, to govern her properly for this purpose requires much 
 art and attention : and, as every art has its rules, or laws, so has 
 this. But by whom are those laws to be obeyed, or those rules 
 observed ? not by the ship, surely, for she is an inactive being, 
 but by the governor. A sailor may say that she does not obey 
 the rudder ; and he has a distinct meaning when he says so, and 
 is perfectly understood. But he means not obedience in the 
 proper, but in a metaphorical sense : [for, in the proper sense, 
 the ship can no more obey the rudder, than she can give a com- 
 mand. Every motion, both of the ship and rudder, is exactly 
 proportioned to the force impressed, and in the direction of that 
 force. The ship never disobeys the laws of motion, even in 
 the metaphorical sense ; and they are the only laws she can be 
 subject to.] 
 
 The sailor, perhaps, curses her for not obeying the rudder ; 
 but this is not the voice of reason, but of passion, like that of 
 the losing gamester, when he curses the dice. The ship is as 
 innocent as the dice. 
 
 Whatever may happen during the voyage, whatever may be its 
 issue, the ship, in the eye of reason, is neither an object of 
 approbation nor of blame ; because she does not act, but is 
 acted upon. If the material, in any part, be faulty ; Who put 
 it to that use? If the form ; Who made it? If the rules of 
 navigation were not observed; Who transgressed them? If a 
 storm occasioned any disaster, it was no more in the power of 
 the ship than of the master. 
 
 Another instance to illustrate the nature of mechanical 
 government may be, That of the man who makes and exhibits a 
 puppet-show. The puppets, in all their diverting gesticulations, 
 do not move, but are moved by an impulse secretly conveyed, 
 
270 ESSAY IV. CHAP. V. 
 
 which they cannot resist. If they do not play their parts pro- 
 perly, the fault is only in the maker or manager of the ma- 
 chinery. Too much or too little force was applied, or it was 
 wrong directed. No reasonable man imputes either praise 
 or blame to the puppets, but solely to their maker or their 
 governor. 
 
 If we suppose for a moment, the puppets to be endowed with 
 understanding and will, but without any degree of active power, 
 this will make no change in the nature of their government : for 
 understanding and will, without some degree of active power, 
 can produce no effect. They might, upon this supposition, be 
 called intelligent machines ; but they would be machines still, 
 and as much subject to the laws of motion as inanimate matter, 
 and therefore incapable of any other than mechanical government. 
 
 II. Let us next consider the nature of moral government. 
 This is the government of persons who have reason and active 
 power, and have laws prescribed to them for their conduct, by a 
 legislator. Their obedience is obedience in the proper sense ; it 
 must therefore be their own act and deed, and consequently they 
 must have power to obey or to disobey. To prescribe laws to 
 them which they have not power to obey, or to require a service 
 beyond their power, would be tyranny and injustice in the high- 
 est degree. 
 
 "When the laws are equitable, and prescribed by just authority, 
 they produce moral obligation in those that are subject to them, 
 and disobedience is a crime deserving punishment. [But if the 
 obedience be impossible ; if the transgression be necessary ; it 
 is self-evident, that there can be no moral obligation to what is 
 impossible, that there can be no crime in yielding to necessity, 
 and that there can be no justice in punishing a person for what 
 it was not in his power to avoid. These are first principles in 
 morals, and, to every unprejudiced mind, as self-evident as the 
 axioms of mathematics. The whole science of morals must 
 stand or fall with them.] 
 
 III. Having thus explained the nature both of mechanical and 
 of moral government, the only kinds of government I am able to 
 conceive, it is easy to see how far liberty or necessity agrees with 
 either. 
 
 On the one hand, I acknowledge that necessity agrees per- 
 fectly with mechanical government. This kind of government is 
 most perfect when the governor is the sole agent ; every thing 
 done is the doing of the governor only. The praise of every 
 thing well done is his solely ; and his is the blame if there be 
 any thing ill done, because he is the sole agent. 
 
 It is true that, in common language, praise or dispraise is 
 often metaphorically given to the work ; but, in propriety, it 
 belongs solely to the author. Every workman understands this 
 
LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GOVERNMENT ^\ 
 
 perfectly, and takes to himself very justly the praise or dispraise 
 of his own work. 
 
 On the other hand, it is no less evident, that, on the supposi- 
 tion of necessity in the governed, there can be no moral govern- 
 ment. There can be neither wisdom nor equity in prescribing 
 laws that cannot be obeyed. There can be no moral obligation 
 upon beings that have no active power. There can be no crime 
 in not doing what it was impossible to do ; nor can there be jus- 
 tice in punishing such omission. 
 
 [If we apply these theoretical principles to the kinds of govern- 
 ment which do actually exist, whether human or divine, we 
 shall find that, among men, even mechanical government is 
 imperfect.'] 
 
 Men do not make the matter they work upon. Its various 
 kinds, and the qualities belonging to each kind, are the work of 
 God. The laws of nature, to which it is subject, are the work 
 of God. The motions of the atmosphere and of the sea, the 
 heat and cold of the air, the rain and wind, which are useful 
 instruments in most human operations, are not in our power. So 
 that, in all the mechanical productions of men, the work is more 
 to be ascribed to God than to man. 
 
 IV. Civil government among men is a species of moral govern- 
 ment, but imperfect, as its lawgivers and its judges are. [Human 
 laws may be unwise or unjust ; human judges may be partial or 
 unskilful. But in all equitable civil governments, the maxims of 
 moral government above mentioned, are acknowledged as rules 
 which ought never to be violated.] Indeed, the rules of justice 
 are so evident to all men, that the most tyrannical governments 
 profess to be guided by them, and endeavour to palliate what is 
 contrary to them by the plea of necessity. 
 
 That a man cannot be under an obligation to what is impossi- 
 ble ; that he cannot be criminal in yielding to necessity, nor 
 justly punished for what he could not avoid, are maxims admitted, 
 in all criminal courts, as fundamental rules of justice. 
 
 [In opposition to this, it has been said by some of the most 
 able defenders of necessity, That human laws require no more to 
 constitute a crime, but that it be voluntary ; whence it is inferred, 
 that the criminality consists in the determination of the will, 
 whether that determination be free or necessary.] This, I think 
 indeed, is the only possible plea by which criminality can be 
 made consistent with necessity ; and therefore it deserves to be 
 considered. 
 
 I acknowledge that a crime must be voluntary ; for, if it be 
 not voluntary, it is no deed of the man, nor can be justly im- 
 puted to him ; but it is no less necessary that the criminal 
 have moral liberty. In men that are adult, and of a sound 
 mind, this liberty is presumed. But in every case where it 
 
272 ESSAY IV. CHAP. V. 
 
 cannot be presumed, no criminality is imputed, even to voluntary 
 actions. 
 
 This is evident from the following instances : First, The 
 actions of brutes appear to be voluntary ; yet they are never con- 
 ceived to be criminal, though they may be noxious. Secondly, 
 Children in nonage act voluntarily, but they are not chargeable 
 with crimes. Thirdly, Madmen have both understanding and 
 will, but they have not moral liberty, and therefore are not 
 chargeable with crimes. Fourthly, Even in men that are adult, 
 and of a sound mind, a motive that is thought irresistible by any 
 ordinary degree of self-command, such as the rack, or the dread 
 of present death, either exculpates, or very much alleviates a 
 voluntary action, which, in other circumstances, would be highly 
 criminal ; whence it is evident, that if the motive were absolutely 
 irresistible, the exculpation would be complete. So far is it 
 from being true in itself, or agreeable to the common sense of 
 mankind, that the criminality of an action depends solely upon 
 its being voluntary. 
 
 V. [ The government of brutes, so far as they are subject to man, 
 is a species of mechanical government, or something very like to 
 it, and has no resemblance to moral government.] As inanimate 
 matter is governed by our knowledge of the qualities which God 
 hath given to the various productions of nature, and our know- 
 ledge of the laws of nature which he hath established ; so brute- 
 animals are governed by our knowledge of the natural instincts, 
 appetites, affections and passions, which God hath given them. 
 By a skilful application of these springs of their actions, they 
 may be trained to many habits useful to man. After all, we 
 find that, from causes unknown to us, not only some species, 
 but some individuals of the same species, are more tractable 
 than others. 
 
 Children under age are governed much in the same way as the 
 most sagacious brutes. The opening of their intellectual and 
 moral powers, which may be much aided by proper instruction 
 and example, is that which makes them, by degrees, capable of 
 moral government. 
 
 Reason teaches us to ascribe to the Supreme Being a govern- 
 ment of the inanimate and inactive part of his creation, ana- 
 logous to that mechanical government which men exercise, but 
 infinitely more perfect. This, I think, is what we call God's 
 natural government of the universe. [In this part of the Divine 
 government, whatever is done is God's doing. He is the sole 
 cause, and the sole agent, whether he act immediately, or by 
 instruments subordinate to him ; and his will is always done : 
 for instruments are not causes, they are not agents, though we 
 sometimes improperly call them so.] 
 
 It is therefore no less agreeable to reason, than to the language 
 
LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GOVERNMENT. 278 
 
 of Holy Writ, to impute to the Deity whatever is done in the 
 natural world. When we say of anything, that it is the work of 
 nature, this is saying that it is the work of God, and can have no 
 other meaning. 
 
 VI. [The natural world is a grand machine, contrived, made, 
 and governed by the wisdom and power of the Almighty : and if 
 there be in this natural world, beings that have life, intelligence, 
 and will, without any degree of active power, they can only be 
 subject to the same kind of mechanical government.] Their 
 determinations, whether we call them good or ill, must be the 
 actions of the Supreme Being, as much as the productions of 
 the earth : for, life, intelligence, and will, without active power, 
 can do nothing, and therefore nothing can justly be imputed 
 to it. 
 
 This grand machine of the natural world, displays the power 
 and wisdom of the artificer. But in it, there can be no display 
 of moral attributes, which have a relation to moral conduct in 
 his creatures, such as justice and equity in rewarding or punish- 
 ing, the love of virtue and abhorrence of wickedness : for, as 
 every thing in it is God's doing, there can be no vice to be 
 punished or abhorred, no virtue in his creatures to be rewarded. 
 [According to the system of necessity, the whole universe of 
 creatures in this natural world ; and of every thing done in it, God 
 is the sole agent. There can be no moral government, nor moral 
 obligation. Laws, rewards, and punishments, are only mechani- 
 cal engines, and the will of the lawgiver is obeyed as much when 
 his laws are transgressed, as when they are observed.] Such 
 must be our notions of the government of the world, upon the 
 supposition of necessity. It must be purely mechanical, and 
 there can be no moral government upon that hypothesis. 
 
 VII. The moral government of God consistent ivith liberty. — 
 Let us consider, on the other hand, what notion of the Divine 
 government we are naturally led into by the supposition of liberty. 
 They who adopt this system conceive, that in that small por- 
 tion of the universe which falls under our view, as a great part 
 has no active power, but moves, as it is moved, by necessity, 
 and therefore must be subject to a mechanical government, so it 
 has pleased the Almighty to bestow upon some of his creatures, 
 particularly upon man, some degree of active power, and of 
 reason, to direct him to the right use of his power. 
 
 What connexion there may be, in the nature of things, be- 
 tween reason and active power, we know not. But we see evi- 
 dently, that, as reason without active power can do nothing, so 
 ^ctive power without reason has no guide to direct it to any end. 
 These two conjoined make moral liberty, which, in how small 
 ) a degree soever it is possessed, raises man to a superior rank in 
 I the creation of God. He is not merely a tool in the hand of 
 
 V_ T 
 
274 ESSAY IV. CHAP. V. 
 
 the master, but a servant, in the proper sense, who has a cer- 
 tain trust, and is accountable for the discharge of it. Within 
 the sphere of his power, he has a subordinate dominion or go- 
 vernment, and therefore may be said to be made after the image 
 of God, the Supreme Governor. But [as his dominion is sub- 
 ordinate, he is under a moral obligation to make a right use of it, 
 as far as the reason which God hath given him can direct him.] 
 When he does so, he is a just object of moral approbation ; and 
 no less an object of disapprobation and just punishment when he 
 abuses the power with which he is intrusted. And he must 
 finally render an account of the talent committed to him, to 
 the Supreme Governor and righteous Judge. 
 
 [This is the moral government of God, which, far from being 
 inconsistent with liberty, supposes liberty in those that are sub- 
 ject to it, and can extend no farther than that liberty extends ; 
 for accountableness can no more agree with necessity than light 
 with darkness.] 
 
 VIII. [It ought likewise to be observed, that as active power 
 in man, and in every created being, is the gift of God, it de- 
 pends entirely on his pleasure for its existence, its degree and 
 its continuance, and therefore can do nothing which he does not 
 see Jit to permit.'] 
 
 Our power to act does not exempt us from being acted upon, 
 and restrained or compelled by a superior power; and the power 
 of God is always superior to that of man. 
 
 It would be great folly and presumption in us to pretend to 
 know all the ways in which the government of the Supreme 
 Being is carried on, and his purposes accomplished by men, acting 
 freely and having different or opposite purposes in their view. 
 For, as the heavens are high above the earth, so are his thoughts 
 above our thoughts, and his ways above our ways. 
 
 That a man may have great influence upon the voluntary de- 
 terminations of other men, by means of education, example, and 
 persuasion, is a fact which must be granted, whether we adopt 
 the system of liberty or necessity. How far such determinations 
 ought to be imputed to the person who applied those means, how 
 far to the person influenced by them, we know not, but God 
 knows, and will judge righteously. 
 
 But what I would here observe, is, that if a man of superior 
 talents may have so great influence over the actions of his fellow- 
 creatures, without taking away their liberty, it is surely reason- 
 able to allow a much greater influence of the same kind to him 
 who made man. Nor can it ever be proved, that the wisdom 
 and power of the Almighty are insufficient for governing free 
 agents, so as to answer his purposes. 
 
 [He who made man may have ways of governing his determi- 
 nations, consistent with moral liberty, of which we have no con- 
 
FIRST ARGUMENT. 215 
 
 ception. And he who gave this liberty freely, may lay any re- 
 straint upon it that is necessary for answering his wise and 
 benevolent purposes.] The justice of his government requires 
 that his creatures should be accountable only for what they have 
 received, and not for what was never intrusted to them. And 
 we are sure that the Judge of all the earth will do what is right. 
 
 [Thus, I think, it appears that, upon the supposition of ne- 
 cessity^ there can be no moral government of the universe. Its 
 government must be perfectly mechanical, and every thing done 
 in it, whether good or ill, must be God's doing ; and that, upon 
 the supposition of liberty, there may be a perfect moral govern<- 
 ment of the universe, consistent with his accomplishing all his 
 purposes, in its creation and government.] 
 
 The arguments to prove that man is endowed with moral 
 liberty, which have the greatest weight with me, are three : 
 First, Because he has a natural conviction or belief, that, in 
 many cases, he acts freely; secondly, Because he is account- 
 able ; and, thirdly, Because he is able to prosecute an end by a 
 long series of means adapted to it. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FIRST ARGUMENT. 
 
 I. We have, by our constitution, a natural conviction or belief 
 that we act freely : a conviction so early, so universal, and so 
 necessary in most of our rational operations, that it must be the 
 result of our constitution, and the work of Him that made us. 
 
 Some of the most strenuous advocates for the doctrine of ne- 
 cessity acknowledge that it is impossible to act upon it. They 
 say that we have a natural sense or conviction that we act freely, 
 but that this is a fallacious sense. 
 
 [This doctrine is dishonourable to our Maker, and lays a foun- 
 dation for universal scepticism. It supposes the Author of our 
 being to have given us one faculty on purpose to deceive us, 
 and another by which we may detect the fallacy, and find that 
 he imposed upon us.]* 
 
 If any one of our natural faculties be fallacious, there can be 
 no reason to trust to any of them; for he that made one made 
 all. 
 
 The genuine dictate of our natural faculties is the voice of 
 God, no less than what he reveals from heaven ; and to say that 
 it is fallacious, is to impute a lie to the God of truth. 
 
 * Vide Essay III. chap. vi. sect. 5 ; "The Intellectual Powers," Essay II. 
 chap. xxii. sect. 3; and Essay VII. chap. xxii. sect. 11. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VI. 
 
 If candour and veracity be not an essential part of moral ex- 
 cellence, there is no such thing as moral excellence, nor any 
 reason to rely on the declarations and promises of the Almighty. 
 A man may be tempted to lie, but not without being conscious 
 of guilt and of meanness. Shall we impute to the Almighty 
 what we cannot impute to a man without a heinous affront ? 
 
 II. Passing this opinion, therefore, as shocking to an ingenu- 
 ous mind, and, in its consequences, subversive of all religion, 
 all morals and all knowledge, let us proceed to consider the evi- 
 dence of our having a natural conviction that we have some de- 
 gree of active poiver. 
 
 The very conception or idea of active power must be derived 
 from something in our own constitution. It is impossible to 
 account for it otherwise. We see events, but we see not the 
 power that produces them. We perceive one event to follow 
 another, but we perceive not the chain that binds them together. 
 The notion of power and causation, therefore, cannot be got 
 from external objects. 
 
 Yet the notion of causes, and the belief that every event must 
 have a cause which had power to produce it, is found in every 
 human mind so firmly established, that it cannot be rooted out. 
 
 This notion and this belief must have its origin from some- 
 thing in our constitution ; and that it is natural to man, appears 
 from the following observations. 
 
 [1. We are conscious of many voluntary exertions, some 
 easy, others more difficult, some requiring a great effort. These 
 are exertions of power.'] And though a man may be unconscious 
 of his power when he does not exert it, he must have both the 
 conception and the belief of it, when he knowingly and willingly 
 exerts it, with intention to produce some effect. 
 
 [2. Deliberation about an action of moment, whether we shall 
 do it or not, implies a conviction that it is in our power.] To 
 deliberate about an end, we must be convinced that the means 
 are in our power ; and to deliberate about the means, we must 
 be convinced that we have power to choose the most proper. 
 
 [3. Suppose our deliberation brought to an issue, and that 
 we resolve to do what appeared proper, can we form such a reso- 
 lution or purpose, without any conviction of power to execute it ? 
 No ; it is impossible.] A man cannot resolve to lay out a sum 
 of money, which he neither has, nor hopes ever to have. 
 
 [4. Again, when I plight my faith in any promise or contract, 
 I must believe that I shall have power to perform what I promise.] 
 Without this persuasion, a promise would be downright fraud. 
 
 There is a condition implied in every promise, if we live, and 
 if God continue with us the power which he hath given us. Our 
 conviction, therefore, of this power, derogates not in the least 
 from our dependence upon God. The rudest savage is taught 
 
FIRST ARGUMENT. 2T7 
 
 by nature to admit this condition in all promises, whether it be 
 expressed or not. For it is a dictate of common sense, that 
 we can be under no obligation to do what it is impossible for us 
 to do. 
 
 If we act upon the system of necessity, there must be another 
 condition implied in all deliberation, in every resolution, and in 
 every promise, and that is, if we shall be willing. But the will 
 not being in our power, we cannot engage for it. 
 
 If this condition be understood, as it must be understood if 
 we act upon the system of necessity, there can be no deliberation 
 or resolution, nor any obligation in a promise. A man might 
 as well deliberate, resolve, and promise, upon the actions of other 
 men as upon his own. 
 
 It is no less evident, that we have a conviction of power in 
 other men, when we advise, or persuade, or command, or con- 
 ceive them to be under obligation by their promises. 
 
 [5. Is it possible for any man to blame himself for yielding to 
 necessity ? Then he may blame himself for dying, or for being 
 a man.] Blame supposes a wrong use of power ; and when a 
 man does as well as it was possible for him to do, wherein is he 
 to be blamed ? Therefore all conviction of wrong conduct, all 
 remorse and self-condemnation, imply a conviction of our power 
 to have done better. Take away this conviction, and there may 
 be a sense of misery, or a dread of evil to come, but there can 
 be no sense of guilt, or resolution to do better. 
 
 Many who hold the doctrine of necessity, disown these conse- 
 quences of it, and think to evade them. To such they ought 
 not to be imputed ; but their inseparable connexion with that 
 doctrine appears self-evident : and therefore some late patrons 
 of it have had the boldness to avow them. " They cannot accuse 
 themselves of having done anything wrong in the ultimate sense 
 of the words. In a strict sense, they have nothing to do with 
 repentance, confession, and pardon, these being adapted to a 
 fallacious view of things." 
 
 Those who can adopt these sentiments, may indeed celebrate, 
 with high encomiums, the great and glorious doctrine of necessity. 
 It restores them, in their own conceit, to the state of innocence. 
 It delivers them from all the pangs of guilt and remorse, and 
 from all fear about their future conduct, though not about their 
 fate. They may be as secure that they shall do nothing wrong, 
 as those who have finished their course. A doctrine so flatter- 
 ing to the mind of a sinner, is very apt to give strength to weak 
 arguments. 
 
 After all, it is acknowledged by those who boast of this 
 glorious doctrine, "That every man, let him use what efforts 
 he can, will necessarily feel the sentiments of shame, remorse, 
 
278 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VI. 
 
 f and repentance, and, oppressed with a sense of guilt, will have 
 
 ^recourse to that mercy of which he stands in need.") 
 
 * The meaning of this seems to me to be, that although the doctrine 
 
 r of necessity be supported by invincible arguments, and though 
 
 it be the most, consolatory doctrine in the world ; yet no man, in 
 
 his most serious moments, when he sifts himself before the throne 
 
 J of his Maker, can possibly believe it, but must then necessarily 
 
 < lay aside this glorious doctrine, and all its nattering consequences, 
 
 and return to the humiliating conviction of his having made a 
 
 \bad use of the power which God had given him. 
 
 
 III. [ The belief of acting freely is coeval with our reason, uni- 
 
 versal, and necessary. — If the belief of our having active power 
 be necessarily implied in those rational operations we have men- 
 tioned, it must be coeval with our reason ; it must be as uni- 
 versal among men, and as necessary in the conduct of life as 
 those operations are.] 
 
 We cannot recollect by memory when it began. It cannot be 
 a prejudice of education, or of false philosophy. It must be a 
 part of our constitution, or the necessary result of our constitu- 
 tion, and therefore the w T ork of God. 
 
 It resembles, in this respect, our belief of the existence of a 
 material world ; our belief that those we converse with are living 
 and intelligent beings ; our belief that those things did really 
 happen which we distinctly remember, and our belief that w T e 
 continue the same identical persons. 
 
 We find difficulty in accounting for our belief of these things ; 
 and some philosophers think that they have discovered good 
 reasons for throwing it off. But it sticks fast, and the greatest 
 sceptic finds, that he must yield to it in his practice, while he 
 wages war with it in speculation. 
 
 IV. [If it be objected to this argument, that the belief of our 
 acting freely cannot be implied in the operations we have men- 
 tioned, because those operations are performed by them who 
 believe that we are, in all our actions, governed by necessity. 
 The answer to this objection is, that men in their practice may 
 be governed by a belief which in speculation they reject.] 
 
 However strange and unaccountable this may appear, there 
 are many well known instances of it. 
 
 t^° I knew a man who was as much convinced as any man of 
 the folly of the popular belief of apparitions in the dark, yet he 
 could not sleep in a room alone, nor go alone into a room in the 
 dark. Can it be said, that his fear did not imply a belief of 
 danger? This is impossible. Yet his philosophy convinced 
 him, that he was in no more danger in the dark when alone, 
 than with company. 
 
 Here an unreasonable belief, which was merely a prejudice of 
 
FIRST ARGUMENT. 219 
 
 the nursery, stuck so fast as to govern his conduct, in opposition 
 to his speculative belief as a philosopher and a man of sense. 
 
 There are few persons who can look down from the battle- 
 ment of a very high tower without fear, while their reason con- 
 vinces them that they are in no more danger than when standing 
 upon the ground. 
 
 There have been persons who professed to believe that there 
 is no distinction between virtue and vice, yet in their practice 
 they resented injuries, and esteemed noble and virtuous actions. 
 
 There have been sceptics who professed to disbelieve their 
 senses, and every human faculty ; but no sceptic was ever known, 
 who did not, in practice, pay a regard to his senses and to his 
 other faculties.* 
 
 There are some points of belief so necessary, that, without 
 them, a man would not be the being which God made him. 
 These may be opposed in speculation, but it is impossible to 
 root them out. In a speculative hour they seem to vanish, but 
 in practice they resume their authority. This seems to be the 
 case of those who hold the doctrine of necessity, and yet act as 
 if they were free. 
 
 [This natural conviction of some degree of power in ourselves 
 and in other men, respects voluntary actions only. For, as all 
 our power is directed by our will, we can form no conception 
 of power, properly so called, that is not under the direction of 
 will. And therefore our exertions, our deliberations, our pur- 
 poses, our promises, are only in things that depend upon our 
 will.] Our advices, exhortations, and commands, are only in 
 things that depend upon the will of those to whom they are 
 addressed. We impute no guilt to ourselves, nor to others, in 
 things where the will is not concerned. 
 
 V. Exceptions. — But it deserves our notice, that we do not 
 conceive every thing, without exception, to be in a man's power 
 which depends upon his will. There are many exceptions to this 
 general rule. The most obvious of these I shall mention, 
 because they both serve to illustrate the rule, and are of import- 
 ance in the question concerning the liberty of man. 
 
 [(1) In the rage of madness, men are absolutely deprived of 
 the power of self-government. They act voluntarily, but their 
 will is driven as by a tempest, which, in lucid intervals, they 
 resolve to oppose with all their might, but are overcome when 
 the fit of madness returns.] 
 
 [(2) Idiots are like men walking in the dark, who cannot be 
 said to have the power of choosing their way, because they can- 
 not distinguish the good road from the bad.] Having no light 
 in their understanding, they must either sit still, or be carried 
 on by some blind impulse. 
 
 * Vide " The Intellectual Powers of Man," Essay VII. chap. iv. sec. 12. 
 
280 ESSAY IV. CHAP, VI. 
 
 [(3) Between the darkness of infancy, which is equal to that of 
 idiots, and the maturity of reason, there is a long twilight, which, 
 by insensible degrees, advances to the perfect day. 
 
 In this period of life, man has but little of the power of self- 
 government.] His actions, by nature, as well as by the laws of 
 society, are in the power of others more than in his own. His 
 folly and indiscretion, his levity and inconstancy, are considered 
 as the fault of youth, rather than of the man. We consider 
 him as half a man and half a child, and expect that each by 
 turns should play its part. He would be thought a severe and 
 , unequitable censor of manners, who required the same cool 
 \ deliberation, the same steady conduct, and the same mastery 
 over himself in a boy of thirteen, as in a man of thirty. 
 
 [(4) It is an old adage, that violent anger is a short Jit of mad- 
 ness. If this be literally true in any case, a man, in such a fit 
 of passion, cannot be said to have the command of himself.] If 
 real madness could be proved, it must have the effect of mad- 
 ness while it lasts, whether it be for an hour or for life. But 
 the madness of a short fit of passion, if it be really madness, is 
 incapable of proof; and therefore is not admitted in human 
 tribunals as an exculpation. And, I believe, there is no case 
 where a man can satisfy his own mind that his passion, both in 
 * its beginning and in its progress, was irresistible. The Searcher 
 of hearts alone knows infallibly what allowance is due in cases 
 of this kind. 
 
 [But a violent passion, though it may not be irresistible, is 
 difficult to be resisted: and a man, surely, has not the same 
 power over himself in passion as when he is cool. On this 
 account it is allowed by all men to alleviate, when it cannot 
 exculpate ; and has its weight in criminal courts, as well as in 
 private judgment.] 
 
 fit ought likewise to be observed, that he who has accustomed 
 himself to restrain his passions, enlarges by habit his power over 
 them, and consequently over himself. ) When we consider that 
 a Canadian savage can acquire the power of defying death, in its 
 most dreadful forms, and of braving the most exquisite torment 
 for many long hours, without losing the command of himself;* 
 we may learn from this, that, in the constitution of human 
 nature, there is ample scope for the enlargement of that power 
 of self-command, without which there can be no virtue nor mag- 
 nanimity. 
 
 [(5) There are cases, however, in which a man's voluntary 
 actions are thought to be very little, if at all, in his power, on 
 account of the violence of the motive that impels him. The 
 magnanimity of a hero, or of a martyr, is not expected in every 
 man, and on all occasions.] 
 
 * Vide note to page 175. 
 
FIRST ARGUMENT. c?8l 
 
 If a man trusted by the government with a secret, which 
 it is high treason to disclose, be prevailed upon by a bribe, we 
 have no mercy for him, and hardly allow the greatest bribe to 
 be any alleviation of his crime. 
 
 But, on the other hand, if the secret be extorted by the rack, 
 or by the dread of present death, we pity him more than we 
 blame him, and would think it severe and unequitable to con- 
 demn him as a traitor. 
 
 What is the reason that all men agree in condemning this 
 man as a traitor in the first case, and in the last, either excul- 
 pate him, or think his fault greatly alleviated ? If he acted 
 necessarily in both cases, compelled by an irresistible motive, I 
 can see no reason why we should not pass the same judgment 
 on both. 
 
 But the reason of these different judgments is evidently this, 
 that the love of money, and of what is called a man's interest, is 
 a cool motive, which leaves to a man the entire power over 
 himself : but the torment of the rack, or the dread of present 
 death, are so violent motives, that men, who have not uncommon 
 strength of mind, are not masters of themselves in such a situa- 
 tion, and therefore what they do is not imputed, or is thought 
 less criminal. 
 
 If a man resist such motives, we admire his fortitude, and 
 think his conduct heroical rather than human. If he yields, we 
 impute it to human frailty, and think him rather to be pitied 
 than severely censured. 
 
 [(6) Inveterate habits are acknowledged to diminish very con- 
 
 jsiderably the power a man has over himself. Although we may 
 
 J think him highly blameable in acquiring them, yet, when they 
 
 ; are confirmed to a certain degree, we consider him as no longer 
 
 master of himself and hardly reclaimable without a miracle.] 
 
 VI. [Thus we see, that the power which we are led, by com- 
 mon sense, to ascribe to man, respects his voluntary actions only, 
 and that it has various limitations even with regard to them.] 
 Some actions that depend upon our will are easy, others very 
 .'difficult, and some, perhaps, beyond our power. In different 
 ( men, the power of self-government is different, and in the same 
 f man at different times. It may be diminished, or perhaps lost, 
 : by bad habits ;(it may be greatly increased by good habits.^ 
 
 These are facts attested by experience, and supported by the 
 common judgment of mankind. Upon the system of liberty, 
 they are perfectly intelligible ; but, I think, irreconcilable to 
 that of necessity ; for, how can there be an easy and a difficult 
 in actions equally subject to necessity ? or, how can power be 
 greater or less, increased or diminished, in those who have no 
 power ? 
 
 This natural conviction of our acting freely, which is acknow- 
 
 * 
 
£gg ESSAY IV. CHAP. VII. 
 
 ledged by many who hold the doctrine of necessity, ought to 
 throw the whole burden of proof upon that side : for, by this, 
 the side of liberty has what lawyers call a jus qucesitum, or a 
 right of ancient possession, which ought to stand good till it be 
 overturned. If it cannot be proved that we always act from 
 necessity, there is no need of arguments on the other side, to 
 convince us that we are free agents. 
 
 To illustrate this by a similar case : If a philosopher would 
 persuade me, that my fellow-men with whom I converse, are not 
 thinking intelligent beings, but mere machines, though I might 
 be at a loss to find arguments against this strange opinion, I 
 should think it reasonable to hold the belief which nature gave 
 me before I was capable of weighing evidence, until convincing 
 proof is brought against it. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SECOND ARGUMENT. 
 
 I I. Certain first principles universally conceded. — That there 
 is a real and essential distinction between right and wrong con- 
 duct, between just and unjust ; that the most perfect moral rec- 
 titude is to be ascribed to the Deity ; that man is a moral and 
 accountable being, capable of acting right and wrong, and an- 
 swerable for his conduct to him who made him, and assigned 
 him a part to act upon the stage of life ; are principles pro- 
 claimed by every man's conscience ; principles upon which the 
 systems of morality and natural religion, as well as the system 
 of revelation, are grounded, and which have been generally 
 acknowledged by those who hold contrary opinions on the 
 subject of human liberty. I shall therefore here take them for 
 granted. J 
 
 These principles afford an obvious, and, I think, an invincible 
 argument, that man is endowed with moral liberty. 
 
 [Two things are implied in the notion of a moral and account- 
 able being ; understanding and active power.] 
 
 First. He must understand the law to which he is bound, and 
 his obligation to obey it. Moral obedience must be voluntary, 
 and must regard the authority of the law. I may command my 
 horse to eat when he hungers, and drink when he thirsts. He 
 does so ; but his doing it is no moral obedience. He does not 
 understand my command, and therefore can have no will to 
 obey it. He has not the conception of moral obligation, and 
 therefore cannot act from the conviction of it. In eating and 
 drinking he is moved by his own appetite only, and not by my 
 authority. 
 
SECOND ARGUMENT. ggg 
 
 Brute animals are incapable of moral obligation, because they 
 have not that degree of understanding which it implies. They 
 have not the conception of a rule of conduct, and of obligation 
 to obey it, and therefore, though they may be noxious, they 
 cannot be criminal. 
 
 Man, by his rational nature, is capable both of understanding 
 the law that is prescribed to him, and of perceiving its obligation. 
 He knows what it is to be just and honest, to injure no man, and 
 to obey his Maker. From his constitution, he has an immediate 
 conviction of his obligation to these things. He has the appro- 
 bation of his conscience when he acts by these rules ; and he is 
 conscious of guilt and demerit when he transgresses them. And, 
 without this knowledge of his duty and his obligation, he would 
 not be a moral and accountable being. 
 
 Secondly. Another thing implied in the notion of a moral and 
 accountable being, is power to do what he is accountable for. 
 
 That no man can be under a moral obligation to do what it is 
 impossible for him to do, or to forbear what is impossible for 
 him to forbear, is an axiom as self-evident as any in mathematics. 
 It cannot be contradicted without overturning all notion of moral 
 obligation ; nor can there be any exception to it, when it is 
 rightly understood. 
 
 Some moralists have mentioned what they conceive to be an 
 exception to this maxim. The exception is this : [When a man, 
 by his own fault, has disabled himself from doing his duty, his 
 obligation, they say, remains, though he is now unable to dis- 
 charge it. Thus, if a man by sumptuous living has become 
 bankrupt, his inability to pay his debt does not take away his 
 obligation.] 
 
 To judge whether, in this and similar cases, there be any 
 exception to the axiom above mentioned, they must be stated 
 accurately. 
 
 I No doubt a man is highly criminal in living above his fortune, 
 and his crime is greatly aggravated by the circumstance of his 
 being thereby unable to pay his just debt. Let us suppose, 
 therefore, that he is punished for this crime as much as it 
 deserves ; that his goods are fairly distributed among his credi- 
 tors, and that one half remains unpaid : let us suppose also, that 
 he adds no new crime to what is past, that he becomes a new 
 man, and not only supports himself by honest industry, but does 
 all in his power to pay what he still owes. 
 
 I would now ask, Is he further punishable and really guilty 
 for not paying more than he is able ? Let every man consult his 
 conscience, and say whether he can blame this man for not doing 
 more than he is able to do. . His guilt before his bankruptcy is 
 out of the question, as he has received the punishment due for 
 it. But that his subsequent conduct is unblameable, every man 
 
284 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VII. 
 
 must allow ; and that, in his present state, he is accountable for 
 no more than he is able to do. His obligation is not cancelled, 
 it returns with his ability, and can go no farther. 
 
 fi§F Suppose a sailor, employed in the navy of his country, 
 and longing for the ease of a public hospital as an invalid, to 
 cut off his fingers, so as to disable him from doing the duty of a 
 sailor ; he is guilty of a great crime ; but, after he has been 
 punished according to the demerit of his crime, will his captain 
 insist that he shall still do the duty of a sailor ? Will he com- 
 mand him to go aloft when it is impossible for him to do it, and 
 punish him as guilty of disobedience ? Surely if there be any 
 such thing as justice and injustice, this would be unjust and 
 wanton cruelty. 
 
 HF Suppose a servant, through negligence and inattention, 
 mistakes the orders given him by his master, and, from this 
 mistake, does what he was ordered not to do. It is commonly 
 said that culpable ignorance does not excuse a fault : this deci- 
 sion is inaccurate, because it does not show where the fault 
 lies : the fault was solely in that inattention, or negligence, 
 which was the occasion of his mistake : there was no subsequent 
 fault. 
 
 This becomes evident, when we vary the case so far as to sup- 
 pose that he was unavoidably led into the mistake without any 
 fault on his part. His mistake is now invincible, and, in the 
 opinion of all moralists, takes away all blame ; yet this new case 
 supposes no change, but in the cause of his mistake. His sub- 
 sequent conduct was the same in both cases. The fault, there- 
 fore, lay solely in the negligence and inattention which was the 
 cause of his mistake. 
 
 [The axiom, that " Invincible ignorance takes away all 
 blame," is only a particular case of the general axiom, " That 
 there can be no moral obligation to what is impossible;" the 
 former is grounded upon the latter, and can have no other 
 foundation.] 
 
 ( [ggF I shall put only one case more. Suppose that a man, 
 vy excess and intemperance, has entirely destroyed his rational 
 faculties, so as to have become perfectly mad or idiotical ; sup- 
 pose him forewarned of his danger, and that though he foresaw 
 that this must be the consequence, he went on still in his crimi- 
 nal indulgence. A greater crime can hardly be supposed, or 
 more deserving of severe punishment. Suppose him punished 
 as he deserves ; will it be said, that the duty of a man is incum- 
 bent upon him now, when he has not the faculties of a man, or 
 that he incurs new guilt when he is not a moral agent ? Surely 
 we may as well suppose a plant, or a clod of earth, to be a 
 subject of moral duty. } 
 
 The decisions I have given of these cases, are grounded upon 
 
SECOND ARGUMENT. gg5 
 
 the fundamental principles of morals, the most immediate dic- 
 tates of conscience. If these principles are given up, all moral 
 reasoning is at an end, and no distinction is left between what 
 is just and what is unjust. And it is evident, that [none of 
 these cases * furnishes any exception to the axiom above men- 
 tioned. No moral obligation can be consistent with impossi- 
 bility in the performance.] 
 
 II. [Active power, therefore, is necessarily implied in the very 
 notion of a moral accountable being. And if man be such a 
 being, he must have a degree of active power proportioned to 
 the account he is to make.] He may have a model of perfection 
 set before him which he is unable to reach ; but, if he does to 
 the utmost of his power, this is all he can be answerable for. 
 To incur guilt by not going beyond his power is impossible. 
 
 What was said, in the first argument,-}- of the limitation of our 
 power, adds much strength to the present argument. A man's 
 power, it was observed, extends only to his voluntary actions, 
 and has many limitations, even with respect to them. 
 
 His accountableness has the same extent and the same limita- 
 tions. 
 
 In the rage of madness he has no power over himself, neither 
 is he accountable, or capable of moral obligation. ^In ripe age 
 man is accountable, in a greater degree than in non-age, because 
 his power over himself is greater. J Violent passions, and violent 
 motives alleviate what is done through their influence, in the 
 same proportion as they diminish the power of resistance. 
 
 There is, therefore, a perfect correspondence between power, 
 on the one hand, and moral obligation and accountableness, on 
 the other. They not only correspond in general, as they respect 
 voluntary actions only, but every limitation of the first produces 
 a corresponding limitation of the two last. This, indeed, amounts 
 to nothing more than that maxim of common sense confirmed 
 by Divine authority, That to whom much is given, of him much 
 will be required. 
 
 III. [The sum of this argument is, (1) That a certain degree of 
 active power is the talent which God hath given to every rational 
 accountable creature, and of which he will require an account. 
 
 (2) If man had no power, he would have nothing to account for. 
 
 (3) All wise and all foolish conduct, all virtue and vice, consist 
 in the right use or in the abuse of that power which God hath 
 given us. If man had no power, he could neither be wise nor 
 foolish, virtuous nor vicious.] 
 
 "■"If we adopt the system of necessity, the terms moral obligation 
 and accountableness, praise and blame, merit and demerit, justice 
 and injustice, reward and punishment, wisdom and folly, virtue 
 
 * The bankrupt, sailor, servant, and spendthrift, 
 f Vide preceding chapter, sec. 5, et seq. 
 
gg{3 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VIIL 
 
 and vice, ought to be disused, or to have new meanings given to 
 them when they are used in religion, in morals, or in civil 
 government ; for upon that system, there can be no such things 
 as they have been always used to signify. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 THIRD ARGUMENT. 
 
 1 1. That man has power over his own actions and volitions 
 appears, because he is capable of carrying on, wisely and pru- 
 dently, a system of conduct, which he has before conceived in 
 his mind, and resolved to prosecute. \ 
 
 I take it for granted, that, among the various characters of 
 men, there have been some, who, after they came to years of 
 understanding, deliberately laid down a plan of conduct, which 
 they resolved to pursue through life ; and that of these, some 
 have steadily pursued the end they had in view, by the proper 
 means. 
 
 It is of no "consequence in this argument, whether one has 
 made the best choice of his main end or not ; whether his end 
 be riches, or power, or fame, or the approbation of his Maker. 
 I suppose only, that he has prudently and steadily pursued it ; 
 that, in a long course of deliberate actions, he has taken the 
 means that appeared most conducive to his end, and avoided 
 whatever might cross it. 
 
 That such conduct in a man demonstrates a certain degree of 
 wisdom and understanding, no man ever doubted ; and, I say, it 
 demonstrates, with equal force, a certain degree of power over 
 his voluntary determinations. 
 
 This will appear evident, if we consider, that [understanding 
 without power may project, but can execute nothing. A regular 
 plan of conduct, as it cannot be contrived without understanding, 
 so it cannot be carried into execution without power; and, 
 therefore, the execution, as an effect, demonstrates, with equal 
 force, both power and understanding in the cause.] Every indi- 
 cation of wisdom, taken from the effect, is equally an indication 
 of power to execute what wisdom planned A And, if we have any 
 evidence, that the wisdom which formed the plan is in the man, 
 we have the very same evidence, that the power which executed 
 it is in him also. ^ 
 
 II. Argument from analogy, — In this argument, we reason 
 from the same principles, as in demonstrating the being and per- 
 fections of the First Cause of all things. 
 
 The effects we observe in the course of nature require a cause. 
 
THIRD ARGUMENT. gffl 
 
 Effects wisely adapted to an end, require a wise cause. Every 
 indication of the wisdom of the Creator is equally an indication 
 of his power. His wisdom appears only in the works done by 
 his power ; for wisdom without power may speculate, but it can- 
 not act : it may plan, but it cannot execute its plans. 
 
 The same reasoning we apply to the works of men. mr In 
 a stately palace we see the wisdom of the architect. His wisdom 
 contrived it, and wisdom could do no more. The execution re- 
 quired, both a distinct conception of the plan, and power to 
 operate according to that plan. 
 
 III. Its application, — Let us apply these principles to the 
 supposition we have made, That a man, in a long course of con- 
 duct, has determined and acted prudently in the prosecution of 
 a certain end. If the man had both the wisdom to plan this 
 course of conduct, and that power over his own actions that was 
 necessary to carry it into execution, he is a free agent, and used 
 his liberty, in this instance, with understanding. 
 
 But if all his particular determinations, which concurred in 
 the execution of this plan, were produced, not by himself, but 
 by some cause acting necessarily upon him, then there is no 
 evidence left that he contrived this plan, or that he ever spent a 
 thought about it. 
 
 [The cause that directed all these determinations so wisely, 
 whatever it was, must be a wise and intelligent cause ; it must 
 have understood the plan, and have intended the execution 
 of it.] 
 
 IV. Objection and answer. — [If it be said, that all this course 
 of determinations was produced by motives ; motives surely have 
 not understanding to conceive a plan, and intend its execution. 
 We must therefore go back beyond motives to some intelligent 
 being who had the power of arranging those motives, and apply- 
 ing them, in their proper order and season, so as to bring about 
 the end.] 
 
 This intelligent being must have understood the plan, and 
 intended to execute it. If this be so, as the man had no hand 
 in the execution, we have not any evidence left, that he had any 
 hand in the contrivance, or even that he is a thinking being. 
 
 . If we can believe, that an extensive series of means may con- 
 spire to promote an end without a cause that intended the end, 
 and had power to choose and apply those means for the pur- 
 pose, we may as well believe, that this world was made by a for- 
 tuitous concourse of atoms, without an intelligent and powerful 
 cause. 
 
 $gp° If a lucky concourse of motives could produce the conduct 
 of an Alexander or a Julius Caesar, no reason can be given why 
 a lucky concourse of atoms might not produce the planetary 
 svstem. 
 
288 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VIII. 
 
 £ If, therefore, wise conduct in a man demonstrates that he has 
 some degree of wisdom, it demonstrates, with equal force and 
 evidence, that he has some degree of power over his own deter- 
 minations. \ 
 
 All the reason we can assign for believing that our fellow-men 
 think and reason, is grounded upon their actions and speeches. 
 If they are not the cause of these, there is no reason left to con- 
 clude that they think and reason. 
 
 Des Cartes thought that the human body is merely a mechani- 
 cal engine, and that all its motions and actions are produced by 
 mechanism. If such a machine could be made to speak and to 
 act rationally, we might indeed conclude with certainty, that the 
 maker of it had both reason and active power ; but if we once 
 knew, that all the motions of the machine were purely mechani- 
 cal, we should have no reason to conclude that the man had rea- 
 son or thought. 
 
 [The conclusion of this argument is, That, if the actions and 
 speeches of other men give us sufficient evidence that they are 
 reasonable beings, they give us the same evidence, and the same 
 degree of evidence, that they are free agents.'] 
 
 V. There is another conclusion that may be drawn from this 
 reasoning, which it is proper to mention. 
 
 Suppose a fatalist, rather than give up the scheme of neces- 
 sity, should acknowledge that he has no evidence that there is 
 thought and reason in any of his fellow-men, and that they may 
 be mechanical engines for all that he knows ; he will be forced 
 to acknowledge, that there must be active power, as well as 
 understanding, in the maker of those engines, and that the First 
 Cause is a free agent. We have the same reason to believe this, 
 as to believe his existence and his wisdom. [And if the Deity 
 acts freely, every argument brought to prove that freedom of 
 action is impossible, must fall to the ground.] 
 
 The First Cause gives us evidence of his power by every 
 effect that gives us evidence of his wisdom. And, if he is 
 pleased to communicate to the work of his hands some degree of 
 his wisdom, no reason can be assigned why he may not com- 
 municate some degree of his power, as the talent which wisdom 
 is to employ. 
 
 That the first motion, or the first effect, whatever it be, cannot 
 be produced necessarily, and, consequently, that the First Cause 
 must be a free agent, has been demonstrated so clearly and unan- 
 swerably by Dr. Clarke, both in his " Demonstration of the 
 Being and Attributes of God," and in the end of his Remarks 
 on Collins's " Philosophical Inquiry concerning Human Liberty," 
 that I can add nothing to what he has said ; nor have I found 
 any objection made to his reasoning, by any of the defenders of 
 necessity. 
 
289 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OF ARGUMENTS FOIl NECESSITY. 
 
 I. Three classes of arguments against human liberty. — Some 
 of the arguments that have been offered for necessity were 
 already considered in this Essay. 
 
 It has been said. That human liberty respects only the 
 actions that are subsequent to volition ; and that power over 
 the determinations of the will is inconceivable, and involves a 
 contradiction. This argument was considered in the first 
 chapter. 
 
 It has been said, That liberty is inconsistent with the influ- 
 ence of motives, that it would make human actions capricious, 
 and man ungovernable by Grod or man. These arguments were 
 considered in the fourth and fifth chapters. 
 
 [I am now to make some remarks upon other arguments that 
 have been urged in this cause. They may, I think, be reduced 
 to three classes. They are intended to prove, either (1) that 
 liberty of determination is impossible, or (2) that it would be 
 hurtful, or (3) that, in fact, man has no such liberty.] 
 
 To prove that liberty of determination is impossible, it has 
 been said, That there must be a sufficient reason for every thing. 
 For every existence, for every event, for every truth, there must 
 be a sufficient reason, 
 
 II. Boast of Leibnitz. — The famous Grerman Philosopher 
 Leibnitz boasted much of having first applied this principle to 
 philosophy, and of having, by that means, changed metaphysics 
 from being a play of unmeaning words, to be a rational and de- 
 monstrative science. On this account it deserves to be considered. 
 
 A very obvious objection to this principle was, That two or 
 more means may be equally fit for the same end ; and that, in 
 such a case, there may be a sufficient reason for taking one of 
 the number, though there be no reason for preferring one to 
 another, of means equally fit. 
 
 To obviate this objection, Leibnitz maintained, that the case 
 supposed could not happen ; or, if it did, that none of the means 
 could be used, for want of a sufficient reason to prefer one to 
 the rest. Therefore he determined, with some of the school- 
 men, That if an ass could be placed between two bundles of 
 hay, or two fields of grass, equally inviting, the poor beast would 
 certainly stand still and starve ; but the case, he says, could not 
 happen without a miracle. 
 
 When it was objected to this principle, That there could be 
 no reason but the will of God why the material world was 
 placed in one part of unlimited space rather than another, or 
 
 u 
 
£90 ESSAY IV. CRAP. IX. 
 
 created at one point of unlimited duration rather than another, 
 or why the planets should move from west to east, rather than in 
 a contrary direction ; these objections Leibnitz obviated by 
 maintaining, That there is no such thing as unoccupied space or 
 duration ; that space is nothing but the order of things co-exist- 
 ing, and duration is nothing but the order of things successive ; 
 that all motion is relative, so that if there were only one body in 
 the universe, it would be immoveable ; that it is inconsistent 
 with the perfection of the Deity, that there should be any part 
 of space unoccupied by body ; and, I suppose, he understood the 
 same of every part of duration. So that, according to this 
 system, the world, like its Author, must be infinite, eternal, and 
 immoveable ; or, at least, as great in extent and duration as it is 
 possible for it to be. 
 
 III. Identity of indiscernibles. — When it was objected to the 
 principle of a sufficient reason, That of two particles of matter 
 perfectly similar, there can be no reason but the will of God 
 for placing this here and that there ; this objection Leibnitz 
 obviated by maintaining, That it is impossible that there can be 
 two particles of matter, or any two things, perfectly similar. 
 And this seems to have led him to another of his grand princi- 
 ples, which he calls, The identity of indiscernibles. 
 
 When the principle of a sufficient reason had produced so 
 many surprising discoveries in philosophy, it is no wonder that 
 it should determine the long disputed question about human 
 liberty. This it does in a moment. [The determination of the 
 will is an event for which there must be a sufficient reason, that 
 is, something previous, which was necessarily followed by that 
 determination, and could not be followed by any other deter- 
 mination ; therefore it was necessary.] 
 
 Thus we see, that this principle of the necessity of a sufficient 
 reason for every thing, is very fruitful of consequences ; and by 
 its fruits we may judge of it. Those who will adopt it, must 
 adopt all the consequences that hang upon it. To fix them all 
 beyond dispute, no more is necessary but to prove the truth of 
 the principle on which they depend. 
 
 IV. Leibnitz' proof of the truth of his principle only a petitio 
 principii. — I know of no argument offered by Leibnitz in proof 
 of this principle, but the authority of Archimedes, who, he 
 says, makes use of it to prove, that a balance loaded with equal 
 weights on both ends will continue at rest. 
 
 I grant it to be good reasoning with regard to a balance, or 
 with regard to any machine, That, when there is no external 
 cause of its motion, it must remain at rest, because the machine 
 has no power of moving itself. But to apply this reasoning to 
 a man, is to take for granted that the man is a machine, which is 
 the very point in question. 
 
OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY. 291 
 
 Leibnitz, and his followers, would have us to take this principle 
 of the necessity of a sufficient reason for every existence, for 
 every event, for every truth, as a first principle, without proof, 
 without explanation ; though it be evidently a vague - proposi- 
 tion, capable of various meanings, as the word reason is. It 
 must have different meanings when applied to things of so dif- 
 ferent nature as an event and a truth ; and it may have different 
 meanings when applied to the same thing. We cannot therefore 
 form a distinct judgment of it in the gross, but only by taking it 
 to pieces, and applying it to different things, in a precise and 
 distinct meaning. 
 
 V. Three meanings of the principle of i( a sufficient reason' 
 applied to the determinations of the will. — It can have no con- 
 nexion with the dispute about liberty, except when it is applied 
 to the determinations of the will. Let us therefore suppose a 
 voluntary action of a man ; and that the question is put, Whether 
 was there a sufficient reason for this action or not ? 
 
 The natural and obvious meaning of this question is, (1) Was 
 there a motive to the action sufficient to justify it to be wise and 
 good, or, at least, innocent ? Surely, in this sense, there is not 
 a sufficient reason for every human action, because there are 
 many that are foolish, unreasonable and unjustifiable. 
 
 If the meaning of the question be, (2) Was there a cause of 
 the action ? Undoubtedly there was : of every event there must 
 be a cause, that had power sufficient to produce it, and that 
 exerted that power for the purpose. In the present case, either 
 the man was the cause of the action, and then it was a free 
 action, and is justly imputed to him ; or it must have had 
 another cause, and cannot justly be imputed to the man. In 
 this sense, therefore, it is granted that there was a sufficient rea- 
 son for the action ; but the question about liberty is not in the 
 least affected by this concession. 
 
 If, again, the meaning of the question be, (3) Was there some- 
 thing previous to the action, which made it to be necessarily pro- 
 duced ? Every man, who believes that the action was free, will 
 answer to this question in the negative. 
 
 [I know no other meaning that can be put upon the principle 
 of a sufficient reason, when applied to the determinations of the 
 human will, besides the three I have mentioned. In the first, 
 it is evidently false ; in the second, it is true, but does not affect 
 the question about liberty ; in the third, it is a mere assertion of 
 necessity without proof.] 
 
 VI. The principle further examined. — Before we leave this 
 boasted principle, we may see how it applies to events of another 
 kind. When we say that a philosopher has assigned a sufficient 
 reason for such a phenomenon, What is the meaning of this ? 
 The meaning surely is, That he has accounted for it from the 
 
 u 2 
 
292 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IX. 
 
 known laws of nature. The sufficient reason of a phenomenon 
 of nature must therefore be some law or laws of nature, of which 
 the phenomenon is a necessary consequence. But are we sure 
 that, hi this sense, there is a sufficient reason for every pheno- 
 menon of nature ? I think we are not. 
 
 For, not to speak of miraculous events, in which the laws of 
 nature are suspended, or counteracted, we know not but that, in 
 the ordinary course of God's providence, there may be particular 
 acts of his administration, that do not come under any general 
 law of nature. 
 
 Established laws of nature are necessary for enabling intelli- 
 gent creatures to conduct their affairs with wisdom and prudence, 
 and prosecute their ends by proper means ; but still it may be 
 fit, that some particular events should not be fixed by general 
 laws, but be directed by particular acts of the Divine govern- 
 ment, that so his reasonable creatures may have sufficient induce- 
 ment to supplicate his aid, his protection and direction, and to 
 depend upon him for the success of their honest designs. 
 
 We see that, in human governments, even those that are most 
 legal, it is impossible that every act of the administration should 
 be directed by established laws. Some things must be left to 
 the direction of the executive power, and particularly acts of 
 clemency and bounty to petitioning subjects. That there is 
 nothing analogous to this in the Divine government of the world, 
 no man is able to prove. 
 
 We have no authority to pray that God would counteract or 
 suspend the laws of nature in our behalf. Prayer, therefore, 
 supposes that he may lend an ear to our prayers, without trans- 
 gressing the laws of nature. Some have thought, that the only 
 use of prayer and devotion is, to produce a proper temper and 
 disposition in ourselves, and that it has no efficacy with the 
 Deity. But this is a hypothesis without proof. It contradicts 
 our most natural sentiments, as well as the plain doctrine of 
 Scripture, and tends to damp the fervour of every act of 
 devotion. 
 
 It was indeed an article of the system of Leibnitz, That the 
 Deity, since the creation of the world, never did any thing, 
 excepting in the case of miracles ; his work being made so per- 
 fect at first, as never to need his interposition. But, in this, he 
 was opposed by Sir Isaac Newton, and others of the ablest philo- 
 sophers, nor was he ever able to give any proof of this tenet. 
 
 [There is no evidence, therefore, that there is a sufficient rea- 
 son for every natural event; if, by a sufficient reason, we under- 
 stand some fixed law or laws of nature, of which that event is a 
 necessary consequence.] 
 
 VIT. [But what, shall we say, is the sufficient reason for a 
 truth ? For our belief of a truth, I think, the sufficient reason 
 
OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY. 293 
 
 is our having good evidence ; but what may be meant by a suffi- 
 cient reason for its being a truth, I am not able to guess, unless 
 the sufficient reason of a contingent truth be, That it is true ; 
 and, of a necessary truth, that it must be true. This makes a 
 man little wiser.] 
 
 From what has been said, I think it appears, That this prin- 
 ciple of the necessity of a sufficient reason for every thing, is 
 very indefinite in its signification. If it mean, That of every 
 event there must be a cause that had sufficient power to produce 
 it, this is true, and has always been admitted as a first principle 
 in philosophy, and in common life. If it mean that every event 
 must be necessarily consequent upon something (called a suffici- 
 ent reason) that went before it ; this is a direct assertion of uni- 
 versal fatality, and has many strange, not to say absurd, conse- 
 quences : but, in this sense, it is neither self-evident, nor has any 
 proof of it been offered. [And, in general, in every sense in 
 which it has evidence, it gives no new information ; and, in 
 every sense in which it would give new information, it wants 
 evidence.] 
 
 VIII. Another argument that has been used to prove liberty 
 of action to be impossible is, That it implies " an effect without 
 
 a cause 
 
 "* 
 
 To this it may be briefly answered, [That a free action is an 
 effect produced by a being who had power and will to produce it ; 
 therefore it is not an effect without a cause.] 
 
 To suppose any other cause necessary to the production of an 
 effect, than a being who had the power and the will to produce 
 it, is a contradiction ; for it is to suppose that being to have 
 power to produce the effect, and not to have power to pro- 
 duce it. 
 
 But as great stress is laid upon this argument by a late zealous 
 advocate for necessity, we shall consider the light in which he 
 puts it. 
 
 He introduces this argument with an observation to which I 
 entirely agree : it is, [That to establish this doctrine of necessity, 
 nothing is necessary but that, throughout all nature, the same 
 consequences should invariably result from the same circum- 
 stances.] 
 
 I know nothing more that can be desired to establish universal 
 fatality throughout the universe. When it is proved that, 
 through all nature, the same consequences invariably result 
 from the same circumstances, the doctrine of liberty must be 
 given up. 
 
 To prevent all ambiguity, I grant, that, in reasoning, the same 
 consequences, throughout all nature, will invariably follow from 
 the same premises : because good reasoning must be good rea- 
 * Vide sect. 1. of this chapter, p. 289. 
 
094 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IX. 
 
 soning in all times and places. But this lias nothing to do with 
 the doctrine of necessity. [The thing to be proved, therefore, 
 in order to establish that doctrine, is, That, through all nature, 
 the same events invariably result from the same circumstances^ 
 
 Of this capital point, the proof offered by that author is, That 
 an event not preceded by any circumstances that determined it 
 to be what it was, would be an effect without a cause. Why so ? 
 " For," says he, "a cause cannot be denned to be any thing but 
 such previous circumstances as are constantly followed by a certain 
 effect; the constancy of the result making us conclude, that there 
 must be a sufficient reason, in the nature of things, why it should 
 be produced in those circumstances." 
 
 I acknowledge that, if this be the only definition that can be 
 given of a cause, it will follow, That an event not preceded by 
 circumstances that determined it to be what it was, would be, 
 not an effect without a cause, which is a contradiction in terms, 
 but an event without a cause, which I hold to be impossible. 
 [The matter therefore is brought to this issue, Whether this be 
 the only definition that can be given of a cause ?] 
 
 IX. Four consequences of this definition of a cause. — With 
 regard to this point, we may observe, first, That this definition 
 of a cause, bating the phraseology of putting a cause under the 
 category of circumstances, which I take to be new, is the same, 
 in other words, with that which Mr. Hume gave, of which he 
 ought to be acknowledged the inventor.* For I know of no 
 author before Mr. Hume, who maintained, that we have no other 
 notion of a cause, but that it is something prior to the effect, 
 which has been found by experience to be constantly followed 
 by the effect. This is a main pillar of his system ; and he has 
 drawn very important consequences from this definition, which I 
 am far from thinking this author will adopt. 
 
 Without repeating what I have before said of causes in the 
 first of these Essays, and in the second and third chapters of 
 this, I shall here mention some of the consequences that may be 
 justly deduced from this definition of a cause, that we may judge 
 of it by its fruits. 
 
 First, It follows from this definition of a cause, that night is 
 the cause of day, and day the cause of night. For no two things 
 have more constantly followed each other since the beginning of 
 the world. 
 
 Secondly, It follows from this definition of a cause, that, for 
 what we know, any thing may be the cause of any thing, since 
 nothing is essential to a cause but its being constantly followed 
 by the effect. If this be so, what is unintelligent may be the 
 cause of what is intelligent ; folly may be the cause of wisdom, 
 and evil of good ; all reasoning from the nature of the effect to 
 * Essay I. chap. iv. sect. 2. 
 
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 the nature of the cause, and all reasoning from final causes, must 
 be given up as fallacious. 
 
 Thirdly, From this definition of a cause, it follows, that we 
 have no reason to conclude, that every event must have a cause : for 
 innumerable events happen, when it cannot be shown that there 
 were certain previous circumstances that have constantly been 
 followed by such an event. And though it were certain, that 
 every event we have had access to observe had a cause, it would 
 not follow, that every event must have a cause : for it is contrary 
 to the rules of logic to conclude, that, because a thing has always 
 been, therefore it must be ; to reason from what is contingent, 
 to what is necessary. 
 
 Fourthly, From this definition of a cause, it would follow, 
 that we have no reason to conclude that there was any cause of 
 the creation of this world : for there were no previous circum- 
 stances that had been constantly followed by such an effect. And, 
 for the same reason, it would follow from the definition, that what- 
 ever was singular in its nature, or the first thing of its kind, 
 could have no cause. 
 
 Several of these consequences were fondly embraced by Mr. 
 Hume, as necessarily following from his definition of a cause, 
 and as favourable to his system of absolute scepticism. Those 
 who adopt the definition of a cause, from which they follow, 
 may choose whether they will adopt its consequences, or show 
 that they do not follow from the definition. 
 
 X. A second observation with regard to this argument* is, 
 that a definition of a cause may be given, which is not burdened 
 with such untoward consequences. 
 
 Why may not an efficient cause be defined to be a being that 
 had power and will to produce the effect ? The production of 
 an effect requires active power, and active power, being a qual- 
 ity, must be in a being endowed with that power. Power, with- 
 out will, produces no effect ; but, where these are conjoined, the 
 effect must be produced. 
 
 This, I think, is the proper meaning of the word cause, when 
 it is used in metaphysics ; and particularly when we affirm that 
 every thing that begins to exist must have a cause ; and when, 
 by reasoning, we prove that there must be an eternal First Cause 
 of all things. 
 
 Was the world produced by previous circumstances which are 
 constantly followed by such an effect ? or, Was it produced by 
 a Being that had power to produce it, and willed its production ? 
 In natural philosophy, the word cause is often used in a very 
 different sense. When an event is produced according to a 
 known law of nature, the law of nature is called the cause of 
 
 * i. e. That a cause is " such previous circumstances as are constantly fol- 
 lowed by a certain effect." 
 
296 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IX. 
 
 that event. But a law of nature is not the efficient cause of any 
 event. It is only the rule, according to which the efficient 
 cause acts. A law is a thing conceived in the mind of a rational 
 being, not a thing that has a real existence ; and, therefore, like 
 a motive, it can neither act nor be acted upon, and consequently 
 cannot be an efficient cause. If there be no being that acts ac- 
 cording to the law, it produces no effect. 
 
 This author takes it for granted, that every voluntary action of 
 man was determined to be what it was by the laws of nature, in 
 the same sense as mechanical motions are determined by the 
 laws of motion ; and that every choice, not thus determined, 
 " is just as impossible, as that a mechanical motion should de- 
 pend upon no certain law or rule, or that any other effect should 
 exist without a cause." 
 
 [It ought here to be observed, that there are two kinds of laws, 
 both very properly called laws of nature, which ought not to be 
 confounded. There are moral laws of nature, and physical laws 
 of nature.] The first are the rules which God has prescribed 
 to his rational creatures for their conduct. They respect volun- 
 tary and free actions only ; for no other actions can be sub- 
 ject to moral rules. These laws of nature ought to be always 
 obeyed, but they are often transgressed by men. There is there- 
 fore no impossibility in the violation of the moral laws of nature, 
 nor is such a violation an effect without a cause. The transgressor 
 is the cause, and is justly accountable for it. 
 
 The physical laws of nature are the rules according to which 
 the Deity commonly acts in his natural government of the world ; 
 and, whatever is done according to them, is not done by man, 
 but by (rod, either immediately, or by instruments under his 
 direction. These laws of nature neither restrain the power of' 
 the Author of nature, nor bring him under any obligation to do 
 nothing beyond their sphere. He has sometimes acted contrary 
 to them, in the case of miracles, and perhaps often acts with- 
 out regard to them, in the ordinary course of his providence. 
 Neither miraculous events, which are contrary to the physical 
 laws of nature, nor such ordinary acts of the Divine administra- 
 tion as are without their sphere, are impossible, nor are they 
 effects without a cause. Grod is the cause of them, and to him 
 only they are to be imputed. 
 
 That the moral laws of nature are often transgressed by man, 
 is undeniable. If the physical laws of nature make his obedience 
 to the moral laws to be impossible, then he is, in the literal sense, 
 born under one law, bound unto another, which contradicts every 
 notion of a righteous government of the world. 
 
 But though this supposition were attended with no such 
 shocking consequence, it is merely a supposition ; and until it 
 be proved that every choice or voluntary action of man is deter- 
 
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 mined by the physical laws of nature, this argument for necessity 
 is only the taking for granted the point to be proved. 
 
 Of the same kind is the argument for the impossibility of 
 liberty, taken from a balance, which cannot move but as it is 
 moved by the weights put into it. This argument, though urged 
 by almost every writer in defence of necessity, is so pitiful, 
 and has been so often answered, that it scarce deserves to be 
 mentioned. 
 
 Every argument in a dispute, which is not grounded on prin- 
 ciples granted by both parties, is that kind of sophism which 
 logicians call petitio principii ; and such, in my apprehension, 
 are all the arguments offered to prove that liberty of action is 
 impossible. 
 
 It may farther be observed, that every argument of this class 
 if it were really conclusive, must extend to the Deity, as well 
 as to all created beings ; and necessary existence, which has al- 
 ways been considered as the prerogative of the Supreme Being, 
 must belong equally to every creature and to every event even 
 the most trifling. 
 
 This I take to be the system of Spinosa, and of those among 
 the ancients who carried fatality to the highest pitch. 
 
 I before referred the reader to Dr. Clarke's argument, which 
 professes to demonstrate that the First Cause is a free agent. 
 Until that argument shall be shown to be fallacious, a thing 
 which I have not seen attempted, such weak arguments as have 
 been brought to prove the contrary, ought to have little weight. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SAJME SUBJECT. 
 
 I. With regard to the second class of arguments for necessity, 
 which are intended to prove that liberty of action would be hurt- 
 ful to man,* I have only to observe, that it is a fact too evident 
 to be denied, whether we adopt the system of liberty or that of 
 necessity, that men actually receive hurt from their own volun- 
 tary actions, and from the voluntary actions of other men ; nor 
 can it be pretended that this fact is inconsistent with the doctrine 
 of liberty, or that it is more unaccountable upon this system 
 than upon that of necessity. 
 
 In order, therefore, to draw any solid argument against 
 liberty, from its hurtfuhiess, it ought to be proved, that if 
 man were a free agent, he would do more hurt to himself, or to 
 others, than he actually does. 
 
 To this purpose it has been said, that liberty would make 
 * Chap. ix. sect. I. 
 
 
298 ESSAY IV. CHAP. X. 
 
 men's actions capricious ; that it would destroy the influence of 
 motives ; that it would take away the effect of rewards and pu- 
 nishments ; and that it would make man absolutely ungovern- 
 able. 
 
 II. Third class of arguments against human liberty. — These 
 arguments have been already considered in the fourth and fifth 
 chapters of this Essay ; and, therefore, I shall now proceed to 
 the third class of arguments for necessity, which are intended 
 to prove that, in fact, men are not free agents. 
 
 [The most formidable argument of this class, and, I think, the 
 only one that has not been considered in some of the preceding 
 chapters, is taken from the prescience of the Deity.']* 
 
 God foresees . every determination of the human mind. It 
 must therefore be what he foresees it shall be ; and therefore 
 must be necessary. 
 
 This argument may be understood three different ways, each 
 of which we shall consider, that we may see all its force. 
 
 The necessity of the event may be thought to be a just conse- 
 quence, either barely from its being certainly future, or barely 
 from its being foreseen, or from the impossibility of its being 
 foreseen, if it was not necessary. 
 
 First, It may be thought, that, as nothing can be known to be 
 future, which is not certainly future, so, if it be certainly future, 
 it must be necessary. 
 
 [This opinion has no less authority in its favour than that of 
 Aristotle, who indeed held the doctrine of liberty, but believing 
 at the same time that whatever is certainly future must be neces- 
 sary; in order to defend the liberty of human actions, main- 
 tained, that contingent events have no certain futurity ; but I 
 know of no modern advocate for liberty who has put the defence 
 of it upon that issue.] 
 
 It must be granted, that as whatever was, certainly was, and 
 whatever is, certainly is, so whatever shall be, certainly shall 
 be. These are identical propositions, and cannot be doubted by 
 those who conceive them distinctly. 
 
 But I know no rule of reasoning by which it can be inferred 
 that, because an event certainly shall be, therefore its produc- 
 tion must be necessary. The manner of its production, whe- 
 ther free or necessary, cannot be concluded from the time of 
 its production, whether it be past, present, or future. That it 
 shall be, no more implies that it shall be necessarily, than that 
 it shall be freely produced ; for neither present, past, nor future, 
 have any more connexion with necessity than they have with 
 freedom. 
 
 I grant, therefore, that, from events being foreseen, it may 
 
 * Compare this passage with what has been observed by the author on the 
 same subject, in his Treatise on the Intellectual Powers. Essay III. chap. ii. 
 sect. 3. 
 
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 be justly concluded that they are certainly future ; but from 
 their being certainly future, it does not follow that they are 
 necessary. 
 
 Secondly, If it be meant by this argument, that an event must 
 be necessary, merely because it is foreseen, neither is this a 
 just consequence : for it has often been observed, that prescience 
 and knowledge of every kind, being an immanent act, has no 
 effect upon the thing known. Its mode of existence, whether it 
 be free or necessary, is not in the least affected by its being 
 known to be future, any more than by its being known to be 
 past or present. The Deity foresees his own future free actions, 
 but neither his foresight nor his purpose makes them necessary. 
 The argument, therefore, taken in this view, as well as in the 
 former, is inconclusive. 
 
 A third way in which this argument may be understood, is 
 this : It is impossible that an event which is not necessary should 
 be foreseen; therefore every event that is certainly foreseen, 
 must be necessary. Here the conclusion certainly follows from 
 the antecedent proposition, and therefore the whole stress of 
 the argument lies upon the proof of that proposition. 
 
 III. [Let us consider, therefore, whether it can be proved, that 
 no free action can be certainly foreseen. If this can be proved, it 
 will follow, either that all actions are necessary, or that all actions 
 cannot be foreseen.] 
 
 With regard to the general proposition, that it is impossible 
 that any free action can be certainly foreseen, I observe, 
 
 First, that every man who believes the Deity to be a free 
 agent, must believe that this proposition not only is incapable of 
 proof, but that it is certainly false : for the man himself foresees, 
 that the Judge of all the earth will always do what is right, and 
 that he will fulfil whatever he has promised; and at the same 
 time, believes, that, in doing what is right, and in fulfilling his 
 promises, the Deity acts with the most perfect freedom. 
 
 Secondly, I observe, that every man who believes that it is an 
 absurdity or contradiction, that any free action should be cer- 
 tainly foreseen, must believe, if he will be consistent, either that 
 the Deity is not a free agent, or that he does not foresee his own 
 actions ; nor can we foresee that he will do what is right, and 
 will fulfil his promises. 
 
 Thirdly, without considering the consequences which this 
 general proposition carries in its bosom, which give it a very bad 
 aspect, let us attend to the arguments offered to prove it. 
 
 Dr. Priestley has laboured more in the proof of this proposi- 
 tion than any other author I am acquainted with, and maintains 
 it to be, not only a difficulty and a mystery, as it has been called, 
 that a contingent event should be the object of knowledge, but 
 that, in reality, there cannot be a greater absurdity or contradic- 
 tion. Let us hear the proof of this. 
 
300 ESSAY IV. CHAP. X. 
 
 " For," says lie, " as certainly as nothing can be known to exist, 
 but what does exist, so certainly can nothing be known to arise 
 from what does exist, but what does arise from it or depend upon 
 it. But, according to the definition of the terms, a contingent 
 event does not depend upon any previous known circumstances, 
 since some other event might have arisen in the same circum- 
 stances." 
 
 This argument, when stripped of incidental and explanatory 
 clauses, and affected variations of expression, amounts to this : 
 nothing can be known to arise from what does exist, but what 
 does arise from it : but a contingent event does not arise from 
 what does exist. [The conclusion, which is left to be drawn by 
 the reader, must, according to the rules of reasoning, be : there- 
 fore a contingent event cannot be known to arise from what 
 does exist.] 
 
 It is here very obvious, that a thing may arise from what does 
 exist, two ways, freely or necessarily. A contingent event arises 
 from its cause, not necessarily but freely, and so, that another 
 event might have arisen from the same cause, in the same cir- 
 cumstances 
 
 The second proposition of the argument is, that a contingent 
 event does not depend upon any previous known circumstances, 
 which I take to be only a variation of the term of not arising 
 from what does exist. Therefore, in order to make the two 
 propositions to correspond, we must understand by arising from 
 what does exist, arising necessarily from what does exist. When 
 this ambiguity is removed, the argument stands thus : nothing 
 can be known to arise necessarily from what does exist, but what 
 does necessarily arise from it : but a contingent event does not 
 arise necessarily from what does exist ; therefore a contingent 
 event cannot be known to arise necessarily from what does exist. 
 
 I grant the whole ; but the conclusion of this argument is not 
 what he undertook to prove, and therefore the argument is that 
 kind of sophism which logicians call ignoratio elenchi. 
 
 The thing to be proved is not, that a contingent event cannot 
 be known to arise necessarily from what exists ; but that a con- 
 tingent future event cannot be the object of knowledge. 
 
 To draw the argument to this conclusion, it must be put thus : 
 nothing can be known to arise from what does exist, but what 
 arises necessarily from it : but a contingent event does not arise 
 necessarily from what does exist ; therefore a contingent event 
 cannot be known to arise from what does exist. 
 
 The conclusion here is what it ought to be ; but the first pro- 
 position assumes the thing to be proved, and therefore the argu- 
 ment is what logicians call petitio principii. 
 
 To the same purpose he says, " That nothing can be known at 
 present, except itself or its necessary cause exist at present." 
 
 This is affirmed, but I find no proof of it. 
 
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 Again he says, " That knowledge supposes an object, which, 
 in this case, does not exist." It is true that knowledge supposes 
 an object, and every thing that is known is an object of know- 
 ledge, whether past, present, or future, whether contingent or 
 necessary. 
 
 Upon the whole, the arguments I can find upon this point, 
 bear no proportion to the confidence of the assertion, that there 
 cannot be a greater absurdity or contradiction, than that a con- 
 tingent event should be the object of knowledge. 
 
 IV. To those who, without pretending to show a manifest 
 absurdity or contradiction in the knowledge of future contingent 
 events, are still of opinion, that it is impossible that the future 
 free actions of man, a being of imperfect wisdom and virtue, 
 should be certainly foreknown, I would humbly offer the follow- 
 ing considerations. 
 
 [1. I grant that there is no knowledge of this kind in man ; and 
 this is the cause that we find it so difficult to conceive it in any 
 other being.] 
 
 All our knowledge of future events is drawn either from their 
 necessary connexion with the present course of nature, or from 
 their connexion with the character of the agent that produces 
 them. Our knowledge, even of those future events that neces- 
 sarily result from the established laws of nature, is hypothetical. 
 It supposes the continuance of those laws with which they are 
 connected. And how long those laws may be continued, we 
 have no certain knowledge. God only knows when the present 
 course of nature shall be changed, and therefore he only has 
 certain knowledge even of events of this kind. 
 
 The character of perfect wisdom and perfect rectitude in the 
 Deity, gives us certain knowledge that he will always be true in 
 all his declarations, faithful in all his promises, and just in all 
 his dispensations. But [when we reason from the character of 
 men to their future actions, though, in many cases, we have such 
 probability as we rest upon in our most important worldly con- 
 cerns, yet we have no certainty, because men are imperfect in 
 wisdom and in virtue.] If we had even the most perfect know- 
 ledge of the character and situation of a man, this would not 
 be sufficient fro give certainty to our knowledge of his future 
 actions ; because, in some actions, both good and bad men deviate 
 from their general character. 
 
 The prescience of the Deity, therefore, must be different not 
 only in degree, but in kind, from any knowledge we can attain of 
 futurity. 
 
 [2. Though we can have no conception how the future free 
 actions of men may be known by the Deity, this is not a sufficient 
 reason to conclude that they cannot be known.] Do we know, 
 or can we conceive, how God knows the secrets of men's hearts ? 
 Can we conceive how God made this world without any pre- 
 
302 ESSAY IV. CHAP. X. 
 
 existent matter ? All the ancient philosophers believed this to 
 be impossible : and for what reason but this, that they could 
 not conceive how it could be done. Can we give any better 
 reason for believing that the actions of men cannot be certainly 
 foreseen ? 
 
 [3. Can we conceive how we ourselves have certain knowledge 
 by those faculties with which God has endowed us ? If any man 
 thinks that he understands distinctly how he is conscious of his 
 own thoughts ; how he perceives external objects by his senses ; 
 how he remembers past events, I am afraid that he is not yet so 
 wise as to understand his own ignorance.] 
 
 [4. There seems to me to be a great analogy between the 
 prescience of future contingents, and the memory of past con- 
 tingents. We possess the last in some degree, and therefore find 
 no difficulty in believing that it may be perfect in the Deity. 
 But the first we have in no degree, and therefore are apt to think 
 it impossible.] 
 
 [In both, the object of knowledge is neither what presently 
 exists, nor has any necessary connexion with what presently exists. 
 Every argument brought to prove the impossibility of prescience, 
 proves, with equal force, the impossibility of memory .] If it 
 be true that nothing can be known to arise from what does exist, 
 but what necessarily arises from it, it must be equally true, that 
 nothing can be known to have gone before what does exist, but 
 what must necessarily have gone before it. If it be true that 
 nothing future can be known unless its necessary cause exist at 
 present, it must be equally, true that nothing past can be known 
 unless something consequent, with which it is necessarily con- 
 nected, exist at present. If the fatalist should say, that past 
 events are indeed necessarily connected with the present, he will 
 not surely venture to say that it is by tracing this necessary con- 
 nexion that we remember the past. 
 
 Why, then, should we think prescience impossible in the Al- 
 mighty, when he has given us a faculty which bears a strong an- 
 alogy to it, and which is no less unaccountable to the human 
 understanding than prescience is. It is more reasonable, as well 
 as more agreeable to the sacred writings, to conclude with a 
 pious father of the church, " Quocirca nullo modo cogimur, aut 
 retenta praescientia Dei tollere voluntatis arbitrium, aut retento 
 voluntatis arbitrio, Deum, quod nefas est, negare praescium fu- 
 turorum : sed utrumque amplectimur, utrumque fideliter et ve- 
 raciter confitemur : illud ut bene credamus ; hoc ut bene viva- 
 mus." — Aug. " Wherefore we are under no necessity of rejecting 
 the freedom of the will, in case we admit the prescience of the 
 Deity, or in case we admit the freedom of the will to fall into 
 the impiety of denying such prescience : on the contrary, we 
 acknowledge both points — one as essential to the soundness of our 
 faith, the other to righteousness of life." 
 
OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 303 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 
 
 I. Another use has been made of Divine prescience by the 
 advocates for necessity, which it is proper to consider before we 
 leave this subject. 
 
 It has been said, " that all those consequences follow from 
 the Divine prescience which are thought most alarming in the 
 scheme of necessity ; and particularly God's being the proper 
 cause of moral evil. For, to suppose God to foresee and permit 
 what it was in his power to have prevented, is the very same 
 thing as to suppose him to will, and directly to cause it. He 
 distinctly foresees all the actions of a man's life, and all the con- 
 sequences of them. If, therefore, he did not think any parti- 
 cular man and his conduct proper for his plan of creation and 
 providence, he certainly would not have introduced him into 
 being at all." 
 
 In this reasoning we may observe, that a supposition is made 
 which seems to contradict itself. 
 
 That all the actions of a particular man should be distinctly 
 foreseen, and, at the same time, that that man should never be 
 brought into existence, seems to me to be a contradiction : and 
 the same contradiction there is, in supposing any action to be 
 distinctly foreseen, and yet prevented. For, if it be foreseen, 
 it shall happen ; and, if it be prevented, it shall not happen ; 
 and therefore could not be foreseen. 
 
 II. [Scientia media. — The knowledge here supposed is neither 
 prescience nor science, but something very different from both. 
 It is a kind of knowledge which some metaphysical divines, in 
 their controversies about the order of the Divine decrees, a sub- 
 ject far beyond the limits of human understanding, attributed to 
 the Deity, and of which other divines denied the possibility, 
 while they firmly maintained the Divine prescience.] 
 
 It was called scientia media, to distinguish it from prescience ; 
 and by this scientia media was meant, not the knowing from 
 eternity all things that shall exist, which is prescience, [nor the 
 knowing all the connexions and relations of things that exist or 
 may be conceived, which is science ;] but a knowledge of things 
 contingent, that never did nor shall exist. For instance, the 
 knowing every action that would be done by a man who is barely 
 conceived, and shall never be brought into existence. 
 
 Against the possibility of the scientia media arguments may be 
 urged, which cannot be applied to prescience. Thus it may be 
 said, that nothing can be known but what is true. It is true 
 
304 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XI. 
 
 that the future actions of a free agent shall exist, and therefore 
 we see no impossibility in its being known that they shall ex- 
 ist : but with regard to the free actions of an agent that never 
 did nor shall exist, there is nothing true, and therefore nothing 
 can be known. To say that the being conceived, would certainly 
 act in such a way, if placed in such a situation, if it have any 
 meaning, is to say, That his acting in that way is the conse- 
 quence of the conception ; but this contradicts the supposition of 
 its being a free action. 
 
 Things merely conceived have no relations or connexions but 
 such as are implied in the conception, or are consequent from 
 it. Thus I conceive two circles in the same plane. If this be 
 all I conceive, it is not true that these circles are equal or un- 
 equal, [because neither of these relations is implied in the con- 
 ception; yet if the two circles really existed, they must be 
 either equal or unequal.] Again, I conceive two circles in the 
 same plane, the distance of whose centres is equal to the sum of 
 their semidiameters. It is true of these circles, that they will 
 touch one another, because this follows from the conception ; 
 but it is not true that they will be equal or unequal, because 
 neither of these relations is implied in the conception, nor is 
 consequent from it. 
 
 In like manner, I can conceive a being who has power to do 
 an indifferent action, or not to do it. It is not true that he 
 would do it, nor is it true that he would not do it, because nei- 
 ther is implied in my conception, nor follows from it ; and what 
 is not true cannot be known. 
 
 Though I do not perceive .any fallacy in this argument against 
 a scientia media, I am sensible how apt we are to err in apply- 
 ing what belongs to our conceptions and our knowledge, to the 
 conceptions and knowledge of the Supreme Being : and, there- 
 fore, without pretending to determine for or against a scientia 
 media, I only observe, that, to suppose that the Deity prevents 
 what he foresees by his prescience, is a contradiction, and that 
 to know that a contingent event which he sees fit not to permit 
 would certainly happen if permitted, is not prescience, but the 
 scientia media, whose existence or possibility we are under no 
 necessity of admitting. 
 
 III. Prescience of the Deity indisputable. — Waving all dis- 
 pute about scientia media, we acknowledge that nothing can hap- 
 pen under the administration of the Deity, which he does not 
 see fit to permit. The permission of natural and moral evil is a 
 phenomenon which cannot be disputed. To account for this phe- 
 nomenon under the government of a Being of infinite goodness, 
 justice, wisdom, and power, has, in all ages, been considered as 
 difficult to human reason, whether we embrace the system of 
 liberty, or that of necessity. [But if the difficulty of account- 
 
OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 305 
 
 ing for this phenomenon upon the system of necessity, be as great 
 as it is upon the system of liberty, it can have no weight when 
 used as an argument against liberty.] 
 
 The defenders of necessity, to reconcile it to the principles of 
 Theism, find themselves obliged to give up all the moral attri- 
 butes of God, excepting that of goodness, or a desire to produce 
 happiness. This they hold to be the sole motive of his making 
 and governing the universe. Justice, veracity, faithfulness, are 
 only modifications of goodness, the means of promoting its pur- 
 poses, and are exercised only so far as they serve that end. Vir- 
 tue is acceptable to him, and vice displeasing, only as the first 
 tends to produce happiness and the last misery. He is the pro- 
 per cause and agent of all moral evil as well as good ; but it is 
 for a good end, to produce the greater happiness to his crea- 
 tures. He does evil that good may come, and this end sancti- 
 fies the worst actions that contribute to it. All the wickedness 
 of men being the work of God, he must, when he surveys it, 
 pronounce it, as well as all his other works, to be very good. 
 
 [This view of the Divine nature, the only one consistent with 
 the scheme of necessity, appears to me much more shocking than 
 the permission of evil upon the scheme of liberty. It is said, 
 that it requires only strength of mind to embrace it : to me it seems 
 to require much strength of countenance to profess it.] 
 
 EST In this system, as in Cleanthe's " Tablature of the Epicu- 
 rean System," pleasure or happiness is placed upon the throne 
 as the queen, to whom all the virtues bear the humble office of 
 menial servants. 
 
 As the end of the Deity, in all his actions, is not his own 
 good, which can receive no addition, but the good of his crea- 
 tures; and, as his creatures are capable of this disposition in 
 some degree, is he not pleased with this image of himself in his 
 creatures, and displeased with the contrary ? Why, then, should 
 he be the author of malice, envy, revenge, tyranny and oppres- 
 sion, in their hearts ? Other vices that have no malevolence in 
 them may please such a Deity, but surely malevolence cannot 
 please him. 
 
 If we form our .notions of the moral attributes of the Deity 
 from what we see of his government of the world, from the dic- 
 tates of reason and conscience, or from the doctrine of revelation ; 
 justice, veracity, faithfulness, the love of virtue and dislike of 
 vice, appear to be no less essential attributes of his nature and 
 goodness. 
 
 In man, who is made after the image of God, goodness or be- 
 nevolence is indeed an essential part of virtue, but it is not the 
 whole. 
 
 I am at a loss what arguments can be brought to prove good- 
 ness to be essential to the Deity, which will not, with equal 
 
306 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XL 
 
 force, prove other moral attributes to be so ; or what objections 
 can be brought against the latter, which have not equal strength 
 against the former, unless it be admitted to be an objection 
 against other moral attributes, that they do not accord with the 
 doctrine of necessity. 
 
 If other moral evils may be attributed to the Deity as the 
 means of promoting general good, why may not false declara- 
 tions and false promises ? And then what ground have we left 
 to believe the truth of what he reveals, or to rely upon what he 
 promises ? 
 
 Supposing this strange view of the Divine nature were to be 
 adopted in favour of the doctrine of necessity, there is still a 
 great difficulty to be resolved. 
 
 Since it is supposed that the Supreme Being had no other end 
 in making and governing the universe, but to produce the great- 
 est degree of happiness to his creatures in general, how comes 
 it to pass that there is so much misery in a system made and go- 
 verned by infinite wisdom and power for a contrary purpose ? 
 
 IV. The solution of this difficulty leads us necessarily to an- 
 other hypothesis, That all the misery and vice that is in the world 
 is a necessary ingredient in that system which produces the great- 
 est sum of happiness upon the whole. This connexion betwixt 
 the greatest sum of happiness and all the misery that is in the 
 universe, must be fatal and necessary in the nature of things, so 
 that even Almighty power cannot break it : for benevolence can 
 never lead to inflict misery without necessity. 
 
 This necessary connexion between the greatest sum of happi- 
 ness upon the whole, and all the natural and moral evil that is, 
 or has been, or shall be, being once established, it is impossible 
 for mortal eyes to discern how far this evil may extend, or on 
 whom it may happen to fall ; whether this fatal connexion may 
 be temporary or eternal, or what proportion of the happiness 
 may be balanced by it. 
 
 A world made by perfect wisdom and almighty power, for 
 no other end but to make it happy, presents the most pleasing- 
 prospect that can be imagined. We expect nothing but unin- 
 terrupted happiness to prevail for ever. But, alas ! when we 
 consider that in this happiest system, there must be necessarily 
 all the misery and vice we see, and how much more we know 
 not, how is the prospect darkened! 
 
 [These two hypotheses, the one limiting the moral character 
 of the Deity, the other limiting his power, seem to me to be 
 the necessary consequences of necessity, when it is joined with 
 Theism ; and they have accordingly been adopted by the ablest 
 defenders of that doctrine.] 
 
 If some defenders of liberty, by limiting too rashly the Divine 
 prescience, in order to defend that system, have raised high 
 
OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. gQ* 
 
 indignation in their opponents ; have they not equal ground of 
 indignation against those who, to defend necessity, limit the 
 moral perfection of the Deity, and his almighty power ? 
 
 V. [Let us consider, on the other hand, what consequences 
 may be fairly drawn from God's permitting the abuse of liberty 
 in agents on whom he has bestowed it.~\ 
 
 If it be asked, Why does God permit so much sin in his crea- 
 tion ? I confess I cannot answer the question, but must lay my 
 hand upon my mouth. He giveth no account of his conduct to 
 the children of men. It is our part to obey his commands, and 
 not to say unto him, Why dost thou thus ? 
 
 Hypotheses might be framed ; but while we have ground to 
 be satisfied that he does nothing but what is right, it is more 
 becoming us to acknowledge that the ends and reasons of his 
 universal government are beyond our knowledge, and perhaps 
 beyond the comprehension of human understanding. We can- 
 not penetrate so far into the counsel of the Almighty, as to know 
 all the reasons why it became him, of whom are all things, and 
 to whom are all things, to create, not only machines, which are 
 solely moved by his hand, but servants and children, who, by 
 obeying his commands, and imitating his moral perfections, 
 might rise to a high degree of glory and happiness in his favour, 
 or, by perverse disobedience, might incur guilt and just punish- 
 ment, fin this he appears to us awful in his justice, as well as 
 amiable in his goodness. \ 
 
 But, as he disdains not to appeal to men for the equity of his 
 proceedings towards them when his character is impeached, we 
 may, with humble reverence, plead for God, and vindicate that 
 moral excellence which is the glory of his nature, and of which 
 the image is the glory and the perfection of man. 
 
 Let us observe, first of all, that to permit hath two meanings. 
 It signifies, not to forbid ; and it signifies, not to hinder by superior 
 power. In the first of these senses, God never jiermits sin. His 
 law forbids every moral evil. By his laws and by his govern- 
 ment, he gives every encouragement to good conduct, and every 
 discouragement to bad. But he does not always, by his superior 
 power, hinder it from being committed. This is the ground of 
 the accusation ; and this, it is said, is the very same thing as 
 directly to will and to cause it. 
 
 As this is asserted without proof, and is far from being self- 
 evident, it might be sufficient to deny it until it be proved. But, 
 without resting barely on the defensive, we may observe, that 
 the only moral attributes that can be supposed inconsistent with 
 the permission of sin, are either goodness or justice. 
 
 The defenders of necessity, with whom we have to do in this 
 point, as they maintain that goodness is the only essential moral 
 attribute of the Deity, and the motive of all his actions, must, if 
 
 x 2 
 
208 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XI. 
 
 they will be consistent, maintain, That to will, and directly to 
 cause sin, much more not to hinder it, is consistent with perfect 
 goodness, nay, that goodness is a sufficient motive to justify the 
 willing and directly causing it. 
 
 With regard to them, therefore, it is surely unnecessary to 
 attempt to reconcile the permission of sin with the goodness of 
 God, since an inconsistency between that attribute and the caus- 
 ing of sin would overturn their whole system. 
 
 If the causing of moral evil, and being the real author of it, 
 be consistent with perfect goodness, what pretence can there be 
 to say, that not to hinder it is inconsistent with perfect good- 
 
 ness 
 
 [What is incumbent upon them, therefore, to prove is, " That 
 the permission of sin is inconsistent with justice ;" and, upon this 
 point, we are ready to join issue with them.] 
 
 But what pretence can there be to say, that the permission of 
 sin is perfectly consistent with goodness in the Deity, but incon- 
 sistent with justice ? 
 
 Is it not as easy to conceive, that he should permit sin, though 
 virtue be his delight, as that he inflicts misery, when his sole 
 delight is to bestow happiness ? Should it appear incredible, that 
 the permission of sin may tend to promote virtue, to them who 
 believe that the infliction of misery is necessary to promote 
 happiness ? 
 
 The justice, as well as the goodness of God's moral govern- 
 ment of mankind, appears in this : That his laws are not arbitrary 
 nor grievous, as it is only by the obedience of them that our 
 ( nature can be perfected and qualified for future happiness ; that 
 he is ready to aid our weakness, to help our infirmities, and not 
 to suffer us to be tempted above what we are able to bear ; that 
 he is not strict to mark iniquity, or to execute judgment speedily 
 against an evil work, but is long-suffering, and waits to be gra- 
 cious ; £that he is ready to receive the humble penitent to his 
 favour ;^that he is no respecter of persons, but in every nation 
 he that fears God and works righteousness is accepted of him ; \ 
 that of every man he will require an account, proportioned to the 
 talents he hath received ; that he delights in mercy, but hath no 
 pleasure in the death of the wicked ; and therefore in punishing 
 will never go beyond the demerit of the criminal, nor beyond 
 what the rules of his universal government require. 
 
 There were, in ancient ages, some who said, " The way of the 
 Lord is not equal ; " to whom the prophet, in the name of God, 
 makes this reply, which, in all ages, is sufficient to repel this 
 accusation : " Hear now, O house of Israel, Is not my way 
 equal ? are not your ways unequal ? When a righteous man 
 turncth away from his righteousness, and commit teth iniquity, 
 for his iniquity which he hath done, shall he die." Again, when 
 
OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 3QQ 
 
 the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath 
 committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he* shall save 
 his soul alive. O house of Israel, are not my ways equal ? are 
 not your ways unequal ? Repent, and turn from all your trans- 
 gressions ; so iniquity shall not be your ruin. Cast away from 
 you all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed, and 
 make you a new heart, and a new spirit : for why will ye die, O 
 house of Israel ? For I have no pleasure in the death of him 
 that dieth, saith the Lord God." 
 
 VI. Another argument for necessity has been lately offered, 
 which we shall very briefly consider. 
 
 [It has been maintained, that the power of thinking is the re- 
 sult of a certain modification of matter, and that a certain con- 
 figuration of brain makes a soul ; and, if man be wholly a mate- 
 rial being, it is said that it will not be denied that he must be 
 a mechanical being; that the doctrine of necessity is a direct 
 inference from that of materialism, and its undoubted conse- 
 quence.] 
 
 As this argument can have no weight with those who do not 
 see reason to embrace this system of materialism ; so, even with 
 those who do, it seems to me to be a mere sophism. 
 
 Philosophers have been wont to conceive matter to be an inert 
 passive being, and to have certain properties inconsistent with 
 the power of thinking or of acting. But a philosopher arises, 
 who proves, we shall suppose, that we were quite mistaken in 
 our notion of matter ; that it has not the properties we supposed, 
 and, in fact, has no properties but those of attraction and repul- 
 sion ; but still he thinks that, being matter, it will not be denied 
 that it is a mechanical being, and that the doctrine of necessity 
 is a direct inference from that of materialism. 
 
 Herein, however, he deceives himself. If matter be what we 
 conceived it to be, it is equally incapable of thinking and of acting 
 freely. But if the properties, from which we drew this conclu- 
 sion, have no reality, as he thinks he has proved ; if it have the 
 powers of attraction and repulsion, and require only a certain 
 configuration to make it think rationally, it will be impossible to 
 show any good reason why the same configuration may not make 
 it act rationally and freely. If its reproach of solidity, inert- 
 ness, and sluggishness, be wiped off; and if it be raised in our 
 esteem to a nearer approach to the nature of what we call spirit- 
 ual and immaterial beings, why should it still be nothing but 
 a mechanical being ? Is its solidity, inertness, and sluggishness, 
 to be first removed to make it capable of thinking, and then re- 
 stored in order to make it incapable of acting ? 
 
 [Those, therefore, who reason justly from this system of ma- 
 terialism will easily perceive that the doctrine of necessity is so 
 far from being a direct inference, that it can receive no support 
 from it^\ 
 
310 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XI. 
 
 VII. To conclude this Essay : Extremes of all kinds ought 
 to be avoided ; yet men are prone to run into them ; and, to 
 shun one extreme, we often run into the contrary. 
 
 Of all extremes of opinion, none are more dangerous than 
 those that exalt the powers of man too high, on the one hand, 
 or sink them too low, on the other. 
 
 By raising them too high, we feed pride and vainglory, we 
 lose the sense of our dependence upon God and engage in at- 
 tempts beyond our abilities. By depressing them too low, we 
 cut the sinews of action and of obligation, and are tempted to 
 think that, as we can do nothing, we have nothing to do but to 
 be carried passively along by the stream of necessity. 
 
 Some good men, apprehending that, to kill pride and vain- 
 glory, our active powers cannot be too much depressed, have 
 been led, by zeal for religion, to deprive us of all active power. 
 Other good men, by a like zeal, have been led to depreciate 
 the human understanding, and to put out the light of nature 
 and reason, in order to exalt that of revelation. 
 
 Those weapons which were taken up in support of religion, 
 are now employed to overturn it ; and what was, by some, ac- 
 counted the bulwark of orthodoxy, is become the stronghold of 
 atheism and infidelity. 
 
 [Atheists join hands with theologians, (1) in depriving man 
 of all active power, that they may destroy all moral obligation, and 
 all sense of right and wrong. They join hands with theologi- 
 ans, (2) in depreciating the human understanding, that they may 
 lead us into absolute scepticism.] 
 
 God, in mercy to the human race, has made us of such a 
 frame, that no speculative opinion whatsoever can root out the 
 sense of guilt and demerit when we do wrong, nor the peace and 
 joy of a good conscience when we do what is right. \ No specu- 
 lative opinion can root out a regard to the testimony of our 
 senses, of our memory, and of our rational faculties. But we 
 have reason to be jealous of opinions which run counter to those 
 natural sentiments of the human mind, and tend to shake, though 
 they never can eradicate them. 
 
 There is little reason to fear, that the conduct of men, with 
 regard to the concerns of the present life, will ever be much 
 affected, either by the doctrine of necessity, or by scepticism. It 
 were to be wished that men's conduct, with regard to the con- 
 cerns of another life, were in as little danger from those opinions. 
 In the present state, we see some who zealously maintain the 
 doctrine of necessity, others who as zealously maintain that of 
 liberty. One would be apt to think that a practical belief of these 
 contrary systems should produce very different conduct in them 
 that hold them ; yet we see no such difference in the affairs of 
 common life. 
 
OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 3JJ 
 
 The fatalist deliberates, and resolves, and plights his faith. 
 He lays down a plan of conduct, and prosecutes it with vigour 
 and industry. He exhorts and commands, and holds those to be 
 answerable for their conduct to whom he hath committed any 
 charge. He blames those that are false or unfaithful to him, as 
 other men do. He perceives dignity and worth in some charac- 
 ters and actions, and in others demerit and turpitude. He re- 
 sents injuries, and is grateful for good offices. 
 
 If any man should plead the doctrine of necessity to exculpate 
 murder, theft, or robbery, or even wilful negligence in the dis- 
 charge of his duty, his judge, though a fatalist, if he had com- 
 mon sense, would laugh at such a plea, and would not allow it 
 even to alleviate the crime. 
 
 In all such cases, he sees that it would be absurd not to act 
 and to judge as those ought to do who believe themselves and 
 other men to be free agents — just as the sceptic, to avoid absur- 
 dity, must, when he goes into the world, act and judge like 
 other men who are not sceptics. 
 
 If the fatalist be as little influenced by the opinion of neces- 
 sity in his moral and religious concerns, and in his expectations 
 concerning another world, as he is in the common affairs of life, his 
 speculative opinion will probably do him little hurt. But, if he 
 trust so far to the doctrine of necessity, as to indulge sloth and 
 inactivity in his duty, and hope to exculpate himself to his 
 JVIaker by that doctrine, let him consider whether he sustains this 
 j excuse from his servants and dependants, when they are.negli- 
 j gent or unfaithful in what is committed to their charge.,,/ 
 \ Bishop Butler, in his " Analogy," has an excellent chapter 
 upon the opinion of necessity considered as influencing practice, 
 which I think highly deserving the consideration of those who 
 are inclined to that opinion.* 
 
 * " Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and 
 Course of Nature," Part I. chap. vi. 
 
ESSAY V. 
 
 OF MORALS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 
 
 I. Morals, like all other sciences, must have first principles, 
 on which all moral reasoning is grounded. 
 
 In every branch of knowledge where disputes have been raised, 
 it is useful to distinguish the first principles from the super- 
 structure. They are the foundation on which the whole fabric 
 of the science leans ; and whatever is not supported by this 
 foundation can have no stability. 
 
 [In all rational belief, the thing believed is (1) either itself a 
 first principle, or (2) it is by just reasoning deduced from first 
 principles.] When men differ about deductions of reasoning, 
 the appeal must be made to the rules of reasoning, which have 
 been very unanimously fixed from the days of Aristotle. But 
 when they differ about a first principle, the appeal is made to 
 another tribunal ; to that of common sense. 
 
 How the genuine decisions of common sense may be distin- 
 guished from the counterfeit, has been considered in Essay VI. 
 on " The Intellectual Powers of Man," chapter fourth, to which 
 the reader is referred. What I would here observe is, that as 
 first principles differ from deductions of reasoning in the nature 
 of their evidence, and must be tried by a different standard 
 when they are called in question, it is of importance to know to 
 which of these two classes a truth, which we would examine, 
 belongs. When they are not distinguished, men are apt to 
 demand proof for every thing they think fit to deny : and when 
 we attempt to prove by direct argument, what is really self- 
 evident, the reasoning will always be inconclusive : for it will 
 either take for granted the thing to be proved, or something not 
 more evident ; and so, instead of giving strength to the conclu- 
 sion, will rather tempt those to doubt of it, who never did so 
 before. 
 
 II. I propose, therefore, in this chapter, to point out some of 
 the first principles of morals, without pretending to a complete 
 enumeration. 
 
OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. gjg 
 
 The principles I am to mention, relate either to virtue in 
 general, or to the different particular branches of virtue, or to 
 the comparison of virtues where they seem to interfere. 
 
 1 . There are some things in human conduct, that merit appro- 
 bation and praise, others that merit blame and punishment ; and 
 different degrees either of approbation or of blame, are due to 
 different actions. 
 
 2. What is in no degree voluntary, can neither deserve moral 
 approbation nor blame. 
 
 3. What is done from unavoidable necessity may be agreeable 
 or disagreeable, useful or hurtful, but cannot be the object 
 either of blame or of moral approbation. 
 
 4. Men may be highly culpable in omitting what they ought 
 to have done, as well as in doing what they ought not. 
 
 5. We ought to use the best means we can to be well informed 
 of our duty, by serious attention to moral instruction ; by ob- 
 serving what we approve, and what we disapprove, in other men, 
 whether our acquaintance, or those whose actions are recorded 
 in history ; by reflecting often, in a calm and dispassionate hour, 
 on our own past conduct, that we may discern what was wrong, 
 what was right, and what might have been better; by deli- 
 berating coolly and impartially upon our future conduct, as far 
 as we can foresee the opportunities we may have of doing good, 
 or the temptations to do wrong ; and by having this principle 
 deeply fixed in our minds, that as moral excellence is the true 
 worth and glory of a man, so the knowledge of our duty is to 
 
 | every man, in every station of life, the most important of all 
 knowledge. 
 
 6. It ought to be our most serious concern to do our duty as 
 far as we know it, and to fortify our minds against every tempta- 
 tion to deviate from it; by maintaining a lively sense of the 
 beauty of right conduct, and of its present and future reward, of 
 the turpitude of vice, and of its bad consequences here and here- 
 after ; by having always in our eye the noblest examples; /by 
 the habit of subjecting our passions to the government of rea- 
 son ;Jby firm purposes and resolutions with regard to our con- 
 duct ; by avoiding occasions of temptation when we can ; and 
 by imploring the aid of Him who made us, in every hour of 
 temptation. 
 
 III. These principles concerning virtue and vice in general, 
 must appear self-evident to every man who hath a conscience, 
 and who hath taken pains to exercise this natural power of his 
 mind. I proceed to others that are more particular. 
 
 1. We ought to prefer a greater good, though more distant, 
 to a less ; and a less evil to a greater. 
 
 A regard to our own good, though we had no conscience, 
 dictates this principle ; and we cannot help disapproving the 
 
 
314 ESSAY V. CHAP. I. 
 
 man that acts contrary to it, as deserving to lose the good which 
 he wantonly threw away, and to suffer the evil which he know- 
 ingly brought upon his own head. 
 
 We observed before, that the ancient moralists, and many 
 among the modern, have deduced the whole of morals from this 
 principle, and that when we make a right estimate of goods and 
 evils according to their degree, their dignity, their duration, 
 and according as they are more or less in our power, it leads to 
 the practice of every virtue : more directly, indeed, to the virtues 
 of self-government, to prudence, to temperance, and to fortitude ; 
 and, though more indirectly, even to justice, humanity, and all 
 the social virtues, when their influence upon our happiness is 
 well understood. 
 
 Though it be not the noblest principle of conduct, it has this 
 peculiar advantage, that its force is felt by the most ignorant, 
 and even by the most abandoned. 
 
 Let a man's moral judgment be ever so little improved by 
 exercise, or ever so much corrupted by bad habits, he cannot be 
 indifferent to his own happiness or misery. When he is become 
 insensible to every nobler motive to right conduct, he cannot be 
 insensible to this. And though to act from this motive solely 
 may be called prudence rather than virtue, yet this prudence 
 deserves some regard upon its own account, and much more as 
 it is the friend and ally of virtue, and the enemy of all vice ; and 
 as it gives a favourable testimony of virtue to those who are 
 deaf to every other recommendation. 
 
 [If a man can be induced to do his duty even from a regard 
 to his own happiness, he will soon find reason to love virtue for 
 her own sake, and to act from motives less mercenary .] 
 
 I cannot therefore approve of those moralists who would 
 banish all persuasives to virtue taken from the consideration of 
 private good. In the present state of human nature these are 
 not useless to the best, and they are the only means left of re- 
 claiming the abandoned. 
 
 2. As far as the intention of nature appears in the constitution 
 of man, we ought to comply with that intention, and to act 
 agreeably to it. 
 
 The Author of our being hath given us not only the power of 
 acting within a limited sphere, but various principles or springs 
 of action, of different nature and dignity, to direct us in the 
 exercise of our active power. 
 
 From the constitution of every species of the inferior animals, 
 and especially from the active principles which nature has given 
 them, we easily perceive the manner of life for which nature 
 intended them ; and they uniformly act the part to which they 
 are led by their constitution, without any reflection upon it, or 
 intention of obeying its dictates. Man only, of the inhabitants 
 
OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 315 
 
 of this world, is made capable of observing his own constitution, 
 what kind of life it is made for, and of acting according to that 
 intention, or contrary to it. He only is capable of yielding an 
 intentional obedience to the dictates of his nature, or of rebelling 
 against them. 
 
 In treating of the principles of action in man, it has been 
 shown, that as his natural instincts and bodily appetites are well 
 adapted to the preservation of his natural life, and to the con- 
 tinuance of the species ; so his natural desires, affections, and 
 passions, when uncorrupted by vicious habits, and under the 
 [government of the leading principles of reason and conscience, 
 lare excellently fitted for the rational and social life. Every 
 vicious action shows an excess, or defect, or wrong direction of 
 some natural spring of action, and therefore may, very justly, 
 be said to be unnatural, j Every virtuous action agrees with the 
 uncorrupted principles 01 human nature. 
 
 The Stoics denned virtue to be a life according to nature. 
 Some of them, more accurately, a life according to the nature of 
 man, in so far as it is superior to that of brutes. The life of a 
 brute is according to the nature of the brute ; but it is neither 
 virtuous nor vicious. The life of a moral agent cannot be accord- 
 ing to his nature, unless it be virtuous. / That conscience, which 
 is in every man's breast, is the law of God written in his heart, 
 which he cannot disobey without acting unnaturally, and being 
 self-condemned. ) 
 
 The intention of nature, in the various active principles of 
 man, in the desires of power, of knowledge, and of esteem, in 
 the affection to children, to near relations, and to the communi- 
 ties to which we belong, in gratitude, in compassion, and even 
 in resentment and emulation, is very obvious, and has been 
 pointed out in treating of those principles. Nor is it less evi- 
 dent, that reason and conscience are given us to regulate the 
 inferior principles, so that they may conspire, in a regular and 
 consistent plan of life, in pursuit of some worthy end. 
 
 3£ No man is born for himself only. \ Every man, therefore, 
 ought to consider himself as a member of the common society 
 of mankind, and of those subordinate societies to which he 
 belongs, such as family, friends, neighbourhood, country, and 
 to do as much good as he can, and as little hurt to the societies 
 of which he is a part._y 
 
 [This axiom leads directly to the practice of every social vir- 
 tue, and indirectly to the virtues of self-government, by which 
 only we can be qualified for discharging the duty we owe to 
 society.] 
 
 4. In every case, we ought to act that part towards another, 
 
 which we would judge to be right in him to act towards us, if 
 
 \we were in his circumstances and he in ours ; or, more generally, 
 
316 ESSAY V. CHAP. I. 
 
 what we approve in others, that we ought to practise in like 
 circumstances ; x and what we condemn in others, we ought not 
 to do. 
 
 If there be any such thing as right and wrong in the conduct 
 of moral agents, it must be the same to all in the same circum- 
 stances. 
 
 We stand all in the same relation to Him who made us, and 
 will call us to account for our conduct ; for with Him there is 
 no respect of persons. We stand in the same relation to one 
 another as members of the great community of mankind. The 
 duties consequent upon the different ranks and offices and rela- 
 tions of men are the same to all in the same circumstances. 
 
 [It is not want of judgment, but want of candour and impar- 
 tiality, that hinders men from discerning what they owe to 
 others.] They are quicksighted enough in discerning what is 
 due to themselves. =„ When they are injured, or ill treated, they 
 see it, and feel resentment. It is the want of canclour that 
 makes men use one measure for the duty they owe to others, 
 and another measure for the duty that others owe to them in 
 like circumstances. That men ought to judge with candour, as 
 in all other cases, so especially in what concerns their moral 
 conduct, is surely self-evident to every intelligent being. The 
 man who takes offence when he is injured in his person, in his 
 property, in his good name, pronounces judgment against himself 
 if he act so toward his neighbour. 
 
 [As the equity and obligation of this rule of conduct is self- 
 evident to every man who hath a conscience ; so it is, of all the 
 rules of morality, the most comprehensive, and truly deserves the 
 encomium given it by the highest authority, that it is the law 
 and the prophets.] 
 
 It comprehends every rule of justice without exception. It 
 comprehends all the relative duties, arising either from the more 
 permanent relations of parent and child, of master and servant, 
 of magistrate and subject, of husband and wife, or from the 
 more transient relations of rich and poor, of buyer and seller, of 
 debtor and creditor, of benefactor and beneficiary, of friend and 
 enemy. It comprehends every duty of charity and humanity, 
 and even of courtesy and good manners. 
 
 Nay, I think that, without any force or straining, it extends 
 even to the duties of self-government. For, as every man 
 approves in others the virtues of prudence, temperance, self- 
 command, and fortitude, he must perceive, that what is right in 
 others must be right in himself in like circumstances. 
 
 To sum up all, he who acts invariably by this rule will never 
 deviate from the path of his duty but from an error of judgment. 
 And, as he feels the obligation that he and all men are under 
 to use the best means in his power to have his judgment well 
 
OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 3J7 
 
 informed in matters of duty, his errors will only be such as are 
 invincible. 
 
 [It may be observed, that this axiom supposes (1) a faculty 
 in man by which he can distinguish right conduct from wrong. 
 It supposes also, (2) that, by this faculty, we easily perceive the 
 right and the wrong in other men that are indifferent to us ; but 
 are very apt to be blinded by the partiality of selfish passions 
 when the case concerns ourselves.] Every claim we have against 
 others is apt to be magnified by self-love, when viewed directly. 
 A change of persons removes this prejudice, and brings the claim 
 to appear in its just magnitude. 
 
 5. To every man who believes the existence, the perfections, 
 and the providence of God, the veneration and submission we 
 owe to him is self-evident. Right sentiments of the Deity and 
 of his works, not only make the duty we owe to him obvious to 
 every intelligent being, but likewise add the authority of a divine 
 law to every rule of right conduct. 
 
 IV. [There is another class of axioms in morals, by which, 
 when there seems to be an opposition between the actions that 
 different virtues lead to, we determine to which the preference 
 is due.] 
 
 Between the several virtues, as they are dispositions of mind, 
 or determinations of will to act according to a certain general 
 rule, there can be no opposition. They dwell together most 
 amicably, and give mutual aid and ornament, without the possi- 
 bility of hostility or opposition, and, taken altogether, make one 
 uniform and consistent rule of conduct. But, between particular 
 external actions, which different virtues would lead to, there 
 may be an opposition. Thus, the same man may be in his heart 
 generous, grateful, and just. These dispositions strengthen, but 
 never can weaken one another. Yet it may happen that an 
 external action which generosity or gratitude solicits, justice 
 may forbid. 
 
 That in all such cases, unmerited generosity should yield to 
 gratitude, and both to justice, is self-evident. Nor is it less so, 
 that unmerited beneficence to those who are at ease should yield 
 to compassion to the miserable, and external acts of piety to 
 works of mercy, because God loves mercy more than sacrifice. 
 
 At the same time, we perceive, that [those acts of virtue which 
 ought to yield in the case of a competition, have most intrinsic 
 worth when- there is no competition. Thus, it is evident that 
 there is more worth in pure and unmerited benevolence than in 
 compassion, more in compassion than in gratitude, and more in 
 gratitude than in justice.] 
 
 I call these first principles, because they appear to me to have 
 in themselves an intuitive evidence which I cannot resist. I find 
 I can express them in other words. I can illustrate them by 
 
318 ESSAY V. CHAP. I. 
 
 examples and authorities, and perhaps can deduce one of them 
 from another ; but I am not able to deduce them from other 
 principles that are more evident. And I find the best moral 
 reasonings of authors I am acquainted with, ancient and modern, 
 heathen and Christian, to be grounded upon one or more of 
 them. 
 
 The evidence of mathematical axioms is not discerned till men 
 come to a certain degree of maturity of understanding. A boy 
 must have formed the general conception of quantity, and of 
 more and less and equal, of sum and difference; and he must 
 have been accustomed to judge of these relations in matters of 
 common life, before he can perceive the evidence of the mathe- 
 matical axiom, that equal quantities, added to equal quantities, 
 make equal sums. 
 
 In like manner, our moral judgment, or conscience, grows to 
 maturity from an imperceptible seed, planted by our Creator. 
 When we are capable of contemplating the actions of other men, 
 or of reflecting upon our own calmly and dispassionately, we 
 begin to perceive in them the qualities of honest and dishonest, 
 of honourable and base, of right and wrong, and to feel the 
 sentiments of- moral approbation and disapprobation. 
 
 These sentiments are at first feeble, easily warped by passions 
 and prejudices, and apt to yield to authority. By use and time, 
 the judgment, in morals, as in other matters, gathers strength, 
 and feels more vigour. We begin to distinguish the dictates of 
 passion from those of cool reason, and to perceive that it is not 
 always safe to rely upon the judgment of others. By an impulse 
 of nature we venture to judge for ourselves, as we venture to 
 walk by ourselves. 
 
 fBT There is a strong analogy between the progress of the 
 body from infancy to maturity, and the progress of all the 
 powers of the mind. This progression in both is the work of 
 nature, and in both may be greatly aided or hurt by proper 
 education. It is natural to a man to be able to walk or run or 
 leap ; but if his limbs had been kept in fetters from his birth, 
 he would have none of those powers. It is no less natural to a 
 man trained in society, and accustomed to judge of his own 
 actions and those of other men, to perceive a right and a wrong, 
 an honourable and a base, in human conduct; and to such a 
 man, I think, the principles of morals I have above mentioned 
 will appear self-evident. Yet there may be individuals of the 
 human species so little accustomed to think or judge of any 
 thing but of gratifying their animal appetites, as to have hardly 
 any conception of right or wrong in conduct, or any moral judg- 
 ment ; as there certainly are some who have not the concep- 
 tions and the judgment necessary to understand the axioms of 
 geometry. 
 
OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS. 319 
 
 V. Conclusion. — From the principles above mentioned, the 
 whole system of moral conduct follows so easily, and with so 
 little aid of reasoning, that every man of common understanding 
 who wishes to know his duty may know it. The path of duty 
 is a plain path, which the upright in heart can rarely mistake. 
 Such it must be, since every man is bound to walk in it. There 
 are some intricate cases in morals w^hich admit of disputation ; 
 but these seldom occur in practice ; and when they do, the 
 learned disputant has no great advantage : for the unlearned 
 man, who uses the best means in his power to know his duty, 
 and acts according to his knowledge, is inculpable in the sight 
 of God and man. He may err, but he is not guilty of immo- 
 rality. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS. 
 
 I. Instruction in morals necessary. — If the knowledge of our 
 duty be so level to the apprehension of all men, as has been 
 represented in the last chapter, it may seem hardly to deserve 
 the name of a science. It may seem that there is no need for 
 instruction in morals. 
 
 From what cause then has it happened, that we have many 
 large and learned systems of moral philosophy, and systems of 
 natural jurisprudence, or the law of nature and nations ; and 
 that, in modern times, public professions have been instituted in 
 most places of education for instructing youth in these branches 
 of knowledge ? 
 
 This event, I think, may be accounted for, and the utility of 
 such systems and professions justified, without supposing any 
 difficulty or intricacy in the knowledge of our duty. 
 
 [I am far from thinking instruction in morals unnecessary. 
 Men may, to the end of life, be ignorant of self-evident truths. 
 They may, to the end of life, entertain gross absurdities. Expe- 
 rience shows that this happens often in matters that are indiffer- 
 ent. Much more may it happen in matters where interest, 
 passion, prejudice, and fashion, are so apt to pervert the judg- 
 ment.] 
 
 The most obvious truths are not perceived without some ripe- 
 ness of judgment. For we see that children may be made to 
 believe any thing, though ever so absurd. Our judgment of 
 things is ripened, not by time only, but chiefly by being exer- 
 cised about things of the same or of a similar kind. 
 
 Judgment, even in .things self-evident, requires a clear, dis- 
 tinct, and steady conception of the things about which we judge. 
 
ggO ESSAY V. CHAP. II. 
 
 Our conceptions are at first obscure and wavering. The habit 
 of attending to them is necessary to make them distinct and 
 steady; and this habit requires an exertion of mind to which 
 many of our animal principles are unfriendly. The love of truth 
 calls for it ; but its still voice is often drowned by the louder 
 call of some passion, or we are hindered from listening to it by 
 laziness and desultoriness. Thus men often remain through life 
 ignorant of things which they needed but to open their eyes to 
 see, and which they would have seen if their attention had been 
 turned to them. 
 
 [The most knowing derive the greatest part of their knowledge, 
 even in things obvious, from instruction and information, and 
 from being taught to exercise their natural faculties, which, 
 without instruction, would lie dormant.] 
 
 B§F [I am very apt to think, that, if a man could be reared 
 from infancy without any society of his fellow-creatures, he 
 would hardly ever show any sign, either of moral judgment, or 
 of the power of reasoning. His own actions would be directed 
 by his animal appetites and passions, without cool reflection, and 
 he would have no access to improve by observing the conduct of 
 other beings like himself.] 
 
 The power of vegetation in the seed of a plant, without heat 
 and moisture, would for ever lie dormant. The rational and 
 moral powers of man would perhaps lie dormant without instruc- 
 tion and example. Yet these powers are a part, and the noblest 
 part, of his constitution ; as the power of vegetation is of the 
 seed. 
 
 Our first moral conceptions are probably got by attending 
 coolly to the conduct of others, and observing what moves our 
 approbation, what our indignation. These sentiments spring 
 from our moral faculty as naturally as the sensations of sweet 
 and bitter from the faculty of taste. They have their natural 
 objects. But most human actions are of a mixed nature, and 
 have various colours, according as they are viewed on different 
 sides. Prejudice against, or in favour of the person, is apt to 
 warp our opinion. It requires attention and candour to distin- 
 guish the good from the ill, and, without favour or prejudice, to 
 form a clear and impartial judgment. In this we may be greatly 
 aided by instruction. 
 
 He must be very ignorant of human nature, who does not 
 perceive that the seed of virtue in the mind of man, like that of 
 a tender plant in an unkindly soil, requires care and culture in 
 the first period of life, as well as our own exertion when we come 
 to maturity. J 
 
 C If the irregularities of passion and appetite be timely checked, 
 and good habits planted ; if we be excited by good examples, 
 and bad examples be shown in their proper colour ; if the atten- 
 
OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS. ggj 
 
 tion be prudently directed to the precepts of wisdom and virtue, 
 as the mind is capable of receiving them ; a man thus trained 
 will rarely be at a loss to distinguish good from ill in his own 
 conduct, without the labour of reasoning^ 
 
 II. [The bulk of mankind have but little of this culture in the 
 proper season ; and what they have is often unskilfully applied ; 
 by which means bad habits gather strength, and false notions of 
 pleasure, of honour, and of interest, occupy the mind.] They 
 give little attention to what is right and honest. Conscience is 
 seldom consulted, and so little exercised, that its decisions are 
 weak and wavering. Although, therefore, to a ripe understand- 
 ing, free from prejudice, and accustomed to judge of the morality 
 of actions, most truths in morals will appear self-evident, it does 
 not follow that moral instruction is unnecessary in the first part 
 of life, or that it may not be very profitable in its more advanced 
 period. 
 __JII. Necessity of instruction in morals shown from the evidence 
 of history. — The history of past ages shows that nations, highly 
 civilized and greatly enlightened in many arts and sciences, 
 may, for ages, not only hold the grossest absurdities with regard 
 to the Deity and his worship, but with regard to the duty we 
 owe to our fellow-men, particularly to children, to servants, to 
 strangers, to enemies, and to those who differ from us in religious 
 opinions. 
 
 Such corruptions in religion, and in morals, had spread so wide 
 among mankind, and were so confirmed by custom, as to require 
 a light from heaven to correct them. Revelation was not intended 
 to supersede, but to aid the use of our natural faculties ; and I 
 doubt not, but the attention given to moral truths, in such systems 
 as we have mentioned, has contributed much to correct the errors 
 and prejudices of former ages, and may continue to have the 
 same good effect in time to come. 
 
 IV. It needs not seem strange, that systems of morals may 
 swell to great magnitude, if we consider that, although the 
 general principles be few and simple, their application extends 
 to every part of human conduct, in every condition, every rela- 
 tion, and every transaction of life. [They are the rule of life to 
 the magistrate and to the subject, to the master and to the ser- 
 vant, to the parent and to the child, to the fellow-citizen and to 
 the alien, to the friend and to the enemy, to the buyer and to 
 the seller, to the borrower and to the lender. Every human 
 creature is subject to their authority in his actions and words, 
 and even in his thoughts.] They may, in this respect, be com- 
 pared to the laws of motion in the natural world, which, though 
 few and simple, serve to regulate an infinite variety of opera- 
 tions throughout the universe. 
 
 And as the beauty of the laws of motion is displayed in the 
 
322 ESSAY V. » CHAP. IL 
 
 most striking manner, when we trace them through all the variety 
 of their effects ; so the divine beauty and sanctity of the princi- 
 ples of morals, appear most august when we take a comprehen- 
 sive view of their application to every condition and relation, 
 : and to every transaction of human society. 
 
 This is, or ought to be, the design of systems of morals. They 
 may be made more or less extensive, having no limits fixed by 
 nature, but the wide circle of human transactions. When the 
 principles are applied to these in detail, the detail is pleasant 
 and profitable. It requires no profound reasoning, (excepting, 
 perhaps, in a few disputable points.) It admits of the most 
 agreeable illustration from examples and authorities ; it serves 
 to exercise, and thereby to strengthen moral judgment. And 
 one who has given much attention to the duty of man, in all 
 the various relations and circumstances of life, will probably be 
 more enlightened in his own duty, and more able to enlighten 
 others. 
 
 V. The first writers in morals, we are acquainted with, deli- 
 vered their moral instructions, not in systems, but in short 
 unconnected sentences, or aphorisms. They saw no need for 
 deductions of reasoning, because the truths they delivered could 
 not but be admitted by the candid and attentive. 
 
 Subsequent writers, to improve the way of treating this sub- 
 ject, gave method and arrangement to moral truths, by reducing 
 them under certain divisions and subdivisions, as parts of one 
 whole. By this means the whole is more easily comprehended 
 and remembered, and from this arrangement gets the name of a 
 system and of a science. 
 
 A system of morals is not like a system of geometry, where 
 the subsequent parts derive their evidence from the preceding, 
 and one chain of reasoning is carried on from the beginning ; so 
 that, if the arrangement is changed, the chain is broken, and the 
 evidence is lost. It resembles more a system of botany, or 
 mineralogy, where the subsequent parts depend not for their 
 evidence upon the preceding, and the arrangement is made to 
 facilitate apprehension and memory, and not to give evidence. 
 
 VI. [Morals have been methodized in different ways. The 
 ancients commonly arranged them under the four cardinal virtues 
 of prudence, temperance, fortitude, and justice. Christian 
 writers, I think more properly, under the three heads of the duty 
 we owe to God, to ourselves, and to our neighbour. One divi- 
 sion may be more comprehensive, or more natural, than another ; 
 but the truths arranged are the same, and their evidence the 
 same in all.] 
 
 I shall only further observe, with regard to systems of morals, 
 that they have been made more voluminous, and more intri- 
 cate, partly by mixing political questions with morals, which I 
 
OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. ggg 
 
 think improper, because they belong to a different science, and 
 are grounded on different principles ; partly by making what is 
 commonly, but I think improperly, called the " theory of 
 morals," a part of the system. 
 
 VII. By the theory of morals is meant a just account of the 
 structure of our moral powers ; that is, of those powers of the 
 mind by which we have our moral conceptions, and distinguish 
 right from wrong in human actions. This, indeed, is an intri- 
 cate subject, and there have been various theories and much 
 controversy about it in ancient and in modern times. But it 
 has little coimexion with the knowledge of our duty ; and those 
 who differ most in the theory of our moral powers, agree in the 
 practical rules of morals which they dictate. 
 
 As a man may be a good judge of colours, and of the other 
 visible qualities of objects, without any knowledge of the ana- 
 tomy of the eye, and of the theory of vision ; so a man may 
 have a very clear and comprehensive knowledge of what is right 
 and what is wrong in human conduct, who never studied the 
 structure of our moral powers. 
 
 A good ear in music may be much improved by attention and 
 practice in that art ; but very little by studying the anatomy of 
 the ear, and the theory of sound. In order to acquire a good 
 eye or a good ear in the arts that require them, the theory of 
 vision and the theory of sound are by no means necessary, and 
 indeed of very little use. Of as little necessity or use is what 
 we call the theory of morals, in order to improve our moral 
 judgment. 
 
 I mean not to depreciate this branch of knowledge. It is a 
 very important part of the philosophy of the human mind, and 
 ought to be considered as such, but not as any part of morals. 
 By the name we give to it, and by the custom of making it a 
 part of every system of morals, men may be led into this gross 
 mistake, which I wish to obviate, That in order to understand 
 his duty, a man must needs be a philosopher and a metaphysician. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. 
 
 I. Jurisprudence and morals closely related. — Systems of 
 natural jurisprudence, of the rights of peace and war, or of the 
 law of nature and nations, are a modern invention, which soon 
 acquired such reputation, as gave occasion to many public estab- 
 lishments for teaching it along with the other sciences. It has 
 so close a relation to morals, that it may answer the purpose of 
 a system of morals, and is commonly put in the place of it, as 
 
 y 2 
 
324 ESSAY V. CHAP. III. 
 
 far, at least, as concerns our duty to our fellow-men. They 
 differ in the name and form, but agree in substance. This will 
 appear from a slight attention to the nature of both. 
 
 [The direct intention of morals is to teach the duty of men : 
 that of natural jurisprudence, to teach the rights of men.] Right 
 and duty are things very different, and have even a kind of oppo- 
 sition ; yet they are so related, that the one cannot even be con- 
 ceived without the other ; and he that understands the one must 
 understand the other. 
 
 They have the same relation which credit has to debt. As all 
 credit supposes an equivalent debt ; so all right supposes a cor- 
 responding duty. There can be no credit in one party without 
 an equivalent debt in another party ; and there can be no right 
 in one party, without a corresponding duty in another party. 
 The sum of credit shows the sum of debt; and the sum of 
 men's rights shows, in like manner, the sum of their duty to one 
 another. 
 
 II. [The word right has a very different meaning, according as 
 it is applied to actions or to persons, A right action is an action 
 agreeable to our duty. But when we speak of the rights of men, 
 the word has a very different and a more artificial meaning. It 
 is a term of art in law, and signifies all that a man may lawfully 
 do, all that he may lawfully possess and use, and all that he may 
 lawfully claim of any other person.] 
 
 This comprehensive meaning of the word right, and of the 
 Latin word jus, which corresponds to it, though long adopted 
 into common language, is too artificial to be the birth of common 
 language. It is a term of art, contrived by civilians when the 
 civil law became a profession. 
 
 The whole end and object of law is to protect the subjects in 
 all that they may lawfully do, or possess, or demand. This 
 threefold object of law, civilians have comprehended under the 
 word jus or right, which they define, " Facultas aliquid agendi, 
 vel possidendi, vel ab alio consequendi :" a lawful claim to do any 
 thing, to possess any thing, or to demand some prestation from 
 some other person. The first of these may be called the right 
 of liberty, the second that of property, which is also called a 
 real right, the third is called personal right, because it respects 
 some particular person or persons of whom the prestation may 
 be demanded. 
 
 We can be at no loss to perceive the duties corresponding to 
 the several kinds of rights. What I have a right to do, it is the 
 duty of all men not to hinder me from doing. What is my 
 property or real right, no man ought to take from me ; or to 
 molest me in the use and enjoyment of it. And what I have a 
 right to demand of any man, it is his duty to perform. Between 
 the right, on the one hand, and the duty, on the other, there is 
 
OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. g£>5 
 
 not only a necessary connexion, but, in reality, they are only 
 different expressions of the same meaning ; just as it is the same 
 thing to say I am your debtor, and to say you are my creditor ; 
 or as it is the same thing to say I am your father, and to say you 
 are my son. 
 
 [Thus we see, that there is such a correspondence between the 
 rights of men and the duties of men, that the one points out the 
 other ; and a system of the one may be substituted for a system 
 of the other.] 
 
 III. [But here an objection occurs. It may be said, That 
 although every right implies a duty, yet every duty does not 
 imply a right.] Thus, it may be my duty to do a humane or 
 kind office to a man who has no claim of right to it ; and there- 
 fore a system of the rights of men, though it teach all the duties 
 of strict justice, yet it leaves out all the duties of charity and 
 humanity, without which the system of morals must be very 
 lame. 
 
 [In answer to this objection, it may be observed, That, as 
 there is a strict notion of justice, in which it is distinguished from 
 humanity and charity, so there is a more extensive signification 
 of it, in which it includes those virtues.] The ancient moralists, 
 both Greek and Roman, under the cardinal virtue of justice, 
 included beneficence ; and, in this extensive sense, it is often 
 used in common language. The like may be said of right, 
 which, in a sense not uncommon, is extended to every proper 
 claim of humanity and charity, as well as to the claims of strict 
 justice. But, as it is proper to distinguish these two kinds of 
 claims by different -names, writers in natural jurisprudence have 
 given the name of perfect rights to the claims of strict justice, 
 and that of imperfect rights to the claims of charity and 
 humanity. Thus, all the duties of humanity have imperfect 
 rights corresponding to them, as those of strict justice have per- 
 fect rights. 
 
 IV. [Another objection may be, That there is still a class of 
 duties to which no right, perfect or imperfect, corresponds.] 
 
 We are bound in duty to pay due respect, not only to what is 
 truly the right of another, but to what, through ignorance or 
 mistake, we believe to be his right. Thus, if my neighbour is 
 possessed of a horse which he stole, and to which he has no right ; 
 while I believe the horse to be really his, and am ignorant of the 
 theft, it is my duty to pay the same respect to this conceived 
 right as if it were real. Here, then, is a moral obligation on one 
 party, without any corresponding right on the other. 
 
 To supply this defect in the system of rights, so as to make 
 right and duty correspond in every instance, writers in jurispru- 
 dence have had recourse to something like what is called a fic- 
 tion of law. [They give the name of right to the claim which 
 
3^6 ESSAY V. CHAP. III. 
 
 even the thief hath to the goods he has stolen, while the theft is 
 unknown, and to all similar claims grounded on the ignorance or 
 mistake of the parties concerned. And to distinguish this kind 
 of right from genuine rights, perfect or imperfect, they call it an 
 external right.] 
 
 Thus it appears, That although a system of the perfect rights 
 of men, or the rights of strict justice, would be a lame substitute 
 for a system of human duty ; yet when we add to it the imper- 
 fect and the external rights, it comprehends the whole duty we 
 owe to our fellow-men. 
 
 But it may be asked, Why should men be taught their duty 
 in this indirect way, by reflection, as it were, from the rights of 
 other men ? 
 
 Perhaps it may be thought, that this indirect way may be 
 more agreeable to the pride of man, as we see that men of rank 
 like better to hear of obligations of honour than of obligations 
 of duty (although the dictates of true honour and of duty be the 
 same) for this reason, that honour puts a man in mind of what 
 he owes to himself, whereas duty is a more humiliating idea. 
 For a like reason, men may attend more willingly to their rights, 
 which put them in mind of their dignity, than to their duties, 
 which suggest their dependence. And we see that men may 
 give great attention to their rights who give but little to their 
 duty. 
 
 V . True origin of systems of natural jurisprudence. — What- 
 ever truth there may be in this, I believe better reasons can be 
 given why systems of natural jurisprudence have been contrived 
 and put in the place of systems of morals. 
 
 Systems of civil law were invented many ages before we had 
 any system of natural jurisprudence ; and the former seem to 
 have suggested the idea of the latter. 
 
 Such is the weakness of human understanding, that no large 
 body of knowledge can be easily apprehended and remembered, 
 unless it be arranged and methodized, that is, reduced into a 
 system. When the laws of the Roman people were multiplied 
 to a great degree, and the study of them became an honourable 
 and lucrative profession, it became necessary that they should be 
 methodized into a system. And the most natural and obvious 
 way of methodizing law was found to be according to the divi- 
 sions and subdivisions of men's rights, which it is the intention of 
 law to protect. 
 
 The study of law produced not only systems of law, but a 
 language proper for expressing them. Every art has. its terms 
 of art, for expressing the conceptions that belong to it ; and 
 the civilian must have terms for expressing accurately the divi- 
 sions and subdivisions of rights, and the various ways whereby 
 they may be acquired, transferred, or extinguished, in the vari- 
 
OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. gr>>7 
 
 ous transactions of civil society. He must have terms accurately 
 defined, for the various crimes by which men's rights are vio- 
 lated, not to speak of the terms which express the different 
 forms of actions at law, and the various steps of the procedure 
 of judicatories. 
 
 [Those who have been bred to any profession are very prone 
 to use the terms of their profession in speaking or writing on sub- 
 jects that have any analogy to it. And they may do so with 
 advantage, as terms of* art are commonly more precise in their 
 signification, and better defined, than the words of common lan- 
 guage.] To such persons it is also very natural to model and 
 arrange other subjects, as far as their nature admits, into a method 
 similar to that of the system which fills their minds. 
 
 It might, therefore, be expected, that a civilian, intending to 
 give a detailed system of morals, would use many of the terms 
 of civil law, and mould it, as far as it can be done, into the form 
 of a system of law, or of the rights of mankind. 
 
 The necessary and close relation of right to duty, which we 
 before observed, justified this : and moral duty had long been 
 considered as a law of nature ; a law, not wrote on tables of 
 stone or brass, but on the heart of man ; a law of greater anti- 
 quity and higher authority than the laws of particular states ; a 
 law which is binding upon all men of all nations, and therefore 
 is called by Cicero the law of nature and of nations. 
 
 VI. The idea of a system of this law was worthy of the genius 
 of the immortal Hugo Grotius, and he was the first who exe- 
 cuted it in such a manner, as to draw the attention of the learned 
 in all the European nations ; and to give occasion to several 
 princes and states to establish public professions for the teaching 
 of this law. 
 
 The multitude of commentators and annotators upon this work 
 of Grotius, and the public establishments to which it gave occa- 
 sion, are sufficient vouchers of its merit. 
 
 It is, indeed, a work so well designed, and so skilfully exe- 
 cuted ; so free from the scholastic jargon which infected the 
 learned at that time, so much addressed to the common sense and 
 moral judgment of mankind, and so agreeably illustrated by ex- 
 amples from ancient history, and authorities from the sentiments 
 of ancient authors, Heathen and Christian, that it must always 
 be esteemed as the capital work of a great genius upon a most 
 important subject. 
 
 VII. The utility of a just system of natural jurisprudence ap- 
 pears, 1. As it is a system of the moral duty we owe to men, 
 which, by the aid they have taken from the terms and divisions 
 of the civil law, has been given more in detail and more sys- 
 tematically by writers in natural jurisprudence than it was for- 
 merly. 2. As it is the best preparation for the study of law, 
 
328 ESSAY V. CHAP. III. 
 
 being, as it were, cast in the mould, and using and explaining 
 many of the terms of the civil law, on which the law of most of 
 the European nations is grounded. 3. It is of use to lawyers, 
 who ought to make their laws as agreeable as possible to the 
 laws of nature. And as laws made by men, like all human 
 works, must be imperfect, it points out the errors and imperfec- 
 tions of human laws. 4. To judges and interpreters of the law 
 it is of use, because that interpretation ought to be preferred 
 which is founded in the law of nature. «5. It is of use in civil 
 controversies between states, or between individuals who have no 
 common superior. In such controversies, the appeal must be 
 made to the law of nature ; and the standard systems of it, par- 
 ticularly that of Grotius, have great authority. And, 6. to say 
 no more upon this point, it is of great use to sovereigns and 
 states who are above all human laws, to be solemnly admonished 
 of the conduct they are bound to observe to their own subjects, 
 to the subjects of other states, and to one another, in peace and 
 in war. The better and the more generally the law of nature is 
 understood, the greater dishonour, in public estimation, will 
 follow every violation of it. 
 
 VIII. Some authors have imagined, that systems of natural 
 jurisprudence ought to be confined to the perfect rights of men, 
 because the duties which correspond to the imperfect rights, 
 the duties of charity and humanity, cannot be enforced by human 
 laws, but must be left to the judgment and conscience of men, 
 free from compulsion. But the systems which have had the 
 greatest applause of the public, have not followed this plan, and, 
 I conceive, for good reasons. First, because a system of perfect 
 rights could by no means serve the purpose of a system of morals, 
 which surely is an important purpose. Secondly, because, in 
 many cases, it is hardly possible to fix the precise limit between 
 justice and humanity, between perfect and imperfect right. Like 
 the colours in a prismatic image, they run into each other, so 
 that the best eye cannot fix the precise boundary between them. 
 Thirdly, as wise legislators and magistrates ought to have it as 
 their end to make the citizens good, as well as just, we find, in 
 all civilized nations, laws that are intended to encourage the 
 duties of humanity. Where human laws cannot enforce them 
 by punishments, they may encourage them by rewards. Of this 
 the wisest legislators have given examples ; and how far this 
 branch of legislation may be carried, no man can foresee. 
 
 The substance of the four following chapters was written long 
 ago, and read in a literary society, with a view to justify some 
 points of morals from metaphysical objections urged against them 
 in the writings of David Hume, Esq. If they answer that end, 
 and, at the same time, serve to illustrate the account I have 
 given of our moral powers, it is hoped that the reader will not 
 
OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. ggQ 
 
 think them improperly placed here ; and that he will forgive 
 some repetitions, and perhaps anachronisms, occasioned by their 
 being wrote at different times, and on different occasions. 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 WHETHER AN ACTION DESERVING MORAL APPROBATION, MUST BE DONE 
 WITH THE BELIEF OF ITS BEING MORALLY GOOD. 
 
 ■ I. There is no part of philosophy more subtile and intricate 
 than that which is called " the theory of morals." Nor is there 
 any more plain and level to the apprehension of man than the 
 practical part of morals. 
 
 In the former, the Epicurean, the Peripatetic and the Stoic, 
 had each his different system of old ; and almost every modern 
 author of reputation has a system of his own. At the same time, 
 there is no branch of human knowledge in which there is so 
 general an agreement among ancients and moderns, learned and 
 unlearned, as in the practical rules of morals. 
 
 From this discord in the theory, and harmony in the practical 
 part, we may judge, that the rules of morality stand upon another 
 and a firmer foundation than the theory. And of this it is easy 
 to perceive the reason. 
 
 For, in order to know what is right and what is wrong in 
 human conduct, we need only listen to the dictates of our con- 
 science, when the mind is calm and unruffled, or attend to the 
 judgment we form of others in like circumstances. But, to 
 judge of the various theories of morals, we must be able to ana- 
 lyze and dissect, as it were, the active powers of the human 
 mind, and especially to analyze accurately that conscience or 
 moral power by which we discern right from wrong. 
 
 ^i° The conscience may be compared to the eye in this, as in 
 many other respects. The learned and the unlearned see objects 
 with equal distinctness. The former have no title to dictate to 
 the latter, as far as the eye is judge, nor is there any disagree- 
 ment about such matters But, to dissect the eye, and to explain 
 the theory of vision, is a difficult point, wherein the most skilful 
 have differed. 
 
 From this remarkable disparity between our decisions in the 
 theory of morals and in the rules of morality, we may, I think, 
 draw this conclusion, that wherever we find any disagreement 
 between the practical rules of morality, which have been received 
 in all ages, and the principles of any of the theories advanced 
 upon this subject, the practical rules ought to be the standard by 
 
330 ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 
 
 which the theory is to be corrected, and that it is both unsafe 
 and unphilosophical to warp the practical rules, in order to make 
 them tally with a favourite theory. 
 
 II. The question to be considered in this chapter belongs to 
 the practical part of morals, and therefore is capable of a more 
 easy and more certain determination. And, if it be determined 
 in the affirmative, I conceive that it may serve as a touchstone to 
 try some celebrated theories which are inconsistent with that 
 determination, and which have led the theorists to oppose it by 
 very subtile metaphysical arguments. 
 
 Every question about what is or is not the proper object of 
 moral approbation, belongs to practical morals, and such is the 
 question now under consideration : whether actions deserving 
 moral approbation must be done with the belief of their being 
 morally good ? Or, whether an action, done without any regard 
 to duty or to the dictates of conscience, can be entitled to moral 
 approbation ? 
 
 In every action of a moral agent, his conscience is either alto- 
 gether silent, or it pronounces the action to be good, or bad, or 
 indifferent. This, I think, is a complete enumeration. If it be 
 perfectly silent, the action must be very trifling, or appear so. 
 For conscience, in those who have exercised it, is a very prag- 
 matical faculty, and meddles with every part of our conduct, 
 whether we desire its counsel or not. And what a man does in 
 perfect simplicity, without the least suspicion of its being bad, 
 his heart cannot condemn him for, nor will he that knows the 
 heart condemn him. If there was any previous culpable negli- 
 gence or inattention which led him to a wrong judgment, or 
 hindered his forming a right one, that I do not exculpate. I 
 only consider the action done, and the disposition with which it 
 was done, without its previous circumstances. And in this there 
 appears nothing that merits disapprobation. As little can it 
 merit any degree of moral approbation, because there was neither 
 good nor ill intended. And the same may be said when con- 
 science pronounces the action to be indifferent. 
 
 If, in the second place, I do what my conscience pronounces 
 to be bad or dubious, I am guilty to myself, and justly deserve 
 the disapprobation of others. Nor am I less guilty in this case, 
 though what I judged to be bad should happen to be good 
 or indifferent. I did it believing it to be bad, and this is an 
 immorality. 
 
 Lastly, if I do what my conscience pronounces to be right and 
 my duty, either I have some regard to duty, or I have none. 
 The last is not supposable ; for I believe there is no man so 
 abandoned, but that he does what he believes to be his duty, 
 with more assurance and alacrity upon that account. The more 
 weight the rectitude of the action has in determining me to do 
 
OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. ggj 
 
 it, the more I approve of my own conduct. And if my worldly 
 interest, my appetites or inclinations, draw me strongly the con- 
 trary way, my following the dictates of my conscience, in oppo- 
 sition to these motives, adds to the moral worth of the action. ) 
 
 When a man acts from an erroneous judgment, if his error he 
 invincible, all agree that he is inculpable : but if his error be 
 owing to some previous negligence or inattention, there seems to 
 be some difference among moralists. This difference, however, 
 is only seeming, and not real. For wherein lies the fault in this 
 case ? It must be granted by all, that the fault lies in this, and 
 solely in this, that he was not at due pains to have his judgment 
 well informed. Those moralists, therefore, who consider the 
 action and the previous conduct that led to it as one whole, find 
 something to blame in the whole ; and they do so most justly. 
 But those who take this whole to pieces, and consider what is 
 blameable and what is right in each part, find all that is blame- 
 able in what preceded this wrong judgment, and nothing but 
 what is appro vable in what followed it. 
 
 ggp" Let us suppose, for instance, that a man believes that God 
 has indispensably required him to observe a very rigorous fast in 
 Lent ; and that, from a regard to this supposed Divine command, 
 he fasts in such a manner as is not only a great mortification to 
 his appetite, but even hurtful to his health. 
 
 His superstitious opinion may be the effect of a culpable neg- 
 ligence, for which he can by no means be justified. Let him, 
 therefore, bear all the blame upon this account that he deserves. 
 But now, having this opinion fixed in his mind, shall he act 
 according to it or against it ? Surely we cannot hesitate a mo- 
 ment in this case. It is evident, that in following the light of 
 his judgment, he acts the part of a good and pious man ; whereas, 
 in acting contrary to his judgment, he would be guilty of wilful 
 disobedience to his Maker. 
 
 iiF If my servant, by mistaking my orders, does the contrary 
 of what I commanded, believing, at the same time, that he obeys 
 my orders, there may be some fault in his mistake, but to charge 
 him with the crime of disobedience, would be inhuman and 
 unjust. 
 
 These determinations appear to me to have intuitive evidence, 
 no less than that of mathematical axioms. A man who is come 
 to years of understanding, and who has exercised his faculties in 
 judging of right and wrong, sees their truth as he sees daylight. 
 Metaphysical arguments brought against them have the same 
 effect as when brought against the evidence of sense ; they may 
 puzzle and confound, but they do not convince. It appears 
 evident, therefore, that those actions only can truly be called 
 virtuous, or deserving of moral approbation, which the agent 
 
33^ ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 
 
 believed to be right, and to which he was influenced, more or 
 less, by that belief. 
 
 III. If it should be objected, [that this principle makes it to 
 be of no consequence to a man's morals, what his opinions may 
 be, providing he acts agreeably to them, the answer is easy.] 
 
 [Morality requires, not only that a man should act according 
 to his judgment, but that he should use the best means in his 
 power that his judgment be according to truth.] If he fail in 
 either of these points, he is worthy of blame ; but, if he fail in 
 neither, I see not wherein he can be blamed. 
 
 When a man must act, and has no longer time to deliberate, 
 he ought to act according to the light of his conscience, even 
 when he is in an error. But, when he has time to deliberate, 
 he ought surely to use all the means in his power to be rightly 
 informed. When he has done so, he may still be in an error ; 
 but it is an invincible error, and cannot justly be imputed to him 
 as a fault. 
 
 IV. A second objection is, that we immediately approve of 
 benevolence, gratitude, and other primary virtues, without in- 
 quiring whether they are practised from a persuasion that they 
 are our duty. And the laws of God place the sum of virtue in 
 loving God and our neighbour, without any provision that we do 
 it from a persuasion that we ought to do so.] 
 
 The answer to this objection is, [that the love of God, the 
 love of our neighbour, justice, gratitude, and other primary 
 virtues, are, by the constitution of human nature, necessarily 
 accompanied with a conviction of their being morally good. We 
 may therefore safely presume, that these things are never dis- 
 joined, and that every man who practises these virtues does it 
 with a good conscience.] In judging of men's conduct, we do 
 not suppose things which cannot happen, nor do the laws of God 
 give decisions upon impossible cases, as they must have done, if 
 they supposed the case of a man who thought it contrary to his 
 duty to love God or to love mankind. 
 
 But if we wish to know how the laws of God determine the 
 point in question, we ought to observe their decision with regard 
 to such actions as may appear good to one man and ill to another. 
 And here the decisions of Scripture are clear : Let every man be 
 persuaded in his own mind. He that doubteth is condemned if he 
 eat, because he eateth not of faith, for whatsoever is not of faith 
 is sin. To him that esteemeth any thing to be unclean, it is un- 
 clean. The Scripture often placeth the sum of virtue in living 
 in all good conscience, in acting so that our hearts condemn 
 us not. 
 
 V. The last objection I shall mention is a metaphysical one 
 urged by Mr. Hume. 
 
OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. ggg 
 
 It is a favourite point in his system of morals, that justice is 
 not a natural but an artificial virtue. To prove this, he has 
 exerted the whole strength of his reason and eloquence. And 
 as the principle we are considering stood in his way, he takes 
 pains to refute it. 
 
 " Suppose," says he, " a person to have lent me a sum of 
 money, on condition that it be restored in a few days. After 
 the expiration of the term he demands the sum. I ask, what 
 reason or motive have I to restore the money ? It will perhaps 
 be said, that my regard to justice, and abhorrence of villany and 
 knavery, are sufficient reasons for me." And this, he acknow- 
 ledges, would be a satisfactory answer to a man in a civilized 
 state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline and 
 education. " But in his rude and more natural condition," 
 says he, " if you are pleased to call such a condition natural, 
 this answer would be rejected as perfectly unintelligible and so- 
 phistical. 
 
 " For wherein consists this honesty and justice ? Not surely 
 in the external action. It must, therefore, consist in the mo- 
 tive from which the external act is derived. This motive can 
 never be a regard to the honesty of the action. For it is a plain 
 fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is requisite to render an 
 action honest, and, at the same time, that a regard to the ho- 
 nesty is the motive to the action. We can never have a regard 
 to the virtue of an action, unless the action be antecedently 
 virtuous." 
 
 And, in another place, " To suppose that the mere regard to 
 the virtue of the action is that which rendered it virtuous, is to 
 reason in a circle. 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 meta- 
 physical subtilty," &c— - Treatise of Human Nature, book iii. 
 part 2, sect. 1. 
 
 VI. / am not to consider at this time, how this reasoning is 
 applied to support the author's opinion, that justice is not a 
 natural but an artificial virtue. I consider it only as far as it 
 opposes the principle I have been endeavouring to establish, 
 " That, to render an action truly virtuous, the agent must have 
 some regard to its rectitude." And I conceive the whole force 
 of the reasoning amounts to this : 
 
 When we judge an action to be good or bad, it must have 
 been so in its own nature antecedent to that judgment, other- 
 wise the judgment is erroneous. If, therefore, the action be 
 good in its nature, the judgment of the agent cannot make it bad ; 
 nor can his judgment make it good, if, in its nature, it be bad. 
 For this would be to ascribe to our judgment a strange magical 
 
334 ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 
 
 power to transform the nature of things, and to say, that my 
 judging a thing to be what it is not, makes it really to be what 
 I erroneously judge it to be. This, I think, is the objection in 
 its full strength. And, in answer to it, 
 
 First, If we could not loose this metaphysical knot, I think 
 we might fairly and honestly cut it, because it fixes an absur- 
 dity upon the clearest and most indisputable principles of morals 
 and of common sense. For I appeal to any man whether there be 
 any principle of morality, or any principle of common sense, 
 more clear and indisputable than that which we just now quoted 
 from the Apostle Paul, that although a thing be not unclean in 
 itself, yet to him that esteemeth it to be unclean, to him it is 
 unclean. But the metaphysical argument makes this absurd. 
 For, says the metaphysician, if the thing was not unclean in it- 
 self, you judged wrong in esteeming it to be unclean ; and what 
 can be more absurd, than that your esteeming a thing to be 
 what it is not, should make it what you erroneously esteem it 
 to be? 
 
 Let us try the edge of this argument in another instance. No- 
 thing is more evident than that an action does not merit the 
 name of benevolent, unless it be done from a belief that it tends 
 to promote the good of our neighbour. But this is absurd, 
 says the metaphysician. For, if it be not a benevolent action in 
 itself, your belief of its tendency cannot change its nature. It is 
 absurd, that your erroneous belief should make the action to 
 be what you believe it be. Nothing is more evident, than that 
 a man who tells the truth, believing it to be a lie, is guilty 
 of falsehood ; but the metaphysician would make this to be 
 absurd. 
 
 In a word, if there be any strength in this argument, it would 
 follow, that a man might be, in the highest degree, virtuous, 
 without the least regard to virtue ; that he might be very bene- 
 volent, without ever intending to do a good office ; very mali- 
 cious, without ever intending any hurt ; very revengeful, without 
 ever intending to retaliate an injury ; very grateful, without 
 ever intending to return a benefit ; and a man of strict veracity, 
 with an intention to lie. We might, therefore, reject this rea- 
 soning, as repugnant to self-evident truths, though we were not 
 able to point out the fallacy of it. 
 
 2. But let us try, in the second place, whether the fallacy of 
 this argument may not be discovered. 
 
 We ascribe moral goodness to actions considered abstractly, 
 without any relation to the agent. We likewise ascribe moral 
 goodness to an agent on account of an action he has done ; we 
 call it a good action, though, in this case, the goodness is pro- 
 perly in the man, and is only by a figure ascribed to the action. 
 
OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. 335 
 
 Now, it is to be considered, whether moral goodness, when ap- 
 plied to an action considered abstractly, has the same meaning 
 as when we apply it to a man on account of that action ; or whe- 
 ther we do not unawares change the meaning of the word, accord- 
 ing as we apply it to the one or to the other. 
 
 [The action, considered abstractly, has neither understanding 
 nor will ; it is not accountable, nor can it be under any moral 
 obligation.] But all these things are essential to that moral good- 
 ness which belongs to a man : for if a man had not understanding 
 and will, he could have no moral goodness. Hence it follows 
 necessarily, that the moral goodness which we ascribe to an action 
 considered abstractly, and that which we ascribe to a person for 
 doing that action, are not the same. The meaning of the word 
 is changed when it is applied to these different subjects. 
 
 This will be more evident, when we consider what is meant 
 by the moral goodness which we ascribe to a man for doing an 
 action, and what by the goodness which belongs to the action 
 considered abstractly. A good action in a man is that in which 
 he applied his intellectual powers properly, in order to judge 
 what he ought to do, and acted according to his best judgment. 
 This is all that can be required of a moral agent ; and in this his 
 moral goodness, in any good action, consists. But is this the 
 goodness which we ascribe to an action considered abstractly ? 
 No, surely. For the action, considered abstractly, is neither 
 endowed with judgment nor with active power ; and, therefore, 
 can have none of that goodness which we ascribe to the man for 
 doing it. 
 
 But what do we mean by goodness in an action considered 
 abstractly ? To me it appears to lie in this, and in this only, 
 that it is an action which ought to be done by those who have 
 the power and opportunity, and the capacity of perceiving 
 their obligation to do it. I would gladly know of any man what 
 other moral goodness can be in an action considered abstractly. 
 And this goodness is inherent in its nature, and inseparable 
 from it. No opinion or judgment of an agent can in the least 
 alter its nature. 
 
 ggF Suppose the action to be that of relieving an innocent 
 person out of great distress. This surely has all the moral good- 
 ness that an action considered abstractly can have. Yet it is 
 evident, that an agent, in relieving a person in distress, may have 
 no moral goodness, may have great merit, or may have great de- 
 merit. t 
 
 Suppose, first, that mice cut the cords which bound the dis- 
 tressed person, and so bring him relief. Is there moral goodness 
 in this act of the mice ? 
 
 Suppose, secondly, that a man maliciously relieves the dis- 
 tressed person, in order to plunge him into greater distress. In 
 
336 ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 
 
 this action there is surely no moral goodness, but much malice 
 and inhumanity. 
 
 If, in the last place, we suppose a person, from real sympar 
 thy and humanity, to bring relief to the distressed person, with 
 considerable expense or danger to himself; here is an action 
 of real worth, which every heart approves and every tongue 
 praises. [But wherein lies the worth ? Not in the action con- 
 sidered by itself, which was common to all the three, but in the 
 man who, on this occasion, acted the part which became a good 
 j man. He did what his heart approved, and therefore he is ap- 
 ( proved by God and man.] 
 
 VII. Upon the whole, if we distinguish between that good- 
 ness which maybe ascribed to an action considered by itself, and 
 that goodness which we ascribe to a man when he puts it in exe- 
 cution, we shall find a key to this metaphysical lock. We ad- 
 mit that the goodness of an action, considered abstractly, can 
 have no dependence upon the opinion or belief of an agent, any 
 more than the truth of a proposition depends upon our believ- 
 ing it to be true. But when a man exerts his active power well, 
 or ill, there is a moral goodness or turpitude which we figur- 
 atively impute to the action, but which is truly and properly 
 imputable to the man only ; and this goodness or turpitude de- 
 pends very much upon the intention of the agent, and the opinion 
 he had of his action. 
 
 This distinction has been understood in all ages by those who 
 gave any attention to morals, though it has been variously ex- 
 pressed. The Greek moralists gave the name of kclOtjkov to an 
 action good in itself ; such an action might be done by the most 
 worthless. But an action done with a right intention, which 
 implies real worth in the agent, they called KaropOaifxa. The 
 distinction is explained by Cicero in his " Offices." He calls 
 the first officium medium, and the second officium perfectum, or 
 rectum. In the scholastic ages, an action good in itself was said 
 to be materially good, and an action done with a right intention 
 was called formally good. This last way of expressing the dis- 
 tinction is still familiar among theologians ; but Mr. Hume 
 seems not to have attended to it, or to have thought it to be 
 words withtfut any meaning. 
 
 Mr. Hume, in the section already quoted, tells us with great 
 assurance, " In short, it may be established as an undoubted 
 maxim, that no action can be virtuous or morally good, unless 
 there be in human nature some motive to produce it distinct 
 from the sense of its morality." And upon this maxim he founds 
 many of his reasonings on the subject of morals. 
 
 Whether it be consistent with Mr. Hume's own system, that 
 an action may be produced merely from the sense of its morality, 
 without any motive of agreeableness or utility, I shall not now 
 
OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. 337 
 
 inquire. But, if it be true, and I think it evident to every man 
 of common understanding, that a judge or an arbiter acts the 
 most virtuous part when his sentence is produced by no other 
 motive but a regard to justice and a good conscience, nay, when 
 all other motives distinct from this are on the other side : if 
 this, I say, be true, then that undoubted maxim of Mr. Hume 
 must be false, and all the conclusions built upon it must fall to 
 the ground. 
 
 VIII. From the principle I have endeavoured to establish, I 
 think some consequences may be drawn with regard to the theory 
 of morals. 
 
 First, If there be no virtue without the belief that what we 
 do is right, it follows, that a moral faculty, that is, a power of 
 discerning moral goodness and turpitude in human conduct, is 
 essential to every being capable of virtue or vice. A being who 
 has no more conception of moral goodness and baseness, of right 
 and wrong, than a blind man hath of colours, can have no regard 
 to it in his conduct, and therefore can neither be virtuous nor 
 vicious. 
 
 He may have qualities that are agreeable or disagreeable, 
 useful or hurtful, so may a plant or a machine. And we some- 
 times use the word virtue in such a latitude, as to signify any 
 agreeable or useful quality, as when we speak of the virtues of 
 plants. But we are now speaking of virtue- in the strict and 
 proper sense, as it signifies that quality in a man which is the 
 object of moral approbation. 
 
 This virtue a man could not have, if he had not a power of 
 discerning a right and a wrong in human conduct, and of being 
 influenced by that discernment. For in so far only he is vir- 
 tuous as he is guided in his conduct by that part of his constitu- 
 tion. Brutes do not appear to have any such power, and there- 
 fore are not moral or accountable agents. They are capable of 
 culture and discipline, but not of virtuous or criminal conduct. 
 Even human creatures, in infancy and non-age, are not moral 
 agents, because their moral faculty is not yet unfolded. These 
 sentiments are supported by the common sense of mankind, 
 which has always determined, that neither brutes nor infants 
 can be indicted for crimes. 
 
 IX. Conscience, or moral sense. — [It is of small consequence 
 what name we give to this moral power of the human mind ; but it 
 is so important a part of our constitutifh, as to deserve an appro- 
 priated name. The name of conscience, as it is the most com- 
 mon, seems to me as proper as any that has been given it. I 
 find no fault with the name moral sense, although I conceive 
 this name has given occasion to some mistakes concerning the 
 nature of our moral power.] Modern philosophers have con- 
 ceived of the external senses as having no other office but to 
 
 z 
 
3g£ ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 give us certain sensations, or simple conceptions, which we could 
 not have without them. And this notion has been applied to the 
 moral sense. But it seems to me a mistaken notion in both. 
 By the sense of seeing, I not only have the conception of the 
 different colours, but I perceive one body to be of this colour, 
 another of that. In like manner, by my moral sense, I not 
 only have the conceptions of right and wrong in conduct, but I 
 perceive this conduct to be right, that to be wrong, and that 
 indifferent. All our senses are judging faculties, so also is con- 
 science. Nor is this power only a judge of our own actions and 
 those of others, it is likewise a principle of action in all good 
 men ; and so far only can our conduct be denominated virtuous, 
 as it is influenced by this principle. 
 
 X. [A second consequence from the principle laid down in 
 
 this chapter is, That the formal nature and essence of that virtue 
 
 which is the object of moral approbation consists neither in a 
 
 prudent prosecution of our private interest, nor in benevolent 
 
 affections towards others, nor in qualities useful or agreeable to 
 
 ourselves or to others, nor in sympathizing with the passions 
 
 and affections of others, and in attuning our own conduct to the 
 
 / tone of other men's passions ; but it consists in living in all good 
 
 ) conscience, that is, in using the best means in our power to 
 
 ] know our duty, and acting accordingly.] 
 
 Prudence is a virtue, benevolence is a virtue, fortitude is a 
 virtue ; but the essence and formal nature of virtue must lie in 
 something that is common to all these, and to every other virtue. 
 And this I conceive can be nothing else but the rectitude of 
 such conduct, and turpitude of the contrary, which is discerned 
 by a good man. And so far only he is virtuous as he pursues 
 ^_the former, and avoids the latter.^ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHETHER JUSTICE BE A NATURAL OR AN ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE. 
 
 I. Hume consistent as a writer on morals. — Mr. Hume's phi- 
 losophy concerning morals was first presented to the world in 
 the third volume of his " Treatise of Human Nature," in the 
 year 1740; afterwards i#his " Enquiry concerning the Princi- 
 ples of Morals," which was first published by itself, and then in 
 several editions of his " Essays and Treatises." 
 
 In these two works on morals the system is the same. A more 
 popular arrangement, great embellishment, and the omission of 
 some metaphysical reasonings, have given a preference in the 
 public esteem to the last ; but I find neither any new principles 
 
of justice. 339 
 
 in it, nor any new arguments in support of the system common 
 to both. 
 
 In this system, the proper object of moral approbation is not 
 actions or any voluntary exertion, but qualities of mind ; that 
 is, natural affections or passions, which are involuntary, a part 
 of the constitution of the man, and common to us with many 
 brute animals, When we praise or blame any voluntary action, 
 it is only considered as a sign of the natural affection from which 
 it flows, and from which all its merit or demerit is derived. 
 
 Moral approbation or disapprobation is not an act of the 
 judgment, which, like all acts of judgment, must be true or 
 false, it is only a certain feeling, which, from the constitution of 
 human nature, arises upon contemplating certain characters or 
 qualities of mind coolly and impartially. 
 
 This feeling, when agreeable, is moral approbation ; when 
 disagreeable, disapprobation. The qualities of mind which pro- 
 duce this agreeable feeling are the moral virtues, and those that 
 produce the disagreeable, the vices. 
 
 II. These preliminaries being granted, the question about the 
 foundation of morals is reduced to a simple question of fact, viz. 
 [What are the qualities of mind which produce, in the disinter- 
 ested observer, the feeling of approbation, or the contrary feeling ?] 
 
 In answer to this question, the author endeavours to prove, 
 by a very copious induction, that all personal merit, all virtue, 
 all that is the object of moral approbation, consists in the qua- 
 lities of mind which are agreeable or useful to the person who 
 possesses them, or to others. 
 
 The dulce and the utile is the whole sum of merit in every 
 character, in every quality of mind, and in every action of life. 
 There is no room left for that honestum which Cicero thus defines, 
 " Honestum igitur id intelligimus, quod tale est, ut detracta 
 omni utilitate, sine ullis premiis fructibusve, per se ipsum possit 
 jure laudari." — " Moral worth is of such a character, that, setting 
 aside all idea of utility, without rewards or fruits of any kind, it 
 may justly be praised on its own account solely." 
 
 III. Hume agrees with the Epicureans in one respect. — [Among 
 the ancient moralists, the Epicureans were the only sect who 
 denied that there is any such thing as honestum, or moral worth, 
 distinct from pleasure. In this Mr. Hume's system agrees with 
 theirs. For the addition of utility to pleasure, as a foundation 
 of morals, makes only a verbal, but no real difference.] What 
 is useful only has no value in itself, but derives all its merit 
 from the end for which it is useful. That end, in this system, 
 is agreeableness or pleasure. So that, in both systems, pleasure 
 is the only end, the only thing that is good in itself, and desirable 
 for its own sake ; and virtue derives all its merit from its ten- 
 dency to produce pleasure. 
 
 z 2 
 
340 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 Agreeableness and utility are not moral conceptions, nor have 
 they any connexion with morality. What a man does, merely 
 because it is agreeable, or useful to procure what is agreeable, 
 is not virtue. Therefore the Epicurean system was justly thought 
 by Cicero, and the best moralists among the ancients, to subvert 
 morality, and to substitute another principle in its room ; and 
 this system is liable to the same censure. 
 
 IV. Disagrees in another. — [In one thing, however, it differs 
 remarkably from that of Epicurus. It allows, that there are 
 disinterested affections in human nature ; that the love of chil- 
 dren and relations, friendship, gratitude, compassion, and human- 
 ity, are not, as Epicurus maintained, different modifications of 
 self-love, but simple and original parts of the human constitu- 
 tion ; that when interest, or envy, or revenge, pervert not our 
 disposition, we are inclined, from natural philanthropy, to desire, 
 and to be pleased with the happiness of the human kind.] 
 
 All this, in opposition to the Epicurean system, Mr. Hume 
 maintains with great strength of reason and eloquence, and, in 
 this respect, his system is more liberal and disinterested than 
 that of the Greek philosopher. According to Epicurus, virtue 
 is whatever is agreeable to ourselves. According to Mr. Hume, 
 every quality of mind that is agreeable or useful to ourselves or 
 to others. 
 
 V. Effect of this doctrine. — [This theory of the nature of vir- 
 tue, it must be acknowledged, enlarges greatly the catalogue of 
 moral virtues, by bringing into that catalogue every quality of 
 mind that is useful or agreeable.] Nor does there appear any 
 good reason why the useful and agreeable qualities of body and 
 of fortune, as well as those of the mind, should not have a 
 place among moral virtues in this system. They have the essence 
 of virtue ; that is, agreeableness and utility, why then should 
 they not have the name ? 
 
 But, to compensate this addition to the moral virtues, one 
 class of them seems to be greatly degraded and deprived of all 
 intrinsic merit. The useful virtues, as was above observed, are 
 only ministering servants of the agreeable, and purveyors for 
 them ; they must, therefore, be so far inferior in dignity, as 
 hardly to deserve the same name. 
 
 VI. Natural and artificial virtues. — [Mr. Hume, however, 
 gives the name of virtue to both ; and to distinguish them, calls 
 the agreeable qualities natural virtues, and the useful artificial.'] 
 
 [The natural virtues are those natural affections of the human 
 constitution which give immediate pleasure in their exercise. 
 Such are all the benevolent affections.] Nature disposes to them, 
 and from their own nature they are agreeable, both when we 
 exercise them ourselves, and when we contemplate their exer- 
 cise in others. 
 
OF JUSTICE. 341 
 
 [The artificial virtues are such as are esteemed solely on 
 account of their utility, either (1) to promote the good of society, 
 as justice, fidelity, honour, veracity, allegiance, chastity ; or (2) 
 on account of their utility to the possessor, as industry, discre- 
 tion, frugality, secrecy, order, perseverance, forethought, judg- 
 ment, and others,] of which, he says, many pages could not con- 
 tain the catalogue. 
 
 This general view of Mr. Hume's system concerning the foun- 
 dation of morals, seemed necessary, in order to understand dis- 
 tinctly the meaning of that principle of his, which is to be the 
 subject of this chapter, and on which he has bestowed much 
 labour, to wit, " that justice is not a natural but an artificial 
 virtue." 
 
 VI T. [ This system of the foundation of virtue is so contradic- 
 tory in many of its essential points to the account we have before 
 given of the active powers of human nature, that, if the one be 
 true, the other must be false.] 
 £ If God has given to man a power which we call conscience, 
 the moral faculty, the sense of duty, by which, when he comes 
 to years of understanding, he perceives certain things that depend 
 on his will to be his duty, and other things to be base and un- 
 worthy ; if the notion of duty be a simple conception, of its own 
 kind, and of a different nature from the conceptions of utility 
 and agreeableness, of interest or reputation ; if this moral faculty 
 be the prerogative of man, and no vestige of it be found in brute 
 animals ; if it be given us by God to regulate all our animal 
 affections and passions ; if to be governed by it be the glory of 
 man and the image of God in his soul, and to disregard its dic- 
 tates be his dishonour and depravity : I say, if these things be 
 so, to seek the foundation of morality in the affections which we 
 have in common with the brutes, is to seek the living among the 
 dead, and to change the glory of man, and the image of God in 
 his soul, into the similitude of an ox that eateth grass. ) 
 
 If virtue and vice be a matter of choice, they must consist in 
 voluntary actions, or in fixed purposes of acting according to a 
 certain rule when there is opportunity, and not in qualities of 
 mind which are involuntary. 
 
 ( It is true, that every virtue is both agreeable and useful in the 
 highest degree ; and that every quality that is agreeable or use- 
 ful, has a merit upon that account. \ But virtue has a merit 
 peculiar to itself, a merit which does*' not arise from its being 
 useful or agreeable, but from its being virtue. This merit is 
 discerned by the same faculty by which we discern it to be 
 virtue, and by no other. 
 
 VIII. Esteem. — [We give the name of esteem both to the 
 regard we have/or things useful and agreeable, and to the regard 
 we have for virtue ; but these are different kinds of esteem.] I 
 
342 ESSAY V. , CHAP. V. 
 
 esteem a man for his ingenuity and learning. I esteem him for 
 his moral worth. The sound of esteem in both these speeches 
 is the same, but its meaning is very different. 
 ( Good breeding is a very amiable quality ; and even if I knew 
 that the man had no motive to it but its pleasure and utility to 
 himself and others, I should like it still, but I would not in that 
 case call it a moral virtue. \ 
 
 A dog has a tender concern for her puppies ; so has a man 
 for his children. The natural affection is the same in both, and 
 is amiable in both. But why do we impute moral virtue to the 
 man on account of this concern, and not to the dog? The 
 reason surely is, that, in the man, the natural affection is accom- 
 panied with a sense of duty, but, in the dog, it is not. The same 
 thing may be said of all the kind affections common to us with 
 the brutes. They are amiable qualities, but they are not moral 
 virtues. 
 
 IX. The merit of justice > according to Hume. — What has been 
 said relates to Mr. Hume's system in general. We are now to 
 consider his notion of the particular virtue of justice, that its 
 merit consists wholly in its utility to society. 
 
 That justiee'is highly useful and necessary in society, and on 
 that account, ought to be loved and esteemed by all that love 
 mankind, will readily be granted. And as justice is a social 
 virtue, it is true also that there could be no exercise of it, and 
 perhaps we should have no conception of it without society. 
 But this is equally true of the natural affections of benevolence, 
 gratitude, friendship, and compassion, which Mr. Hume makes 
 to be the natural virtues. 
 
 It may be granted to Mr. Hume, that men have no conception 
 of the virtue of justice till they have lived some time in society. 
 It is purely a moral conception, and our moral conceptions and 
 moral judgments are not born with us. They grow up by 
 degrees, as our reason does. Nor do I pretend to know how 
 early, or in what order, we acquire the conception of the several 
 virtues. The conception of justice supposes some exercise of 
 the moral faculty, which, being the noblest part of the human 
 constitution, and that to which all its other parts are subservient, 
 appears latest. 
 
 It may likewise be granted, that there is no animal affection 
 in human nature that prompts us immediately to acts of justice, 
 as such. We have natural affections of the animal kind, which 
 immediately prompt us to acts of kindness; but none, that I 
 know, that has the same relation to justice. The very concep- 
 tion of justice supposes a moral faculty ; but our natural kind 
 affections do not ; otherwise we must allow that brutes have this 
 faculty. 
 
 X. What I maintain is, first j That when men come to the 
 
of justice. 343 
 
 exercise of their moral faculty, they perceive a turpitude in 
 injustice, as they do in other crimes, and consequently an obli- 
 gation to justice, abstracting from the consideration of its utility. 
 And, secondly, That as soon as men have any rational conception 
 of a favour, and of an injury, they must have the conception of 
 justice, and perceive its obligation distinct from its utility. 
 
 The first of these points hardly admits of any other proof, but 
 an appeal to the sentiments of every honest man, and every man 
 of honour, whether his indignation is not immediately inflamed 
 against an atrocious act of villany, without the cool consideration 
 of its distant consequences upon the good of society ? 
 
 We might appeal even to robbers and pirates, Whether they 
 
 have not had great struggles with their conscience, when they 
 
 first resolved to break through all the rules of justice ? And 
 
 J whether, in a solitary and serious hour, they have not frequently 
 
 \ felt the pangs of guilt ? They have very often confessed this at 
 
 ^a time when all disguise is laid aside. 
 
 The common good of society, though a pleasing object to all 
 men, when presented to their view, hardly ever enters into the 
 thoughts of the far greatest part of mankind ; and if a regard to 
 it were the sole motive to justice, the number of honest men 
 must be small indeed. It would be confined to the higher ranks, 
 who, by their education, or by their office, are led to make the 
 public good an object; but that it is so confined, I believe no 
 man will venture to affirm. 
 
 The temptations to injustice are strongest in the lowest class 
 of men ; and if nature had provided no motive to oppose those 
 temptations but a sense of public good, there would not be found 
 an honest man in that class. 
 
 To all men that are not greatly corrupted, injustice, as well as 
 cruelty and ingratitude, is an object of disapprobation on its own 
 I account. There is a voice within us that proclaims it to be base, 
 unworthy, and deserving of punishment. 
 
 That there is, in all ingenuous natures, an antipathy to roguery 
 and treachery, a reluctance to the thoughts of villany and base- 
 ness, we have the testimony of Mr. Hume himself ; who, as I 
 doubt not but he felt it, has expressed it very strongly in the 
 conclusion to his " Enquiry," and acknowledged that, in some 
 cases, without this reluctance and antipathy to dishonesty, a 
 sensible knave would find no sufficient motive from public good 
 to be honest. 
 
 I shall give the passage at large from the "Enquiry concerning 
 the Principles of Morals," sec. 9, near the end. 
 
 " Treating vice with the greatest candour, and making it all 
 possible concessions, we must acknowledge that there is not, in 
 any instance, the smallest pretext for giving it the preference 
 above virtue, with a view to self-interest ; except, perhaps, in 
 
344 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 the case of justice, where a man, taking things in a certain light, 
 may often seem to be a loser by his integrity. And though it is 
 allowed that, without a regard to property, no society could sub- 
 sist ; yet, according to the imperfect way in which human affairs 
 are conducted, a sensible knave, in particular incidents, may 
 think, that an act of iniquity or infidelity will make a consider- 
 able addition to his fortune, without causing any considerable 
 breach in the social union and confederacy. That honesty is the 
 best policy, may be a good general rule, but it is liable to many 
 exceptions : and he, it may perhaps be thought, conducts him- 
 self with most wisdom who observes the general rule, and takes 
 advantage of all the exceptions. 
 
 " I must confess that, if a man think that this reasoning much 
 requires an answer, it will be a little difficult to find any which 
 will to him appear satisfactory and convincing. If his heart 
 rebel not against such pernicious maxims, if he feel no reluc- 
 tance to the thoughts of villany and baseness, he has indeed lost 
 a considerable motive to virtue, and we may expect that his 
 practice will be answerable to his speculation. But in all ingenu- 
 ous natures, the antipathy to treachery and roguery is too strong 
 to be counterbalanced by any views of profit or pecuniary advan- 
 tage. Inward peace of mind, consciousness of integrity, a satis- 
 factory review of our own conduct ; these are circumstances very 
 requisite to happiness, and will be cherished and cultivated by 
 every honest man who feels the importance of them." 
 
 The reasoning of the sensible knave in this passage, seems to 
 me to be justly founded upon the principles of the " Enquiry," 
 and of the " Treatise of Human Nature," and therefore it is no 
 wonder that the author should find it a little difficult to give 
 any answer which would appear satisfactory and convincing to 
 such a man. To counterbalance this reasoning, he puts in the 
 other scale a reluctance, an antipathy, a rebellion of the heart 
 against such pernicious maxims, which is felt by ingenuous 
 natures. 
 
 XI. [Let us consider a little the force of Mr. Hume's answer 
 to this sensible knave, who reasons upon his own principles.] I 
 think it is either an acknowledgment, that there is a natural 
 judgment of conscience in man, that injustice and treachery is a 
 base and unworthy practice, which is the point I would esta- 
 blish ; or it has no force to convince either the knave or an 
 honest man. 
 
 A clear and intuitive judgment, resulting from the constitution 
 of human nature, is sufficient to overbalance a train of subtile 
 reasoning on the other side. Thus, the testimony of our senses 
 is sufficient to overbalance all the subtile arguments brought 
 against their testimony. And, if there be a like testimony of 
 conscience in favour of honesty, all the subtile reasoning of the 
 
OF JUSTICE. 345 
 
 knave against it ought to be rejected without examination, as 
 fallacious and sophistical, because it concludes against a self- 
 evident principle ; just as we reject the subtile reasoning of the 
 metaphysician against the evidence of sense. 
 
 If, therefore, the reluctance, the antipathy, the rebellion of the 
 heart against injustice, which Mr. Hume sets against the reason- 
 ing of the knave, include in their meaning a natural intuitive 
 judgment of conscience, that injustice is base and unworthy, the 
 reasoning of the knave is convincingly answered ; but the prin- 
 ciple, That justice is an artificial virtue, approved solely for its 
 utility, is given up. 
 
 If, on the other hand, the antipathy, reluctance, and rebellion 
 of heart, imply no judgment, but barely an uneasy feeling, and 
 that not natural, but acquired and artificial, the answer is indeed 
 very agreeable to the principles of the " Enquiry," but has no 
 force to convince the knave or any other man. 
 
 The knave is here supposed by Mr. Hume to have no such 
 feelings, and therefore the answer does not touch his case in the 
 least, but leaves him in the full possession of his reasoning. And 
 ingenuous natures, who have these feelings, are left to deliberate 
 whether they will yield to acquired and artificial feelings, in 
 opposition to rules of conduct, which, to their best judgment, 
 appear wise and prudent. 
 
 XII, [The second thing I proposed to show was, That as soon 
 as men have any rational conception of & favour and of an injury, 
 they must have the conception of- justice, and perceive its obli- 
 gation.]* 
 
 The power with which the Author of nature hath endowed 
 us, may be employed either to do good to our fellow men, or to 
 hurt them. When we employ our power to promote the good 
 and happiness of others, this is a benefit or favour ; when we 
 employ it to hurt them, it is an injury. Justice fills up the 
 middle between these two. It is such a conduct as does no 
 injury to others ; but it does not imply the doing them any 
 favour. 
 
 The notions of a favour and of an injury, appear as early in 
 the mind of man as any rational notion whatever. They are 
 discovered not by language only, but by certain affections of 
 mind, of which they are the natural objects. A favour natu- 
 rally produces gratitude. An injury done to ourselves produces 
 resentment ; and even when done to another, it produces indig- 
 nation. 
 
 I take it for granted that gratitude and resentment are no less 
 natural to the human mind than hunger and thirst; and that 
 those affections are no less naturally excited by their proper 
 objects and occasions than these appetites. 
 * Vide p. 343, sect. 10. 
 
346 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 It is no less evident, that the proper and formal object of gra- 
 titude is a person who has done us a favour ; that of resentment, 
 a person who has done us an injury. 
 
 Before the use of reason, the distinction between a favour and 
 an agreeable office is not perceived. Every action of another 
 person which gives present pleasure produces love and good will 
 towards the agent. Every action that gives pain or uneasiness 
 produces resentment. This is common to man before the use of 
 reason, and to the more sagacious brutes ; and it shows no con- 
 ception of justice in either. 
 
 But as we grow up to the use of reason, the notion, both of a 
 favour and of an injury, grows more distinct and better denned. 
 It is not enough that a good office be done ; it must be done 
 from good-will, and with a good intention, otherwise it is no 
 favour, nor does it produce gratitude. 
 
 0gf I have heard of a physician who gave spiders in a medi- 
 cine to a dropsical patient, with an intention to poison him, and 
 that this medicine cured the patient, contrary to the intention of 
 the physician. Surely no gratitude, but resentment, was due 
 by the patient, when he knew the real state of the case. It is 
 evident to every man, that a benefit arising from the action of 
 another, either without or against his intention, is not a motive 
 to gratitude ; that is, is no favour. 
 
 Another thing implied in the nature of a favour is, that it be 
 not due. A man may save my credit by paying what he owes 
 me. In this case, what he does tends to my benefit, and perhaps 
 is done with that intention ; but it is not a favour, it is no more 
 than he was bound to do. 
 
 iSF If a servant do his work, and receive his wages, there is 
 no favour done on either part, nor any object of gratitude ; be- 
 cause, though each party has benefited the other, yet neither has 
 done more than he was bound to do. 
 
 What I infer from this is, That the conception of a favour in 
 every man come to years of understanding, implies the concep- 
 \ tion of things not due, and consequently the conception of things 
 that are due. 
 
 v A negative cannot be conceived by one who has no conception 
 of the correspondent positive. Not to be due is the negative of 
 being due ; and he who conceives one of them must conceive 
 both. The conception of things due and not due must there- 
 fore be found in every mind which has any rational conception 
 of a favour, or any rational sentiment of gratitude. 
 
 XIII. [If we consider, on the other hand, what an injury is 
 which is the object of the natural passion of resentment, every 
 man, capable of reflection, perceives, that an injury implies more 
 than being hurt.] If I be hurt by a stone falling out of the wall, 
 or by a flash of lightning, or by a convulsive and involuntary 
 
OF JUSTICE. 047 
 
 motion of another man's arm, no injury is done, no resentment 
 raised in a man that has reason. In this, as in all moral 
 actions, there must be the will and intention of the agent to do 
 the hurt. 
 
 Nor is this sufficient to constitute an injury. The man who 
 breaks my fences, or treads down my corn, when he cannot other- 
 wise preserve himself from destruction, who has no injurious 
 intention, and is willing to indemnify me for the hurt which 
 necessity, and not ill-will, led him to do, is not injurious, nor is 
 an object of resentment. 
 
 The executioner who does his duty, in cutting off the head of 
 a condemned criminal, is not an object of resentment. He does 
 nothing unjust, and therefore nothing injurious. 
 
 From this it is evident, that an injury, the object of the 
 natural passion of resentment, implies in it the notion of injus- 
 tice. And it is no less evident, that no man can have a notion 
 of injustice without having the notion of justice. 
 
 XIV. [To sum up what has been said upon this point : a favour, 
 an act of justice, and an injury, are so related to one another, 
 that he who conceives one must conceive the other two. They 
 lie, as it were, in one line, and resemble the relations of greater, 
 less and equal.] If one understands what is meant by one line 
 being greater or less than another, he can be at no loss to under- 
 stand what is meant by its being equal to the other ; for, if it 
 be neither greater nor less, it must be equal. 
 
 In like manner, of those actions by which we profit or hurt 
 other men, a favour is more than justice, an injury is less ; and 
 that which is neither a favour nor an injury is a just action. 
 
 As soon, therefore, as men come to have any proper notion of 
 a favour and of an injury ; as soon as they have any rational 
 exercise of gratitude and of resentment ; so soon they must have 
 the conception of justice and of injustice ; and if gratitude and 
 resentment be natural to man, which Mr. Hume allows, the 
 notion of justice must be no less natural. 
 
 The notion of justice carries inseparably along with it, a per- 
 ception of its moral obligation. For to say that such an action, 
 is an act of justice, that it is due, that it ought to be done, that 
 we are under a moral obligation to do it, are only different ways 
 of expressing the same thing. It is true, that we perceive no 
 high degree of moral worth in a merely just action, when it is 
 not opposed by interest or passion ; but we perceive a high 
 degree of turpitude and demerit in unjust actions, or in the 
 omission of what justice requires. 
 
 [Indeed, if there were no other argument to prove, that the 
 obligation of justice is not solely derived from its utility to pro- 
 cure what is agreeable either to ourselves or to society, this 
 would be sufficient, That the very conception of justice implies its. 
 
348 ESSAY V. CHAP. V, 
 
 obligation. The morality of justice is included in the very idea 
 of it :] nor is it possible that the conception of justice can enter 
 into the human mind, without carrying along with it the concep- 
 tion of duty and moral obligation. Its obligation, therefore, is 
 inseparable from its nature, and is not derived solely from its 
 utility, either to ourselves or to society. 
 
 XV. We may further observe, That as in all moral estimation, 
 every action takes its denomination from the motive that produces 
 it; so no action can properly be denominated an act of justice, 
 unless it be done from a regard to justice. 
 
 BUT If a man pays his debt, only that he may not be cast into 
 prison, he is not a just man, because prudence, and not justice, 
 is his motive. And if a man, from benevolence and charity, 
 gives to another what is really due to him, but what he believes 
 not to be due, this is not an act of justice in him, but of charity 
 or benevolence, because it is not done from a motive of justice. 
 These are self-evident truths ; nor is it less evident, that what a 
 man does, merely to procure something agreeable, either to him- 
 self or to others, is not an act of justice, nor has the merit of 
 justice. 
 
 Good music and good cookery have the merit of utility, in 
 procuring what is agreeable both to ourselves and to society, but 
 they never obtained among mankind the denomination of moral 
 virtues. Indeed, if this author's system be well founded, great 
 injustice has been done them on that account. 
 
 XVI. I shall now make some observations upon the reasoning 
 of this author, in proof of his favourite principle, That justice is 
 not a natural but an artificial virtue ; or, as it is expressed in 
 the " Enquiry," That public utility is the sole origin of justice, 
 and that reflections on the beneficial consequences of this virtue 
 are the sole foundation of its merit. 
 
 1. It must be acknowledged, that this principle has a necessary 
 connexion with his system concerning the foundation of all virtue; 
 and therefore it is no wonder that he hath taken so much pains 
 to support it ; for the whole system must stand or fall with it. 
 
 If the dulce and the utile, that is, pleasure, and what is useful 
 to procure pleasure, be the whole merit of virtue, justice can 
 have no merit beyond its utility to procure pleasure. If, on the 
 other hand, an intrinsic worth injustice, and demerit in injustice, 
 be discerned by every man that hath a conscience ; if there be a 
 natural principle in the constitution of man, by which justice is 
 approved, and injustice disapproved and condemned, then the., 
 whole of this laboured system must fall to the ground. 
 
 2. We may observe, That as justice is directly opposed to 
 injury, and as there are various ways in which a man may be 
 injured, so there must be various branches of justice opposed to 
 the different kinds oj injury. 
 
OF JUSTICE. o^q 
 
 XVII. Six brandies of justice. — A man may be injured, first, 
 in his person, by wounding, maiming or killing him ; secondly, 
 in his family, by robbing him of his children, or any way injur- 
 ing those he is bound to protect ; thirdly, in his liberty, by con- 
 finement ; fourthly, in his reputation ; fifthly, in his goods or 
 property; and, lastly, in the violation of contracts or engage- 
 ments made with him. This enumeration, whether complete or 
 not, is sufficient for the present purpose. 
 
 The different branches of justice, opposed to these different 
 kinds of injury, are commonly expressed by saying, that an 
 innocent man has a right to the safety of his person and family, 
 a right to his liberty and reputation, a right to his goods, and to 
 fidelity to engagements made with him. To say that he has a 
 right to these things, has precisely the same meaning as to say, 
 that justice requires that he should be permitted to enjoy them, 
 or that it is unjust to violate them. For injustice is the viola- 
 tion of right, and justice is, to yield to every man what is his 
 right. 
 
 XVIII. [These things being understood as the simplest and 
 most common ways of expressing the various branches of justice, 
 we are to consider how far Mr. Hume's reasoning proves any or 
 all of them to be artificial, or grounded solely upon public 
 utility.] The last of them, fidelity to engagements, is to be the 
 subject of the next chapter, and therefore I shall say nothing of 
 it in this. 
 
 The four first named, to wit, the right of an innocent man to 
 the safety of his (1) person and (2) family, to his (3) liberty and 
 (4) reputation, are, by the writers on jurisprudence, called natural 
 rights of man, because they are grounded in the nature of man as 
 a rational and moral agent, and are, by his Creator, committed to 
 his care and keeping. By being called natural or innate, they 
 are distinguished from acquired rights, which suppose some pre- 
 vious act or deed of man by which they are acquired, whereas 
 natural rights suppose nothing of this kind. 
 
 When a man's natural rights are violated, he perceives intui- 
 tively, and he feels, that he is injured. The feeling of his heart 
 arises from the judgment of his understanding ; for if he did not 
 believe that the hurt was intended, and unjustly intended, he would 
 not have that feeling. He perceives that injury is done to himself, 
 and that he has a right to redress. The natural principle of 
 resentment is roused by the view of its proper object, and excites 
 him to defend his right. Even the injurious person is conscious 
 of his doing injury ; he dreads a just retaliation ; and if it be 
 in the power of the injured person, he expects it as due and 
 deserved. 
 
 [That these sentiments spring up in the mind of man as 
 naturally as his body grows to its proper stature ; that they are 
 
350 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 not the birth of instruction, either of parents, priests, philoso- 
 phers or politicians, but the pure growth of nature, cannot, I 
 think, without effrontery, be denied.] We find them equally 
 strong in the most savage and in the most civilized tribes of man- 
 kind ; and nothing can weaken them but an inveterate habit of 
 rapine and bloodshed, which benumbs the conscience, and turns 
 men into wild beasts. 
 
 The public good is very properly considered by the judge 
 who punishes a private injury, but seldom enters into the thought 
 of the injured person. In all criminal law, the redress due to 
 the private sufferer is distinguished from that which is due to the 
 public ; a distinction which could have no foundation, if the 
 demerit of injustice arose solely from its hurting the public. And 
 every man is conscious of a specific difference between the resent- 
 ment he feels for an injury done to himself, and his indignation 
 against a wrong done to the public. 
 
 I think, therefore, it is evident, that, of the six branches of 
 justice we mentioned, four are natural, in the strictest sense, 
 being founded upon the constitution of man, and antecedent to 
 all deeds and conventions of society ; so that, if there were but 
 two men upon the earth, one might be unjust and injurious, and 
 the other injured. 
 
 XIX. But does Mr. Hume maintain the contrary ? 
 
 To this question I answer, That his doctrine seems to imply it, 
 but I hope he meant it not. 
 
 He affirms in general, that justice is not a natural virtue; that 
 it derives its origin solely from public utility, and that reflections 
 on the beneficial consequences of this virtue are the sole founda- 
 tion of its merit. He mentions no particular branch of justice 
 as an exception to this general rule ; yet justice, in common lan- 
 guage, and in all the writers on jurisprudence I am acquainted 
 with, comprehends the four branches above mentioned. His 
 doctrine, therefore, according to the common construction of 
 words, extends to these four, as well as to the two other branches 
 of justice. 
 
 On the other hand, if we attend to his long and laboured proof 
 of this doctrine, it appears evident, that he had in his eye only 
 two particular branches of justice. No part of his reasoning 
 applies to the other four. He seems, I know not why, to have 
 taken up a confined notion of justice, and to have restricted it 
 to a regard to property and fidelity and contracts. As to other 
 branches he is silent. He nowhere says, that it is not naturally 
 criminal to rob an innocent man of his life, of his children, of 
 his liberty, or of his reputation ; and I am apt to think he never 
 meant it. 
 
 XX. Mr. Hobbes' system. — [The only philosopher 1 know who 
 has had the assurance to maintain this, is Mr. Hobbes, who makes 
 
OF JUSTICE. g^j 
 
 the state of nature to be a state of ivar, of every man against 
 every man ; and of such a war in which every man has a right to 
 do and to acquire whatever his power can, by any means, accom- 
 plish ; that is, a state wherein neither right nor injury, justice 
 nor injustice, can possibly exist.] 
 
 Mr. Hume mentions this system of Hobbes, but without 
 adopting it, though he allows it the authority of Cicero in its 
 favour. 
 
 He says in a note, " This fiction of a state of nature as a state 
 of war was not first started by Mr. Hobbes, as is commonly ima- 
 gined. Plato endeavours to refute an hypothesis very like it, in 
 the second, third and fourth books, ' De Republica.' Cicero, 
 on the contrary, supposes it certain and universally acknowledged, 
 in the following passage, &c. : ' Pro Sextio,' 1. 42." 
 
 The passage, which he quotes at large, from one of Cicero's 
 " Orations," seems to me to require some straining to make it 
 tally with the system of Mr. Hobbes. Be this as it may, Mr. 
 Hume might have added, That Cicero, in his " Orations," like 
 many other pleader s, sometimes says, not what he believed, but 
 what was fit to support the cause of his client. That Cicero's 
 opinion, with regard to the natural obligation of justice, was 
 very different from that of Mr. Hobbes, and even from Mr. 
 Hume's, is very well known. 
 
 XXI. 3. As Mr. Hume, therefore, has said nothing to prove 
 the four branches of justice which relate to the innate rights of 
 men, to be artificial, or to derive their origin solely from public 
 utility, I proceed to the fifth branch, which requires us not to 
 invade another man's property. 
 
 The right of property is not innate, but acquired. It is not 
 grounded upon the constitution of man, but upon his actions. 
 Writers on jurisprudence have explained its origin in a manner 
 that may satisfy every man of common understanding. 
 
 The earth is given to men in common for the purposes of life, 
 by the bounty of Heaven. But, to divide it, and appropriate one 
 part of its produce to one, another part to another, must be the 
 work of men who have power and understanding given them, by 
 which every man may accommodate himself without hurt to any 
 other. 
 
 B^F This common right of every man to what the earth pro- 
 duces, before it be occupied and appropriated by others, was, by 
 ancient moralists, very properly compared to the right which 
 every citizen had to the public theatre, where every man that 
 came might occupy an empty seat, and thereby acquire a right 
 to it while the entertainment lasted ; but no man had a right to 
 dispossess another. 
 
 The earth is a great theatre, furnished by the Almighty, with 
 perfect wisdom and goodness, for the entertainment and employ- 
 
352 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 ment of all mankind. Here every man has a right to accommo- 
 date himself as a spectator, and to perform his part as an actor, 
 but without hurt to others. 
 
 Pie who does so is a just man, and thereby entitled to some 
 degree of moral approbation ; and he who not only does no hurt, 
 but employs his power to do good, is a good man, and is thereby 
 entitled to a higher degree of moral approbation. But he who 
 jostles and molests his neighbour, who deprives him of any 
 accommodation which his industry has provided without hurt to 
 others, is unjust, and a proper object of resentment. 
 
 It is true, therefore, that property has a beginning from the 
 actions of men, occupying, and perhaps improving, by their 
 industry, what was common by nature. It is true also, that 
 before property exists, that branch of justice and injustice which 
 regards property cannot exist. But it is also true, that where 
 there are men, there will very soon be property of one kind or 
 another, and consequently there will be that branch of justice 
 which attends property as its guardian. 
 
 XXII. There are two kinds of property which we may dis- 
 tinguish. 
 
 The first, is what must presently be consumed to sustain life ; 
 the second, which is more permanent, is what may be laid up 
 and stored for the supply of future wants. 
 
 Some of the gifts of nature must be used and consumed by 
 individuals for the daily support of life ; but they cannot be used 
 till they be occupied and appropriated. If another person may, 
 without injustice, rob me of what I have innocently occupied 
 for present subsistence, the necessary consequence must be, that 
 he may, without injustice, take away my life. 
 
 A right to life implies a right to the necessary means of life. 
 And that justice which forbids the taking away the life of an 
 innocent man, forbids no less the taking from him the necessary 
 means of life. He has the same right to defend the one as the 
 other ; and nature inspires him with the same just resentment 
 of the one injury as of the other. 
 
 The natural right of liberty implies a right to such innocent 
 labour as a man chooses, and to the fruit of that labour. To 
 hinder another man's innocent labour, or to deprive him of the 
 fruit of it, is an injustice of the same kind, and has the same 
 effect as to put him in fetters or in prison, and is equally a just 
 object of resentment. 
 
 Thus, it appears, that some kind, or some degree, of property 
 must exist wherever men exist, and that the right to such pro- 
 perty is the necessary consequence of the natural right of men to 
 life and liberty. 
 
 It has been further observed, that God has made man a saga- 
 cious and provident animal, led by his constitution not only to 
 
OF JUSTICE. g^g 
 
 occupy and use what nature has provided for the supply of his 
 present wants and necessities, but to foresee future wants, and to 
 provide for them ; and that not only for himself, but for his 
 family, his friends, and connexions. 
 
 He therefore acts in perfect conformity to his nature, when he 
 stores, of the fruit of his labour, what may afterwards be useful 
 to himself or to others ; when he invents and fabricates utensils 
 or machines by which his labour may be facilitated, and its pro- 
 duce increased ; and when, by exchanging with his fellow-men 
 commodities or labour, he accommodates both himself and them. 
 These are the natural and innocent exertions of that understand- 
 ing wherewith his Maker^has endowed him. He has therefore 
 a right to exercise them, and to enjoy the fruit of them. Every 
 man who impedes him in making such exertions, or deprives him 
 of the fruit of them, is injurious and unjust, and an object of 
 just resentment. 
 
 MF Many brute-animals are led by instinct to provide for 
 futurity, and to defend their store and their store-house against 
 all invaders. There seems to be in man, before the use of reason, 
 an instinct of the same kind. When reason and conscience grow 
 up, they approve and justify this provident care, and condemn, 
 as unjust, every invasion of others, that may frustrate it. 
 
 XXIII. [Two instances of this provident sagacity seem to 
 be peculiar to man. I mean (1) the invention of utensils and 
 machines for facilitating labour, and (2) the making exchanges 
 with his fellow-men for mutual benefit.] No tribe of men has 
 been found so rude as not to practise these things in some 
 degree. And I know no tribe of brutes that was ever observed 
 to practise them. They neither invent nor use utensils or ma- 
 chines, nor do they traffic by exchanges. 
 
 [From these observations, I think it evident, that man, even in 
 the state of nature, by his powers of body and mind, may acquire 
 permanent property, or what we call riches, by which his own 
 and his family's wants are more liberally supplied, and his power 
 enlarged to requite his benefactors, to relieve objects of compas- 
 sion, to make friends, and to defend his property against unjust 
 invaders.] And we know from history, that men, who had no 
 superior on earth, no connexion with any public beyond their 
 own family, have acquired property, and had distinct notions of 
 that justice and injustice, of which it is the object. 
 
 Every man, as a reasonable creature, has a right to gratify his 
 natural and innocent desires without hurt to others. No desire 
 is more natural, or more reasonable, than that of supplying 
 his wants. When this is done without hurt to any man, to 
 hinder or frustrate his innocent labour, is an unjust violation of 
 his natural liberty. Private utility leads a man to desire pro- 
 
 2 a 
 
354 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 perty, and to labour for it ; and his right to it is only a right to 
 labour for his own benefit. 
 
 XXIV. [That public utility is the sole origin, even of that 
 branch of justice which regards property, is so far from being 
 true, that when men confederate and constitute a public, under 
 laws and government, the right of each individual to his property 
 is, by that confederation, abridged and limited.'] In the state of 
 nature, every man's property was solely at his own disposal, 
 because he had no superior. In civil society, it must be subject 
 to the laws of the society. He gives up to the public part of 
 that right which he had in the state of nature, as the price of 
 that protection and security which he receives from civil society. 
 In the state of nature, he was sole judge in his own cause, and 
 had a right to defend his property, his liberty, and life, as far as 
 his power reached. In the state of civil society, he must submit 
 to the judgment of the society, and acquiesce in its sentence, 
 though he should conceive it to be unjust. 
 
 What was said above, of the natural right every man has to 
 acquire permanent property, and to dispose of it, must be under- 
 stood with this condition, that no other man be thereby deprived 
 of the necessary means of life. The right of an innocent man to 
 the necessaries of life, is, in its nature, superior to that which 
 the rich man has to his riches, even though they be honestly 
 acquired. The use of riches, or permanent property, is to sup- 
 ply future and casual wants, which ought to yield to present and 
 certain necessity. 
 
 1^° As, in a family, justice requires that the children who are 
 unable to labour, and those who, by sickness, are disabled, 
 should have their necessities supplied out of the common stock, 
 so, in the great family of God, of which all mankind are the 
 children, justice, I think, as well as charity, requires, that the 
 necessities of those who, by the providence of God, are disabled 
 from supplying themselves, should be supplied from what might 
 otherwise be stored for future wants. 
 
 From this it appears, that the right of acquiring and that of 
 disposing of property, may be subject to limitations and restric- 
 tions, even in the state of nature, and much more in the state of 
 civil society, in which the public has what writers in jurispru- 
 dence call an eminent dominion over the property, as well as over 
 the lives of the subjects, as far as the public good requires. 
 
 XXV. [If these principles be well founded, Mr. Hume's 
 arguments to prove that justice is an artificial virtue, or that its 
 public utility is the sole foundation of its merit, may be easily 
 answered.] 
 
 He supposes, first, a state in which nature has bestowed on 
 the human race such abundance of external goods, that every 
 
of justice. 355 
 
 man, without care or industry, finds himself provided of what- 
 ever he can wish or desire. It is evident, says he, that in such 
 a state, the cautious, jealous virtue of justice would never once 
 have been dreamed of. 
 
 It may be observed, first, that this argument applies only to 
 one of the six branches of justice before mentioned. The other 
 five are not in the least affected by it ; and the reader will easily 
 perceive that this observation applies to almost all his arguments, 
 so that it needs not be repeated. 
 
 Secondly, all that this argument proves is, that a state of the 
 human race may he conceived wherein no property exists, and 
 where, of consequence, there can be no exercise of that branch 
 of justice which respects property. But does it follow from 
 this, that where property exists, and must exist, that no regard 
 ought to be had to it ? 
 
 He next supposes that the necessities of the human race con- 
 tinuing the same as at present, the mind is so enlarged with 
 friendship and generosity, that every man feels as much tender- 
 ness and concern for the interest of every man, as for his own. 
 It seems evident, he says, that the use of justice would be sus- 
 pended by such an extensive benevolence, nor would the divi- 
 sions and barriers of property and obligation have ever been 
 thought of. 
 
 I answer, the conduct which this extensive benevolence leads 
 to, is either perfectly consistent with justice, or it is not. First, 
 if there be any case where this benevolence would lead us to do 
 injustice, the use of justice is not suspended. Its obligation is 
 superior to that of benevolence; and, to show benevolence to 
 one, at the expense of injustice to another, is immoral. Secondly, 
 supposing no such case could happen, the use of justice would 
 not be suspended, because by it we must distinguish good offices 
 to which we had a right, from those to which we had no right, 
 and which therefore require a return of gratitude. Thirdly, 
 supposing the use of justice to be suspended, as it must be in 
 every ease where it cannot be exercised, will it follow, that its 
 obligation is suspended, where there is access to exercise it ? 
 
 A third supposition is, the reverse of the first, that a societ} 7 
 falls into extreme want of the necessaries of life : the question is 
 put, whether, in such a case, an equal partition of bread, without 
 regard to private property, though effected by power, and even 
 by violence, would be regarded as criminal and injurious ? And 
 the author conceives, that this would be a suspension of the strict 
 laws of justice. 
 
 I answer, that such an equal partition as Mr. Hume mentions, 
 is so far from being criminal or injurious, that justice requires 
 it ; and surely that cannot be a suspension of the laws of justice, 
 which is an act of justice. [All that the strictest justice requires 
 
 2 A 2 
 
356 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 in such a case, is, that the man whose life is preserved at the 
 expense of another, and without his consent, should indemnify 
 him when he is able. His case is similar to that of a debtor who 
 is insolvent, without any fault on his part. Justice requires that 
 he should be forborn till he is able to pay.] It is strange that 
 Mr. Hume should think that an action, neither criminal nor 
 injurious, should be a suspension of the laws of justice. This 
 seems to me a contradiction, for justice and injury are contra- 
 dictory terms. 
 
 The next argument is thus expressed : " When any man, even 
 in political society, renders himself, by crimes, obnoxious to the 
 public, he is punished in his goods and person ; that is, the ordi- 
 nary rules of justice are, with regard to him, suspended for a 
 moment, and it becomes equitable to inflict on him, what other- 
 wise he could not suffer without wrong or injury." 
 
 This argument, like the former, refutes itself. For that an 
 action should be a suspension of the rules of justice, and at the 
 same time equitable, seems to me a contradiction. It is possible 
 that equity may interfere with the letter of human laws, because 
 all the cases that may fall under them cannot be foreseen ; but 
 that equity should interfere with justice is impossible. It is 
 strange that Mr. Hume should think, that justice requires that 
 a criminal should be treated in the same way as an innocent 
 man. 
 
 Another argument is taken from public war. What is it, says 
 he, but a suspension of justice among the warring parties ? The 
 laws of war, which then succeed to those of equity and justice, 
 are rules calculated for the advantage and utility of that parti- 
 cular state in which men are now placed. 
 
 I answer, when war is undertaken for self-defence, or for repa- 
 ration of intolerable injuries, justice authorises it. The laws of 
 war, which have been described by many judicious moralists, are 
 all drawn from the fountain of justice and equity; and every 
 thing contrary to justice, is contrary to the laws of war. That 
 justice, which prescribes one rule of conduct to a master, another 
 to a servant ; one to a parent, another to a child ; prescribes also 
 one rule of conduct towards a friend, another towards an enemy. 
 I do not understand what Mr. Hume means by the advantage 
 and utility of a state of war, for which he says the laws of war 
 are calculated, and succeed to those of justice and equity. I 
 know no laws of war that are not calculated for justice and 
 equity. 
 
 The next argument is this, Were there a species of creatures 
 intermingled with men, which, though rational, were possessed 
 of such inferior strength, both of body and mind, that they were 
 incapable of all resistance, and could never, upon the highest 
 provocation, make us feel the effects of their resentment ; the 
 
of justice. 357 
 
 necessary consequence, I think, is, that we should be bound, by 
 the laws of humanity, to give gentle usage to these creatures, but 
 should not, properly speaking, lie under any restraint of justice 
 with regard to them, nor could they possess any right or pro- 
 perty, exclusive of such arbitrary lords. 
 
 If Mr. Hume had not owned this sentiment as a consequence 
 of his " Theory of Morals," I should have thought it very un- 
 charitable to impute it to him. However, we may judge of the 
 Theory by its avowed consequence. For there cannot be better 
 evidence, that a theory of morals, or of any particular virtue, is 
 false, than when it subverts the practical rules of morals. [This 
 defenceless species of rational creatures is doomed by Mr. Hume 
 to have no rights. Why ? Because they have no power to defend 
 themselves. Is not this to say, that right has its origin from 
 power ; which, indeed, was the doctrine of Mr. Hobbes.] And 
 to illustrate this doctrine, Mr. Hume adds, that as no inconve- 
 nience ever results from the exercise of a power, so firmly estab- 
 lished in nature, the restraints of justice and property being 
 totally useless, could never have place in so unequal a confede- 
 racy ; and, to the same purpose, he says, that the female part of 
 our own species, owe the share they have in the rights of society, 
 to the power which their address and their charms give them. If 
 this be sound morals, Mr. Hume's " Theory of Justice" may 
 be true. 
 
 We may here observe, that though, in other places, Mr. Hume 
 founds the obligation of justice upon its utility to ourselves, or 
 to others, it is here founded solely upon utility to ourselves. For 
 surely to be treated with justice would be highly useful to the 
 defenceless species he here supposes to exist. But as no incon- 
 venience to ourselves can ever result from our treatment of them, 
 he concludes that justice would be useless, and therefore can 
 have no place. Mr. Hobbes could have said no more. 
 
 XXVI. This argument would prove all social virtues to be 
 artificial, as well as justice. — [He supposes, in the last place, a 
 state of human nature, wherein all society and intercourse is cut 
 off between man and man. It is evident, he says, that so soli- 
 tary a being would be as much incapable of justice as of social 
 discourse and conversation.] 
 
 And would not so solitary a being be as incapable of friend- 
 ship, generosity, and compassion, as of justice ? If this argu- 
 ment prove justice to be an artificial virtue, it will, with equal 
 force, prove every social virtue to be artificial. 
 
 These are the arguments which Mr. Hume has advanced in his 
 Enquiry, in the first part of a long section upon justice. 
 
 XXVII. In the second part, the arguments are not so clearly 
 distinguished, nor can they be easily collected. I shall offer 
 some remarks upon what seems most specious in this second part. 
 
358 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 
 
 He begins with observing, " That, if we examine the particu- 
 lar laws by which justice is directed and property determined, 
 they present us with the same conclusion. The good of man- 
 kind is the only object of all those laws and regulations." 
 
 It is not easy to perceive where the stress of this argument lies. 
 The good of mankind is the object of all the laws and regulations 
 by zvhich justice is directed and property determined ; therefore 
 justice is not a natural virtue, but has its origin solely from 
 public utility, and- its beneficial consequences are the sole foun- 
 dation of its merit. 
 
 Some step seems to be wanting to connect the antecedent pro- 
 position with the conclusion, which, I think, must be one or 
 other of these two propositions ; first, All the rules of justice 
 tend to public utility ; or, secondly, Public utility is the only 
 standard of justice, from which alone all its rules must be 
 deduced. 
 
 If the argument be, That justice must have its origin solely 
 from public utility, because all its rules tend to public utility, 
 I cannot admit the consequence ; nor can Mr. Hume admit it 
 without overturning his own system. For the rules of benevo- 
 lence and humanity do all tend to the public utility, and yet in 
 his system they have another foundation in human nature ; so 
 likewise may the rules of justice. 
 
 I am apt to think, therefore, that the argument is to be taken in 
 the last sense, That public utility is the only standard of justice, 
 from which all its rules must be deduced ; and therefore justice 
 has its origin solely from public utility. 
 
 This seems to be Mr. Hume's meaning, because, in what fol- 
 lows, he observes, That, in order to establish laws for the regu- 
 lation of property, we must be acquainted with the nature and 
 situation of man; must reject appearances which maybe false, 
 though specious ; and must search for those rules which are, on 
 the whole, most useful and beneficial ; and endeavours to show, 
 that the established rules which regard property are more for the 
 public good than the system, either of those religious fanatics 
 of the last age, who held that saints only should inherit the 
 earth ; or of those political fanatics who claimed an equal divi- 
 sion of property. 
 
 XXVIII. Obvious defect in Mr. Hume's reasoning as to the 
 standard of justice generally. — We see here, as before, that though 
 Mr. Hume's conclusion respects justice in general, his argument 
 is confined to one branch of justice, to wit, the right of property ; 
 and it is well known that to conclude from a part to the whole 
 is not good reasoning. 
 
 Besides, the proposition from which his conclusion is drawn 
 cannot be granted, either with regard to property, or with regard 
 to the other branches of justice. 
 
of justice. 359 
 
 [We endeavoured before to show that property, though not 
 an innate but an acquired right, may be acquired in the state 
 of nature, and agreeably to the laws of nature ; and that this 
 right has not its origin from human laws, made for the pub- 
 lic good, though, when men enter into political society, it may 
 and ought to be regulated by those laws.] 
 
 If there were but two men upon the face of the earth, of ripe 
 faculties, each might have his own property, and might know 
 his right to defend it, and his obligation not to invade the pro- 
 perty of the other. He would have no need to have recourse to 
 reasoning from public good, in order to know when he was in- 
 jured, either in his property, or in any of his natural rights, or 
 to know what rules of justice he ought to observe towards his 
 neighbour. 
 
 The' simple rule of not doing to his neighbour what he would 
 think wrong to be done to himself, would lead him to the know- 
 ledge of every branch of justice, without the consideration of 
 public good, or of laws and statutes made to promote it. 
 
 It is not true, therefore, that public utility is the only stand- 
 ard of justice, and that the rules of justice can be deduced only 
 from their public utility. 
 
 XXIX. Standard of justice among the ancients. — Aristides, 
 and the people of Athens, had surely another notion of justice, 
 when he pronounced the counsel of Themistocles, which was 
 communicated to him only, to be highly useful, but unjust; 
 and the assembly, upon this authority, rejected the proposal 
 unheard. These honest citizens, though subject to no laws but 
 of their own making, far from making utility the standard of 
 justice, made justice to be the standard of utility. 
 
 " What is a mans property ? Anything which it is lawful 
 for him, and for him alone, to use. But what rule have we by 
 which we can distinguish these objects ? Here we must have 
 recourse to statutes, customs, precedents, analogies, &c." 
 
 Does not this imply that, in the state of nature, there can be 
 no distinction of property ? If so, Mr. Hume's state of nature 
 is the same with that of Mr. Hobbes. 
 
 It is true, that when men become members of a political so- 
 ciety, they subject their property, as well as themselves, to the 
 laws, and must either acquiesce in what the laws determine, or 
 leave the society. But justice, and even that particular branch 
 of it which our author always supposes to be the whole, is ante- 
 cedent to political societies and to their laws ; and the intention 
 of these laws is, to be the guardians of justice, and to redress 
 injuries. 
 
 As all the works of men are imperfect, human laws may be 
 unjust; which could never be, if justice had its origin from law, 
 as the author seems here to insinuate. 
 
3(30 ESSAY V. CHAI\ V. 
 
 Justice requires that a member of a state should submit to 
 the laws of the state when they require nothing unjust or im- 
 pious. There may, therefore, be statutory rights and statutory 
 crimes. A statute may create a right which did not before 
 exist, or make that to be criminal which was not so before. But 
 this could never be, if there were not an antecedent obligation 
 upon the subject to obey the statutes. In like manner, the 
 command of a master may make that to be the servant's duty 
 which, before, was not his duty, and the servant may be charge- 
 able with injustice if he disobeys, because he was under an 
 antecedent obligation to obey his master in lawful things. 
 
 We grant, therefore, that particular laws may direct justice 
 and determine property, and sometimes even upon very slight 
 reasons and analogies, or even for no other reason but that it is 
 better that such a point should be determined by law than that 
 it should be left a dubious subject of contention. But this, far 
 from presenting us with the conclusion which the author would 
 establish, presents us with a contrary conclusion. For all these 
 particular laws and statutes derive their whole obligation and 
 force from a general rule of justice antecedent to them, to wit, 
 that subjects ought to obey the laws of their country. 
 
 XXX. The author compares the rules of justice with the 
 most frivolous superstitions, and can find no foundation for moral 
 sentiment in the one more than in the other, excepting that jus- 
 tice is requisite to the well-being and existence of society. 
 
 It is very true, that, if we examine mine and thine by the 
 senses of sight, smell, or touch, or scrutinize them by the sciences 
 of medicine, chemistry, or physics, we perceive no difference. 
 . But the reason is, that none of these senses or sciences are the 
 judges of right or wrong, or can give any conception of them, 
 any more than the ear of colour, or the eye of sound. Every 
 man of common understanding, and every savage, when he 
 applies his moral faculty to those objects, perceives a difference 
 as clearly as he perceives daylight. When that sense or faculty 
 is not consulted, in vain do we consult every other, in a question 
 of right and wrong. 
 
 To perceive that justice tends to the good of mankind, would 
 lay no moral obligation upon us to be just, unless we be con- 
 scious of a moral obligation to do what tends to the good of man- 
 kind. If such a moral obligation be admitted, why may we not 
 admit a stronger obligation to do injury to no man ? The last 
 obligation is as easily conceived as the first, and there is as clear 
 evidence of its existence in human nature. 
 
 XXXI. The last argument is a dilemma, and is thus ex- 
 pressed : "The dilemma seems obvious. As justice evidently 
 tends to promote public utility, and to support civil society, the 
 sentiment of justice is either derived from our reflecting on that 
 
OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. gQ\ 
 
 tendency, or, like hunger, thirst, and other appetites, resentment, 
 love of life, attachment to offspring, and other passions, arises 
 from a simple original instinct in the human breast, which nature 
 has implanted for like salutary purposes. If the latter be the 
 case, it follows, that property, which is the object of justice, is 
 also distinguished by a simple original instinct, and is not ascer- 
 tained by any argument or reflection. But who is there that 
 ever heard of such an instinct," &c. 
 
 I doubt not but Mr. Hume has heard of a principle called con- 
 science, which nature has implanted in the human breast. Whe- 
 ther he will call it a simple original instinct, I know not, as he 
 gives that name to all our appetites and to all our passions. 
 From this principle, I think, we derive the sentiment of justice. 
 
 iST As the eye not only gives us the conception of colours, 
 but makes us perceive one body to have one colour, and another 
 body another ; and as our reason not only gives us the concep- 
 tion of true and false, but makes us perceive one proposition to 
 be true and another to be false ; so our conscience, or moral 
 faculty, not only gives us the conception of honest and dishonest, 
 but makes us perceive one kind of conduct to be honest, another 
 to be dishonest. By this faculty we perceive a merit in honest 
 conduct, and a demerit in dishonest, without regard to public 
 utility. 
 
 That these sentiments are not the effect of education or of ac- 
 quired habits, we have the same reason to conclude, as that our 
 perception of what is true and what false, is not the effect of 
 education or of acquired habits. There have been men who 
 professed to believe, that there is no ground to assent to any one 
 proposition rather than its contrary ; but I never yet heard of a 
 man who had the effrontery to profess himself to be under no 
 obligation of honour or honesty, of truth or justice, in his deal- 
 ings with men. 
 
 Nor does this faculty of conscience require innate ideas of pro- 
 perty, and of the various ways of acquiring and transferring it, 
 or innate ideas of kings and senators, of pretors and chancellors, 
 and juries, any more than the faculty of seeing requires innate 
 ideas of colours, or than the faculty of reasoning requires innate 
 ideas of cones, cylinders, and spheres. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. 
 
 I. Promise and contract different. — The obligation of con- 
 tracts and promises is a matter so sacred, and of such consequence 
 to human society, that speculations which have a tendency to 
 
3(32 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 
 
 weaken that obligation, and to perplex men's notions on a sub- 
 ject so plain and so important, ought to meet with the disappro- 
 bation of all honest men. 
 
 Some such speculations, I think, we have in the third volume 
 of Mr. Hume's " Treatise of Human Nature," and in his " En- 
 quiry into the Principles of Morals ; " and my design in this 
 chapter is, to offer some observations on the nature of a contract 
 or promise, and on two passages of that author on this subject. 
 
 I am far from saying or thinking, that Mr. Hume meant to 
 weaken men's obligations to honesty and fair dealing, or that he 
 had not a sense of these obligations himself. It is not the man 
 I impeach, but his writings. Let us think of the first as cha- 
 ritably as we can, while we freely examine the import and ten- 
 dency of the last. 
 
 Although the nature of a contract and of a promise is perfectly 
 understood by all men of common understanding, yet, by atten- 
 tion to the operations of mind signified by these words, we shall 
 be better enabled to judge of the metaphysical subtleties which 
 have been raised about them. A promise and a contract differ 
 so little in what concerns the present disquisition, that the same 
 reasoning (as Mr. Hume justly observes) extends to both. [In 
 a promise, one party only comes under the obligation, the other 
 acquires a right to the prestation promised. But we give the 
 name of a contract to a transaction in which each party comes 
 under an obligation to the other, and each reciprocally acquires 
 a right to what is promised by the other.] 
 
 II. Definition of a contract. — The Latin word pactum seems to 
 extend to both ; and the definition given of it in the civil law, 
 and borrowed from Ulpian, is, " Duorum pluriumve in idem pla- 
 citum consensus." Titius, a modern civilian, has endeavoured to 
 make this definition more complete, by adding the words, " Obli- 
 gations licite constituendse vel tollendge causa datus." With this 
 addition, the definition is, That [a contract is the consent of two 
 or more persons in the same thing, given with the intention of 
 constituting or dissolving lawfully some obligation.] 
 
 This definition is perhaps as good as any other that can be 
 given ; yet, I believe, every man will acknowledge, that it gives 
 him no clearer or more distinct notion of a contract than he had 
 before. If it is considered as a strictly logical definition, I 
 believe some objections might be made to it ; but I forbear to 
 mention them, because I believe that similar objections might be 
 made to any definition of a contract that can be given. 
 
 Nor can it be inferred from this, that the notion of a contract 
 is not perfectly clear in every man come to years of understand- 
 ing. For this is common to many operations of the mind, that 
 although we understand them perfectly, and are in no danger of 
 confounding them with any tiling else; vel we cannot define 
 
OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. gQg 
 
 them according to the rules of logic, by a genus and a specific 
 difference. And when we attempt it, we rather darken than 
 give light to them. 
 
 Is there any thing more distinctly understood by all men, than 
 what it is to see, to hear, to remember, to judge ? Yet it is the 
 most difficult thing in the world to define these operations ac- 
 cording to the rules of logical definition. But it is not more 
 difficult than it is useless. 
 
 Sometimes philosophers attempt to define them ; but, if we 
 examine their definitions, we shall find, that they amount to no 
 more than giving one synonymous word for another, and com- 
 monly a worse for a better. So when we define a contract, by 
 calling it a consent, a convention, an agreement, what is this but 
 giving a synonymous word for it, and a word that is neither more 
 expressive nor better understood ? 
 
 gSF One boy has a top, another a scourge ; says the first to 
 the other, " If you will lend me your scourge as long as I can 
 keep up my top with it, you shall next have the top as long as 
 you can keep it up." " Agreed," says the other. This is a con- 
 tract perfectly understood by both parties, though they never 
 heard of the definition given by Ulpian or by Titius. And each 
 of them knows, that he is injured if the other breaks the bar- 
 gain, and that he does wrong if he breaks it himself. 
 
 III. [The operations of the human mind may be divided into 
 two classes, the solitary and the social. As promises and con- 
 tracts belong to the last class, it may be proper to explain 
 this division.]* 
 
 I call those operations solitary, which may be performed by a 
 man in solitude, without intercourse with any other intelligent 
 being. 
 
 I call those operations social, which necessarily imply social 
 intercourse with some other intelligent being who bears a part in 
 them. 
 
 A man may see, and hear, and remember, and judge, and rea- 
 son ; he may deliberate and form purposes, and execute them, 
 without the intervention of any other intelligent being. They 
 are solitary acts. But when he asks a question for information, 
 when he testifies a fact, when he gives a command to his servant, 
 when he makes a promise, or enters into a contract, these are 
 social acts of mind, and can have no existence without the inter- 
 vention of some other intelligent being, who acts a part in them. 
 Between the operations of the mind which, for want of a more 
 proper name, I have called solitary, and those I have called social, 
 there is this very remarkable distinction, that, in the solitary, 
 the expression of them by words, or any other sensible sign, is 
 
 * Vide " Essays on the Intellectual Powers," Essay I. chap, viii., where 
 the arguments used in this section are given more at length. 
 
3(34 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 
 
 accidental. They may exist, and be complete, without being 
 expressed, without being known to any other person. But, in 
 the social operations, the expression is essential. They cannot 
 exist without being expressed by words or signs, and known to 
 the other party. 
 
 If nature had not made man capable of such social operations 
 of mind, and furnished him with a language to express them, he 
 might think, and reason, and deliberate, and will ; he might have 
 desires and aversions, joy and sorrow ; in a word, he might exert 
 all those operations of mind which the writers in logic and pneu- 
 matology have so copiously described ; but, at the same time, 
 he would still be a solitary being, even when in a crowd ; it w T ould 
 be impossible for him to put a question, or give a command, to 
 ask a favour, or testify a fact, to make a promise or a bargain. 
 
 I take it to be the common opinion of philosophers, that the 
 social operations of the human mind are not specifically different 
 from the solitary, and that they are only various modifications 
 or compositions of our solitary operations, and may be resolved 
 into them. 
 
 It is for this reason, probably, that, in enumerating the opera- 
 tions of the mind, the solitary only are mentioned, and no notice 
 at all taken of the social, though they are familiar to every man, 
 and have names in all languages. 
 
 I apprehend, however, it will be found extremely difficult, if 
 not impossible, to resolve our social operations into any modifi- 
 cation or composition of the solitary : and that an attempt to do 
 this w T ould prove as ineffectual as the attempts that have been 
 made to resolve all our social affections into the selfish. The 
 social operations appear to be as simple in their nature as the 
 solitary. They are found in every individual of the species, 
 even before the use of reason. 
 
 The power which man has of holding social intercourse with 
 his kind, by asking and refusing, threatening and supplicating, 
 commanding and obeying, testifying and promising, must either 
 be a distinct faculty given by our Maker, and a part of our con- 
 stitution, like the powers of seeing, and hearing, or it must be a 
 human invention. If men have invented this art of social inter- 
 course, it must follow, that every individual of the species must 
 have invented it for himself. It cannot be taught, for though 
 when once carried to a certain pitch, it may be improved by 
 teaching ; yet it is impossible it can begin in that way, because 
 all teaching supposes a social intercourse and language already 
 established between the teacher and the learner. This inter- 
 course must, from the very first, be carried on by sensible signs ; 
 for the thoughts of other men can be discovered in no other way. 
 I think it is likewise evident, that this intercourse, in its begin- 
 ning, at least, must be carried on by natural signs, whose mean- 
 
OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. 3(35 
 
 ing is understood by both parties, previous to all compact or 
 agreement. For there can be no compact without signs, nor 
 without social intercourse. 
 
 I apprehend, therefore, that the social intercourse of mankind, 
 consisting of those social operations which I have mentioned, is 
 the exercise of a faculty appropriated to that purpose, which is 
 the gift of God, no less than the powers of seeing and hearing. 
 And that, in order to carry on this intercourse, God has given 
 to man a natural language, by which his social operations are 
 expressed, and, without which, the artificial languages of articu- 
 late sounds, and of writing, could never have been invented by 
 human art. 
 
 The signs in this natural language are looks, changes of the 
 features, modulations of the voice, and gestures of the body. 
 All men understand this language without instruction, and all 
 men can use it in some degree. But they are most expert in 
 it who use it most. It makes a great part of the language of 
 savages, and therefore they are more expert in the use of natural 
 signs than the civilized. 
 
 @§F The language of dumb persons is mostly formed of natural 
 signs ; and they are all great adepts in this language of nature. 
 All that we call action and pronunciation, in the most perfect 
 orator, and the most admired actor, is nothing else but super- 
 adding the language of nature to the language of articulate 
 sounds. The pantomimes among the Romans carried it to the 
 highest pitch of perfection. For they could act part of comedies 
 and tragedies in dumb-show, so as to be understood, not only by 
 those who were accustomed to this entertainment, but by all the 
 strangers that came to Rome, from all the corners of the earth. 
 
 For it may be observed of this natural language, (and no- 
 thing more clearly demonstrates it to be a part of the human 
 constitution,) that although it require practice and study to 
 enable a man to express his sentiments by it in the most perfect 
 manner ; yet it requires neither study nor practice in the spec- 
 tator to understand it. The knowledge of it was before latent 
 in the mind, and we no sooner see it, than we immediately recog- 
 nise it, as we do an acquaintance whom we had long forgot, and 
 could not have described ; but no sooner do we see him, than we 
 know for certain that he is the very man. 
 
 This knowledge, in all mankind, of the natural signs of men's 
 thoughts and sentiments, is indeed so like to reminiscence, that 
 it seems to have led Plato to conceive all human knowledge to 
 be of that kind. 
 
 It is not by reasoning, that all mankind know, that an open 
 countenance, and a placid eye, is a sign of amity ; that a con- 
 tracted brow, and a fierce look, is the sign of anger. It is not 
 from reason that we learn to know the natural signs of consent- 
 
366 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 
 
 ing and refusing, of affirming and denying, of threatening and 
 supplicating. 
 
 No man can perceive any necessary connexion between the 
 signs of such operations, and the things signified by them. But 
 we are so formed by the Author of our nature, that the ope- 
 rations themselves become visible, as it were, by their natural 
 signs. This knowledge resembles reminiscence, in this respect, 
 that it is immediate. We form the conclusion with great assur- 
 ance, without knowing any premises from which it may be drawn 
 by reasoning. 
 
 [It would lead us too far from the intention of the present 
 inquiry, to consider more particularly, in what degree the social 
 intercourse is natural, and a part of our constitution ; how far 
 it is of human invention.] 
 
 It is sufficient to observe, that this intercourse of human 
 minds, by which their thoughts and sentiments are exchanged, 
 and their souls mingle together as it were, is common to the 
 whole species from infancy. 
 
 Like our other powers, its first beginnings are weak, and 
 scarcely perceptible. But it is a certain fact, that we can per- 
 ceive some communication of sentiments between the nurse and 
 her nursling, before it is a month old. And I doubt not, but 
 that, if both had grown out of the earth, and had never seen 
 another human face, they would be able in a few years to con- 
 verse together. 
 
 There appears indeed to be some degree of social intercourse 
 among brute-animals, and between some of them and man. A 
 dog exults in the caresses of his master, and is humbled at his 
 displeasure. [But there are two operations of the social kind, 
 of which the brute-animals seem to be altogether incapable. 
 They can neither plight their veracity by testimony, nor their 
 fidelity by any engagement or promise.] If nature had made 
 them capable of these operations, they would have had a lan- 
 guage to express them by, as man has : but of this we see no 
 appearance. 
 
 A fox is said to use stratagems, but he cannot lie ; because he 
 cannot give his testimony, or plight his veracity. A dog is said 
 to be faithful to his master ; but no more is meant but that he 
 is affectionate, for he never came under any engagement. I see 
 no evidence that any brute-animal is capable of either giving 
 testimony, or making a promise. 
 
 A dumb man cannot speak any more than a fox or a dog ; but 
 he can give his testimony by signs as early in life as other men 
 can do by words. He knows what a lie is as early as other men, 
 and hates it as much. He can plight his faith, and is sensible of 
 the obligation of a promise or contract.* 
 
 [It is, therefore, a prerogative of man, that he can communi- 
 
OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. gQ^ 
 
 cate his knowledge of facts by testimony, and enter into engage- 
 ments by promise or contract.] God has given him these powers 
 by a part of his constitution, which distinguishes him from 
 all brute-animals. And whether they are original powers, or 
 resolvable into other original powers, it is evident that they 
 spring up in the human mind at an early period of life, and 
 are found in every individual of the species, whether savage or 
 civilized. 
 
 IV. These prerogative powers of man, like all his other 
 powers, must be given for some end, and for a good end. And if we 
 consider a little farther the economy of nature, in relation to this 
 part of the human constitution, we shall perceive the wisdom of 
 nature in the structure of it, and discover clearly our duty in 
 consequence of it. 
 
 It is evident, in the first place, that if no credit was given to 
 testimony, if there w r as no reliance upon promises, they would 
 answer no end at all, not even that of deceiving. 
 
 Secondly, supposing men disposed by some principle in their 
 nature to rely on declarations and promises ; yet if men found 
 in experience, that there was no fidelity on the other part in 
 making and in keeping them, no man of common understanding 
 would trust to them, and so they would become useless. 
 
 Hence it appears, thirdly, that this power of giving testimony, 
 and of promising, can answer no end in society, unless there be 
 a considerable degree, both of fidelity on the one part, and of 
 trust on the other. These two must stand or fall together, and 
 one of them cannot possibly subsist without the other. 
 
 Fourthly, it may be observed, that fidelity in declarations and 
 promises, and its counter-part, trust and reliance upon them, 
 form a system of social intercourse, the most amiable, the most 
 useful, that can be among men. Without fidelity and trust, 
 there can be no human society. There never was a society, even 
 of savages, nay, even of robbers or pirates, in which there was 
 not a great degree of veracity and of fidelity among themselves. 
 Without it man would be the most dissocial animal that God has 
 made. His state would be in reality what Hobbes conceived the 
 state of nature to be, a state of war of every man against every 
 man ; nor could this war ever terminate in peace. 
 
 It may be observed, in the fifth place, that man is evidently 
 made for living in society. His social affections show this as 
 evidently as that the eye was made for seeing. His social ope- 
 rations, particularly those of testifying and promising, make it 
 no less evident. 
 
 V. Contracts and promises have a foundation in nature. — 
 [From these observations it follows, that if no provision were 
 made by nature, to engage men to fidelity in declarations and 
 promises, human nature would be a contradiction to itself, made 
 
3Qg ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 
 
 for an end, yet without the necessary means of attaining it.] As 
 if the species had been furnished with good eyes, but without 
 the power of opening their eye-lids. There are no blunders 
 of this kind in the works of God. Wherever there is an end 
 intended, the means are admirably fitted for the attainment of 
 it ; and so we find it to be in the case before us. 
 
 For we see that children, as soon as they are capable of under- 
 standing declarations and promises, are led by their constitution 
 to rely upon them. They are no less led by constitution to 
 veracity and candour, on their own part. Nor do they ever 
 deviate from this road of truth and sincerity, until corrupted by 
 bad example and bad company. This disposition to sincerity 
 in themselves, and to give credit to others, whether we call it 
 instinct, or whatever name we give it, must be considered as the 
 effect of their constitution. 
 
 [So that the things essential to human society, I mean good 
 faith on the one part, and trust on the other, are formed by 
 nature in the minds of children, before they are capable of know- 
 ing their utility, or being influenced by considerations either of 
 duty or interest.] 
 
 When we grow up so far as to have the conception of a right 
 and a wrong in conduct, the turpitude of lying, falsehood, and 
 dishonesty, is discerned, not by any train of reasoning, but by 
 an immediate perception. For we see that every man disapproves 
 it in others, even those who are conscious of it in themselves. 
 
 Every man thinks himself injured and ill used, and feels re- 
 sentment when he is imposed upon by it. Every man takes it 
 as a reproach when falsehood is imputed to him. These are the 
 clearest evidences that all men disapprove of falsehood, when 
 their judgment is not biassed. 
 
 I know of no evidence that has been given of any nation so 
 rude as not to have these sentiments. It is certain that dumb 
 people have them, and discover them about the same period of 
 life in which they appear in those who speak. And it may rea- 
 sonably be thought that dumb persons, at that time of life, have 
 had as little advantage, with regard to morals, from their educa- 
 tion, as the greatest savages. 
 
 Every man come to years of reflection, when he pledges his 
 veracity or fidelity, thinks he has a right to be credited, and is 
 affronted if he is not. But there cannot be a shadow of right to 
 be credited, unless there be an obligation to good faith. For 
 right on one hand, necessarily implies obligation on the other. 
 
 When we see that in the most savage state that ever was 
 known of the human race, men have always lived in societies 
 greater or less, this of itself is a proof from fact, that they have 
 had that sense of their obligation to fidelity, without which no 
 human society can subsist. 
 
OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. 3Q9 
 
 From these observations, I think, it appears very evident, that 
 as fidelity on one part, and trust on the other, are essential to 
 that intercourse of men, which we call human society ; so the 
 Author of our nature has made wise provision for perpetuating 
 them among men, in that degree that is necessary to human 
 society in all the different periods of human life, and in all the 
 stages of human improvement and degeneracy. 
 
 In early years we have an innate disposition to them. In riper 
 years we feel our obligation to fidelity as much as to any moral 
 duty whatsoever. 
 
 VI. [Nor is it necessary to mention the collateral inducements 
 to this virtue, from considerations of prudence, which are ob- 
 vious to every man that reflects.] Such as, that it creates trust, 
 the most effectual engine of human power ; that it requires no 
 artifice or concealment ; dreads no detection ; that it inspires 
 courage and magnanimity, and is the natural ally of every vir- 
 tue ; so that there is no virtue whatsoever to which our natural 
 obligation appears more strong or more apparent. 
 
 An observation or two with regard to the nature of a contract, 
 will be sufficient for the present purpose. 
 
 It is obvious that the prestation promised must be understood 
 by both parties. One party engages to do such a thing, another 
 accepts of this engagement. An engagement to do, one does 
 not know what, can neither be made nor accepted. It is no less 
 obvious that a contract is a voluntary transaction. 
 
 But it ought to be observed that the will, which is essential to 
 a contract, is only a will to engage, or to become bound. We 
 must beware of confounding this will, with a will to perform 
 what we have engaged. The last can signify nothing else than 
 an intention and fixed purpose to do what we have engaged to 
 do. The will to become bound, and to confer a right upon the 
 other party, is indeed the very essence of a contract ; but the 
 purpose of fulfilling our engagement is no part of the contract 
 at all. 
 
 A purpose is a solitary act of mind, which lays no obligation 
 on the person, nor confers any right on another. A fraudulent 
 person may contract with a fixed purpose of not performing his 
 engagement. But this purpose makes no change with regard to 
 his obligation. He is as much bound as the honest man, who 
 contracts with a fixed purpose of performing. 
 
 As the contract is binding without any regard to the purpose, 
 so there may be a purpose without any contract. A purpose is 
 no contract, even when it is declared to the person for whose be- 
 nefit it is intended. I may say to a man, I intend to do such a 
 thing for your benefit, but I come under no engagement. Every 
 man understands the meaning of this speech, and sees no con- 
 tradiction in it : whereas, if a purpose declared were the same 
 
 2 B 
 
370 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 
 
 thing with a contract, such a speech would be a contradiction, 
 and would be the same as if one should say, I promise to do sucli 
 a thing, but I do not promise. 
 
 All this is so plain to every man of common sense, that it 
 would have been unnecessary to be mentioned, had not so acute 
 a man as Mr. Hume grounded some of the contradictions he finds 
 in a contract, upon confounding a will to engage in a contract 
 with a will or purpose to perform the engagement. 
 
 VII. Natural tendency of Mr .Hume' s principles. — I come now to 
 consider the speculations of that author with regard to contracts. 
 
 [In order to support a favourite notion of his own, That jus- 
 tice is not a natural but an artificial virtue, and that it derives 
 its whole merit from its utility, he has laid down some principles 
 which, I think, have a tendency to subvert all faith and fair- 
 dealing among mankind.] 
 
 In the third volume of the " Treatise of Human Nature," p. 40, 
 he lays it down as an undoubted maxim, [That no action can be 
 virtuous or morally good, unless there be, in human nature, 
 some motive to produce it, distinct from its morality.] Let us 
 apply this undoubted maxim in an instance or two. If a man 
 keeps his word, from this sole motive, that he ought to do so, 
 this is no virtuous or morally good action. If a man pays his 
 debt, from this motive, that justice requires this of him, this is 
 no virtuous or morally good action. If a judge or an arbiter 
 gives a sentence in a cause, from no other motive but regard to 
 justice, this is no virtuous or morally good action. These appear 
 to me to be shocking absurdities, which no metaphysical subtilty 
 can ever justify. 
 
 Nothing is more evident than that every human action takes 
 its denomination and its moral nature from the motive from which 
 it is performed. That is a benevolent action, which is done 
 from benevolence. That is an act of gratitude, which is done 
 from a sentiment of gratitude. That is an act of obedience to 
 God, which is done from a regard to his command. And, in 
 general, that is an act of virtue, which is done from a regard to 
 virtue. 
 
 Virtuous actions are so far from needing other motives, be- 
 sides their being virtuous, to give them merit, that their merit is 
 then greatest and most conspicuous, when every motive that can 
 be put in the opposite scale is outweighed by the sole considera- 
 tion of their being our duty. 
 
 This maxim, therefore, of Mr. Hume, That no action can be 
 virtuous or morally good, unless there be some motive to pro- 
 duce it distinct from its morality, is so far from being undoubt- 
 edly true, that it is undoubtedly false. It was never, so far as I 
 know, maintained by any moralist, but by the Epicureans ; and 
 it savours of the very dregs of that sect. It agrees well with the 
 
OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. ^ \ 
 
 principles of those who maintained, that virtue is an empty name, 
 and that it is entitled to no regard, but in as far as it ministers 
 to pleasure or profit. 
 
 VI I J. Mr. Hume 's practice probably contradicted his principles. — 
 I believe the author of this maxim acted upon better moral prin- 
 ciples than he wrote ; and that what Cicero says of Epicurus, 
 may be applied to him : " Redarguitur ipse a sese, vincunturque 
 scrip ta ejus probitate ipsius et moribus, et ut alii existimantur 
 dicere melius quam facere, sic ille mihi videtur facere melius 
 quam dicere." — " He is refuted by himself, and his writings de- 
 feated by his probity and moral worth ; and as some imagine that 
 he spoke better than he acted, so to me he appears to have acted 
 better than he spoke." 
 
 But let us see how he applies this maxim to contracts. I give 
 you his words from the place formerly cited. " I suppose," says 
 he, " a person to have lent me a sum of money, on condition that 
 it be restored in a few days ; and, after the expiration of the 
 term agreed on, he demands the sum. I ask, what reason or 
 motive have I to restore the money ? It will, perhaps, be said, 
 that my regard to justice, and abhorrence of villany and knavery, 
 are sufficient reasons for me, if I have the least grain of honesty, 
 or sense of duty and obligation. And this answer, no doubt, is 
 just and satisfactory to man in his civilized state, and when trained 
 up according to a certain discipline and education. But, in his 
 rude and more natural condition, if you are pleased to call such 
 a condition natural, this answer would be rejected as perfectly 
 unintelligible and sophistical." 
 
 The doctrine we are taught in this passage is this — that though 
 a man, in a civilized state, and when trained up according to a 
 certain discipline and education, may have a regard to justice, 
 and an abhorrence of villany and knavery, and some sense of 
 duty and obligation ; yet, to a man in his rude and more natural 
 condition, the considerations of honesty, justice, duty, and obli- 
 gation, will be perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. And this 
 is brought as an argument to show, that justice is not a natural, 
 but an artificial virtue. 
 
 IX. I shall offer some observations on this argument. 
 
 1 . Although it may be true, that what is unintelligible to man 
 in his rude state may be intelligible to him in his civilized state, 
 I cannot conceive, that what is sophistical in the rude state 
 should change its nature, and become just reasoning, when man 
 is more improved. What is a sophism, will always be so ; nor 
 can any change in the state of the person who judges, make that 
 to be just reasoning which before was sophistical. Mr. Hume's 
 argument requires, that to man in his rude state, the motives to 
 justice and honesty should not only appear to be sophistical, but 
 should really be so. If the motives were just in themselves, 
 
 2 b 2 
 
372 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 
 
 then justice would be a natural virtue, although the rude man, 
 by an error of his judgment, thought otherwise. But if justice 
 be not a natural virtue, which is the point Mr. Hume intends to 
 prove, then every argument, by which man in his natural state 
 may be urged to it, must be a sophism in reality, and not in ap- 
 pearance only ; and the effect of discipline and education in the 
 civilized state can only be to make those motives to justice appear 
 just and satisfactory, which, in their own nature, are sophistical. 
 
 2. It were to be wished, that this ingenious author had shown 
 us, why that state of man, in which the obligation to honesty, 
 and an abhorrence of villany, appear perfectly unintelligible and 
 sophistical, should be his more natural state. 
 
 It is the nature of human society to be progressive, as much 
 as it is the nature of the individual. In the individual, the state 
 of infancy leads to that of childhood, childhood to youth, youth 
 to manhood, and manhood to old age. If one should say, that 
 the state of infancy is a more natural state than that of manhood 
 or of old age, I am apt to think, that this would be words with- 
 out any meaning. In like manner, in human society, there is a 
 natural progress from rudeness to civilization, from ignorance to 
 knowledge. What period of this progress shall we call man's 
 natural state ? To me they appear all equally natural. Every 
 state of society is equally natural, wherein men have access to 
 exert their natural powers about their proper objects, and to im- 
 prove those powers by the means which their situation affords. 
 
 Mr. Hume, indeed, shows some timidity in affirming the rude 
 state to be the more natural state of man ; and, therefore, adds 
 this qualifying parenthesis, If you are pleased to call such a con- 
 dition natural. 
 
 But it ought to be observed, that if the premises of his argu- 
 ment be weakened by this clause, the same weakness must be 
 communicated to the conclusion ; and the conclusion, according 
 to the rules of good reasoning, ought to be — that justice is an 
 artificial virtue, if you be pleased to call it artificial. 
 
 3. It were likewise to be wished, that Mr. Hume had shown 
 from fact, that there ever did exist such a state of man as that 
 which he calls his more natural state. It is a state wherein a 
 man borrows a sum of money, on the condition that he is to 
 restore it in a few days ; yet when the time of payment comes, 
 his obligation to repay what he borrowed is perfectly unintelli- 
 gible and sophistical. It would have been proper to have given 
 at least a single instance of some tribe of the human race that 
 was found to be in this natural state. If no such instance can 
 be given, it is probably a state merely imaginary ; like that state 
 which some have imagined, wherein men were our an outangs, 
 or wherein they were fishes with tails. 
 
 Indeed, such a state seems impossible. That a man should 
 
OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. 373 
 
 lend without any conception of his having a right to be repaid ; 
 or that a man should borrow on the condition of paying in a few 
 days, and yet have no conception of his obligation, seems to me 
 to involve a contradiction. 
 
 I grant, that a humane man may lend without any expectation 
 of being repaid ; but that he should lend without any conception 
 of a right to be repaid, is a contradiction. In like manner, a 
 fraudulent man may borrow without an intention of paying back ; 
 but that he should borrow, while an obligation to repay is per- 
 fectly unintelligible to him : this is a contradiction. 
 
 The same author, in his " Enquiry into the Principles of Mo- 
 rals," sect, iii., treating of the same subject, has the following 
 note : — 
 
 " 'Tis evident, that the will or consent alone never transfers 
 property, nor causes the obligation of a promise, (for the same 
 reasoning extends to both,) but the will must be expressed by 
 words or signs, in order to impose a tie upon any man. The 
 expression being once brought in as subservient to the will, 
 soon becomes the principal part of the promise ; nor will a man 
 be less bound by his word, though he secretly give a different 
 direction to his intention, and withhold the assent of his mind. 
 But though the expression makes, on most occasions, the whole 
 of the promise, yet it does not always so ; and one who should 
 make use of any expression, of which he knows not the meaning, 
 and which he uses without any sense of the consequences, would 
 not certainly be bound by it. Nay, though he know its meaning ; 
 yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs as show evi- 
 dently he has no serious intention of binding himself, he would 
 not be under any obligation of performance ; but it is necessary 
 that the words be a perfect expression of the will, without any 
 contrary signs. Nay, even this we must not carry so far as to 
 imagine, that one whom, from our quickness of understanding, 
 we conjecture to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound 
 by his expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it, but must 
 limit this conclusion to those cases where the signs are of a dif- 
 ferent nature from those of deceit. All these contradictions are 
 easily accounted for, if justice arises entirely from its usefulness 
 to society, but will never be explained on any other hypothesis." 
 
 [Here we have the opinion of this grave moralist and acute 
 metaphysician, that the principles of honesty and fidelity are at 
 bottom a bundle of contradictions. ,] This is one part of his moral 
 system which, I cannot help thinking, borders upon licentious- 
 ness. It surely tends to give a very unfavourable notion of that 
 cardinal virtue, without which no man has a title to be called an 
 honest man. What regard can a man pay to the virtue of fide- 
 lity, who believes that its essential rules contradict each other ? 
 Can a man be bound by contradictory rules of conduct ? No 
 
374 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 
 
 more, surely, than he can be bound to believe contradictory prin- 
 ciples. 
 
 He tells us, " That all these contradictions are easily accounted 
 for, if justice arises entirely from its usefulness to society, but 
 will never be explained upon any other hypothesis." 
 
 I know not indeed what is meant by accounting for contradic- 
 tions, or explaining them. I apprehend, that no hypothesis can 
 make that which is a contradiction to be no contradiction. How- 
 ever, without attempting' to account for these contradictions upon 
 his own hypothesis, he pronounces, in a decisive tone, that they 
 will never be explained upon any other hypothesis. 
 
 X. Origin of the contradictions in Mr. Hume s arguments. — What 
 if it shall appear, that the contradictions mentioned in this para- 
 graph, do all take their rise from two capital mistakes the author 
 has made with regard to the nature of promises and contracts ; 
 and if, when these are corrected, there shall not appear a shadow 
 of contradiction in the cases put by him ? 
 
 The first mistake is, That a promise is some kind of will, con- 
 sent, or intention, which may be expressed, or may not be ex- 
 pressed. This is to mistake the nature of a promise : for no 
 will, no consent or intention that is not expressed, is a promise. 
 A promise, being a social transaction between two parties, with- 
 out being expressed, can have no existence. 
 
 Another capital mistake that runs through the passage cited is, 
 That this will, consent or intention, winch makes a promise, is a 
 will or intention to perform what we promise. Every man 
 knows that there may be a fraudulent promise, made without 
 intention of performing. But the intention to perform the pro- 
 mise, or not to perform it, whether the intention be known to 
 the other party or not, makes no part of the promise, it is a so- 
 litary act of the mind, and can neither constitute nor dissolve an 
 obligation. What makes a promise is, that it be expressed to 
 the other party with understanding, and with an intention to 
 become bound, and that it be accepted by him. 
 
 XI. Carrying these remarks along with us, let us review the 
 passage cited. 
 
 First, He observes, that the will or consent alone does not cause 
 the obligation of a promise, but it must be expressed. 
 
 I answer : The will not expressed is not a promise ; and is it a 
 contradiction that that which is not a promise should not cause 
 the obligation of a promise ? He goes on : The expression being 
 once brought in as subservient to the will, soon becomes a prin- 
 cipal part of the promise. Here it is supposed, that the expres- 
 sion was not originally a constituent part of the promise, but it 
 .^oon becomes such. It is brought in to aid and be subservient 
 to the promise which was made before by the will. If Mr. 
 Hume had considered, that it is the expression accompanied with 
 
OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. 375 
 
 understanding and will to become bound, that constitutes a pro- 
 mise, he would never have said, that the expression soon becomes 
 a part, and is brought in as subservient. 
 
 He adds, Nor will a man be less bound by his Word, though he 
 secretly gives a different direction to his intention, and with- 
 holds the assent of his mind. 
 
 The case here put needs some explication. Either it means, 
 that the man knowingly and voluntarily gives his word, without 
 any intention of giving his word, or that he gives it without the 
 intention of keeping it, and performing what he promises. The 
 last of these is indeed a possible case, and is, I apprehend, what 
 Mr. Hume means. But the intention of keeping his promise is 
 no part of the promise, nor does it in the least affect the obligation 
 of it, as we have often observed. 
 
 If the author meant that the man may knowingly and volun- 
 tarily give his word, without the intention of giving his word, 
 this is impossible : For such is the nature of all social acts of the 
 mind, that, as they cannot be without being expressed, so they 
 cannot be expressed knowingly and willingly, but they must be. 
 If a man puts a question knowingly and willingly, it is impossible 
 that he should at the same time will not to put it. If he gives a 
 command knowingly and willingly, it is impossible that he should 
 at the same time will not to give it. We cannot have contrary 
 wills at the same time. And, in like manner, if a man knowingly 
 and willingly becomes bound by a promise, it is impossible that 
 he should at the same time will not to be bound. 
 
 To suppose, therefore, that when a man knowingly and wil- 
 lingly gives his word, he withholds that will and intention which 
 makes a promise, is indeed a contradiction ; but the contradiction 
 is not in the nature of the promise, but in the case supposed by 
 Mr. Hume. 
 
 He adds, though the expression, for the most part, makes the 
 whole of the promise, it does not always so. 
 
 I answer, That the expression, if it is not accompanied with 
 understanding, and will to engage, never makes a promise. The 
 author here assumes a postulate, which nobody ever granted, 
 and which can only be grounded on the impossible supposition 
 made in the former sentence. And as there can be no promise 
 without knowledge, and will to engage, is it marvellous that words 
 which are not understood, or words spoken in jest, and without 
 any intention to become bound, should not have the effect of a 
 promise ? 
 
 XII. [ The last case put by Mr. Hume, is that of a man who 
 promises fraudulently with an intention not to perform, and whose 
 fraudulent intention is discovered by the other party, who, not- 
 withstanding, accepts the promise. He is bound, says Mr. Hume, 
 by his verbal promise.] Undoubtedly he is bound, because an 
 
37G ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 intention not to perform the promise, whether known to the other 
 party or not, makes no part of the promise, nor affects its obli- 
 gation, as has been repeatedly observed. 
 
 From what has been said, I think it evident, that to one who 
 attends to the nature of a promise or contract, there is not the 
 least appearance of contradiction in the principles of morality 
 relating to contracts. 
 
 It would indeed appear wonderful, that such a man as Mr. 
 Hume should have imposed upon himself in so plain a matter, if 
 we did not see frequent instances of ingenious men, whose zeal 
 in supporting a favourite hypothesis, darkens their understanding, 
 and hinders them from seeing what is before their eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THAT MORAL APPROBATION IMPLIES A REAL JUDGMENT. 
 
 I. The approbation of good actions, and disapprobation of 
 bad, are so familiar to every man come to years of understanding, 
 that it seems strange there should be any dispute about their 
 nature. 
 
 Whether we reflect upon our own conduct, or attend to the 
 conduct of others with whom we live, or of whom we hear or 
 read, we cannot help approving of some things, disapproving of 
 others, and regarding many with perfect indifference. 
 
 These operations of our minds we are conscious of every day, 
 and almost every hour we live. Men of ripe understanding are 
 capable of reflecting upon them, and of attending to what passes 
 in their own thoughts on such occasions ; yet, for half a century, 
 it has been a serious dispute among philosophers, what this ap- 
 probation and disapprobation is, Whether there be a real judg- 
 ment included in it, which, like all other judgments, must be 
 true or false ; or, Whether it include no more but some agree- 
 able or uneasy feeling in the person who approves or disapproves. 
 
 IT. [Mr. Hume observes very justly, that this is a contro- 
 versy started of late. Before the modern system of ideas and 
 impressions was introduced, nothing would have appeared more 
 absurd than to say, That when I condemn a man for what he has 
 done, I pass no judgment at all about the man, but only express 
 some uneasy feeling in myself.] 
 
 Nor did the new system produce this discovery at once, but 
 gradually, by several steps, according as its consequences were 
 more accurately traced, and its spirit more thoroughly imbibed 
 by successive philosophers. 
 
 Des Cartes and Mr. Locke went no farther than to maintain, 
 that the secondary qualities of body, heat and cold, sound, colour, 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 377 
 
 taste and smell, which we perceive and judge to be in the external 
 object, are mere feelings or sensations in our minds, there being 
 nothing in bodies themselves to which these names can be ap- 
 plied ; and that the office of the external senses is not to judge of 
 external things, but only to give us ideas or sensations, from 
 which we are by reasoning to deduce the existence of a material 
 world without us, as well as we can. 
 
 Arthur Collier and Bishop Berkeley discovered, from the same 
 principles, that the primary, as well as~ the secondary, qualities 
 of bodies, such as extension, figure, solidity, motion, are only 
 sensations in our minds ; and therefore, that there is no material 
 world without us at all. 
 
 The same philosophy, when it came to be applied to matters 
 of taste, discovered that beauty and deformity are not anything 
 in the objects to which men, from the beginning of the world, 
 ascribed them, but certain feelings in the mind of the spectator. 
 
 III. [The next step was an easy consequence from all the pre- 
 ceding, that moral approbation and disapprobation are not judg- 
 ments, which must be true or false, but barely, agreeable and 
 uneasy feelings or sensations.] 
 
 Mr. Hume made the last step in this progress, and crowned 
 the system by what he calls his hypothesis, to wit, That belief is 
 more properly an act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative 
 part of our nature. 
 
 Beyond this I think no man can go in this track ; sensation or 
 feeling is all, and what is left to the cogitative part of our nature, 
 I am not able to comprehend. 
 
 I have had occasion to consider each of these paradoxes, ex- 
 cepting that which relates to morals, in Essays on the Intellectual 
 Powers of Man ; and, though they be strictly connected with 
 each other, and with the system which has produced them, I have 
 attempted to show, that they are inconsistent with just notions of 
 our intellectual powers, no less than they are with the common 
 sense and common language of mankind. And this, I think, will 
 likewise appear with regard to the conclusion relating to morals, 
 to wit, That moral approbation is only an agreeable feeling, and 
 not a real judgment. 
 
 IV. [Of feeling and judgment. — To prevent ambiguity as 
 much as possible, let us attend to the meaning of feeling and 
 of judgment. These operations of the mind, perhaps, cannot be 
 logically defined ; but they are well understood, and easily dis- 
 tinguished, by their properties and adjuncts.~\ 
 
 Feeling or sensation seems to be the lowest degree of anima- 
 tion we can conceive. We give the name of animal to every 
 being that feels pain or pleasure ; and this seems to be the 
 boundary between the inanimate and animal creation. 
 
378 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 We know no being of so low a rank in the creation of God, as 
 to possess this animal power only without any other. 
 
 We commonly distinguish feeling from thinking, because it 
 hardly deserves the name ; and though it be, in a more general 
 sense, a species of thought, is least removed from the passive and 
 inert state of things inanimate. 
 
 A feeling must be agreeable, or uneasy, or indifferent. It 
 may be weak or strong. It is expressed in language either by 
 a single word, or by such a contexture of words as may be the 
 subject or predicate of a proposition, but such as cannot by 
 themselves make a proposition. For it implies neither affirma- 
 tion nor negation ; and therefore cannot have the qualities of 
 true or false, which distinguish propositions from all other forms 
 of speech, and judgments from all other acts of the mind. 
 
 That I have such a feeling, is indeed an affirmative proposi- 
 tion, and expresses testimony grounded upon an intuitive judg- 
 ment. But the feeling is only one term of this proposition ; and 
 it can only make a proposition when joined with another term, 
 by a verb affirming or denying. 
 
 [As feeling distinguishes the animal nature from the inanimate ; 
 so judging seems to distinguish the rational nature from the 
 merely animal.] 
 
 Though judgment in general is expressed by one word in lan- 
 guage, as the most complex operations of the mind may be ; yet 
 a particular judgment can only be expressed by a sentence, and 
 by that kind of sentence which logicians call a proposition, in 
 which there must necessarily be a verb in the indicative mood, 
 either expressed or understood. 
 
 Every judgment must necessarily be true or false, and the 
 same may be said of the proposition which expresses it. It is a 
 determination of the understanding, with regard to what is true, 
 or false, or dubious.* 
 
 In judgment, we can distinguish the object about which we 
 judge, from the act of the mind in judging of that object. In 
 mere feeling there is no such distinction. The object of judg- 
 ment must be expressed by a proposition ; and belief, disbelief, 
 or doubt, always accompanies the judgment we form. If we 
 judge the proposition to be true, we must believe it ; if we judge 
 it to be false, we must disbelieve it ; and if we be uncertain 
 whether it be true or false, we must doubt. 
 
 The toothache, the headache, are words which express uneasy 
 feelings ; but to say that they express a judgment would be 
 ridiculous. 
 
 That the sun is greater than the earth, is a proposition, and 
 therefore the object of judgment ; and when affirmed or denied, 
 * Vide Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man, Essay VI. chap. i. 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 379 
 
 believed or disbelieved, or doubted, it expresses judgment ; but 
 to say that it expresses only a feeling in the mind of him that 
 believes it, would be ridiculous. 
 
 These two operations of mind, when we consider them sepa- 
 rately, are very different, and easily distinguished. When we 
 feel without judging, or judge without feeling, it is impossible, 
 without very gross inattention, to mistake the one for the other. 
 
 But in many operations of the mind, both are inseparably 
 conjoined under one name ; and when we are not aware that the 
 operation is complex, we may take one ingredient to be the 
 whole, and overlook the other. 
 
 In former ages, that moral power, by which human actions 
 ought to be regulated, was called reason, and considered, both 
 by philosophers, and by the vulgar, as the power of judging what 
 we ought, and what we ought not to do. 
 
 This is very fully expressed by Mr. Hume, in his " Treatise 
 of Human Nature," Book ii. Part iii. sec. 3 : " Nothing is more 
 usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to talk of the 
 combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to reason, 
 and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform 
 themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, 'tis said, is 
 obliged to regulate his actions by reason ; and if any other motive 
 or principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to 
 oppose it, till it be entirely subdued, or, at least, brought to a 
 conformity to that superior principle. On this method of think- 
 ing, the greatest pait of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, 
 seems to be founded." 
 
 That those philosophers attended chiefly to the judging power 
 of our moral faculty, appears from the names they gave to its 
 ojuerations, and from the whole of their language concerning it. 
 
 V. [The modern philosophy has led men to attend chiefly to 
 their sensations and feelings, and thereby to resolve into mere 
 feeling, complex acts of the mind, of which feeling is only one 
 ingredient.] 
 
 I had occasion, in the preceding Essays, to observe, That 
 several operations of the mind, to which we give one name, and 
 consider as one act, are compounded of more simple acts, insepa- 
 rably united in our constitution, and that in these, sensation or 
 feeling often makes one ingredient. 
 
 Thus the appetites of hunger and thirst are compounded of an 
 uneasy sensation, and the desire of food or drink. In our bene- 
 volent affections, there is both an agreeable feeling, and a desire 
 of happiness to the object of our affection ; and malevolent affec- 
 tions have ingredients of a contrary nature. 
 
 In these instances, sensation or feeling is inseparably con- 
 joined with desire. In other instances, we find sensation inse- 
 parably conjoined with judgment or belief, and that in two 
 
330 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 different ways. In some instances, the judgment or belief seems 
 to be the consequence of the sensation, and to be regulated by 
 it. In other instances, the sensation is the consequence of the 
 judgment. 
 
 When we perceive an external object by our senses, we have 
 a sensation conjoined with a firm belief of the existence and 
 sensible qualities of the external object. Nor has all the subtilty 
 of metaphysics been able to disjoin what nature has conjoined in 
 our constitution. Des Cartes and Locke endeavoured, by rea- 
 soning, to deduce the existence of external objects from our 
 sensation, but in vain. Subsequent philosophers, finding no 
 reason for this connexion, endeavoured to throw oif the belief of 
 external objects as being unreasonable ; but this attempt is no 
 less vain. Nature has doomed us to believe the testimony of 
 our senses, whether we can give a good reason for doing so or 
 not. 
 
 In this instance, the belief or judgment is the consequence of 
 the sensation, as the sensation is the consequence of the impres- 
 sion made on the organ of sense. 
 
 But in most of the operations of mind in which judgment or 
 belief is combined with feeling, the feeling is the consequence 
 of the judgment, and is regulated by it. 
 
 Thus, an account of the good conduct of a friend at a distance 
 gives me a very agreeable feeling, and a contrary account would 
 give me a very uneasy feeling ; but these feelings depend entirely 
 upon my belief of the report. 
 
 In hope, there is an agreeable feeling, depending upon the 
 belief or expectation of good to come : fear is made up of con- 
 trary ingredients ; in both, the feeling is regulated by the degree 
 of belief. 
 
 In the respect we bear to the worthy, and in our contempt of 
 the worthless, there is both judgment and feeling, and the last 
 depends entirely upon the first. 
 
 The same may be said of gratitude for good offices, and resent- 
 ment of injuries. 
 
 Y I. Let me now consider how I am affected when I see a man 
 exerting himself nobly in a good cause. I am conscious that the 
 effect of his conduct on my mind is complex, though it may be 
 called by one name. I look up to his virtue, I approve, I admire 
 it. In doing so, I have pleasure indeed, or an agreeable feeling; 
 this is granted. But I find myself interested in his success and 
 in his fame. This is affection ; it is love and esteem, which is 
 more than mere feeling. The man is the object of this esteem f 
 but in mere feeling there is no object. 
 
 I am likewise conscious that this agreeable feeling in me, and 
 this esteem of him, depend entirely upon the judgment 1 form 
 of his conduct. I judge that this conduct merits esteem ; and, 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. ggl 
 
 while I thus judge, I cannot but esteem him, and contemplate 
 his conduct with pleasure. Persuade me that he was bribed, or 
 that he acted from some mercenary or bad motive, immediately 
 my esteem and my agreeable feeling vanish. 
 
 [In the approbation of a good action, therefore, there is feeling 
 indeed, but there is also esteem of the agent ; and both the feel- 
 ing and the esteem depend upon the judgment we form of his 
 conduct.] 
 
 When I exercise my moral faculty about my *bwn actions or 
 those of other men, I am conscious that I judge as well as feel. 
 I accuse and excuse, I acquit and condemn, I assent and dissent, 
 I believe and disbelieve, and doubt. These are acts of judgment, 
 and not feelings. 
 
 Every determination of the understanding, with regard to what 
 is true or false, is judgment. That I ought not to steal, or to 
 kill, or to bear false witness, are propositions, of the truth of 
 which I am as well convinced as of any proposition in Euclid. 
 I am conscious that I judge them to be true propositions ; and 
 my consciousness makes all other arguments unnecessary, with 
 regard to the operations of my own mind. 
 
 That other men judge, as well as feel, in such cases, I am con- 
 vinced, because they understand me when I express my moral 
 judgment, and express theirs by the same terms and phrases. 
 
 Suppose that, in a case well known to both, my friend says, 
 Such a man did well and worthily ; his conduct is highly (improv- 
 able. This speech, according to all rules of interpretation, ex- 
 presses my friend's judgment of the man's conduct. This judg- 
 ment may be true or false, and I may agree in opinion with him, 
 or I may dissent from him without offence, as we may differ in 
 other matters of judgment. 
 
 Suppose again, that, in relation to the same case, my friend 
 says, The mans conduct gave me a very agreeable feeling. 
 
 This speech, if approbation be nothing but an agreeable 
 feeling, must have the very same meaning with the first, and 
 express neither more nor less. But this cannot be, for two 
 reasons. 
 
 First, Because there is no rule in grammar or rhetoric, nor any 
 usage in language, by which these two speeches can be construed, 
 so as to have the same meaning. The first expresses plainly an 
 opinion or judgment of the conduct of the man, but says nothing 
 of the speaker. The second only testifies a fact concerning the 
 speaker, to wit, that he had such a feeling. 
 
 Another reason why these two speeches cannot mean the same 
 thing is, that the first may be contradicted without any ground 
 of offence, such contradiction being only a difference of opinion, 
 which, to a reasonable man, gives no offence. But the second 
 speech cannot be contradicted without an affront ; for, as every 
 
ggg ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 man must know his own feelings, to deny that a man had a feel- 
 ing which he affirms he had, is to charge him with falsehood. 
 
 If moral approbation be a real judgment, which produces an 
 agreeable feeling in the mind of him who judges, both speeches 
 are perfectly intelligible, in the most obvious and literal sense. 
 Their meaning is different, but they are related, so that the one 
 may be inferred from the other, as we infer the effect from the 
 cause, or the cause from the effect. I know, that what a man 
 judges to be a very worthy action, he contemplates with plea- 
 sure ; and what he contemplates with pleasure must, in his judg- 
 ment, have worth. But the judgment and the feeling are dif- 
 ferent acts of his mind, though connected as cause and effect. 
 He can express either the one or the other with perfect pro- 
 priety ; but the speech which expresses his feeling is altogether 
 improper and inept to express his judgment, for this evident 
 reason, that judgment and feeling, though in some cases con- 
 nected, are things in their nature different. 
 
 If we suppose, on the other hand, that moral approbation is 
 nothing more than an agreeable feeling, occasioned by the con- 
 templation of an action, the second speech above mentioned has 
 a distinct meaning, and expresses all that is meant by moral 
 approbation. But the first speech either means the very same 
 thing, (which cannot be, for the reasons already mentioned,) or it 
 has no meaning. 
 
 Now, we may appeal to the reader, whether, in conversation 
 upon human characters, such speeches as the first are not as fre- 
 quent, as familiar, and as well understood, as anything in lan- 
 guage ; and whether they have not been common in all ages that 
 we can trace, and in all languages ? 
 
 [This doctrine, therefore, That moral approbation is merely a 
 feeling without judgment, necessarily carries along with it this 
 consequence, that a form of speech, upon one of the most common 
 topics of discourse, which either has no meaning, or a meaning- 
 irreconcilable to all rules of grammar or rhetoric, is found to he 
 common and familiar in all languages, and in all ages of the 
 world, while every man knows how to express the meaning, if it 
 have any, in plain and proper language.] 
 
 Such a consequence I think sufficient to sink any philosophical 
 opinion on which it hangs. 
 
 A particular language may have some oddity, or even absur- 
 dity, introduced by some man of eminence, from caprice or wrong 
 judgment, and followed by servile imitators, for a time, till it be 
 detected, and, of consequence, discountenanced and dropt; but 
 that the same absurdity should pervade all languages, through all 
 ages, and that, after being detected and exposed, it should still 
 keep its countenance and its place in language as much as before, 
 this can never be while men have understanding. 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. ggg 
 
 VII. [It may be observed by the way, that the same argument 
 may be applied, with equal force, against those other paradoxical 
 opinions of modern philosophy which we before mentioned as con- 
 nected with this, such as, that beauty and deformity are not at all 
 in the objects to which language universally ascribes them, but 
 are merely feelings in the mind of the spectator ; that the secon- 
 dary qualities are not in external objects, but are merely feelings 
 or sensations in him that perceives them ; and, in general, that 
 our external and internal senses are faculties by which we have 
 sensations or feelings only, but by which we do not judge.] 
 
 That every form of speech which language affords to express 
 our judgments, should, in all ages, and in all languages, be used 
 to express what is no judgment ; and that feelings, which are 
 easily expressed in proper language, should as universally be ex- 
 pressed by language altogether improper and absurd, I cannot 
 believe ; and therefore must conclude, that if language be the 
 expression of thought, men judge of the primary and secondary 
 qualities of body by their external senses, of beauty and defor- 
 mity by their taste, and of virtue and vice by their moral faculty. 
 
 A truth so evident as this is, can hardly be obscured and 
 brought into doubt, but by the abuse of words. And much 
 abuse of words there has been upon this subject. To avoid this, 
 as much as possible, I have used the word judgment, on one side, 
 and sensation or feeling, upon the other ; because these words 
 have been least liable to abuse or ambiguity. But it may be 
 proper to make some observations upon other words that have 
 been used in this controversy. 
 
 Mr. Hume, in his " Treatise of Human Nature," has employed 
 two sections upon it, the titles of which are, Moral Distinctions 
 not derived from Reason, and Moral Distinctions derived from a 
 Moral Sense. 
 
 When he is not, by custom, led unawares to speak of reason 
 like other men, he limits that word to signify only the power of 
 judging in matters merely speculative. Hence he concludes, 
 " That reason of itself is inactive and perfectly inert." That 
 " actions may be laudable or blameable, but cannot be reason- 
 able or unreasonable." That " it is not contrary to reason, to 
 prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my 
 finger." That "it is not contrary to reason, for me to choose 
 my total ruin to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian, or of 
 a person wholly unknown to me." That " reason is, and ought 
 only to be, the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to 
 any other office, than to serve and obey them." 
 
 If we take the word reason to mean what common use, both of 
 philosophers and of the vulgar, hath made it to mean, these 
 maxims are not only false, but licentious. It is only his abuse of 
 
384 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 the words reason and passion, that can justify them from this 
 censure. 
 
 The meaning of a common word is not to be ascertained by 
 philosophical theory, but by common usage ; and if a man will 
 take the liberty of limiting or extending the meaning of common 
 words at his pleasure, he may, like Mandeville, insinuate the 
 most licentious paradoxes with the appearance of plausibility. I 
 have before made some observations upon the meaning of this 
 word, Essay II. chap. 2, and Essay III. Part iii. chap. 1, to which 
 the reader is referred. 
 
 When Mr. Hume derives moral difficulties from a moral sense, 
 I agree with him in words, but we differ about the meaning of 
 the word sense. Every power to which the name of a sense has 
 been given, is a power of judging of the objects of that sense, 
 and has been accounted such in all ages ; the moral sense there- 
 fore is the power of judging in morals. But Mr. Hume will 
 have the moral sense to be only a power of feeling, without 
 judging: This I take to be an abuse of the word. 
 
 [Authors who place moral approbation in feeling only, very 
 often use the word sentiment, to express feeling without judgment. 
 This I take likewise to be an abuse of the word.] Our moral 
 determinations may, with propriety, be called moral sentiments. 
 For the word sentiment, in the English language, never, as I con- 
 ceive, signifies mere feeling, but judgment accompanied with 
 feeling. It was wont to signify opinion or judgment of any kind, 
 but, of late, is appropriated to signify an opinion or judgment, 
 that strikes, and produces some agreeable or uneasy emotion. So 
 we speak of sentiments of respect, of esteem, of gratitude. But 
 I never heard the pain of the gout, or any other mere feeling, 
 called a sentiment. 
 
 Even the woi&judgment has been used by Mr. Hume to express 
 what he maintains to be only a feeling. " Treatise of Human Na- 
 ture," Part iii. p. 3. "The term perception is no less applicable 
 to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and evil, 
 than to every other operation of the mind." Perhaps he used 
 this word inadvertently ; for I think there cannot be a greater 
 abuse of words, than to put judgment for what he held to be 
 mere feeling. 
 
 VIII. \_lmproper use of words has impeded the study of moral 
 philosophy.— All the words most commonly used, both by philo- 
 sophers and the vulgar, to express the operations of our moral 
 faculty, such as decision, determination, sentence, approbation, 
 disapprobation, applause, censure, praise, blame, necessarily 
 imply judgment in their meaning. When, therefore, they are 
 used by Mr. Hume, and others who hold his opinion, to signify 
 feelings only, this is an abuse of words.] If these philosophers 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. gg£ 
 
 wish to speak plainly and properly, they must, in discoursing 
 of morals, discard these words altogether, because their estab- 
 lished signification in the language, is contrary to what they would 
 express by them. 
 
 They must likewise discard from morals the words ought and 
 ought not, which very properly express judgment, but cannot be 
 applied to mere feelings. Upon these words Mr. Hume has 
 made a particular observation in the conclusion of his first section 
 above mentioned. I shall give it in his own words, and make 
 some remarks upon it. 
 
 " I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings, an observation 
 which may, perhaps, be found of some importance. In every 
 system of morality which I have hitherto met with, I have always 
 remarked, that the author proceeds for some time in the ordinary 
 way of reasoning, and establishes the being of a Grod, or makes 
 observations concerning human affairs ; when, of a sudden,. I 
 am surprised to find, that, instead of the usual copulations of 
 propositions, is, and is not, I meet with no proposition that is not 
 connected with an ought, or an ought not. This change is im- 
 perceptible, but is, however, of the last consequence. For as this 
 ought or ought not expresses some new relation or affirmation, it is 
 necessary that it should be observed and explained : and, at the 
 same time, that a reason should be given for what seems altoge- 
 ther inconceivable ; how this new relation can be a deduction 
 from others which are entirely different from it. But as authors 
 do not commonly use this precaution, I shall presume to recom- 
 mend it to the readers ; and am persuaded, that this small atten- 
 tion would subvert all the vulgar systems of morality, and let us 
 see, that the distinction of vice and virtue, is not founded merely 
 on the relations of objects, nor is perceived by reason." 
 
 We may here observe, that it is acknowledged, that the words 
 ought and ought not express some relation and affirmation ; but 
 a relation or affirmation which Mr. Hume thought inexplicable, 
 or, at least, inconsistent with his system of morals. He must, 
 therefore, have thought, that they ought not to be used in treat- 
 ing of that subject. 
 
 He likewise makes two demands, and, taking it for granted that 
 they cannot be satisfied, is persuaded, that an attention to this is 
 sufficient to subvert all the vulgar systems of morals. 
 
 The Jlrst demand is, that ought and ought not be explained. 
 
 To a man that understands English, there are surely no words 
 that require explanation less. Are not all men taught, from their 
 early years, that they ought not to lie, nor steal, nor swear falsely ? 
 But Mr. Hume thinks, that men never understood what these pre- 
 cepts mean, or rather that they are unintelligible. If this be so, 
 I think indeed it will follow, that all the vulgar systems of morals 
 are subverted. 
 
 2c 
 
386 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 Dr. Johnson, in his Dictionary, explains the word ought to sig- 
 nify, being obliged by duty ; and I know no better explication 
 that can be given of it. The reader will see what I thought ne- 
 cessary to say concerning the moral relation expressed by this 
 word, in Essay III. part iii. chap. 5. 
 
 The second demand is, that a reason should be given why this 
 relation should be a deduction from others which are entirely 
 different from it. 
 
 This is to demand a reason for what does not exist. The first 
 principles of morals are not deductions. They are self-evident ; 
 and their truth, like that of other axioms, is perceived without 
 reasoning or deduction. And moral truths, that are not self- 
 evident, are deduced, not from relations quite different from 
 them, but from the first principles of morals. 
 
 In a matter so interesting to mankind, and so frequently the 
 subject of conversation among the learned and the unlearned as 
 morals is, it may surely be expected, that men will express both 
 their judgments and their feelings with propriety, and consist- 
 ently with the rules of language. An opinion, therefore, which 
 makes the language of all nations, upon this subject, to be im- 
 proper, contrary to all rules of language, and fit to be discarded, 
 needs no other refutation. 
 
 As mankind have, in all ages, understood reason to mean the 
 power by which not only our speculative opinions, but our. ac- 
 tions, ought to be regulated, we may say, with perfect propriety, 
 that all vice is contrary to reason ; that, by reason, we are to 
 judge of what we ought to do, as well as of what we ought to 
 believe. 
 
 But though all vice be contrary to reason, I conceive that it 
 would not be a proper definition of vice to say, that it is a con- 
 duct contrary to reason, because this definition would apply 
 equally to folly, which all men distinguish from vice. 
 
 IX. [There are other phrases which have been used on the 
 same side of the question, which I see no reason for adopting, 
 such as, acting contrary to the relations of things, contrary to the 
 reason of things, to the fitness of things, to the truth of tilings, 
 to absolute fitness.~\ These phrases have not the authority of 
 common use, which in matters of language, is great. They seem 
 to have been invented by some authors, with a view to explain 
 the nature of vice ; but I do not think they answer that end. 
 If intended as definitions of vice, they are improper : because, 
 in the most favourable sense they can bear, they extend to every 
 kind of foolish and absurd conduct, as well as to that which is 
 vicious. 
 
 I shall conclude this chapter with some observations upon the 
 five arguments which Mr. Hume. has offered upon this point in 
 his Inquiry. 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 337 
 
 The first is, that it is impossible that the hypothesis he 
 opposes can, in any particular instance, be so much as rendered 
 intelligible, whatever specious figure it may make in general dis- 
 course. " Examine," says he, " the crime of ingratitude, anato- 
 mise all its circumstances, and examine, by your reason alone, 
 in what consists the demerit or blame, you will never come to 
 any issue or conclusion." 
 
 I think it unnecessary to follow him through all the accounts 
 of ingratitude which he conceives may be given by those whom 
 he opposes, because I agree with him in that which he himself 
 adopts, to wit, " That this crime arises from a complication of 
 circumstances, which, being presented to the spectator, excites 
 the sentiment of blame by the particular structure and fabric of 
 his mind." 
 
 This he thought a true and intelligible account of the crimi- 
 nality of ingratitude. So do I. And therefore I think the hy- 
 pothesis he opposes is intelligible, when applied to a particular 
 instance. 
 
 Mr. Hume, no doubt, thought, that the account he gives of 
 ingratitude is inconsistent with the hypothesis he opposes, and 
 could not be adopted by those who hold that hypothesis. He 
 could be led to think so, only by taking for granted one of these 
 two things. Either, first, That the sentiment of blame means a 
 feeling only, without judgment; or secondly. That whatever is 
 excited by the particular fabric and structure of the mind must 
 be feeling only, and not judgment. But I cannot grant either 
 the one or the other. 
 
 For, as to \he first, it seems evident to me, that both sentiment 
 and blame imply judgment ; and, therefore, that the sentiment 
 of blame means a judgment accompanied with feeling, and not 
 mere feeling without judgment. 
 
 The second can as little be granted ; for no operation of mind, 
 whether judgment or feeling, can be excited but by that particu- 
 lar structure and fabric of the mind which makes us capable of 
 that operation. 
 
 By that part of our fabric which we call the faculty of seeing, 
 we judge of visible objects ; by taste, another part of our fabric, 
 we judge of beauty and deformity ; by that part of our fabric, 
 which enables us to form abstract conceptions, to compare them, 
 and perceive their relations, we judge of abstract truths ; and by 
 that part of our fabric which we call the moral faculty, we judge 
 of virtue and vice. If we suppose a being without any moral 
 faculty in his fabric, I grant that he could not have the sentiments 
 of blame and moral approbation. 
 
 [There are, therefore, judgments, as well as feelings, that are 
 excited by the particular structure and fabric of the mind. But 
 there is this remarkable difference between them, That every 
 
 2 c 2 
 
ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 judgment is, in its own nature, true or false ; and though it 
 depends upon the fabric of a mind, whether it have such a judg- 
 ment or not, it depends not upon that fabric whether the judg- 
 ment be true or not. A true judgment will be true, whatever be 
 the fabric of the mind ; but a particular structure and fabric is 
 necessary, in order to our perceiving that truth. Nothing like 
 this can be said of mere feelings, because the attributes of true 
 or false do not belong to them.] 
 
 Thus I think it appears, that the hypothesis which Mr. Hume 
 opposes is not unintelligible, when applied to the particular 
 instance of ingratitude ; because the account of ingratitude 
 which he himself thinks true and intelligible, is perfectly agree- 
 able to it. 
 
 The second argument amounts to this : That in moral delibera- 
 tion, we must be acquainted beforehand with all the objects and 
 all their relations. After these things are known, the under- 
 standing has no further room to operate. Nothing remains but 
 to feel, on our part, some sentiment of blame or approbation. 
 
 Let us apply this reasoning to the office of a judge. In a 
 cause that comes before him, he must be made acquainted with 
 all the objects, and all their relations. After this, his under- 
 standing has no further room to operate. Nothing remains, on 
 his part, but to feel the right or the wrong ; and mankind have, 
 very absurdly, called him & judge; he ought to be called a feeler. 
 
 To answer this argument more directly : the man who deli- 
 berates, after all the objects and relations mentioned by Mr. 
 Hume are known to him, has a point to determine ; and that is, 
 whether the action under his deliberation ought to be done or 
 ought not. In most cases, this point will appear self-evident to 
 a man who has been accustomed to exercise his moral judgment; 
 in some cases it may require reasoning. 
 
 In like manner, the judge, after all the circumstances of the 
 cause are known, has to judge, whether the plaintiff has a just 
 plea or not. 
 
 The third argument is taken from the analogy between moral 
 beauty and natural, between moral sentiment and taste. As 
 beauty is not a quality of the object, but a certain feeling of the 
 spectator, so virtue and vice are not qualities in the persons to 
 whom language ascribes them, but feelings of the spectator. 
 
 But is it certain beauty is not any quality of the object ? This 
 is indeed a paradox of modern philosophy, built upon a philoso- 
 phical theory ; but a paradox so -contrary to the common lan- 
 guage and common sense of mankind, that it ought rather to 
 overturn the theory on which it stands, than receive any sup- 
 port from it. And if beauty be really a quality of the object, 
 and not merely a feeling of the spectator, the whole force of this 
 argument goes over to the other side of the question. 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. ggg 
 
 " Euclid," he says, " has fully explained all the qualities of 
 the circle, but has not, in any proposition, said a word of its 
 beauty. The reason is evident. The beauty is not a quality of 
 the circle." 
 
 By the qualities of the circle, he must mean its properties ; 
 and there are here two mistakes. 
 
 First, Euclid has not fully explained all the properties of the 
 circle. Many have been discovered and demonstrated which he 
 never dreamt of. 
 
 Secondly, The reason why Euclid has not said a word of the 
 beauty of the circle, is not, that beauty is not a quality of the 
 circle ; the reason is, that Euclid never digresses from his sub- 
 ject. His purpose was to demonstrate the mathematical pro- 
 perties of the circle. Beauty is a quality of the circle, not de- 
 monstrable by mathematical reasoning, but immediately perceived 
 by a good taste. To speak of it would have been a digression 
 from his subject ; and that is a fault he is never guilty of. 
 
 The fourth argument is, That inanimate objects may bear to 
 each other all the same relations which we observe in moral 
 agents. 
 
 If this were true, it would be very much to the purpose ; but 
 it seems to be thrown out rashly, without any attention to its 
 evidence. Had Mr. Hume reflected but a very little upon this 
 dogmatical assertion, a thousand instances would have occurred 
 to him in direct contradiction to it. 
 
 May not one animal be more tame, or more docile, or more 
 cunning, or more fierce, or more ravenous, than another ? Are 
 these relations to be found in inanimate objects ? May not one 
 man be a better painter, or sculptor, or shipbuilder, or tailor, or 
 shoemaker, than another ? Are these relations to be found in 
 inanimate objects, or even in brute-animals ? May not one 
 moral agent be more just, more pious, more attentive to any 
 moral duty, or more eminent in any moral virtue, than another ? 
 Are not these relations peculiar to moral agents ? But to come 
 to the relations most essential to morality. 
 
 When I say that I ought to do such an action, that it is my 
 duty, do not these words express a relation between me and a 
 certain action in my power ; a relation which cannot be between 
 inanimate objects, or between any other objects but a moral agent 
 and his moral actions ; a relation which is well understood by all 
 men come to years of understanding, and expressed in all 
 languages ? 
 
 Again, when in deliberating about two actions in my power, 
 which cannot both be done, I say this ought to be preferred to 
 the other ; that justice, for instance, ought to be preferred to 
 generosity j I express a moral relation between two actions of a 
 
390 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 moral agent, which is well understood, and which cannot exist 
 between objects of any other kind. 
 
 [There are, therefore, moral relations which can have no exist- 
 ence but between moral agents and their voluntary actions. 
 To determine these relations is the object of morals; and to 
 determine relations, is the province of judgment, and not of mere 
 feeling.'] 
 
 The last argument is a chain of several propositions, which 
 deserve distinct consideration. They may, 1 think, be summed 
 up in these four: 1. There must be ultimate ends of action, 
 beyond which it is absurd to ask a reason of acting. 2. The 
 ultimate ends of human actions can never be accounted for by 
 reason ; S. but recommend themselves entirely to the sentiments 
 and affections of mankind, without any dependence on the intel- 
 lectual faculties. 4. As virtue is an end, and is desirable on its 
 own account, without fee or reward, merely for the immediate 
 satisfaction it conveys ; it is requisite, that there should be some 
 sentiment which it touches, some internal taste or feeling, or 
 whatever you please to call it, which distinguishes moral good 
 and evil, and which embraces the one and rejects the other. 
 
 To the first of these propositions I entiiely agree. The ulti- 
 mate ends of action are what I have called the principles of action, 
 which I have endeavoured, in the third Essay, to enumerate, 
 and to class under three heads of mechanical, animal and 
 rational. 
 
 The second proposition needs some explication. I take its 
 meaning to be, That there cannot be another end for the sake of 
 which an ultimate end is pursued : for the reason of an action 
 means nothing but the end for which the action is done ; and 
 the reason of an end of action can mean nothing but another 
 end, for the sake of which that end is pursued, and to which it 
 is the means. 
 
 That this is the author's meaning is evident from his reasoning 
 in confirmation of it. " Ask a man, why he uses exercise ? he 
 will answer, because he desires to keep his health. If you then 
 inquire, why he desires health ? he will readily reply, because 
 sickness is painful. If you push your inquiries further, and 
 desire a reason why he hates pain, it is impossible he can ever 
 give any. This is an ultimate end, and is never referred to any 
 other object." To account by reason for an end, therefore, is 
 to show another end, for the sake of which that end is desired 
 and pursued. And that, in this sense, an ultimate end can never 
 be accounted for by reason, is certain, because that cannot be 
 an ultimate end which is pursued only for the sake of another end. 
 
 I agree therefore with Mr. Hume in this second proposition, 
 which indeed is implied in the first. 
 
APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 39 J 
 
 The third proposition is, That ultimate ends recommend them- 
 selves entirely to the sentiments and affections of mankind, with- 
 out any dependence on the intellectual faculties. 
 
 By sentiments he must here mean feelings without judgment, 
 and by affections, such affections as imply no judgment. For 
 surely any operation that implies judgment, cannot be indepen= 
 dent of the intellectual faculties. 
 
 This being understood, I cannot assent to this proposition. 
 
 The Author seems to think it implied in the preceding, or a 
 necessary consequence from it, that because an ultimate end can- 
 not be accounted for by reason ; that is, cannot be pursued merely 
 for the sake of another end ; therefore it can have no dependence 
 on the intellectual faculties. I deny this consequence, and can 
 see no force in it. 
 
 I think it not only does not follow from the preceding propo- 
 sition, but that it is contrary to truth. 
 
 A man may act from gratitude as an ultimate end ; but grati- 
 tude implies a judgment and belief of favours received, and there- 
 fore is dependent on the intellectual faculties. A man may act 
 from respect to a worthy character as an ultimate end ; but this 
 respect necessarily implies a judgment of worth in the person, 
 and therefore is dependent on the intellectual faculties. 
 
 I have endeavoured in the third Essay before mentioned, to 
 show that, beside the animal principles of our nature, which re- 
 quire will and intention, but not judgment, there are also in 
 human nature rational principles of action, or ultimate ends, 
 which have, in all ages, been called rational, and have a just title 
 to that name, not only from the authority of language, but be- 
 cause they can have no existence but in beings endowed with 
 reason, and because, in all their exertions, they require not only 
 intention and will, but judgment or reason. 
 
 Therefore, until it can be proved that an ultimate end cannot 
 be dependent on the intellectual faculties, this third proposition, 
 and all that hangs upon it, must fall to the ground. 
 
 The last proposition assumes, with very good reason, that 
 virtue is an ultimate end, and desirable, on its own account. From 
 which, if the third proposition were true, the conclusion would 
 undoubtedly follow, that virtue has no dependence on the intel- 
 lectual faculties. But as that proposition is not granted, nor 
 proved, this conclusion is left without any support from the 
 whole of the argument. 
 
 I should not have thought it worth while to insist so long 
 upon this controversy, if I did not conceive that the consequences 
 which the contrary opinions draw after them are important. 
 
 If what we call moral judgment be no real judgment, but merely 
 a feeling, it follows, that the principles of morals which we have 
 been taught to consider as an immutable law to all intelligent 
 
392 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 
 
 beings, have no other foundation but an arbitrary structure and 
 fabric in the constitution of the human mind : so that, by a change 
 in our structure, what is immoral might become moral, virtue 
 might be turned into vice, and vice into virtue. And beings of 
 a different structure, according to the variety of their feelings, 
 may have different, nay opposite measures of moral good and evil. 
 
 It follows, that, from our notions of morals, we can conclude 
 nothing concerning a moral character in the Deity, which is the 
 foundation of all religion, and the strongest' support of virtue. 
 
 X. Impiety of the assertion, that moral judgment is merely a 
 feeling. — Nay, this opinion seems to conclude strongly against a 
 moral character in the Deity, since nothing arbitrary or mutable 
 can be conceived to enter into the description of a nature eternal, 
 immutable, and necessarily existent. Mr. Hume seems perfectly 
 consistent with himself, in allowing of no evidence for the moral 
 attributes of the Supreme Being, whatever there may be for his 
 natural attributes. 
 
 On the other hand, if moral judgment be a true and real judg- 
 ment, the principles of morals stand upon the immutable foun- 
 dation of truth, and can undergo no change by any difference of 
 fabric or structure of those who judge of them. There may 
 be, and there are beings, who have not the faculty of conceiving 
 moral truths, or perceiving the excellence of moral worth, as 
 there are beings incapable of perceiving mathematical truths ; 
 but no defect, no error of understanding, can make what is true 
 to be false. 
 
 If it be true that piety, justice, benevolence,. wisdom, temper- 
 ance, fortitude, are in their own nature the most excellent and 
 most amiable qualities of a human creature ; that vice has an in- 
 herent turpitude which merits disapprobation and dislike ; these 
 truths cannot be hid from Him whose understanding is infinite, 
 whose judgment is always according to truth, and who must 
 esteem every thing according to its real value. 
 
 [The Judge of all the earth, we are sure, will do right. He 
 has given to men the faculty of perceiving the right and the 
 wrong in conduct, as far as is necessary to our present state, and 
 of perceiving the dignity of the one, and the demerit of the 
 other j and surely there can be no real knowledge or real excel- 
 lence in man, which is not in his Maker.] 
 
 We may, therefore, justly conclude, that what we know in part, 
 and see in part, of right and wrong, He sees perfectly ; that the 
 moral excellence which we see and admire in some of our fellow- 
 creatures, is a faint but true copy of that moral excellence which 
 is essential to His nature ; and that to tread the path of virtue is 
 the true dignity of our nature, an imitation of God, and the 
 way to obtain his favour. 
 
AN INQUIRY 
 
 THE HUMAN MIND, 
 
 PRINCIPLES OF COMMON SENSE. 
 
 The inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding." — Job. 
 
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 JAMES LORD DESKFOORD, 
 
 CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OLD ABERDEEN. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Though I apprehend that there are things new, and of some im- 
 portance in the following Inquiry, it is not without timidity that 
 I have consented to the publication of it. The subject has been 
 canvassed by men of very great penetration and genius : for who 
 does not acknowledge Des Cartes, Malebranche, Locke, Berke- 
 ley, and Hume, to be such? A view of the human under- 
 standing so different from that which they have exhibited, will, 
 no doubt, be condemned by many without examination, as pro- 
 ceeding from temerity and vanity. 
 
 But I hope the candid and discerning few, who are capable of 
 attending to the operations of their own minds, will weigh deli- 
 berately what is here advanced, before they pass sentence upon 
 it. To such I appeal, as the only competent judges. If they 
 disapprove, I am probably in the wrong, and shall be ready to 
 change my opinion upon conviction. If they approve, the many 
 will at last yield to their authority, as they always do. 
 
 However contrary my notions are to those of the writers I 
 have mentioned, their speculations have been of great use to me, 
 and seem even to point out the road which I have taken ; and your 
 lordship knows that the merit of useful discoveries is some- 
 times not more justly due to those that have hit upon them, than 
 to others who have ripened them, and brought them to the 
 birth. 
 
 I acknowledge, my lord, that I never thought of calling in 
 question the principles commonly received with regard to the 
 
396 DEDICATION. 
 
 human understanding, until the " Treatise of Human Nature" was 
 published in the year 1 739. The ingenious author of that trea- 
 tise, upon the principles of Locke, who was no sceptic, hath built 
 a system of scepticism, which leaves no ground to believe any one 
 thing rather than its contrary. His reasoning appeared to me 
 to be just : there was therefore a necessity to call in question 
 the principles upon which it was founded, or to admit the con- 
 clusion. 
 
 But can any ingenuous mind admit this sceptical system with- 
 out reluctance ? I truly could not, my lord : for I am per- 
 suaded that absolute scepticism is not more destructive of the 
 faith of a Christian than of the science of a philosopher, and of 
 the prudence of a man of common understanding. I am per- 
 suaded that the unjust live by faith as well as the just ; that if 
 all belief could be laid aside, piety, patriotism, friendship, pa- 
 rental affection, and private virtue, would appear as ridiculous 
 as knight-errantry ; and that the pursuits of pleasure, of ambi- 
 tion, and of avarice, must be grounded upon belief, as well as 
 those that are honourable and virtuous. 
 
 The day-labourer toils at his work, in the belief that he shall 
 receive his wages at night ; and if he had not this belief, he 
 would not toil. We may venture to say, that even the author 
 of this sceptical system wrote it in the belief that it should be 
 read and regarded. I hope he wrote it in the belief also that it 
 would be useful to mankind : and perhaps it may prove so at 
 last. For I conceive the sceptical writers to be a set of men 
 whose business it is to pick holes in the fabric of knowledge 
 wherever it is weak and faulty ; and when these places are pro- 
 perly repaired, the whole building becomes more firm and solid 
 than it was formerly. 
 
 For my own satisfaction, I entered into a serious examination 
 of the principles upon which this sceptical system is built ; and 
 was not a little surprised to find that it leans with its whole 
 weight upon a hypothesis, which is ancient indeed, and hath 
 been very generally received by philosophers, but of which I 
 could find no solid proof. The hypothesis I mean is, that no- 
 thing is perceived but what is in the mind which perceives it ; 
 that we do not really perceive things that are external, but only 
 certain images and pictures of them imprinted upon the mind, 
 which are called impressions and ideas. 
 
DEDICATION. 397 
 
 If this be true ; supposing certain impressions and ideas to 
 exist presently in my mind, I cannot, from their existence, infer 
 the existence of any thing else ; my impressions and ideas are 
 the only existences of which I can have any knowledge or con- 
 ception : and they are such fleeting and transitory beings, that 
 they can have no existence at all, any longer than I am conscious 
 of them. So that, upon this hypothesis, the whole universe 
 about me, bodies and spirits, sun, moon, stars, and earth, friends 
 and relations, all things without exception, which I imagined to 
 have a permanent existence whether I thought of them or not, 
 vanish at once ; 
 
 " And like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 Leave not a track beliind." 
 
 I thought it unreasonable, my lord, upon the authority of 
 philosophers, to admit a hypothesis which, in my opinion, over- 
 turns all philosophy, all religion and virtue, and all common 
 sense : and finding that all the systems concerning the human 
 understanding which I was acquainted with, were built upon 
 this hypothesis, I resolved to inquire into this subject anew, 
 without regard to any hypothesis. 
 
 What I now humbly present to your lordship, is the fruit of 
 this inquiry, so far only as it regards the five senses. In which 
 I claim no other merit, than that of having given great attention 
 to the operations of my own mind, and of having expressed, with 
 all the perspicuity I was able, what, I conceive, every man who 
 gives the same attention, will feel and perceive. The produc- 
 tions of imagination require a genius which soars above the 
 common rank ; but the treasures of knowledge are commonly 
 buried deep, and may be reached by those drudges who can dig 
 with labour and patience, though they have not wings to fly. 
 The experiments that were to be made in this investigation 
 suited me, as. they required no other expense, but that of time 
 and attention, which I could bestow. The leisure of an acade- 
 mical life, disengaged from the pursuits of interest and ambition ; 
 the duty of my profession, which obliged me to give prelections 
 on these subjects to the youth ; and an early inclination to spe- 
 culations of this kind, have enabled me, as I flatter myself, to 
 give a more minute attention to the subject of this inquiry, than 
 has been given before. 
 
398 DEDICATION. 
 
 My thoughts upon this subject were, a good many years ago, 
 put together in another form, for the use of my pupils; and 
 afterwards were submitted to the judgment of a private philoso- 
 phical society, of which I have the honour to be a member. A 
 great part of this inquiry was honoured even by your lordship's 
 perusal. And the encouragement which you, my lord, and 
 others, whose friendship is my boast, and whose judgment I 
 reverence, were pleased to give me, counterbalanced my timidity 
 and diffidence, and determined me to offer it to the public. 
 
 If it appears to your lordship to justify the common sense and 
 reason of mankind, against the sceptical subtilties which, in this 
 age, have endeavoured to put them out of countenance ; if it 
 appears to throw any new light upon one of the noblest parts of 
 the Divine workmanship ; the respect which your lordship puts 
 upon the arts and sciences, and your attention to every thing 
 which tends to the improvement of them, as well as to every 
 thing else that contributes to the felicity of your country, leaves 
 me no room to doubt of your favourable acceptance of this Essay, 
 as the fruit of my industry in a profession wherein I am account- 
 able to your lordship ; and as a testimony of the great esteem 
 and respect wherewith I have the honour to be, 
 
 My lord, 
 Your lordship's most obliged, and most devoted servant, 
 
 THOMAS REID. 
 
 King's College, November 9, 1763. 
 
AN INQUIEY 
 
 INTO 
 
 THE HUMAN MIND 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I. The importance of the subject, and the means of prosecuting 
 it. — The fabric of the human mind is curious and wonderful, as 
 well as that of the human body. The faculties of the one are 
 with no less wisdom adapted to their several ends, than the 
 organs of the other. Nay, it is reasonable to think, that as the 
 mind is a nobler work, and of a higher order than the body, even 
 more of the wisdom and skill of the Divine Architect hath been 
 employed in its structure. [It is, therefore, a subject highly 
 worthy of inquiry (1) on its own account, but still more worthy 
 (2) on account of the extensive influence which the knowledge of 
 it hath over every other branch of science.] 
 
 In the arts and sciences which have least connexion with the 
 mind, its faculties are the engines which we must employ ; and 
 the better we understand their nature and use, their defects and 
 disorders, the more skilfully we shall apply them, and with the 
 greater success. But in the noblest arts, the mind is also the 
 subject upon which we operate. The painter, the poet, the 
 actor, the orator, the moralist, and the statesman, attempt to 
 operate upon the mind in different ways, and for different ends ; 
 and they succeed, according as they touch properly the strings 
 of the human frame. Nor can their several arts ever stand on 
 a solid foundation, or rise to the dignity of science, until they 
 are built on the principles of the human constitution. 
 
 [Wise men now agree, or ought to agree in this — that there is 
 but one way to the knowledge of nature's works — the way of 
 observation and experiment.] By our constitution, we have a 
 strong propensity to trace particular facts and observations to 
 general rules, and to apply such general rules to account for 
 other effects, or to direct us in the production of them. This 
 
OF THE HUMAN MIND. 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 400 
 
 procedure of the understanding is familiar to every human crea- 
 ture in the common affairs of life, and it is the only one by 
 which any real discovery in philosophy can be made. 
 
 i§F The man who first discovered that cold freezes water, and 
 that heat turns it into vapour, proceeded on the same general 
 principles, and in the same method, by which Newton discovered 
 the law of gravitation and the properties of light. His regulce 
 philosophandi are maxims of common sense, and are practised 
 every day in" common life ; and he who philosophizes by other 
 rules, either concerning the material system or concerning the 
 mind, mistakes his aim. 
 
 Conjectures and theories are the creatures of men, and will 
 always be found very unlike the creatures of God. If we would 
 know the works of God, we must consult themselves with atten- 
 tion and humility, without daring to add anything of ours to 
 what they declare. A just interpretation of nature is the only 
 sound and orthodox philosophy : whatever we add of our own, 
 is apocryphal, and of no authority. 
 
 All our curious theories of the formation of the earth, of the 
 generation of animals, of the origin of natural and moral evil, so 
 far as thejr go beyond a just induction from facts, are vanity and 
 folly, no less than the vortices of Des Cartes, or the Archseus of 
 Paracelsus. Perhaps the philosophy of the mind hath been no 
 less adulterated by theories than that of the material system. 
 The theory of ideas is indeed very ancient, and hath been very 
 universally received ; but as neither of these titles can give it 
 authenticity, they ought not to screen it from a free and candid 
 examination ; especially in this age, when it hath produced a 
 system of scepticism, that seems to triumph over all science, and 
 even over the dictates of common sense. 
 
 [All that we know of the body, is owing to anatomical dis- 
 section and observation, and it must be by an anatomy of the 
 mind that we can discover its powers and principles.] 
 
 II. The impediments to our knowledge of the mind. — But it 
 must be acknowledged, that this kind of anatomy is much more 
 difficult than the other ; and therefore it needs not seem strange, 
 that mankind have made less progress in it. To attend accu- 
 rately to the operations of our minds, and make them an object 
 of thought, is no easy matter even to the contemplative, and to 
 the bulk of mankind is next to impossible. 
 
 An anatomist who hath happy opportunities, may have access 
 to examine with his own eyes, and with equal accuracy, bodies of 
 all different ages, sexes, and conditions ; so that what is defective, 
 obscure, or preternatural in one, may be discerned clearly, and 
 in its most perfect state in another. But the anatomist of 
 the mind cannot have the same advantage. It is his own mind only 
 that he can examine with any degree of accuracy and distinct- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 4QJ 
 
 ness. This is the only subject he can look into. He may, from 
 outward signs, collect the operations of other minds ; but these 
 signs are for the most part ambiguous, and must be interpreted 
 by what he perceives within himself. 
 
 So that if a philosopher could delineate to us distinctly and 
 methodically all the operations of the thinking principle within 
 him, which no man was ever able to do, this would be only the 
 anatomy of one particular subject ; which would be both deti- 
 cient and erroneous, if applied to human natuie in general. For 
 a little reflection may satisfy us, that the difference of minds is 
 greater than that of any other beings, which we consider as of 
 the same species. 
 
 Of the various powers and faculties we possess, there are some 
 which nature seems both to have planted and reared, so as to 
 have left nothing to human industry. Such are the powers 
 which we have in common with the brutes, and which are neces- 
 sary to the preservation of the individual, or the continuance of 
 the kind. There are other powers, of which nature hath only 
 planted the seeds in our minds, but hath left the rearing of them 
 to human culture. It is by the proper culture of these, that we 
 are capable of all those improvements in intellectuals, in taste, 
 and in morals, which exalt and dignify human nature ; while, on 
 the other hand, the neglect or perversion of them makes its de- 
 generacy and corruption. 
 
 B5F The two-legged animal that eats of nature's dainties what 
 his taste or appetite craves, and satisfies his thirst at the crystal 
 fountain, who propagates his kind as occasion and lust prompt, 
 repels injuries, and takes alternate labour and repose, is, like a 
 tree in the forest, purely of nature's growth. But this same 
 savage hath within him the seeds of the logician, the man of taste 
 and breeding, the orator, the statesman, the man of virtue, and 
 the saint ; which seeds, though planted in his mind by nature, 
 yet through want of culture and exercise, must lie for ever 
 buried, and be hardly perceivable by himself or by others. 
 
 The lowest degree of social life will bring to light some of 
 those principles which lay hid in the savage state ; and according 
 to his training, and company, and manner of life, some of them, 
 either by their native vigour, or by the force of culture, will 
 thrive and grow up to great perfection, others will be strangely 
 perverted from their natural form, and others checked, or per- 
 haps quite eradicated. 
 
 This makes human nature so various and multiform in the 
 individuals that partake of it, that in point of morals, and intel- 
 lectual endowments, it fills up all that gap which we conceive to 
 be between brutes and devils below, and the celestial orders above ; 
 and such a prodigious diversity of minds must make it extremely 
 difficult to discover the common principles of the species. 
 
 2d 
 

 
 
 402 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 
 
 The language of philosophers with regard to the original 
 faculties of the mind, is so adapted to the prevailing system, that 
 it cannot fit any other ; BUT like a coat that fits the man for whom 
 it was made, and shows him to advantage, which yet will sit very 
 awkward upon one of a different make, although perhaps as 
 handsome and as well proportioned. It is hardly possible to 
 make any innovation in our philosophy concerning the mind and 
 its operations, without using new words and phrases, or giving a 
 different meaning to those that are received; a liberty which, 
 even when necessary, creates prejudice and misconstruction, and 
 which must wait the sanction of time to authorize it. For inno- 
 vations in language, like those in religion and government, are 
 always suspected and disliked by the many, till use hath made 
 them familiar, and prescription hath given them a title. 
 
 If the original perceptions and notions of the mind were to 
 make their appearance single and unmixed, as we first received 
 them from the hand of nature, one accustomed to reflection 
 would have less difficulty in tracing them ; but before we are 
 capable of reflection, they are so mixed, compounded, and de- 
 compounded, by habits, associations, and abstractions, that it is 
 hard to know what they were originally. iiF The mind may in 
 this respect be compared to an apothecary or chemist; whose 
 materials indeed are furnished by nature ; but for the purposes of 
 his art, he mixes, compounds, dissolves, evaporates, and sublimes 
 them, till they put on a quite different appearance ; so that it is 
 very difficult to know what they were at first, and much more to 
 bring them back to their original and natural form. And this 
 work of the mind is not carried on by deliberate acts of mature 
 reason, which we might recollect, but by means of instincts, 
 habits, associations, and other principles, which operate before 
 we come to the use of reason ; so that it is extremely difficult 
 for the mind to return upon its own footsteps, and trace back 
 those operations which have employed it since it first began to 
 think and to act. 
 
 Could we obtain a distinct and full history of all that hath 
 passed in the mind of a child from the beginning of life and sen- 
 sation, till it grows up to the use of reason ; how its infant facul- 
 ties began to work, and how they brought forth and ripened all 
 the various notions, opinions, and sentiments, which we find in 
 ourselves when we come to be capable of reflection ; this would 
 be a treasure of natural history, which would probably give more 
 light into the human faculties, than all the systems of philoso- 
 phers about them since the beginning of the world. But it is in 
 vain to wish for what nature has not put within the reach of our 
 power. [Reflection, the only instrument by which we can discern 
 the powers of the mind, comes too late to observe the progress of 
 nature in raising them from their infancy to perfection.] 
 
INTRODUCTION. 403 
 
 It must therefore require great caution, and great application 
 of mind, for a man that is grown up in all the prejudices of 
 education, fashion, and philosophy, to unravel his notions and 
 opinions, till he finds out the simple and original principles of 
 his constitution, of which no account can be given but the will of 
 our Maker. This may be truly called an analysis of the human 
 faculties ; and till this is performed, it is in vain we expect any 
 just system of the mind ; that is, an enumeration of the original 
 powers and laws of our constitution, and an explication from 
 them of the various phenomena of human nature. 
 
 Success, in an inquiry of this kind, it is not in human power 
 to command ; but perhaps it is possible, by caution and humi- 
 lity, to avoid error and delusion. The labyrinth may be too 
 intricate, and the thread too fine, to be traced through all its 
 windings ; but if we stop where we can trace it no farther, and 
 secure the ground we have gained, there is no harm done ; a 
 quicker eye may in time trace it farther. 
 
 It is genius, and not the want of it, that adulterates philoso- 
 phy, and fills it with error and false theory. A creative imagin- 
 ation disdains the mean offices of digging for a foundation, of 
 removing rubbish, and carrying materials : leaving these servile 
 employments to the drudges in science, it plans a design, and 
 raises a fabric. Invention supplies materials where they are 
 wanting, and fancy adds colouring, and every befitting ornament. 
 The work pleases the eye, and wants nothing but solidity and a 
 good foundation. It seems even to vie with the works of nature, 
 till the envious blast of some succeeding architect blows it into 
 rubbish, and builds as goodly a fabric of his own in its place. 
 Happily for the present age, the castle-builders employ them- 
 selves more in romance than in philosophy. That is undoubt- 
 edly their province, and in those regions the offspring of fancy 
 is legitimate, but in philosophy it is all spurious. 
 
 III. The present state of this part of philosophy. Of Des 
 Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke. — That our philosophy concern- 
 ing the mind and its faculties is but in a very low state, may be 
 reasonably conjectured, even by those who never have narrowly 
 examined it. Are there any principles with regard to the mind, 
 settled with that perspicuity and evidence, which attends the 
 principles of mechanics, astronomy, and optics ? These are 
 really sciences, built upon laws of nature which universally 
 obtain. What is discovered in them, is no longer matter of dis- 
 pute : future ages may add to it, but till the course of nature be 
 changed, what is already established can never be overturned. 
 But when we turn our attention inward, and consider the phe- 
 nomena of human thoughts, opinions, and perceptions, and en- 
 deavour to trace them to the general laws and the first principles 
 of our constitution, we are immediately involved in darkness and 
 
 2 d 2 
 
404 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 
 
 perplexity. And if common sense, or the principles of educa- 
 tion, happen not to be stubborn, it is odds but we end in abso- 
 lute scepticism. 
 
 (1) [Des Cartes finding nothing established in this part of 
 philosophy, in order to lay the foundation of it deep, resolved 
 not to believe his own existence till he should be able to give a 
 good reason for it.] He was, perhaps, the first that took up 
 such a resolution : but if he could indeed have effected his pur- 
 pose, and really become diffident of his existence, his case would 
 have been deplorable, and without any remedy from reason or 
 philosophy. A man that disbelieves his own existence, is surely 
 as unfit to be reasoned with, as a man that believes he is made 
 of glass. There may be disorders in the human frame that may 
 produce such extravagances, but they will never be cured by 
 reasoning. Des Cartes, indeed, would make us believe, that he 
 got out of this delirium by this logical argument, " Cogito, ergo 
 sum." But it is evident he was in his senses all the time, and 
 never seriously doubted of his existence. For he takes it for 
 granted in this argument, and proves nothing at all. I am think- 
 ing, says he, therefore I am : and is it not as good reasoning to 
 say, I am sleeping, therefore I am ? or, I am doing nothing, 
 therefore I am ? If a body moves, it must exist, no doubt ; but 
 if it is at rest, it must exist likewise.* 
 
 Perhaps Des Cartes meant not to assume his own existence in 
 this enthymeme, but the existence of thought ; and to infer from 
 that the existence of a mind, or subject of thought. But why 
 did he not prove the existence of his thought ? Consciousness, 
 it may be said, vouches that. But who is voucher for conscious- 
 ness ? Can any man prove that his consciousness may not deceive 
 him ? No man can : nor can we give a better reason for trust- 
 ing to it, than that every man, while his mind is sound, is deter- 
 mined, by the constitution of his nature, to give implicit belief to 
 it, and to laugh at or pity the man who doubts its testimony. 
 And is not every man in his wits, as much determined to take 
 his existence upon trust as his consciousness ? 
 
 (2) [The other proposition assumed in this argument, That 
 thought cannot be without a mind or subject, is liable to the same 
 objection : not that it wants evidence ; but that its evidence is 
 no clearer, nor more immediate, than that of the proposition to 
 be proved by it.] And taking all these propositions together, — 
 I think, — I am conscious, — every thing that thinks exists, — I 
 exist, — would not every sober man form the same opinion of the 
 man who seriously doubted any one of them ? And if he was 
 his friend, would he not hope for his cure from physic and good 
 regimen, rather than from metaphysics and logic ? 
 
 But supposing it proved that my thought and my conscious- 
 * Vide Essays on the Intellectual Powers, Essay II., chap, viii., sect. 7. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 405 
 
 ness must have a subject, and consequently that I exist, how do 
 1 know that all that train and succession of thoughts which I re- 
 member, belong to one subject, and that the I of this moment 
 is the very individual I of yesterday, and of times past ? 
 
 Des Cartes did not think proper to start this doubt : but Mr. 
 Locke has done it ; and in order to resolve it, gravely determines, 
 that "personal identity consists in consciousness ;" that is, if you 
 are conscious that you did such a thing a twelvemonth ago, this 
 consciousness makes you to be the very person that did it. 
 Now, consciousness of what is past, can signify nothing else but 
 the remembrance that I did it. So that Mr. Locke's principle 
 must be, that identity consists in remembrance; and conse- 
 quently a man must lose his personal identity with regard to 
 every thing he forgets.* 
 
 Nor are these the only instances whereby our philosophy con- 
 cerning the mind appears to be very fruitful in creating doubts, 
 but very unhappy in resolving them. 
 
 Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, have all employed their 
 genius and skill to prove the existence of a material world ; and 
 with very bad success. Poor untaught mortals believe, undoubt- 
 edly, that there is a sun, moon, and stars ; an earth, which we 
 inhabit ; country, friends, and relations, which we enjoy ; land, 
 houses, and moveables, which we possess. But philosophers, 
 pitying the credulity of the vulgar, resolve to have no faith but 
 what is founded on reason. They apply to philosophy to furnish 
 them with reasons for the belief of those things which all man- 
 kind have believed, without being able to give any reason for it. 
 And surely one would expect that in matters of such importance 
 the proof would not be difficult : but it is the most difficult thing 
 in the world. For [these three great men, with the best good will, 
 have not been able, from all the treasures of philosophy, to 
 draw one argument that is fit to convince a man that can reason, 
 of the existence of any one thing without him.] Admired phi- 
 losophy ! daughter of light ! parent of wisdom and knowledge ! 
 if thou art she ! surely thou hast not yet risen upon the 
 human mind, nor blessed us with more of thy rays than are suffi- 
 cient to shed a darkness visible upon the human faculties, and 
 to disturb that repose and security which happier mortals enjoy, 
 who never approached thine altar, nor felt thine influence ! But 
 if, indeed, thou hast not power to dispel these clouds and phantoms 
 which thou hast discovered or created, withdraw this penurious 
 and malignant ray : I despise philosophy, and renounce its guid- 
 ance : let my soul dwell with common sense. 
 
 IV. Apology for these philosophers. — But instead of de- 
 spising the dawn of light, we ought rather to hope for its in- 
 
 * Vide Essay on the Intellectual Powers, &c, Essay I J I., chap, vi., sect. 1, 
 et seq. 
 
4Q6 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 
 
 crease ; instead of Tblaming the philosophers I have mentioned, 
 for the defects and blemishes of their system, we ought rather 
 to honour their memories, as the first discoverers of a region in 
 ^philosophy formerly unknown ; and however lame and imperfect 
 the system may be, they have opened the way to future disco- 
 veries, and are justly entitled to a great share in the merit of 
 them. They have removed an infinite deal of dust and rubbish col- 
 lected in the ages of scholastic sophistry, which had obstructed the 
 way. They have put us in the right road, that of experience 
 and accurate reflection. They have taught us to avoid the snares 
 of ambiguous and ill-defined words, and have spoken and thought 
 upon this subject with a distinctness and perspicuity formerly 
 unknown. They have made many openings that may lead 
 to the discovery of truths which they did not reach, or to the 
 detection of errors in which they were involuntarily entangled. 
 
 It may be observed, that the defects and blemishes in the 
 received philosophy concerning the mind, which have most 
 exposed it to the contempt and ridicule of sensible men, 
 have chiefly been owing to this : [That the votaries of this 
 philosophy, from a natural prejudice in her favour, have en- 
 deavoured to extend her jurisdiction beyond its just limits, and to 
 call to her bar the dictates of common sense.] But these decline 
 this jurisdiction ; they disdain the trial of reasoning, and disown 
 its authority ; they neither claim its aid, nor dread its attacks. 
 
 In this unequal contest betwixt common sense and philosophy, 
 the latter will always come off both with dishonour and loss ; 
 nor can she ever thrive till this rivalship is dropped, these en- 
 croachments given up, and a cordial friendship restored : for in 
 reality [common sense holds nothing of philosophy, nor needs 
 her aid. But, on the other hand, philosophy (if I may be per- 
 mitted to change the metaphor) has no other root but the prin- 
 ciples of common sense ; it grows out of them, and draws its nou- 
 rishment from them : severed from this root, its honours wither, 
 its sap is dried up, it dies and rots.] 
 
 The philosophers of the last age, whom I have mentioned, did 
 not attend to the preserving this union and subordination so care- 
 fully as the honour and interest of philosophy required : but 
 those of the present have waged open war with common sense, 
 and hope to make a complete conquest of it by the subtleties of 
 philosophy ; an attempt no less audacious and vain, than that of 
 the giants to dethrone almighty Jove. 
 
 V. Of Bishop Berkeley ; the Treatise of Human Nature ; and 
 of scepticism. — The present age, I apprehend, has not produced 
 two more acute or more practised in this part of philosophy, 
 than the Bishop of Cloyne, and the author of the " Treatise 
 of Human Nature." The first was no friend to scepticism, but 
 had that warm concern for religious and moral principles which 
 
INTRODUCTION. 407 
 
 became his order : yet [the result of his inquiry was, a serious 
 conviction, that there is no such thing as a material world; 
 nothing in nature but spirits and ideas ; and that the belief of 
 material substances, and of abstract ideas, are the chief causes 
 of all our errors in philosophy, and of all infidelity and heresy 
 in religion.] His arguments are founded upon the principles 
 which were formerly laid down by Des Cartes, Malebranche, and 
 Locke, and which have been very generally received. 
 
 [And the opinion of the ablest judges seems to be, that they 
 neither have been, nor can be confuted ; and that he hath proved by 
 unanswerable arguments what no man in his senses can believe.'] 
 
 The second proceeds upon the same principles, but carries 
 them to their full length ; and as the bishop undid the whole 
 material world, this author, upon the same grounds, undoes the 
 world of spirits, and leaves nothing in nature but ideas and im- 
 pressions, without any subject on which they may be impressed. 
 
 It seems to be a peculiar strain of humour in this author, to 
 set out in his introduction, by promising, with a grave face, no 
 less than a complete system of the sciences, upon a foundation 
 entirely new, to wit, that of human nature ; when the intention 
 of the whole work is to show that there is neither human nature 
 nor science in the world. It may perhaps be unreasonable to 
 complain of this conduct in an author who neither believes his 
 own existence nor that of his reader ; and therefore could not 
 mean to disappoint him, or to laugh at his credulity. Yet I 
 cannot imagine that the author of the " Treatise of Human 
 Nature" is so sceptical as to plead this apology. He believed, 
 against his principles, that he should be read, and that he should 
 retain his personal identity, till he reaped the honour and repu- 
 tation justly due to his metaphysical acumen. Indeed [he inge- 
 nuously acknowledges, that it was only in solitude and retirement 
 that he could yield any assent to his own philosophy ; society, 
 like daylight, dispelled the darkness and fogs of scepticism, and 
 made him yield to the dominion of common sense.] Nor did I 
 ever hear him charged with doing anything, even in solitude, 
 that argued such a degree of scepticism as his principles main- 
 tain. Surely if his friends apprehended this, they would have 
 had the charity never to leave him alone. 
 
 Pyrrho the Elean, the father of this philosophy, seems to have 
 carried it to greater perfection than any of his successors : for if 
 we may believe Antigonus the Carystian, quoted by Diogenes 
 Laertius, his life corresponded to his doctrine. And therefore, 
 if a cart run against him, or a dog attacked him, or if he came 
 upon a precipjce, he would not stir a foot to avoid the danger, 
 giving no credit to his senses. But his attendants, who, happily 
 for him, were not so great sceptics, took care to keep him out 
 of harm's way ; so that he lived till he was ninety years of age. 
 
408 0F THE HUMAN MIND CHAP. I. 
 
 Nor is it to be doubted but this author's friends would have 
 been equally careful to keep him from harm, if ever his principles 
 had taken too strong a hold of him. 
 
 It is probable the " Treatise of Human Nature" was not 
 written in company ; yet it contains manifest indications that 
 the author every now and then relapsed into the faith of the 
 vulgar, and could hardly, for half a dozen pages, keep up the 
 sceptical character. 
 
 In like manner the great Pyrrho himself forgot his principles 
 on some ocasions ; and is said once to have been in such a pas- 
 sion with his cook, who probably had not roasted his dinner to 
 his mind, that with the spit in his hand, and the meat upon it, 
 he pursued him even into the market-place. 
 
 It is a bold philosophy that rejects, without ceremony, prin- 
 ciples which irresistibly govern the belief and the conduct of all 
 mankind in the common concerns of life ; and to which the phi- 
 losopher himself must yield, after he imagines he hath confuted 
 them. Such principles are older, and of more authority, than 
 philosophy : she rests upon them as her basis, not they upon her.* 
 If she could overturn them, she must be buried in their ruins ; 
 but all the engines of philosophical subtlety are too weak for 
 this purpose ; and the attempt is no less ridiculous than if a 
 mechanic should contrive an axis in peritrochio to remove the 
 earth out of its place ; or if a mathematician should pretend to 
 demonstrate that things equal to the same thing are not equal 
 to one another. 
 
 Zeno endeavoured to demonstrate the impossibility of motion; 
 Hobbes, that there was no difference between right and wrong ; 
 and this author, that no credit is to be given to our senses, to 
 our memory, or even to demonstration. Such philosophy is 
 justly ridiculous, even to those who cannot detect the fallacy 
 of it. It can have no other tendency than to show the acuteness 
 of the sophist, at the expense of disgracing reason and human 
 nature, and making mankind yahoos. 
 
 VI. Of the " Treatise of Human Nature." — There are other 
 prejudices against this system of human nature, which even 
 upon a general view, may make one diffident of it. 
 
 Des Cartes, Hobbes, and this author, have each of them given 
 us a system of human nature ; an undertaking too vast for any 
 one man, how great soever his genius and abilities may be. 
 There must surely be reason to apprehend, that many parts of 
 human nature never came under their observation ; and that 
 others have been stretched and distorted, to fill up blanks, and 
 complete the system. Christopher Columbus, or Sebastian Cabot, 
 might almost as reasonably have undertaken to give us a com- 
 plete map of America. 
 
 * Vide p. 406. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 4Q9 
 
 There is a certain character and style in nature's works, which 
 is never attained in the most perfect imitation of them. This 
 seems to be wanting in the systems of human nature I have 
 mentioned, and particularly in the last. One may see a puppet 
 make a variety of motions and gesticulations, which strike much 
 at first view ; but when it is accurately observed, and taken to 
 pieces, our admiration ceases ; we comprehend the whole art of 
 the maker. How unlike is it to that which it represents ! what 
 a poor piece of work compared with the body of a man, whose 
 structure the more we know the more wonders we discover in it, 
 and the more sensible we are of our ignorance ! Is the mechan- 
 ism of the mind so easily comprehended, when that of the body 
 is so difficult ? Yet by this system, three laws of association, 
 joined to a few original feelings, explain the whole mechanism 
 of sense, imagination, memory, belief, and of all the actions and 
 passions of the mind. Is this the man that nature made ? I 
 suspect it is not so easy to look behind the scenes in nature's 
 work. This is a puppet surely, contrived by too bold an ap- 
 prentice of nature to mimic her work. It shows tolerably by 
 candlelight, but brought into clear day, and taken to pieces, it 
 will appear to be a man made with mortar and a trowel. The 
 more we know of other parts of nature, the more we like and 
 approve them. The little I know of the planetary system ; of 
 the earth which we inhabit ; of minerals, vegetables, and ani- 
 mals ; of my own body, and of the laws which obtain in these 
 parts of nature, opens to my mind grand and beautiful scenes, 
 and contributes equally to my happiness and power. But when 
 I look within, and consider the mind itself, which makes me 
 capable of all these prospects and enjoyments; if it is indeed 
 what the " Treatise of Human Nature" makes it, I find I have 
 been only in an enchanted castle, imposed upon by spectres and 
 apparitions. I blush inwardly to think how I have been deluded ; 
 I am ashamed of my frame, and can hardly forbear expostulating 
 with my destiny: Is this thy pastime, O Nature, to put such 
 tricks upon a silly creature, and then to take off the mask, and 
 show him how he hath been befooled ? If this is the philosophy 
 of human nature, my soul enter thou not into her secrets. It is 
 surely the forbidden tree of knowledge ; I no sooner taste of it, 
 than I perceive myself naked, and stripped of all things, yea 
 even of my very self. I see myself, and the whole frame of 
 nature, shrink into fleeting ideas, which, like Epicurus's atoms, 
 dance about in emptiness. 
 
 VII. The system of all these authors is the same, and leads to 
 scepticism. — But what if these profound disquisitions into the 
 first principles of human nature, do naturally and necessarily 
 plunge a man into this abyss of scepticism ? May we not rea- 
 sonably judge so from what hath happened? Des Cartes no 
 
410 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 
 
 sooner began to dig in this mine, than scepticism was ready to 
 break in upon him. He did what he could to shut it out. Male- 
 branche and Locke, who dug deeper, found the difficulty of 
 keeping out this enemy still to increase : but they laboured 
 honestly in the design. Then Berkeley, who carried on the 
 work, despairing of securing all, bethought himself of an expe- 
 dient : by giving up the material world, which he thought might 
 be spared without loss, and even with advantage, he hoped by 
 an impregnable partition to secure the world of spirits. But, 
 alas! the " Treatise of Human Nature" wantonly sapped the foun- 
 dation of this partition, and drowned all in one universal deluge. 
 These facts, which are undeniable, do indeed give reason to 
 apprehend, that Des Cartes's system of the human understand- 
 ing, which I shall beg leave to call the ideal system, and which, 
 with some improvements made by later writers, is now generally 
 received, hath some original defect ; that this scepticism is inlaid 
 in it, and reared along with it ; and, therefore, that we must lay 
 it open to the foundation, and examine the materials before we 
 can expect to raise any solid and useful fabric of knowledge on 
 this subject. 
 
 VIII. We ought not to despair of a better. — But is this to be 
 despaired of, because Des Cartes and his followers have failed ? 
 By no means. This pusillanimity would be injurious to our- 
 selves, and injurious to truth. Useful discoveries are sometimes 
 indeed the effect of superior genius, but more frequently they 
 are the birth of time and of accidents. flUF A traveller of good 
 judgment may mistake his way, and be unawares led into a wrong 
 track; and while the road is fair before him, he may go on with- 
 out suspicion, and be followed by others ; but when it ends in a 
 coal-pit, it requires no great judgment to know that he hath gone 
 wrong, nor perhaps to find out what misled him. 
 
 In the mean time the unprosperous state of this part of philo- 
 sophy hath produced an effect, somewhat discouraging indeed to 
 any attempt of this nature, but an effect which might be expected, 
 and which time only and better success can remedy. Sensible 
 men, who never will be sceptics in matters of common life, are 
 apt to treat with sovereign contempt every thing that hath been 
 said, or is to be said, upon this subject. It is metaphysic, say 
 they : who minds it ? Let scholastic sophisters entangle them- 
 selves in their own cobwebs ; I am resolved to take my own 
 existence, and the existence of other things, upon trust ; and to 
 believe that snow is cold, and honey sweet, whatever they may 
 say to the contrary. He must either be a fool, or want to make 
 a fool of me, that would reason me out of my reason and senses. 
 
 I confess I know not what a sceptic can answer to this, nor 
 by what good argument he can plead even for a hearing ; for 
 either his reasoning is sophistry, and so deserves contempt ; or 
 
OF SMELLING. 
 
 411 
 
 there is no truth in the human faculties, and then why should we 
 
 reason 
 
 If, therefore, a man find himself entangled in these metaphysi- 
 cal toils, and can find no other way to escape, let him bravely cut 
 the knot which he cannot loose, curse metaphysic, and dissuade 
 every man from meddling with it. For if I have been led into 
 bogs and quagmires by following an ignis fatuus, what can I do 
 better than to warn others to beware of it ? If philosophy con- 
 tradicts herself, befools her votaries, and deprives them of every 
 object worthy to be pursued or enjoyed, let her be sent back to 
 the infernal regions from which she must have had her original. 
 
 But is it absolutely certain that this fair lady is of the party ? 
 Is it not possible she may have been misrepresented ? Have not 
 men of genius in former ages often made their own dreams to 
 pass for her oracles ? Ought she then to be condemned without any 
 further hearing? This would be unreasonable. [I have found 
 her in all other matters an agreeable companion, a faithful coun- 
 sellor, a friend to common sense, and to the happiness of mankind. 
 This justly entitles her to my correspondence and confidence, till 
 I find infallible proofs of her infidelity.] 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF SMELLING. 
 
 I. The order of proceeding. Of the medium and organ of smell. 
 — It is so difficult to unravel the operations of the human under- 
 standing, and to reduce them to their first principles, that we 
 cannot expect to succeed in the attempt, but by beginning with 
 the simplest, and proceeding by very cautious steps to the more 
 complex. The five external senses may for this reason claim to 
 be first considered in an analysis of the human faculties. And 
 the same reason ought to determine us to make a choice even 
 among the senses, and to give the precedence, not to the noblest, 
 or most useful, but to the simplest, and that whose objects are 
 least in danger of being mistaken for other things. 
 
 In this view, an analysis of our sensations may be carried on 
 perhaps with most ease and distinctness, by taking them in this 
 order : Smelling, Tasting, Hearing, Touch, and, last of all, 
 Seeing. 
 
 Natural philosophy informs us, that all animal and vegetable 
 bodies, and probably all or most other bodies, while exposed to 
 the air, are continually sending forth effluvia of vast subtlety, not 
 only in their state of life and growth, but in the states of fer- 
 mentation and putrefaction. These volatile particles do probably 
 
41g OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 repel each other, and so scatter themselves in the air, until they 
 meet with other bodies to which they have some chemical affinity, 
 and with which they unite, and form new concretes. All the 
 smell of plants, and of other bodies, is caused by these volatile 
 parts, and is smelled wherever they are scattered in the air : and 
 the acuteness of smell in some animals, shows us that these 
 effluvia spread far, and must be inconceivably subtile. 
 
 Whether, as some chemists conceive, every species of bodies 
 hath a spiritus rector, a kind of soul, which causes the smell, and 
 all the specific virtues of that body, and which, being extremely 
 volatile, flies about in the air in quest of a proper receptacle, I 
 do not inquire. This, like most other theories, is perhaps rather 
 the product of imagination than of just induction. But that all 
 bodies are smelled by means of effluvia which they emit, and 
 which are drawn into the nostrils along with the air, there is no 
 reason to doubt. So that there is manifest appearance of design 
 in placing the organ of smell in the inside of that canal, through 
 which the air is continually passing in inspiration and expira- 
 tion. 
 
 Anatomy informs us, that the membrana pituitaria, and the 
 olfactory nerves, which are distributed to the villous parts of 
 this membrane, are the organs destined by the wisdom of nature 
 to this sense : so that when a body emits no effluvia, or when 
 they do not enter into the nose, or when the pituitary membrane 
 or olfactory nerves are rendered unfit to perform their office, it 
 cannot be smelled. 
 
 [Yet, notwithstanding this, it is evident, that neither the organ 
 of smell, nor the medium, nor any motions we can conceive excited 
 in the membrane above mentioned, or in the nerve or animal 
 spirits, do in the least resemble the sensation of smelling : nor 
 could that sensation of itself ever have led us to think of nerves, 
 animal spirits, or effluvia.] 
 
 II. The sensation considered abstractly. — Having premised 
 these things, with regard to the medium and organ of this sense, 
 let us now attend carefully to what the mind is conscious of when 
 we smell a rose or a lily ; and since our language affords no other 
 name for this sensation, we shall call it a smell or odour, carefully 
 excluding from the meaning of those names every thing but the 
 sensation itself, at least till we have examined it. 
 
 Suppose a person who never had this sense before, to receive 
 it all at once, and to smell a rose ; can he perceive any similitude 
 or agreement between the smell and the rose ? or indeed between 
 it and any other object whatsoever ? Certainly he cannot. He 
 finds himself affected in a new way, he knows not why, or from 
 what cause. Like a man that feels some pain or pleasure 
 formerly unknown to him, he is conscious that he is not the 
 cause of it himself; but cannot, from the nature of the thing, 
 
OF SMELLING. ^jg 
 
 determine whether it is caused by body or spirit, by something 
 near, or by something at a distance. It has no similitude to any- 
 thing else, so as to admit of a comparison ; and therefore he can 
 conclude nothing from it, unless perhaps that there must be some 
 unknown cause of it. 
 
 It is evidently ridiculous, to ascribe to it figure, colour, exten- 
 sion, or any other quality of bodies. He cannot give it a place, 
 any more than he can give a place to melancholy or joy: nor can 
 he conceive it to have any existence, but when it is smelled. So 
 that it appears to be a simple and original affection or feeling 
 of the mind, altogether inexplicable and unaccountable. It is 
 indeed impossible that it can be in any body : it is a sensation, 
 and a sensation can only be in a sentient thing. 
 
 The various odours have each their different degrees of strength 
 or weakness. Most of them are agreeable or disagreeable ; and 
 frequently those that are agreeable when weak, are disagreeable 
 when stronger. When we compare different smells together, we 
 can perceive very few resemblances or contrarieties, or indeed 
 relations of any kind between them : they are all so simple in 
 themselves, and so different from each other, that it is hardly 
 possible to divide them into genera and species. Most of the 
 names we give them are particular ; as the smell of a rose, of a 
 jessamine, and the like. . Yet there are some general names ; as 
 sweet, stinking, musty, -putrid, cadaverous, aromatic. Some of 
 them seem to refresh and animate the mind, others to deaden 
 and depress it. 
 
 III. Sensation and its remembrance natural principles of be- 
 lief. — So far we have considered this sensation abstractly. Let 
 us next compare it with other things to which it bears some 
 relation. And first I shall compare this sensation with the re- 
 membrance and the imagination of it. 
 
 I can think of the smell of a rose when I do not smell it ; and 
 it is possible that when I think of it, there is neither rose nor 
 smell any where existing. But when I smell it, I am necessarily 
 determined to believe that the sensation really exists. This is 
 common to all sensations, that as they cannot exist but in being 
 perceived, so they cannot be perceived but they must exist. I 
 could as easily doubt of my own existence, as of the existence 
 of my sensations. Even those profound philosophers who have 
 endeavoured to disprove their own existence, have yet left their 
 sensations to stand upon their own bottom, stript of a subject, 
 rather than call in question the reality of their existence. 
 
 Here then a sensation, a smell for instance, may be presented 
 to the mind three different ways ; it may be smelled, it may be 
 remembered, it may be imagined or thought of. In the first 
 case, it is necessarily accompanied with a belief of its present 
 existence ; in the second, it is necessarily accompanied with a 
 
414 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 belief of its past existence ; and in the last, it is not accompanied 
 with belief at all, but is what the logicians call a simple appre- 
 hension. 
 
 Why sensation should compel our belief of the present exist- 
 ence of the thing, memory a belief of its past existence, and 
 imagination no belief at all, is what I believe no philosopher can 
 give a shadow of reason for, but that such is the nature of these 
 operations : they are all simple and original) and therefore inex- 
 plicable acts of the mind. 
 
 Suppose that once, and only once, I smelled a tuberose in a 
 certain room where it grew in a pot, and gave a very grateful 
 perfume. Next day I relate what I saw and smelled. When I 
 attend as carefully as I can to what passes in my mind in this 
 case, it appears evident, that the very thing I saw yesterday, and 
 the fragrance I smelled, are now the immediate objects of my 
 mind when I remember it. Further, I can imagine this pot and 
 flower transported to the room where I now sit, and yielding the 
 same perfume. Here likewise it appears, that the individual 
 thing which I saw and smelled, is the object of my imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 [Philosophers indeed tell me, that the immediate object of my 
 memory and imagination in this case, is not the past sensation, 
 but an idea of it, an image, phantasm, or species of the odour I 
 smelled : that this idea presently exists in my mind, or in my 
 sensorium ; and the mind contemplating this present idea, finds 
 it a representation of what is past, or of what may exist ; and 
 accordingly calls it memory, or imagination.] This is the doc- 
 trine of the ideal philosophy ; which we shall not now examine, 
 that we may not interrupt the thread of the present investiga- 
 tion. Upon the strictest attention, memory appears to me to 
 have things that are past, and not present ideas, for its object. 
 [We shall afterwards examine this system of ideas, and endea- 
 vour to make it appear, that no solid proof has ever been advanced 
 of the existence of ideas ; that they are a mere fiction and hypo- 
 thesis, contrived to solve the phenomena of the human under- 
 standing ; that they do not at all answer this end ; and that this 
 hypothesis of ideas or images of things in the mind, or in the 
 sensorium, is the parent of those many paradoxes so shocking to 
 common sense, and of that scepticism, which disgrace our philo- 
 sophy of the mind, and have brought upon it the ridicule and 
 contempt of sensible men.] 
 
 In the mean time, I beg leave to think with the vulgar, that 
 when I remember the smell of the tuberose, that very sensation 
 which I had yesterday, and which has now no more any existence, 
 is the immediate object of my memory ; and when I imagine it 
 present, the sensation itself, and not any idea of it, is the object 
 of my imagination. But though the object of my sensation, 
 
OF SMELLING. 415 
 
 memory, and imagination, be in this case the same, yet these 
 acts or operations of the mind are as different, and as easily dis- 
 tinguishable, as smell, taste, and sound. I am conscious of a 
 difference in kind between sensation and memory, and between 
 both and imagination. I find this also, that the sensation com- 
 pels my belief of the present existence of the smell, and memory 
 my belief of its past existence. There is a smell, is the imme- 
 diate testimony of sense ; there was a smell, is the immediate 
 testimony of memory. If you ask me why I believe that the 
 smell exists, I can give no other reason, nor will ever be able to 
 give any other, than that I smell it. If you ask why I believe 
 that it existed yesterday, I can give no other reason but that I 
 remember it. 
 
 Sensation and memory, therefore, are simple, original, and 
 perfectly distinct operations of the mind, and both of them are 
 original principles of belief. Imagination is distinct from both, 
 but is no principle of belief. Sensation implies the present 
 existence of its object ; memory its past existence ; but imagina- 
 tion views its object naked, and without any belief of its exist- 
 ence or non-existence, and is therefore what the schools call 
 simple apprehension. 
 
 IY. Judgment and belief in some cases precede simple appre- 
 hension. — But here again the ideal system comes in our way : 
 it teaches us, that the first operation of the mind about its 
 ideas, is simple apprehension ; that is, the bare conception of a 
 thing without any belief about it; and that after we have got 
 simple apprehensions, by comparing them together, we perceive 
 agreements or disagreements between them ; and that this per- 
 ception of the agreement or disagreement of ideas is all that we 
 call belief, judgment, or knowledge. Now, this appears to me 
 to be all fiction, without any foundation in nature : for it is ac- 
 knowledged by all, that sensation must go before memory and 
 imagination; and hence it necessarily follows that apprehension, 
 accompanied with belief and knowledge, must go before simple 
 apprehension, at least in the matters we are now speaking of. 
 So that here, [instead of saying, that the belief or knowledge is 
 got by putting together and comparing the simple apprehensions, 
 we ought rather to say, that the simple apprehension is performed 
 by resolving and analyzing a natural and original judgment.] 
 And it is with the operations of the mind, in this case, as with 
 natural bodies, which are indeed compounded of simple princi- 
 ples or elements. Nature does not exhibit these elements sepa- 
 rate, to be compounded by us ; she exhibits them mixed and 
 compounded in concrete bodies, and it is only by art and chemi- 
 cal analysis that they can be separated. 
 
 V. 'Two theories of the nature of belief refuted. Conclu- 
 
416 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 sions from what hath been said. — But what is this belief or 
 knowledge which accompanies sensation and memory ? Every 
 man knows what it is, but no man can define it. Does any man 
 pretend to define sensation, or to define consciousness ? It is 
 happy, indeed, that no man does. And if no philosopher had 
 endeavoured to define and explain belief, we had wanted some 
 of those paradoxes of the ideal philosophy, which will always to 
 sensible men appear as incredible as anything that ever enthusiasm 
 dreamed or superstition swallowed. Of this kind surely is that 
 modern discovery of the ideal philosophy, that sensation, me- 
 mory, belief, and imagination, where they have the same object, 
 are only different degrees of strength and vivacity in the idea. 
 Suppose the idea to be that of a future state after death ; one 
 man believes it firmly ; this means no more than that he hath a 
 strong and lively idea of it : another neither believes nor disbe- 
 lieves, that is, he has a weak and faint idea. Suppose now a 
 third person believes firmly that there is no such thing ; I am at 
 a loss to know whether his idea be faint or lively : if it is faint, 
 then there may be a firm belief where the idea is faint ; if the 
 idea is lively, then the belief of a future state and the belief of 
 no future state must be one and the same. The same argu- 
 ments that are used to prove that belief implies only a stronger 
 idea of the object than simple apprehension, might as well be 
 used to prove that love implies only a stronger idea of the object 
 than indifference. And then what shall we say of hatred, which 
 must upon this hypothesis be a degree of love, or a degree of 
 indifference ? If it should be said, that in love there is some- 
 thing more than an idea, to wit, an affection of the mind ; may 
 it not be said with equal reason, that in belief there is something 
 more than an idea, to wit, an assent or persuasion of the mind ? 
 But perhaps it may be thought as ridiculous to argue against 
 this strange opinion, as to maintain it. Indeed, if a man should 
 maintain that a circle, a square, and a triangle, differ only in 
 magnitude, and not in figure, I believe he would find nobody 
 disposed either to believe him or to argue against him ; and yet 
 I do not think it less shocking to common sense to maintain 
 that sensation, memory, and imagination, differ only in degree, 
 and not in kind. I know it is said, that in a delirium, or in 
 dreaming, men are apt to mistake one for the other. But does 
 it follow from this, that men who are neither dreaming, nor in 
 a delirium, cannot distinguish them ? [But how does a man 
 know, that he is not in a delirium? I cannot tell; neither can 
 I tell how a man knows that he exists : but if any man seriously 
 doubts whether he is in a delirium, I think it highly probable 
 that he is, and that it is time to seek for a cure,] which I am 
 persuaded he will not find in the whole system of logic. 
 
OF SMELLING. 4} 7 
 
 I mentioned before Mr. Locke's notion of belief or knowledge : 
 he holds that it consists in a perception of the agreement or dis- 
 agreement of ideas ; and this he values himself upon as a very 
 important discovery. 
 
 [We shall have occasion afterwards to examine more particu- 
 larly this grand principle of Mr. Locke's philosophy, and to show 
 that it is one of the main pillars of modern scepticism, although 
 Mr. Locke had no intention to make that use of it.] At pre- 
 sent, let us only consider how it agrees with the instances of be- 
 lief now under consideration ; and whether it gives any light to 
 them. I believe that the sensation I have, exists ; and that the 
 sensation I remember, does not now exist, but did exist yester- 
 day. Here, according to Mr. Locke's system, I compare the 
 idea of a sensation with the ideas of past and present existence : 
 at one time I perceive that this idea agrees with that of present 
 existence, but disagrees with that of past existence ; but at an- 
 other time it agrees with the idea of past existence, and disagrees 
 with that of present existence. Truly these ideas seem to be 
 very capricious in their agreements and disagreements. Be- 
 sides, I cannot for my heart conceive what is meant by either. 
 I say a sensation exists, and I think I understand clearly what 
 I mean. But you want to make the thing clearer, and for that 
 end tell me, that there is an agreement between the idea of that 
 sensation and the idea of existence. To speak freely, this con- 
 veys to me no light, but darkness ; I can conceive no otherwise 
 of it, than as an odd and obscure circumlocution. I conclude, 
 then, that the belief which accompanies sensation and memory, 
 is a simple act of the mind, which cannot be defined. It is in 
 this respect like seeing and hearing, which can never be so de- 
 fined as to be understood by those who have not these faculties ; 
 and to such as have them, no definition can make these opera- 
 tions more clear than they are already. In like manner, every 
 man that has any belief, (and he must be a curiosity that has 
 none,) knows perfectly what belief is, but can never define or 
 explain it. I conclude also, that sensation, memory, and ima- 
 gination, even where they have the same object, are operations 
 of a quite different nature, and perfectly distinguishable by those 
 who are sound and sober. A man that is in danger of confound- 
 ing them, is indeed to be pitied ; but whatever relief he may find 
 from another art, he can find none from logic or metaphysics. I 
 conclude further, that it is no less a part of the human constitu- 
 tion, to believe the present existence of our sensations, and to 
 believe the past existence of what we remember, than it is to be- 
 lieve that twice two make four. [The evidence of (1) sense, the 
 evidence of (2) memory, and the evidence of the (3) necessary 
 relations of things, are all distinct and original kinds of evidence, 
 
 2e 
 
418 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 equally grounded on our constitution : none of them is depend- 
 ent upon or resolvable into any of the rest.] To reason against 
 any of these kinds of evidence is absurd ; nay, to reason for them 
 is absurd. They are first principles ; and such fall not within 
 the province of reason, but of common sense. 
 
 VI. Apology for metaphysical absurdities. Sensation without 
 a sentient, a consequence of the theory of ideas. Consequences of 
 this strange opinion. — Having considered the relation which the 
 sensation of smelling bears to the remembrance and imagination 
 of it, I proceed to consider, what relation it bears to a mind, or 
 sentient principle. It is certain, no man can conceive or believe 
 smelling to exist of itself, without a mind, or something that has 
 the power of smelling, of which it is called a sensation, an opera- 
 tion, or feeling. Yet if any man should demand a proof, that 
 sensation cannot be without a mind, or sentient being, I confess 
 that I can give none ; and that to pretend to prove it, seems to 
 me almost as absurd as to deny it. 
 
 This might have been said without any apology before the 
 " Treatise of Human Nature" appeared in the world. For till 
 that time no man, as far as I know, ever thought either of calling 
 in question that principle, or of giving a reason for his belief of 
 it. Whether thinking beings were of an ethereal or igneous 
 nature, whether material or immaterial, was variously disputed ; 
 but that thinking is an operation of some kind of being or other, 
 was always taken for granted, as a principle that could not pos- 
 sibly admit of doubt. 
 
 However, since the author above mentioned, who is undoubt- 
 edly one of the most acute metaphysicians that this or any age 
 hath produced, hath treated it as a vulgar prejudice, and main- 
 tained, that the mind is only a succession of ideas and impres- 
 sions, without any subject ; his opinion, however contrary to the 
 common apprehensions of mankind, deserves respect. I beg, 
 therefore, once for all, that no offence may be taken at charging 
 this or other metaphysical notions with absurdity, or with being 
 contrary to the common sense of mankind. No disparagement is 
 meant to the understandings of the authors or maintainers of 
 such opinions. [Indeed they commonly proceed not from defect 
 of understanding, but from an excess of refinement : the reason- 
 ing that leads to them, often gives new light to the subject, and 
 shows real genius and deep penetration in the author ; and the 
 premises do more than atone for the conclusion.] 
 
 [If there are certain principles, as I think there are, which 
 the constitution of our nature leads us to believe, and which we 
 are under a necessity to take for granted in the common concerns 
 of life, without being able to give a reason for them ; these are 
 what we call the principles of common sense ; and what is mani- 
 festly contrary to them, is what we call absurd.] 
 
OF SMELLING. 41 9 
 
 Indeed, if it is true, and to be received as a principle of philo- 
 sophy, " That sensation and thought may be without a thinking 
 being ;" it must be acknowledged to be the most wonderful dis- 
 covery that this or any other age hath produced. The received 
 doctrine of ideas is the principle from which it is deduced, and of 
 which indeed it seems to be a just and natural consequence. And 
 it is probable, that it would not have been so late a discovery, 
 but that it is so shocking and repugnant to the common appre- 
 hensions of mankind, that it required an uncommon degree of 
 philosophical intrepidity to usher it into the world. It is a 
 fundamental principle of the ideal system, that every object of 
 thought must be an impression, or an idea, that is, a faint copy 
 of some preceding impression. This is a principle so commonly 
 received, that the author above mentioned, although his whole 
 system is built upon it, never offers the least proof of it. It is 
 upon this principle, as a fixed point, that he erects his metaphy- 
 sical engines, to overturn heaven and earth, body and spirit. 
 And indeed, in my apprehension, it is altogether sufficient for 
 the purpose. For if impressions and ideas are the only objects 
 of thought, then heaven and earth, and body and spirit, and 
 every thing you please, must signify only impressions and ideas, 
 or they must be words without any meaning. It seems, there- 
 fore, that this notion, however strange, is closely connected with 
 the received doctrine of ideas, and we must either admit the 
 conclusion, or call in question the premises. 
 
 Ideas seem to have something in their nature unfriendly to 
 other existences. They were first introduced into philosophy, 
 in the humble character of images or representatives of things ; 
 and in this character they seemed not only to be inoffensive, but 
 to serve admirably well for explaining the operations of the 
 human understanding. But since men began to reason clearly 
 and distinctly about them, they have by degrees supplanted their 
 constituents, and undermined the existence of every thing but 
 themselves. First they discarded all secondary qualities of bodies ; 
 and it was found out by their means, that fire is not hot, nor 
 snow cold, nor honey sweet ; and, in a word, that heat and cold, 
 sound, colour, taste, and smell, are nothing but ideas or impres- 
 sions. Bishop Berkeley advanced them a step higher, and found 
 out, by just reasoning, from the same principles, that extension, 
 solidity, space, figure, and body, are ideas, and that there is 
 nothing in nature but ideas and spirits. But the triumph of 
 ideas was completed by the " Treatise of Human Nature," which 
 discards spirits also, and leaves ideas and impressions as the sole 
 existences in the universe. What if at last, having nothing else 
 to contend with, they should fall foul of one another, and leave 
 no existence in nature at all ? This would surely bring philosophy 
 
 2 e 2 
 
420 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 into danger ; for what should we have left to talk or to dispute 
 about ? 
 
 [However, hitherto these philosophers acknowledge the exist- 
 ence of impressions and ideas ; they acknowledge certain laws of 
 attraction, or rules of precedence, according to which ideas and 
 impressions range themselves in various forms, and succeed one 
 another : but that they should belong to a mind, as its proper 
 goods and chattels, this they have found to be a vulgar error.] 
 These ideas are as free and independent as the birds of the air, 
 or as Epicurus's atoms when they pursued their journey in the 
 vast inane. Shall we conceive them like the films of things in 
 the Epicurean system ? 
 
 " Principio hoc dico, rerum simulacra vagari, 
 Multa modis multis, in cunctas undique parteis 
 Tenuia, quae facile inter se junguntur in auris, 
 Obvia cum veniunt." — Lucr. 
 " I assert that many images of things wander freely, attenuated forms, into 
 every part of the universe, which, when they meet, are readily united in the 
 atmosphere." 
 
 Or do they rather resemble Aristotle's intelligible species after 
 they are shot forth from the object, and before they have yet 
 struck upon the passive intellect ? But why should we seek to 
 compare them with any thing, since there is nothing in nature 
 but themselves ? They make the whole furniture of the uni- 
 verse ; starting into existence, or out of it, without any cause ; 
 combining into parcels, which the vulgar call minds ; and suc- 
 ceeding one another by fixed laws, without time, place, or author 
 of those laws. 
 
 Yet after all, these self-existent and independent ideas look 
 pitifully naked and destitute, when left thus alone in the uni- 
 verse, and seem, upon the whole, to be in a worse condition than 
 they were before. Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, as they 
 made much use of ideas, treated them handsomely, and provided 
 them in decent accommodation ; lodging them either in the 
 pineal gland, or in the pure intellect, or even in the Divine 
 mind. They moreover clothed them with a commission, and 
 made them representatives of things, which gave them some 
 dignity and character. But the " Treatise of Human Nature," 
 though no less indebted to them, seems to have made but a bad 
 return, by bestowing upon them this independent existence ; 
 since thereby they are turned out of house and home, and set 
 adrift in the world, without friend or connexion, without a rag 
 to cover their nakedness : and who knows but the whole system 
 of ideas may perish by the indiscreet zeal of their friends to 
 exalt them ? 
 
 However this may be, [it is certainly a most amazing discovery, 
 
OF SMELLING. ^ \ 
 
 that thought and ideas may be zvithout any thinking being. A 
 discovery big with consequences which cannot easily be traced 
 by those deluded mortals who think and reason in the common 
 track.] We were always apt to imagine, that thought supposed 
 a thinker, and love a lover, and treason a traitor : but this, it 
 seems, was all a mistake ; and it is found out, that there may be 
 treason without a traitor, and love without a lover, laws without 
 a legislator, and punishment without a sufferer, succession with- 
 out time, and motion without any thing moved, or space in which 
 it may move : or if, in these cases, ideas are the lover, the suf- 
 ferer, the traitor, it were to be wished that the author of this 
 discovery had further condescended to acquaint us, whether ideas 
 can converse together, and be under obligations of duty or grati- 
 tude to each other ; whether they can make promises and enter 
 into leagues and covenants, and fulfil or break them, and be 
 punished for the breach. If one set of ideas makes a covenant, 
 another breaks it, and a third is punished for it, there is reason 
 to think that justice is no natural virtue in this system. 
 
 It seemed very natural to think, that the " Treatise of Human 
 Nature " required an author, and a very ingenious one too ; but 
 now we learn, that it is only a set of ideas which came together, 
 and arranged themselves by certain associations and attractions. 
 
 After all, this curious system appears not to be fitted to the 
 present state of human nature. How far it may suit some choice 
 spirits, who are refined from the dregs of common sense, I cannot 
 say. It is acknowledged, I think, that even these can enter into 
 this system only in their most speculative hours, when they soar 
 so high in pursuit of those self- existent ideas, as to lose sight of 
 all other things. But when they condescend to mingle again 
 with the human race, and to converse with a friend, a compa- 
 nion, or a fellow-citizen, the ideal system vanishes ; [common 
 sense, like an irresistible torrent, carries them along ; and, in 
 spite of all their reasoning and philosophy, they believe their 
 own existence, and the existence of other things .] 
 
 Indeed, it is happy they do so ; for if they should carry their 
 closet-belief into the world, the rest of mankind would consider 
 them as diseased, and send them to an infirmary. Therefore, 
 as Plato required certain previous qualifications of those who 
 entered his school, I think it would be prudent for the doctors 
 of this ideal philosophy to do the same, and to refuse admittance 
 to every man who is so weak as to imagine that he ought to have 
 the same belief in solitude and in company, or that his principles 
 ought to have any influence upon his practice : for this philo- 
 sophy is like a hobby horse, which a man in bad health may 
 ride in his closet without hurting his reputation ; but if he should 
 take him abroad with him to church, or to the exchange, or to 
 
422 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 the playhouse, his heir would immediately call a jury, and seize 
 his estate. 
 
 VII. The conception and belief of a sentient being or mind, 
 is suggested by our constitution. The notion of relations not al- 
 ways got by comparing the related ideas. — Leaving this philoso- 
 phy, therefore, to those who have occasion for it, and can use it 
 discreetly as a chamber-exercise, we may still inquire how the 
 rest of mankind, and even the adepts themselves, except in some 
 solitary moments, have got so strong and irresistible a belief, that 
 thought must have a subject, and be the act of some thinking 
 being : [how every man believes himself to be something distinct 
 from his ideas and impressions ; something which continues the 
 same identical self when all his ideas and impressions are changed.] 
 It is impossible to trace the origin of this opinion in history : for 
 all languages have it interwoven in their original construction. 
 All nations have always believed it. The constitution of all laws 
 and governments, as well as the common transactions of life, sup- 
 pose it. 
 
 It is no less impossible for any man to recollect when he himself 
 came by this notion : for, as far back as we can remember, we 
 were already in possession of it, and as fully persuaded of our 
 own existence, and the existence of other things, as that one and 
 one make two. It seems, therefore, that this opinion preceded 
 all reasoning, and experience, and instruction ; and this is the 
 more probable, because we could not get it by any of these 
 means. It appears, then, to be an undeniable fact, that from 
 thought or sensation, all mankind, constantly and invariably, 
 from the first dawning of reflection, do infer a power or faculty of 
 thinking, and a permanent being or mind to which that faculty 
 belongs ; and that we as invariably ascribe all the various kinds 
 of sensation and thought we are conscious of, to one individual 
 mind or self. 
 
 But by what rules of logic we make these inferences, it is im- 
 possible to show ; nay, it is impossible to show how our sensa- 
 tions and thoughts can give us the very notion and conception 
 either of a mind or of a faculty. The faculty of smelling is 
 something very different from the actual sensation of smelling ; 
 for the faculty may remain when we have no sensation. And 
 the mind is no less different from the faculty ; for it continues 
 the same individual being when that faculty is lost. Yet this 
 sensation suggests to us both a faculty and a mind ; and not only 
 suggests the notion of them, but creates a belief of their exist- 
 ence ; although it is impossible to discover, by reason, any tie 
 or connexion between one and the other. 
 
 What shall we say then ? Either those inferences which we 
 draw from our sensations, namely, the existence of a mind, and 
 
OF SMELLING. /^QQ 
 
 of powers or faculties belonging to it, are prejudices of philoso- 
 phy or education, mere fictions of tile mind, which a wise man 
 should throw oif as he does the belief of fairies ; or they are 
 judgments of nature, judgments not got by comparing ideas, and 
 perceiving agreements and disagreements, but immediately in- 
 spired by our constitution. 
 
 If this last is the case, as I apprehend it is, it will be impos- 
 sible to shake off those opinions, and we must yield to them at 
 last, though we struggle hard to get rid of them. And if we 
 could, by a determined obstinacy, shake off the principles of 
 our nature, this is not to act the philosopher, but the fool or 
 the madman. It is incumbent upon those who think that these 
 are not natural principles, to show, in the first place, how we 
 can otherwise get the notion of a mind and its faculties ; and 
 then to show how we come to deceive ourselves into the opinion 
 that sensation cannot be without a sentient being. 
 
 It is the received doctrine of philosophers, that our notions of 
 relations can only be got by comparing the related ideas : but 
 in the present case, there seems to be an instance to the contrary. 
 It is not by having first the notions of mind and sensation, and 
 then comparing them together, that we perceive the one to have 
 the relation of a subject or substratum, and the other that of an 
 act or operation : on the contrary, one of the related things, to 
 wit, sensation, suggests to us both the correlate and the relation. 
 
 I beg leave to make use of the word suggestion, because I 
 know not one more proper, to express a power of the mind, 
 which seems entirely to have escaped the notice of philosophers, 
 and to which we owe many of our simple notions which are nei- 
 ther impressions nor ideas, as well as many original principles 
 of belief. I shall endeavour to illustrate, by an example, what 
 I understand by this word. [We all know that a certain kind of 
 sound suggests immediately to the mind a coach passing in the 
 street ; and not only produces the imagination, but the belief, 
 that a coach is passing. Yet there is here no comparing of ideas, 
 no perception of agreements or disagreements, to produce this 
 belief; nor is there the least similitude between the sound we 
 hear, and the coach we imagine and believe to be passing.] 
 
 It is true that this suggestion is not natural and original ; it is 
 the result of experience and habit. But I think it appears from 
 what hath been said, that there are natural suggestions ; parti- 
 cularly, that sensation suggests the notion of present existence, 
 and the belief that what we perceive or feel, does presently exist ; 
 that memory suggests the notion of past existence, and the belief 
 that what we remember did exist in time past ; and that our 
 sensations and thoughts do also suggest the notion of a mind, 
 and the belief of its existence, and relation to our thoughts. 
 
424 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 By a like natural principle it is, that a beginning of existence, 
 or any change in nature, suggests to us the notion of a cause, 
 and compels our belief of its existence. And in like manner, as 
 shall be shown when we come to the sense of touch, certain sen- 
 sations of touch, by the constitution of our nature, suggest to us 
 extension, solidity, and motion, which are nowise like to sensa- 
 tions, although they have been hitherto confounded with them. 
 
 VIII. There is a quality or virtue in bodies, which we call 
 their smell. How this is connected in the imagination with the 
 sensation. — We have considered smell as signifying a sensation, 
 feeling, or impression upon the mind ; and in this sense, it can 
 only be in a mind, or sentient being : but it is evident that man- 
 kind give the name of smell much more frequently to something 
 which they conceive to be external, and to be a quality of body : 
 they understand something by it which does not at all infer a 
 mind ; and have not the least difficulty in conceiving odoriferous 
 plants spreading their fragrance in the deserts of Arabia, or in 
 some uninhabited island where the human foot never trod. 
 Every sensible day-labourer hath as clear a notion of this, and as 
 full a conviction of the possibility of it, as he hath of his own 
 existence ; and can no more doubt of the one than of the other. 
 
 Suppose that such a man meets with a modern philosopher, 
 and wants to be informed what smell in plants is. The philoso- 
 pher tells him that there is no smell in plants, nor in any thing, 
 but in the mind ; that it is impossible there can be smell but in a 
 mind ; and that all this hath been demonstrated by modern philo- 
 sophy. The plain man will, no doubt, be apt to think him merry : 
 but if he finds that he is serious, his next conclusion will be 
 that he is mad ; or that philosophy, like magic, puts men into 
 a new world, and gives them different faculties from common 
 men. And thus philosophy and common sense are set at vari- 
 ance. But who is to blame for it ? In my opinion the philoso- 
 pher is to blame. For if he means by smell, what the rest of 
 mankind most commonly mean, he is certainly mad. But if he 
 puts a different meaning upon the word, without observing it 
 himself, or giving warning to others, he abuses language, and 
 disgraces philosophy, without doing any service to truth : as if a 
 man should exchange the meaning of the words daughter and 
 cow, and then endeavour to prove to his plain neighbour, that his 
 cow is his daughter, and his daughter his cow. 
 
 I believe there is not much more wisdom in many of those 
 paradoxes of the ideal philosophy, which to plain sensible men 
 appear to be palpable absurdities, but with the adepts pass for 
 profound discoveries. I resolve, for my own part, always to 
 pay a great regard to the dictates of common sense, and not to 
 depart from them without absolute necessity : and therefore I am 
 
OF SMELLING. 425 
 
 apt to think that there is really something in the rose or lily, 
 which is by the vulgar called smell, and which continues to 
 exist when it is not smelled : and shall proceed to inquire what 
 this is ; how we come by the notion of it ; and what relation this 
 quality or virtue of smell hath to the sensation, which we have 
 been obliged to call by the same name, for want of another. 
 
 Let us therefore suppose, as before, a person beginning to 
 exercise the sense of smelling : a little experience will discover 
 to him that the nose is the organ of this sense, and that the air, 
 or something in the air, is a medium of it. And finding, by 
 further experience, that when a rose is near, he has a certain 
 sensation ; when it is removed, the sensation is gone ; he finds 
 a connexion in nature betwixt the rose and this sensation. The 
 rose is considered as a cause, occasion, or antecedent, of the 
 sensation ; the sensation as an effect or consequent of the pre- 
 sence of the rose : they are associated in the mind, and con- 
 stantly found conjoined in the imagination. 
 
 But here it deserves our notice, that although the sensation 
 may seem more closely related to the mind its subject, or to the 
 nose its organ ; yet neither of these connexions operate so pow- 
 erfully upon the imagination, as its connexion with the rose its 
 concomitant. The reason of this seems to be, that its connexion 
 with the mind is more general, and nowise distinguisheth it from 
 other smells, or even from tastes, sounds, and other kinds of sen- 
 sations. The relation it hath to the organ is likewise general, 
 and doth not distinguish it from other smells : but [the con- 
 nexion it hath with the rose is special and constant ; by which 
 means they become almost inseparable in the imagination, in like 
 manner as thunder and lightning, freezing and cold.] 
 
 IX. That there is a principle in human nature, from which the 
 notion of this, as well as all other natural virtues or causes, is 
 derived, — In order to illustrate further how we come to conceive 
 a quality or virtue in the rose which we call smell, and what this 
 smell is, it is proper to observe, that the mind begins very early 
 to thirst after principles, which may direct it in the exertion of 
 its powers. The smell of a rose is a certain affection or feeling 
 of the mind ; and as it is not constant, but comes and goes, we 
 want to know when and where we may expect it, and are uneasy 
 till we find something, which being present, brings this feeling 
 along with it, and being removed, removes it. This, when found, 
 we call the cause of it ; not in a strict and philosophical sense, 
 as if the feeling were really effected or produced by that cause, 
 but in a popular sense ; for the mind is satisfied, if there is a 
 constant conjunction between them ; and such causes are in 
 reality nothing else but laws of nature. Having found the smell 
 thus constantly conjoined with the rose, the mind is at rest, 
 
426 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 without inquiring whether this conjunction is owing to a real 
 efficiency or not ; that being a philosophical inquiry, which does 
 not concern human life. But every discovery of such a constant 
 conjunction is of real importance in life, and makes a strong im- 
 pression upon the mind. 
 
 [So ardently do we desire to find every thing that happens 
 within our observation, thus connected with something else, as 
 its cause or occasion, that we are apt to fancy connexions upon 
 the slightest grounds : and this weakness is most remarkable in 
 the ignorant, who know least of the real connexions established 
 in nature.] A man meets with an unlucky accident on a certain 
 day of the year ; and knowing no other cause of his misfortune, 
 he is apt to conceive something unlucky in that day of the calen- 
 dar : and if he find the same connexion hold a second time, is 
 strongly confirmed in his superstition. I remember, many years 
 ago, a white ox was brought into the country, of so enormous a 
 size that people came many miles to see him. There happened, 
 some months after, an uncommon fatality among women in child- 
 bearing. Two such uncommon events following one another, 
 gave a suspicion of their connexion, and occasioned a common 
 opinion among the country-people, that the white ox was the 
 cause of this fatality. 
 
 However silly and ridiculous this opinion was, it sprung from 
 the same root in human nature, on which all natural philosophy 
 grows ; namely, an eager desire to find out connexions in things, 
 and a natural, original, and unaccountable propensity to believe, 
 that the connexions which we have observed in time past, will 
 continue in time to come. Omens, portents, good and bad luck, 
 palmistry, astrology, all the numerous arts of divination, and of 
 interpreting dreams, false hypotheses and systems, and true prin- 
 ciples in the philosophy of nature, are all built upon the same 
 foundation in the human constitution; and are distinguished only 
 according as we conclude rashly from too few instances, or cau- 
 tiously from a sufficient induction. 
 
 As it is experience only that discovers these connexions between 
 natural causes and their effects, without inquiring further, we 
 attribute to the cause some vague and indistinct notion of power 
 or virtue to produce the effect. And in many cases, the pur- 
 poses of life do not make it necessary to give distinct names to 
 the cause and the effect. Whence it happens, that being closely 
 connected in the imagination, although very unlike to each other, 
 one name serves for both ; and, in common discourse, is most 
 frequently applied to that which, of the two, is most the object 
 of our attention. This occasions an ambiguity in many words, 
 which is common to all languages, having the same causes, and 
 which is apt to be overlooked even by philosophers. Some in- 
 
OF SMELLING. ^g^ 
 
 stances will serve both to illustrate and confirm what we have 
 said. 
 
 Magnetism signifies both the tendency of the iron towards the 
 magnet, and the power of the magnet to produce that tendency : 
 and if it was asked, whether it is a quality of the iron or of the 
 magnet, one would perhaps be puzzled at first, [but a little 
 attention would discover, that we conceive a power or virtue in 
 the magnet as the cause, and a motion in the iron as the effect ;] 
 and although these are things quite unlike, they are so united in 
 the imagination, that we give the common name of magnetism to 
 both. The same thing may be said of gravitation, which some- 
 times signifies the tendency of bodies towards the earth, some- 
 times the attractive power of the earth, which we conceive as the 
 cause of that tendency. We may observe the same ambiguity 
 in some of Sir Isaac Newton's definitions ; and that even in 
 words of his own making. In three of his definitions, he ex- 
 plains very distinctly what he understands by the absolute quan- 
 tity, what by the accelerative quantity, and what by the motive 
 quantity, of a centripetal force. In the first of these three de- 
 finitions, centripetal force is put for the cause, which we conceive 
 to be some power or virtue in the centre or central body : in the 
 two last, the same word is put for the effect of this cause, in 
 producing velocity, or in producing motion towards that centre. 
 
 [Heat signifies a sensation, and cold a contrary one. But heat 
 likewise signifies a quality or state of bodies, which hath no con- 
 trary, but different degrees.] When a man feels the same water 
 hot to one hand and cold to the other, this gives him occasion to 
 distinguish between the feeling and the heat of the body ; and 
 although he knows that the sensations are contrary, he does not 
 imagine that the body can have contrary qualities at the same 
 time.* And when he finds a different taste in the same body in 
 sickness and in health, he is easily convinced, that the quality in 
 the body called taste is the same as before, although the sensa- 
 tions he has from it are perhaps opposite. 
 
 The vulgar are commonly charged by philosophers with the 
 absurdity of imagining the smell in the rose to be something like 
 to the sensation of smelling : but I think, unjustly ; for they 
 neither give the same epithets to both, nor do they reason in the 
 same manner from them. [What is smell in the rose ? It is a 
 quality or virtue of the rose, or of something proceeding from 
 it, which we perceive by the sense of smelling ; and this is all we 
 know of the matter.] [But what is smelling ? It is an act of 
 the mind, but is never imagined to be a quality of the mind.] 
 Again, the sensation of smelling is conceived to infer necessarily 
 a mind or sentient being ; but smell in the rose infers no such 
 
 * Vide Locke's Essay, Book II. chap. viii. sect. 21. 
 
428 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 
 
 thing. We say, This body smells sweet, that stinks ; but we do 
 not say, This mind smells sweet, and that stinks. Therefore, 
 smell in the rose, and the sensation which it causes, are not con- 
 ceived, even by the vulgar, to be things of the same kind, although 
 they have the same name. 
 
 [From what hath been said, we may learn, that the smell of a 
 rose signifies two things. First, a sensation, which can have no 
 existence but when it is perceived, and can only be in a sentient 
 being or mind. Secondly, it signifies some power, quality, or 
 virtue in the rose, or in effluvia proceeding from it, which hath 
 a permanent existence, independent of the mind, and which, by 
 the constitution of nature, produces the sensation in us.] By 
 the original constitution of our nature, we are both led to be- 
 lieve, that there is a permanent cause of the sensation, and 
 prompted to seek after it ; and experience determines us to place 
 it in the rose. The names of all smells, tastes, sounds, as well 
 as heat and cold, have a like ambiguity in all languages : but it 
 deserves our attention, that these names are but rarely, in com- 
 mon language, used to signify the sensations ; for the most part, 
 they signify the external qualities which are indicated by the 
 sensations. The cause of which phenomenon I take to be this. 
 Our sensations have very different degrees of strength. Some 
 of them are so quick and lively, as to give us a great deal either 
 of pleasure or of uneasiness. When this is the case, we are 
 compelled to attend to the sensation itself, and to make it an 
 object of thought and discourse; we give it a name, which sig- 
 nifies nothing but the sensation ; and in this case we immediately 
 and readily acknowledge, that the thing meant by that name is 
 in the mind only, and not in any thing external. Such are the 
 various kinds of pain, sickness, and the sensations of hunger and 
 other appetites. But where the sensation is not so interesting 
 as to require to be made an object of thought, our constitution 
 leads us to consider it as a sign of something external, which 
 hath a constant conjunction with it; and having found what it 
 indicates, we give a name to that: the sensation, having no 
 proper name, falls in as an accessory to the thing signified by it, 
 and is confounded under the same name. So that the name 
 may indeed be applied to the sensation, but most properly and 
 commonly is applied to the thing indicated by that sensation. 
 The sensations of smell, taste, sound, and colour, are of infi- 
 nitely more importance as signs or indications, than they are 
 upon their own account ; like the words of a language, wherein 
 we do not attend to the sound, but to the sense. 
 
 X. Whether in sensations the mind is active or passive. — There 
 is one inquiry remains — Whether in smelling, and in other sen- 
 sations, the mind is active or passive ? This possibly may seem 
 to be a question about words, or at least of very small import- 
 
OF SMELLING. 4gC) 
 
 ance ; however, if it leads us to attend more accurately to the 
 operations of our minds, than we are accustomed to do, it is 
 upon that very account not altogether unprofitable. I think the 
 opinion of modern philosophers is, that in sensation the mind is 
 altogether passive. And this undoubtedly is so far true, that 
 we cannot raise any sensation in our minds by willing it ; and, 
 on the other hand, it seems hardly possible to avoid having the 
 sensation when the object is presented. Yet it seems likewise 
 to be true, that in proportion as the attention is more or less 
 turned to a sensation, or diverted from it, that sensation is more 
 or less perceived and remembered. Every one knows, that very 
 intense pain may be diverted by surprise, or by any thing that 
 entirely occupies the mind. When we are engaged in earnest 
 conversation, the clock may strike by us without being heard ; at 
 least we remember not the next moment that we did hear it. 
 The noise and tumult of a great trading city is not heard by 
 them who have lived in it all their days; but it stuns those 
 strangers who have lived in the peaceful retirement of the country. 
 [Whether, therefore, there can be any sensation where the mind 
 is purely passive, I will not say ; but I think we are conscious of 
 having given some attention to every sensation which we remem- 
 ber, though ever so recent.] 
 
 No doubt, where the impulse is strong and uncommon, it is as 
 difficult to withhold attention, as it is to forbear crying out in 
 racking pain, or starting in a sudden fright : but how far both 
 might be attained by strong resolution and practice, is not easy 
 to determine. So that, although the Peripatetics had no good 
 reason to suppose an active and a passive intellect, since atten- 
 tion may be well enough accounted an act of the will ; yet I 
 think they came nearer to the truth, in holding the mind to be 
 in sensation partly passive and partly active, than the moderns, 
 in affirming it to be purely passive. Sensation, imagination, 
 memory, and judgment, have, by the vulgar, in all ages, been 
 considered as acts of the mind. The manner in which they are 
 expressed in all languages, shows this. When the mind is much 
 employed in them, we say it is very active ; whereas, if they were 
 impressions only, as the ideal philosophy would lead us to con- 
 ceive, we ought in such a case rather to say, that the mind is 
 very passive ; for I suppose no man would attribute great acti- 
 vity to the paper I write upon, because it receives variety of 
 characters. 
 
 The relation which the sensation of smell bears to the memory 
 and imagination of it, and to a mind or subject, is common to all 
 our sensations, and indeed to all the operations of the mind : the 
 relation it bears to the will, is common to it with all the powers 
 of understanding : and the relation it bears to that quality or 
 virtue of bodies which it indicates, is common to it with the 
 
430 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. III. 
 
 sensations of taste, hearing, colour, heat, and cold : so that what 
 hath been said of this sense, may easily be applied to several of 
 our senses, and to other operations of the mind ; and this, I 
 hope, will apologize for our insisting so long upon it. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF TASTING. 
 
 I. A great part of what hath been said of the sense of smelling 
 is so easily applied to those of tasting and hearing, that we shall 
 leave the application entirely to the reader's judgment, and save 
 ourselves the trouble of a tedious repetition. 
 
 It is probable that every thing that affects the taste, is in some 
 degree soluble in the saliva. It is not conceivable how any 
 thing should enter readily and of its own accord, as it were, into 
 the pores of the tongue, palate, and fauces, unless it had some 
 chemical affinity to that liquor with which these pores are always 
 replete. It is therefore an admirable contrivance of nature, that 
 the organs of taste should always be moist with a liquor which is 
 so universal a menstruum, and which deserves to be examined 
 more than it hath been hitherto, both in that capacity, and as a 
 medical unguent. Nature teaches dogs and other animals to use 
 it in this last way ; and its subserviency both to taste and diges- 
 tion shows its efficacy in the former. 
 
 It is with manifest design and propriety, that the organ of 
 this sense guards the entrance of the alimentary canal, as that 
 of smell, the entrance of the canal for respiration. And from 
 these organs being placed in such manner, that every thing 
 that enters into the stomach must undergo the scrutiny of both 
 senses, it is plain that they were intended by nature to distin- 
 guish wholesome food from that which is noxious. The brutes 
 have no other means of choosing their food ; nor would mankind 
 in the savage state. And it is very probable that the smell and 
 taste, nowise vitiated by luxury or bad habits, would rarely, 
 if ever, lead us to a wrong choice of food among the productions 
 of nature ; although the artificial compositions of a refined and 
 luxurious cookery, or of chemistry and pharmacy, may often 
 impose upon both, and produce things agreeable to the taste and 
 smell, which are noxious to health. And it is probable, that 
 both smell and taste are vitiated, and rendered less fit to per- 
 form their natural offices, by the unnatural kind of life men 
 commonly lead in society. 
 
 These senses are likewise of great use to distinguish bodies 
 that cannot be distinguished by our other senses, and to discern 
 the changes which the same body undergoes, which in many 
 
OF TASTING. 43 J 
 
 cases are sooner perceived by taste and smell than by any other 
 means. How many things are there in the market, the eating- 
 house, and the tavern, as well as in the apothecary and che- 
 mist's shops, which are known to be what they are given out to 
 be, and are perceived to be good or bad in their kind, only by 
 taste or smell ! And how far our judgment of things, by means 
 of our senses, might be improved by accurate attention to the 
 small differences of taste and smell, and other sensible qualities, 
 is not easy to determine. Sir Isaac Newton, by a noble effort 
 of his great genius, attempted, from the colour of opaque bodies, 
 to discover the magnitude of the minute pellucid parts of which 
 they are compounded : and who knows what new lights natural 
 philosophy may yet receive from other secondary qualities duly 
 examined ? 
 
 Some tastes and smells stimulate the nerves and raise the 
 spirits : but such an artificial elevation of the spirits is, by the 
 laws of nature, followed by a depression, which can only be 
 relieved by time, or by the repeated use of the like stimulus. 
 [By the use of such things we create an appetite for them, which 
 very much resembles, and hath all the force of a natural one. 
 It is in this manner that men acquire an appetite for snuff, 
 tobacco, strong liquors, laudanum, and the like.] 
 
 Nature indeed seems studiously to have set bounds to the 
 pleasures and pains we have by these two senses, and to have 
 confined them within very narrow limits, that we might not place 
 any part of our happiness in them ; there being hardly any smell 
 or taste so disagreeable that use will not make it tolerable, and 
 at last perhaps agreeable ; nor any so agreeable as not to lose its 
 relish by constant use. Neither is there any pleasure or pain 
 of these senses which is not introduced, or followed, by some 
 degree of its contrary, which nearly balances it. [So that we 
 may here apply the beautiful allegory of the divine Socrates ; 
 B^° That although pleasure and pain are contrary in their nature, 
 and their faces look different ways, yet Jupiter hath tied them 
 so together, that he that lays hold of the one, draws the other 
 along with it.] 
 
 II. As there is a great variety of smells, seemingly simple and 
 uncompounded, not only altogether unlike, but some of them 
 contrary to others ; and as the same thing may be said of tastes ; 
 it would seem that one taste is not less different from another 
 than it is from a smell : and therefore it may be a question, How 
 all smells come to be considered as one genus, and all tastes as 
 another? What is the generical distinction? Is it only that 
 the nose is the organ of the one, and the palate of the other ? or, 
 abstracting from the organ, is there not in the sensations them- 
 selves something common to smells, and something else common 
 to tastes, whereby the one is distinguished from the other ? It 
 
432 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. III. 
 
 seems most probable that the latter is the case ; and that, under 
 the appearance of the greatest simplicity, there is still in these 
 sensations something of composition. 
 
 If one considers the matter abstractedly, it would seem that a 
 number of sensations, or indeed of any other individual things, 
 which are perfectly simple and uncompounded, are incapable of 
 being reduced into genera and species ; because individuals which 
 belong to a species, must have something peculiar to each, by 
 which they are distinguished, and something common to the whole 
 species. And the same may be said of species which belong to 
 one genus. And whether this does not imply some kind of com- 
 position, we shall leave to metaphysicians to determine. 
 
 The sensations both of smell and taste do undoubtedly admit 
 of an immense variety of modifications, which no language can 
 express. If a man was to examine five hundred different wines, 
 he would hardly find two of them that had precisely the same 
 taste : the same thing holds in cheese, and in many other things. 
 Yet of five hundred different tastes in cheese or wine, we can 
 hardly describe twenty, so as to give a distinct notion of them to 
 one who had not tasted them. 
 
 Dr. Nehemiah Grew, a most judicious and laborious natural- 
 ist, in a discourse read before the Royal Society, anno 1675, hath 
 endeavoured to show that there are at least sixteen different sim- 
 ple tastes, which he enumerates. How many compounded ones 
 may be made out of all the various combinations of two, three, 
 four, or more of these simple ones, they who are acquainted with 
 the theory of combinations will easily perceive. All these have 
 various degrees of intenseness and weakness. Many of them 
 have other varieties : in some the taste is more quickly perceived 
 upon the application of the sapid body, in others more slowly ; 
 in some the sensation is more permanent, in others more tran- 
 sient ; in some it seems to undulate or return after certain inter- 
 vals, in others it is constant: the various parts of the organ, as 
 the lips, the tip of the tongue, the root of the tongue, the fauces, 
 the uvula, and the throat, are some of them chiefly affected by 
 one sapid body, and others by another. All these, and other 
 varieties of tastes, that accurate writer illustrates by a number 
 of examples. Nor is it to be doubted, but smells, if examined 
 with the same accuracy, would appear to have as great variety. 
 
433 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF HEARING. 
 
 I. Variety of sounds. Their place and distance learned by 
 custom, ivithout reasoning. — Sounds have probably no less 
 variety of modifications, than either tastes or odours. For, first, 
 sounds differ in tone. The ear is capable of perceiving four or 
 five hundred variations of tone in sound, and probably as many 
 different degrees of strength ; by combining these, we have 
 above twenty thousand simple sounds that differ either in tone or 
 strength, supposing every tone to be perfect. But it is to be 
 observed, that to make a perfect tone, a great many undulations 
 of elastic air are required, which must all be of equal duration 
 and extent, and follow one another with perfect regularity ; and 
 each undulation must be made up of the advance and recoil of 
 innumerable particles of elastic air, whose motions are all uniform 
 in direction, force, and time. Hence we may easily conceive a 
 prodigious variety in the same tone, arising from irregularities of 
 it, occasioned by the constitution, figure, situation, or manner of 
 striking the sonorous body ; from the constitution of the elastic 
 medium, or its being disturbed by other motions ; and from the 
 constitution of the ear itself upon which the impression is made. 
 
 A flute, a violin, a hautboy, and a French horn, may all sound 
 the same tone, and be easily distinguishable. Nay, if twenty 
 human voices sound the same note, and with equal strength, 
 there will still be some difference. The same voice, while it 
 retains its proper distinctions, may yet be varied many ways, by 
 sickness or health, youth or age, leanness or fatness, good or bad 
 humour. The same words spoken by foreigners and natives, nay, 
 by persons of different provinces of the same nation, may be dis- 
 tinguished. Such an immense variety of sensations of smell, 
 taste, and sound, surely was not given us in vain. They are 
 signs, by which we know and distinguish things without us ; and 
 it was fit that the variety of the signs should in some degree cor- 
 respond with the variety of the things signified by them. 
 
 [It seems to be by custom, that we learn to distinguish both 
 the place of things, and their nature, by means of their sound.] 
 That such a noise is in the street, such another in the room 
 above me ; that this is a knock at my door ; that, a person walking 
 up stairs ; is probably learnt by experience. I remember, that 
 once lying a-bed, and having been put into a fright, I heard my 
 own heart beat ; but I took it to be one knocking at the door, 
 and arose and opened the door oftener than once, before I dis- 
 covered that the sound was in my own breast. It is probable, 
 that previous to all experience, we should as little know whether 
 
 2 F 
 
434 0F TIIE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. IV. 
 
 a sound came from the right or left, from above or below, from 
 a great or a small distance, as we should know whether it was the 
 sound of a drum, or a bell, or a cart. Nature is frugal in her 
 operations, and will not be at the expense of a particular instinct, 
 to give us that knowledge which experience will soon produce, 
 by means of a general principle of human nature. 
 
 [For a little experience, by the constitution of human nature, 
 ties together, not only in our imagination, but in our belief, those 
 things which were in their nature unconnected.] When I hear 
 a certain sound, immediately, without reasoning, I conclude that 
 a coach passes by. There are no premises from which this con- 
 clusion is inferred by any rules of logic. It is the effect of a 
 principle of our nature, common to us with the brutes. 
 
 Although it is by hearing that we are capable of the percep- 
 tions of harmony and melody, and of all the charms of music ; 
 yet it would seem that these require a higher faculty, which we 
 call a musical ear. This seems to be in very different degrees, 
 in those who have the bare faculty of hearing equally perfect ; 
 and therefore ought not to be classed with the external senses, 
 but in a higher order. 
 
 II. Of natural language. — One of the noblest purposes of 
 sound undoubtedly is language ; without which mankind would 
 hardly be able to attain any degree of improvement above the 
 brutes. Language is commonly considered as purely an inven- 
 tion of men, who by nature are no less mute than the brutes, but 
 having a superior degree of invention and reason, have been 
 able to contrive artificial signs of their thoughts and purposes, 
 and to establish them by common consent. But the origin of 
 language deserves to be more carefully inquired into, not only as 
 this inquiry may be of importance for the improvement of lan- 
 guage, but as it is related to the present subject, and tends to 
 lay open some of the first principles of human nature. I shall 
 therefore offer some thoughts upon this subject. 
 
 [By language I understand all those signs which mankind use 
 in order to communicate to others their thoughts and intentions, 
 their purposes and desires.] And such signs may be conceived 
 to be of two kinds : first, such as have no meaning but what is 
 affixed to them by compact or agreement among those who use 
 them ; these are artificial signs : secondly, such as, previous to 
 all compact or agreement, have a meaning which every man 
 understands by the principles of his nature. Language, so far 
 as it consists of artificial signs, may be called artificial ; so far as 
 it consists of natural signs, I call it natural. 
 
 Having premised these definitions, I think it is demonstrable, 
 that if mankind had not a natural language, they could never 
 have invented an artificial one by their reason and ingenuity. 
 For all artificial language supposes some compact or agreement 
 
OF HEARING. 435 
 
 to affix a certain meaning to certain signs ; therefore there must 
 be compacts or agreements before the use of artificial signs : but 
 there can be no compact or agreement without signs, nor without 
 language ; and therefore there must be a natural language before 
 any artificial language can be invented: which was to be demon- 
 strated. 
 
 Had language in general been a human invention, as much as 
 writing or printing, we should find whole nations as mute as 
 the brutes. Indeed even the brutes have some natural signs by 
 which they express their own thoughts, and affections, and 
 desires, and understand those of others. A chick, as soon as 
 hatched, understands the different sounds whereby its dam calls 
 it to food, or gives the alarm of danger. A dog or a horse 
 understands, by nature, when the human voice caresses, and 
 when it threatens him. But brutes, as far as we know, have no 
 notion of contracts or covenants, or of moral obligation to per- 
 form them. If nature had given them these notions, she would 
 probably have given them natural signs to express them. And 
 where nature has denied these notions, it is as impossible to 
 acquire them by art, as it is for a blind man to acquire the notion 
 of colours. Some brutes are sensible of honour or disgrace ; 
 they have resentment and gratitude : but none of them, as far 
 as we know, can- make a promise, or plight their faith, having no 
 such notions from their constitution. And if mankind had not 
 these notions by nature, and natural signs to express them by, 
 with all their wit and ingenuity they could never have invented 
 language. 
 
 The elements of this natural language of mankind, or the 
 signs that are naturally expressive of our thoughts, may, I think, 
 be reduced to these three kinds : modulations of the voice, ges- 
 tures, and features. By means of these, two savages who have 
 no common artificial language, can converse together ; can com- 
 municate their thoughts in some tolerable manner ; can ask and 
 refuse, affirm and deny, threaten and supplicate ; can traffic, 
 enter into covenants, and plight their faith. This might be 
 confirmed by historical facts of undoubted credit, if it were 
 necessary. 
 
 Mankind having thus a common language by nature, though a 
 scanty one, adapted only to the necessities of nature, there is no 
 great ingenuity required in improving it by the addition of arti- 
 ficial signs, to supply the deficiency of the natural. These 
 artificial signs must multiply with the arts of life, and the im- 
 provements of knowledge. The articulations of the voice seem 
 to be, of all signs, the most proper for artificial language ; and 
 as mankind have universally used them for that purpose, we may 
 reasonably judge that nature intended them for it. But nature 
 probably does not intend that we should lay aside the use of the 
 
 2 F 2 
 
436 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. IV. 
 
 natural signs ; it is enough that we supply their defects by artifi- 
 cial ones. A man that rides always in a chariot, by degrees loses 
 the use of his legs ; and one who uses artificial signs only, loses 
 both the knowledge and use of the natural. Dumb people re- 
 tain much more of the natural language than others, because 
 necessity obliges them to use it. And for the same reason, 
 savages have much more of it than civilized nations. It is by 
 natural signs chiefly that we give force and energy to language ; 
 and the less language has of them, it is the less expressive and 
 persuasive. Thus writing is less expressive than reading, and 
 reading less expressive than speaking without book; speaking 
 without the proper and natural modulations, force, and variations 
 of the voice, is a frigid and dead language, compared with that 
 which is attended with them ; it is still more expressive when we 
 add the language of the eyes and features ; and is then only in 
 its perfect and natural state, and attended with its proper energy, 
 when to all these we superadd the force of action. 
 
 Where speech is natural, it will be an exercise, not of the 
 voice and lungs only, but of all the muscles of the body ; like 
 that of dumb people and savages, whose language, as it has 
 more of nature, is more expressive, and is more easily learned. 
 
 Is it not pity that the refinements of a civilized life, instead 
 of supplying the defects of natural language, should root it out, 
 and plant in its stead dull and lifeless articulations of unmeaning 
 sounds, or the scrawling of insignificant characters ? The per- 
 fection of language is commonly thought to be, to express human 
 thoughts and sentiments distinctly by these dull signs; but if 
 this is the perfection of artificial language, it is surely the cor- 
 ruption of the natural. 
 
 Artificial signs signify, but they do not express ; they speak 
 to the understanding, as algebraical characters may do, but the 
 passions, the affections, and the will, hear them not : these con- 
 tinue dormant and inactive, till we speak to them in the lan- 
 guage of nature, to which they are all attention and obedience. 
 
 It were easy to show, that the fine arts of the musician, the 
 painter, the actor, and the orator, so far as they are expressive — 
 although the knowledge of them requires in us a delicate taste, 
 a nice judgment, and much study and practice — yet they are 
 nothing else but the language of nature, which we brought into 
 the world with us, but have unlearned by disuse, and so find the 
 greatest difficulty in recovering it. 
 
 Abolish the use of articulate sounds and writing among man- 
 kind for a century, and every man would be a painter, an actor, 
 and an orator. We mean not to affirm that such an expedient 
 is practicable ; or if it were, that the advantage would counter- 
 balance the loss ; but that, as men are led by nature and neces- 
 sity to converse together, they will use every mean in their power 
 
of touch. 437 
 
 to make themselves understood ; and where they cannot do this 
 by artificial signs, they will do it as far as possible by natural 
 ones : and he that understands perfectly the use of natural signs, 
 must be the best judge in all the expressive arts. 
 
 CHAPTEK V. 
 
 OF TOUCH. 
 
 I. Of heat and cold. — The senses which we have hitherto con- 
 sidered, are very simple and uniform, each of them exhibiting 
 only one kind of sensation, and thereby indicating only one qua- 
 lity of bodies. By the ear we perceive sounds, and nothing else ; 
 by the palate, tastes ; and by the nose, odours : these qualities 
 are all likewise of one order, being all secondary qualities : 
 whereas by touch we perceive not one quality only, but many, 
 and those of very different kinds. The chief of them are heat 
 and cold, hardness and softness, roughness and smoothness, 
 figure, solidity, motion, and extension. We shall consider these 
 in order. 
 
 As to heat and cold, it will easily be allowed that they are 
 secondary qualities, of the same order with smell, taste, and 
 sound. And, therefore, what hath been already said of smell, is 
 easily applicable to them ; that is, that the words heat and cold 
 have each of them two significations ; they sometimes signify 
 certain sensations of the mind, which can have no existence 
 when they are n#t felt, nor can exist anywhere but in a mind or 
 sentient being ; but more frequently they signify a quality in 
 bodies, which, by the laws of nature, occasions the sensations of 
 heat and cold in us : a quality which, though connected by cus- 
 tom so closely with the sensations, that we cannot without diffi- 
 culty separate them ; yet hath not the least resemblance to it, 
 and may continue to exist when there is no sensation at all. 
 
 The sensations of heat and cold are perfectly known ; for they 
 neither are, nor can be, anything else than what we feel them to 
 be ; but the qualities in bodies which we call heat and cold, are 
 unknown. They are only conceived by us, as unknown causes 
 or occasions of the sensations to which we give the same names. 
 But though common sense says nothing of the nature of these 
 qualities, it plainly dictates the existence of them ; and to deny 
 that there can be heat and cold when they are not felt, is an 
 absurdity too gross to merit confutation, ggr For what could be 
 more absurd, than to say, that the thermometer cannot rise or 
 fall unless some person be present, or that the coast of Guinea 
 would be as cold as Nova Zembla, if it had no inhabitants ? 
 
438 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 It is the business of philosophers to investigate, by proper 
 experiments, and induction, what heat and cold are in bodies. 
 And whether they make heat a particular element diffused through 
 nature, and accumulated in the heated body, or whether they 
 make it a certain vibration of the parts of the heated body; whe- 
 ther they determine that heat and cold are contrary qualities, as 
 the sensations undoubtedly are contrary, or that heat only is a 
 quality, and cold its privation ; these questions are within the 
 province of philosophy ; for common sense says nothing on the 
 one side or the other. 
 
 But whatever be the nature of that quality in bodies which 
 we call heat, we certainly know this, that it cannot in the least 
 resemble the sensation of heat. It is no less absurd to suppose 
 a likeness between the sensation and the quality, than it would 
 be to suppose, that the pain of the gout resembles a square or a 
 triangle. The simplest man that hath common sense, does not 
 imagine the sensation of heat, or any thing that resembles that 
 sensation, to be in the fire. He only imagines, that there is 
 something in the fire, which makes him and other sentient beings 
 feel heat. Yet as the name of heat, in common language, more 
 frequently and more properly signifies this unknown something 
 in the fire, than the sensation occasioned by it, he justly laughs 
 at the philosopher who denies that there is any heat in the fire, 
 and thinks that he speaks contrary to common sense. 
 
 II. Of hardness and softness. — Let us next consider hardness 
 and softness ; by which words we always understand real proper- 
 ties or qualities of bodies, of which we have a distinct conception. 
 
 When the parts of a body adhere so firmly, that it cannot 
 easily be made to change its figure, we call & hard ; when its 
 parts are easily displaced, we call it soft. This is the notion 
 which all mankind have of hardness and softness : they are nei- 
 ther sensations, nor like any sensation ; they were real qualities 
 before they were perceived by touch, and continue to be so when 
 they are not perceived : for if any man will affirm that diamonds 
 were not hard till they were handled, who would reason with 
 him? 
 
 There is, no doubt, a sensation by which we perceive a body 
 to be hard or soft. This sensation of hardness may easily be 
 had, by pressing one's hand against the table, and attending to 
 the feeling that ensues, setting aside, as much as possible, all 
 thought of the table and its qualities, or of any external thing. 
 [But it is one thing to have the sensation, and another to attend 
 to it, and make it a distinct object of reflection. The first is very 
 easy ; the last, in most cases, extremely difficult.] 
 
 We are so accustomed to use the sensation as a sign, and to 
 pass immediately to the hardness signified, that, as far as appears, 
 it was never made an object of thought, either by the vulgar or 
 
of touch. 439 
 
 philosophers ; nor lias it a name in any language. There is no 
 sensation more distinct, or more frequent ; yet it is never attended 
 to, but passes through the mind instantaneously, and serves only 
 to introduce that quality in bodies which, by a law of our con- 
 stitution, it suggests. 
 
 There are indeed some cases wherein it is no difficult matter 
 to attend to the sensation occasioned by the hardness of a body ; 
 for instance, when it is so violent as to occasion considerable 
 pain: then nature calls upon us to attend to it, and then we 
 acknowledge that it is a mere sensation, and can only be in a 
 sentient being. If a man runs his head with violence against a 
 pillar, I appeal to him, whether the pain he feels resembles the 
 hardness of the stone ; or if he can conceive any thing like what 
 he feels to be in an inanimate piece of matter. 
 
 The attention of the mind is here entirely turned towards the 
 painful feeling ; and, to speak in the common language of man- 
 kind, he feels nothing in the stone, but feels a violent pain in his 
 head. It is quite otherwise when he leans his head gently 
 against the pillar ; for then he will tell you that he feels nothing 
 in his head, but feels hardness in the stone. Hath he not a sen- 
 sation in this case as well as in the other ? Undoubtedly he 
 hath : but it is a sensation which nature intended only as a sign 
 of something in the stone ; and, accordingly, he instantly fixes 
 his attention upon the thing signified ; and cannot, without great 
 difficulty, attend so much to the sensation as to be persuaded 
 that there is any such thing, distinct from the hardness it 
 signifies. 
 
 But however difficult it may be to attend to this fugitive sen- 
 sation, to stop its rapid progress, and to disjoin it from the 
 external quality of hardness, in whose shadow it is apt immedi- 
 ately to hide itself; this is what a philosopher by pains and prac- 
 tice must attain, otherwise it will be impossible for him to reason 
 justly upon this subject, or even to understand what is here 
 advanced. For the last appeal, in subjects of this nature, must 
 be to what a man feels and perceives in his own mind. 
 
 It is indeed strange, that a sensation which we have every 
 time that we feel a body hard, and which, consequently, we can 
 command as often, and continue as long as we please, a sensation 
 as distinct and determinate as any other, should yet be so much 
 unknown, as never to have been made an object of thought and 
 reflection, nor to have been honoured with a name in any lan- 
 guage ; that philosophers, as well as the vulgar, should have 
 entirely overlooked it, or confounded it with that quality of 
 bodies w r hich we call hardness, to which it hath not the least 
 similitude. May we not hence conclude, that the knowledge 
 of the human faculties is but in its infancy ? That we have not 
 yet learned to attend to those operations of the mind of which 
 
440 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 we are conscious every hour of our lives ? That there are habits 
 of inattention acquired very early, which are as hard to be over- 
 come as other habits ? For I think it is probable, that the 
 novelty of this sensation will procure some attention to it in chil- 
 dren at first ; but being nowise interesting in itself, as soon as it 
 becomes familiar, it is overlooked, and the attention turned solely 
 to that which it signifies. Thus, when one is learning a language, 
 he attends to the sounds ; but when he is master of it, he attends 
 only to the sense of what he would express. If this is the case, 
 we must become as little children again, if we will be philoso- 
 phers : we must overcome this habit of inattention which has 
 been gathering strength ever since we began to think ; a habit, 
 the usefulness of which, in common life, atones for the difficulty 
 it creates to the philosopher in discovering the first principles of 
 the human mind. 
 
 The firm cohesion of the parts of a body, is no more like that 
 sensation by which I perceive it to be hard, than the vibration of 
 a sonorous body is like the sound I hear : nor can I possibly 
 perceive, by my reason, any connexion between the one and the 
 other. No man can give a reason, why the vibration of a body 
 might not have given the sensation of smelling, and the effluvia 
 of bodies affected our hearing, if it had so pleased our Maker. 
 In like manner, no man can give a reason why the sensations 
 of smell, or taste, or sound, might not have indicated hard- 
 ness, as well as that sensation which, by our constitution, does 
 indicate it. [Indeed (1) no man can conceive any sensation to 
 resemble any known quality of bodies. Nor (2) can any man 
 show, by any good argument, that all our sensations might not 
 have been as they are, though no body, nor quality of body, had 
 ever existed.] 
 
 Here then is a phenomenon of human nature, which comes 
 to be resolved. Hardness of bodies is a thing that we conceive 
 as distinctly, and believe as firmly, as anything in nature. We 
 have no way of coming at this conception and belief, but by 
 means of a certain sensation of touch, to which hardness hath not 
 the least similitude \ nor can we, by any rules of reasoning, infer 
 the one from the other. The question is, how we come by this 
 (1) conception and (2) belief? 
 
 First, as to the conception : shall we call it an idea of sensa- 
 tion, or of reflection ? The last will not be affirmed ; and as 
 little can the first, unless we will call that an idea of sensation 
 which hath no resemblance to any sensation. So that the origin 
 of this idea of hardness, one of the most common and most dis- 
 tinct we have, is not to be found in all our systems of the mind : 
 not even in those which have so copiously endeavoured to deduce 
 all our notions from sensation and reflection. 
 
 But, secondly, supposing we have got the conception of hard- 
 
OF TOUCH. 441 
 
 ness, how come we by the belief of it ? Is it self-evident, from 
 comparing the ideas, that such a sensation could not be felt, 
 unless such a quality of bodies existed ? No. Can it be proved 
 by probable or certain arguments ? No, it cannot. Have we 
 got this belief then by tradition, by education, or by experience ? 
 No, it is not got in any of these ways. Shall we then throw off 
 this belief, as having no foundation in reason ? Alas ! it is not 
 in our power ; it triumphs over reason, and laughs at all the 
 arguments of a philosopher. Even the author of the " Treatise 
 of Human Nature," though he saw no reason for this belief, but 
 many against it, could hardly conquer it in his speculative and 
 solitary moments ; at other times he fairly yielded to it, and 
 confesses that he found himself under a necessity to do so. 
 
 [What shall we say then of this conception, and this belief, 
 which are so unaccountable and untractable ? I see nothing left, 
 but to conclude, that, by an original principle of our constitu- 
 tion, a certain sensation of touch both suggests to the mind the 
 conception of hardness, and creates the belief of it : or, in other 
 words, that this sensation is a natural sign of hardness.] And 
 this I shall endeavour more fully to explain. 
 
 III. Of natural signs. — As in artificial signs there is often 
 neither similitude between the sign and thing signified, nor any 
 connexion that arises necessarily from the nature of the things ; 
 so it is also in natural signs. The word gold has no similitude 
 to the substance signified by it ; nor is it in its own nature more 
 fit to signify this than any other substance : yet, by habit and 
 custom, it suggests this and no other. In like manner, a sensa- 
 tion of touch suggests hardness, although it hath neither simili- 
 tude to hardness, nor, as far as we can perceive, any necessary 
 connexion with it. The difference betwixt these two signs lies 
 only in this, that, in the first, the suggestion is the effect of habit 
 and custom ; in the second, it is not the effect of habit, but of 
 the original constitution of our minds. 
 
 It appears evident from what hath been said on the subject of 
 language, that there are natural signs, as well as artificial ; and 
 particularly, that the thoughts, purposes, and dispositions of the 
 mind, have their natural signs in the features of the face, the 
 modulation of the voice, and the motion and attitude of the body : 
 that without a natural knowledge of the connexion between these 
 signs, and the things signified by them, language could never 
 have been invented, and established among men: and that the 
 fine arts are all founded upon this connexion, which we may call 
 the natural language of mankind. It is now proper to observe, 
 that there are different orders of natural signs, and to point out 
 the different classes into which they may be distinguished, that 
 we may more distinctly conceive the relation between our sensa- 
 
442 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 tions and the things they suggest, and what we mean by calling 
 sensations signs of external things. 
 
 [The first class of natural signs comprehends those whose con- 
 nexion with the thing signified is established by nature, but dis- 
 covered only by experience.] The whole of genuine philosophy 
 consists in discovering such connexions, and reducing them to 
 general rules. The great Lord Verulam had a perfect compre- 
 hension of this, when he called it an interpretation of nature. 
 No man ever more distinctly understood or happily expressed 
 the nature and foundation of the philosophic art. What is all 
 we know of mechanics, astronomy, and optics, but connexions 
 established by nature, and discovered by experience or observa- 
 tion, and consequences deduced from them ? All the knowledge 
 we have in agriculture, gardening, chemistry, and medicine, is 
 built upon the same foundation. And if ever our philosophy 
 concerning the human mind is carried so far as to deserve the 
 name of science, which ought never to be despaired of, it must 
 be by observing facts, reducing them to general rules, and draw- 
 ing just conclusions from them. What we commonly call natural 
 causes might, with more propriety, be called natural signs, and 
 what we call effects, the things signified. The causes have no 
 proper efficiency or causality, as far as we know ; and all we can 
 certainly affirm is, that nature hath established a constant con- 
 junction between them and the things called their effects ; and 
 hath given to mankind a disposition to observe those connexions ; 
 to confide in their continuance, and to make use of them for the 
 improvement of our knowledge, and increase of our power. 
 
 [A second class is that wherein the connexion between the 
 sign and thing signified is not only established by nature, but 
 discovered to us by a natural principle, without reasoning or 
 experience.] Of this kind are the natural signs of human 
 thoughts, purposes, and desires, which have been already men- 
 tioned as the natural language of mankind. An infant may be 
 put into a fright by an angry countenance, and soothed again by 
 smiles and blandishments. A child that has a good musical ear, 
 may be put to sleep or to dance, may be made merry or sorrow- 
 ful, by the modulation of musical sounds. The principles of all 
 the fine arts, and of what we call a fine taste, may be resolved 
 into connexions of this kind. A fine taste may be improved by 
 reasoning and experience ; but if the first principles of it were 
 not planted in our minds by nature, it could never be acquired. 
 Nay, we have already made it appear, that a great part of this 
 knowledge, which we have by nature, is lost by the disuse of 
 natural signs, and the substitution of artificial in their place. 
 
 \_A third class of natural signs comprehends those which, 
 though we never before had any notion or conception of the 
 
of touch. 443 
 
 tiling signified, do suggest it, or conjure it up, as it were, by a 
 natural kind of magic, and at once give us a conception, and 
 create a belief of it.] I showed formerly, that our sensations 
 suggest to us a sentient being or mind to which they belong : a 
 being which hath a permanent existence, although the sensations 
 are transient and of short duration : a being which is still the 
 same, while its sensations and other operations are varied ten 
 thousand ways : a being which hath the same relation to all that 
 infinite variety of thoughts, purposes, actions, affections, enjoy- 
 ments, and sufferings, which we are conscious of, or can remem- 
 ber. The conception of a mind is neither an idea of sensation 
 nor of reflection ; for it is neither like any of our sensations, nor 
 like any thing we are conscious of. The first conception of it, 
 as well as the belief of it, and of the common relation it bears to 
 all that we are conscious of, or remember, is suggested to every 
 thinking being, we do not know how. 
 
 The notion of hardness in bodies, as well as the belief of it, 
 are got in a similar manner ; being by an original principle of 
 our nature annexed to that sensation which we have when we 
 feel a hard body. And so naturally and necessarily does the 
 sensation convey the notion and belief of hardness, that hitherto 
 they have been confounded by the most acute inquirers into the 
 principles of human nature, although they appear, upon accurate 
 reflection, not only to be different things, but as unlike as pain 
 is to the point of a sword. 
 
 [It may be observed, that as the first class of natural signs I 
 have mentioned, is the foundation of true philosophy, and the 
 second, the foundation of the fine arts, or of taste ; so the last is 
 the foundation of common sense ; a part of human nature which 
 hath never been explained.] 
 
 I take it for granted, that the notion of hardness, and the 
 belief of it, is first got by means of that particular sensation, 
 which, as far back as we can remember, does invariably suggest 
 it ; and that if we had never had such a feeling, we should never 
 have had any notion of hardness. [I think it is evident, that we 
 cannot, by reasoning from our sensations, collect the existence of 
 bodies at all, far less any of their qualities. This hath been 
 proved by unanswerable arguments by the Bishop of Cloyne, and 
 by the author of the " Treatise of Human Nature."] It appears 
 as evident, that this connexion between our sensations and the 
 conception and belief of external existences cannot be produced 
 by habit, experience, education, or any principle of human 
 nature that hath been admitted by philosophers. At the same 
 time it is a fact, that such sensations are invariably connected 
 with the conception and belief of external existences. Hence, 
 by all rules of just reasoning, we must conclude, that this con- 
 nexion is the effect of our constitution, and ought to be con- 
 
444 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 sidered as an original principle of human nature, till we find 
 some more general principle into which it may be resolved. 
 
 IV. Of hardness, and other primary qualities. — Further I 
 observe, that hardness is a quality, of which we have as clear and 
 distinct a conception as of any thing whatsoever. The cohesion 
 of the parts of a body with more or less force, is perfectly under- 
 stood, though its cause is not : we know what it is, as well as 
 how it affects the touch. It is therefore a quality of a quite 
 different order from those secondary qualities we have already 
 taken notice of, whereof we know no more naturally, than that 
 they are adapted to raise certain sensations in us. If hardness 
 were a quality of the same kind, it would be a proper inquiry 
 for philosophers, what hardness in bodies is ? and we should 
 have had various hypotheses about it, as well as about colour and 
 heat. But it is evident that any such hypothesis would be 
 ridiculous. If any man should say, that hardness in bodies 
 is a certain vibration of their parts, or that it is certain effluvia 
 emitted by them which affect our touch in the manner we feel ; 
 such hypotheses would shock common sense ; because we all 
 know, that if the parts of a body adhere strongly, it is hard, 
 although it should neither emit effluvia, nor vibrate. Yet at the 
 same time, no man can say, but that effluvia, or the vibration of 
 the parts of a body, might have affected our touch in the same 
 manner that hardness now does, if it had so pleased the Author 
 of our nature : and if either of these hypotheses is applied to 
 explain a secondary quality, such as smell, or taste, or sound, or 
 colour, or heat, there appears no manifest absurdity in the 
 supposition. 
 
 V. The distinction behvixt primary and secondary qualities 
 hath had several revolutions. Democritus and Epicurus, and their 
 followers, maintained it. Aristotle and the Peripatetics abolished 
 it. Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, revived it, and were 
 thought to have put it in a very clear light. But Bishop Berke- 
 ley again discarded this distinction, by such proofs as must be 
 convincing to those that hold the received doctrine of ideas. Yet, 
 after all, there appears to be a real foundation for it in the prin- 
 ciples of our nature. 
 
 What hath been said of hardness, is so easily applicable, not 
 only to its opposite, softness, but likewise to roughness and 
 smoothness, to figure and motion, that we may be excused from 
 making the application, which would only be a repetition of what 
 hath been said. All these, by means of certain corresponding 
 sensations of touch, are presented to the mind as real external 
 qualities ; the conception and the belief of them are invariably 
 connected with the corresponding sensations, by an original prin- 
 ciple of human nature. Their sensations have no name in any 
 language ; they have not only been overlooked by the vulgar, 
 
OF TOUCH. 445 
 
 but by philosophers ; or if they have been at all taken notice of, 
 they have been confounded with the external qualities which 
 they suggest. 
 
 VI. Of extension. — It is further to be observed, that hardness 
 and softness, roughness and smoothness, figure and motion, do 
 all suppose extension, and cannot be conceived without it ; yet 
 I think it must, on the other hand, be allowed, that if we had 
 never felt any thing hard or soft, rough or smooth, figured or 
 moved, we should never have had a conception of extension : so 
 that there is good ground to believe, that the notion of extension 
 could not be prior to that of other primary qualities; so it is 
 certain that it could not be posterior to the notion of any of 
 them, being necessarily implied in them all. 
 
 [Extension, therefore, seems to be a quality suggested to us, 
 by the very same suggestions which suggest the other qualities 
 above mentioned.] ggF When I grasp a ball in my hand, I per- 
 ceive it at once hard, figured, and extended. The feeling is very 
 simple, and hath not the least resemblance to any quality of 
 body. Yet it suggests to us three primary qualities perfectly 
 distinct from one another, as well as from the sensation which 
 indicates them. When I move my hand along the table, the 
 feeling is so simple, that I find it difficult to distinguish it into 
 things of different natures ; yet it immediately suggests hard- 
 ness, smoothness, extension, and motion, things of very different 
 natures, and all of them as distinctly understood as the feeling 
 which suggests them. 
 
 We are commonly told by philosophers, that we get the idea 
 of extension by feeling along the extremities of a body, as if 
 there was no manner of difficulty in the matter. I have sought, 
 with great pains I confess, to find out how this idea can be got 
 by feeling, but I have sought in vain. Yet it is one of the 
 clearest and most distinct notions we have; nor is there any 
 thing whatsoever, about which the human understanding can 
 carry on so many long and demonstrative trains of reasoning. 
 
 The notion of extension is so familiar to us from infancy, and 
 so constantly obtruded by every thing we see and feel, that we 
 are apt to think it obvious how it comes into the mind ; but 
 upon a narrower examination, we shall find it utterly inexpli- 
 cable. [It is true we have feelings of touch, which every mo- 
 ment present extension to the mind; but how they come to do so 
 is the question ; for those feelings do no more resemble extension, 
 than they resemble justice or courage : nor can the existence of 
 extended things be inferred from those feelings by any rules of 
 reasoning ; so that the feelings we have by touch, can neither 
 explain how we get the notion, nor how we come by the belief 
 of extended things.] 
 
 What hath imposed upon philosophers in this matter is, that 
 
446 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 the feelings of touch, which suggest primary qualities, have no 
 names, nor are they ever reflected upon. They pass through the 
 mind instantaneously, and serve only to introduce the notion and 
 belief of external things, which by our constitution are connected 
 with them. They are natural signs, and the mind immediately 
 passes to the thing signified, without making the least reflection 
 upon the sign, or observing that there was any such thing. 
 Hence it hath always been taken for granted, that the ideas of 
 extension, figure, and motion, are ideas of sensation, which 
 enter into the mind by the sense of touch, in the same manner 
 as the sensations of sound and smell do by the ear and nose. 
 The sensations of touch are so connected by our constitution 
 with the notions of extension, figure, and motion, that philoso- 
 phers have mistaken the one for the other, and never have been 
 able to discern that they were not only distinct things, but alto- 
 gether unlike. However, if we will reason distinctly upon this 
 subject, we ought to give names to those feelings of touch ; we 
 must accustom ourselves to attend to them, and to reflect upon 
 them, that we may be able to disjoin them from, and to compare 
 them with the qualities signified or suggested by them. 
 
 [The habit of doing this is not to be attained without pains 
 and practice ; and till a man hath acquired this habit, it will be 
 impossible for him to think distinctly, or to judge right upon 
 this subject.] 
 
 Let a man press his hand against the table ; he feels it hard. 
 But what is the meaning of this ? The meaning undoubtedly is, 
 that he hath a certain feeling of touch, from which he concludes, 
 without any reasoning, or comparing ideas, that there is some- 
 thing external really existing, whose parts stick so firmly together, 
 that they cannot be displaced without considerable force. 
 
 There is here a feeling, and a conclusion drawn from it, or 
 some way suggested by it. In order to compare these, we must 
 view them separately, and then consider by what tie they are 
 connected, and wherein they resemble one another. The hard- 
 ness of the table is the conclusion, the feeling is the medium 
 by which we are led to that conclusion. Let a man attend dis- 
 tinctly to this medium, and to the conclusion, and he will per- 
 ceive them to be as unlike as any two things in nature. The 
 one is a sensation of the mind, which can have no existence but 
 in a sentient being ; nor can it exist one moment longer than it 
 is felt : the other is in the table, and we conclude, without any 
 difficulty, that it was in the table before it was felt, and con- 
 tinues after the feeling is over. The one implies no kind of 
 extension, nor parts, nor cohesion ; the other implies all these. 
 Both indeed admit of degrees, and the feeling, beyond a certain 
 degree, is a species of pain ; but adamantine hardness does not 
 imply the least pain. 
 
of touch. 447 
 
 And as the feeling hath no similitude to hardness, so neither 
 can our reason perceive the least tie or connexion between them ; 
 nor will the logician ever be able to show a reason why we should 
 conclude hardness from this feeling, rather than softness, or any 
 other quality whatsoever. But in reality all mankind are led by 
 their constitution to conclude hardness from this feeling. 
 
 [The sensation of heat, and the sensation we have by pressing 
 a hard body, are equally feelings ; nor can we by reasoning draw 
 any conclusion from the one, but what may be drawn from the 
 other: but by our constitution we conclude from the first an 
 obscure or occult quality, of which we have only this relative 
 conception, that it is something adapted to raise in us the sensa- 
 tion of heat ; from the second, we conclude a quality of which 
 we have a clear and distinct conception, to wit, the hardness of 
 the body.] 
 
 VII. Of extension. — To put this matter in another light, it 
 may be proper to try whether from sensation alone we can col- 
 lect any notion of extension, figure, motion, and space. I take 
 it for granted, that a blind man hath the same notion of exten- 
 sion, figure, and motion, as a man that sees ; that Dr. Saunderson 
 had the same notion of a cone, a cylinder, and a sphere, and of 
 the motions and distances of the heavenly bodies, as Sir Isaac 
 Newton. 
 
 As sight, therefore, is not necessary for our acquiring those 
 notions, we shall leave it out altogether in our inquiry into the 
 first origin of them : and shall suppose a blind man, by some 
 strange distemper, to have lost all the experience, and habits, 
 and notions he had got by touch ; not to have the least concep- 
 tion of the existence, figure, dimensions, or extension, either of 
 his own body, or of any other ; but to have all his knowledge of 
 external things to acquire anew, by means of sensation and the 
 power of reason, which we suppose to remain entire. 
 
 $M* We shall first suppose his body fixed immoveably in one 
 place, and that he can only have the feelings of touch, by the ap- 
 plication of other bodies to it. Suppose him first to be pricked 
 with a pin : this will, no doubt, give a smart sensation : he feels 
 pain ; but what can he infer from it ? Nothing, surely, with 
 regard to the existence or figure of a pin. He can infer nothing 
 from this species of pain, which he might not as well infer from 
 the gout or sciatica. Common sense might lead him to think 
 that this pain had a cause ; but whether this cause was body or 
 spirit, extended or unextended, figured or not figured, he could 
 not possibly, from any principles he is supposed to have, form 
 the least conjecture. Having had formerly no notion of body 
 or of extension, the prick of a pin could give him none. 
 
 Suppose next a body not pointed, but blunt, is applied to his 
 body with a force gradually increased until it bruises him. What 
 
448 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 has he got by this, but another sensation, or train of sensations, 
 from which he will be able to conclude as little as from the 
 former ? A schirrous tumor in any inward part of the body, by 
 pressing upon the adjacent parts, may give the same kind of 
 sensation as the pressure of an external body, without conveying 
 any notion but that of pain, which surely hath no resemblance 
 to extension. 
 
 Suppose, thirdly, that the body applied to him touched a 
 larger or a lesser part of his body. Could this give him any 
 idea of its extension or dimensions ? To me it seems impos- 
 sible that it should, unless he had some previous notion of the 
 dimensions and figure of his own body, to serve him as a mea- 
 sure. When my two hands touch the extremities of a body, 
 if T know them to be a foot asunder, I easily collect that the 
 body is a foot long ; and if I know them to be five feet asunder, 
 that it is five feet long: but if I know not what the distance of 
 my hands is, I cannot know the length of the object they grasp ; 
 and if I have no previous notion of hands at all, or of distance 
 between them, I can never get that notion by their being 
 touched. 
 
 Suppose, again, (4) that a body is drawn along his hands or 
 face w r hile they are at rest. Can this give him any notion of 
 space or motion ? It no doubt gives a new feeling ; but how it 
 should convey a notion of space or motion to one who had none 
 before, I cannot conceive. The blood moves along the arteries 
 and veins, and this motion, when violent, is felt ; but I imagine 
 no man, by this feeling, could get the conception of space or 
 motion, if he had it not before. Such a motion may give a 
 certain succession of feelings, as the cholic may do ; but no feel- 
 ings, nor any combination of feelings, can ever resemble space 
 or motion. 
 
 Let us next (5) suppose that he makes some instinctive effort 
 to move his head or his hand ; but that no motion follows, either 
 on account of external resistance or of palsy. Can this effort 
 convey the notion of space and motion to one who never had it 
 before ? Surely it cannot. 
 
 Last of all, (6) let us suppose that he moves a limb by instinct, 
 without having had any previous notion of space or motion. He 
 has here a new sensation, which accompanies the flexure of joints, 
 and the swelling of muscles. But how this sensation can con- 
 vey into his mind the idea of space and motion, is still altogether 
 mysterious and unintelligible. The motions of the heart and 
 lungs are all performed by the contraction of muscles, yet give 
 no conception of space or motion. An embryo in the womb 
 has many such motions, and probably the feelings that accom- 
 pany them, without any idea of space or motion. 
 
 Upon the whole, it appears that our philosophers have imposed 
 
of touch. 449 
 
 upon themselves and upon us, in pretending to deduce from sen- 
 sation the first origin of our notions of external existences, of 
 space, motion, and extension, and all the primary qualities of 
 body, that is, the qualities whereof we have the most clear and 
 distinct conception. These qualities do not at all tally with any 
 system of the human faculties that hath been advanced. They 
 have no resemblance to any sensation, or to any operation of our 
 minds ; and therefore they cannot be ideas either of sensation or 
 of reflection. The very conception of them is irreconcilable to 
 the principles of all our philosophic systems of the understanding. 
 The belief of them is no less so. 
 
 VIII. Of the existence of a material world. — It is beyond our 
 power to say, when or in what order we came by our notions of 
 these qualities. When we trace the operations of our minds as 
 far back as memory and reflection can carry us, we find them 
 already in possession of our imagination and belief, and quite 
 familiar to the mind : but how they came first into its acquaint- 
 ance, or what has given them so strong a hold of our belief, and 
 what regard they deserve, are no doubt very important questions 
 in the philosophy of human nature. 
 
 Shall we, with the Bishop of Cloyne, serve them with a quo 
 warranto, and have them tried at the bar of philosophy, upon the 
 statute of the ideal system ? Indeed, in this trial they seem to 
 have come off very pitifully. For although they had very able 
 counsel, learned in the law, viz., Des Cartes, Malebranche, and 
 Locke, who said every thing they could for their clients, the 
 Bishop of Cloyne, believing them to be aiders and abettors of 
 heresy and schism, prosecuted them with great vigour, fully 
 answered all that had been pleaded in their defence, and silenced 
 their ablest advocates, who seem, for half a century past, to de- 
 cline the argument, and to trust to the favour of the jury rather 
 than to the strength of their pleadings. 
 
 Thus, the wisdom of philosophy is set in opposition to the 
 common sense of mankind. The first pretends to demonstrate a 
 priori, that there can be no such thing as a material world ; that 
 sun, moon, stars, and earth, vegetable and animal bodies, are and 
 can be nothing else but sensations in the mind, or images of those 
 sensations in the memory and imagination ; that, like pain and joy, 
 they can have no existence when they are not thought of. The 
 last can conceive no otherwise of this opinion, than as a kind of 
 metaphysical lunacy ; and concludes that too much learning is apt 
 to make men mad ; and that the man who seriously entertains this 
 belief, though in other respects he may be a very good man, as a 
 man may be who believes that he is made of glass, yet surely he 
 hath a soft place in his understanding, and hath been hurt by 
 much thinking. 
 
 This opposition betwixt philosophy and common sense is apt 
 
 2g 
 
450 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 to have a very unhappy influence upon the philosopher himself. 
 He sees human nature in an odd, unamiable, and mortifying 
 light. He considers himself, and the rest of his species, as 
 born under a necessity of believing ten thousand absurdities and 
 contradictions, and endowed with such a pittance of reason as is 
 just sufficient to make this unhappy discovery : and this is all the 
 fruit of his profound speculations. Such notions of human na- 
 ture tend to slacken every nerve of the soul, to put every noble 
 purpose and sentiment out of countenance, and spread a melan- 
 choly gloom over the whole face of things. 
 
 If this is wisdom, let me be deluded with the vulgar. I find 
 something within me that recoils against it, and inspires more 
 reverent sentiments of the human kind, and of the universal ad- 
 ministration. Common sense and reason have both one Author, 
 — that Almighty Author, in all whose other works we observe a 
 consistency, uniformity, and beauty, which charm and delight 
 the understanding : there must therefore be some order and con- 
 sistency in the human faculties, as well as in other parts of his 
 workmanship. A man that thinks reverently of his own kind, 
 and esteems true wisdom and philosophy, will not be fond, nay, 
 will be very suspicious, of such strange and paradoxical opinions. 
 If they are false, they disgrace philosophy ; and if they are true, 
 they degrade the human species, and make us justly ashamed of 
 our frame. 
 
 To what purpose is it for philosophy to decide against common 
 sense in this or any other matter ? The belief of a material 
 world is older, and of more authority, than any principles of 
 philosophy. It declines the tribunal of reason, and laughs at 
 all the artillery of the logician. It retains its sovereign autho- 
 rity in spite of all the edicts of philosophy, and reason itself 
 must stoop to its orders. Even those philosophers who have 
 disowned the authority of our notions of an external material 
 world, confess that they find themselves under a necessity of 
 submitting to their power. 
 
 Methinks, therefore, it were better to make a virtue of neces- 
 sity : and since we cannot get rid of the vulgar notion and belief 
 of an external world, to reconcile our reason to it as well as we 
 can : for if reason should stomach and fret ever so much at this 
 yoke, she cannot throw it off ; if she will not be the servant of 
 common sense, she must be her slave. 
 
 In order, therefore, to- reconcile reason to common sense in 
 this matter, I beg leave to offer to the consideration of philoso- 
 phers these two observations. [First. That in all this debate 
 about the existence of a material world, it hath been taken for 
 granted on both sides, that this same material world, if any 
 such there be, must be the express image of our sensations ; that 
 we can have no conception of any material thing which is not 
 
OF TOUCH. 451 
 
 like some sensation in our minds ; and particularly that the sen- 
 sations of touch are images of extension, hardness, figure, and 
 motion.] Every argument brought against the existence of a 
 material world, either by the Bishop of Cloyne, or by the au- 
 thor of the " Treatise of Human Nature," supposeth this. If this 
 is true, their arguments are conclusive and unanswerable : but, 
 on the other hand, if it is not true, there is no shadow of argu- 
 ment left. Have those philosophers, then, given any solid proof 
 of this hypothesis, upon which the whole weight of so strange a 
 system rests ? No. They have not so much as attempted to 
 do it. But because ancient and modern philosophers have 
 agreed in this opinion, they have taken it for granted. But let 
 us, as becomes philosophers, lay aside authority ; we need not 
 surely consult Aristotle or Locke, to know whether pain be like 
 the point of a sword. I have as clear a conception of extension 
 hardness, and motion, as I have of the point of a sword ; and, 
 with some pains and practice, I can form as clear a notion of 
 the other sensations of touch, as I have of pain. When I do 
 so, and compare them together, it appears to me clear as 
 daylight, that the former are not of kin to the latter, nor re- 
 semble them in any one feature. They are as unlike, yea, as cer- 
 tainly and manifestly unlike, as pain is to the point of a sword. 
 It may be true that those sensations first introduced the material 
 world to our acquaintance ; it may be true that it seldom or 
 never appears without their company : but for all that, they are 
 as unlike as the passion of anger is to those features of the coun- 
 tenance which attend it. 
 
 So that, in the sentence those philosophers have passed against 
 the material world, there is an error personge. Their proof 
 touches not matter, or any of its qualities, but strikes directly 
 against an idol of their own imagination, a material world made 
 of ideas and sensations, which never had nor can have an exist- 
 ence. 
 
 [Secondly. The very existence of our conceptions of extension, 
 figure, and motion, since they are neither ideas of sensation or 
 reflection, overturns the whole ideal system by which the material 
 world hath been tried and condemned : so that there hath been 
 likewise in this sentence an error juris.] 
 
 It is a very fine and a just observation of Locke, that as no 
 human art can create a single particle of matter^ and the whole 
 extent of our power over the material world consists in com- 
 pounding, combining, and disjoining the matter made to our 
 hands ; so in the world of thought, the materials are all made 
 by nature, and can only be variously combined and disjoined by 
 us. So that it is impossible for reason or prejudice, true or 
 false philosophy, to produce one simple notion or conception, 
 which is not the work of nature and the result of our constitution. 
 
 2 g 2 
 
452 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 The conception of extension, motion, and the other attributes 
 of matter, cannot be the effect of error or prejudice ; it must be 
 the work of nature. And the power or faculty by which we 
 acquire those conceptions must be something different from any 
 power of the human mind that hath been explained, since it is 
 neither sensation nor reflection. 
 
 This I would therefore humbly propose as an experimentum 
 crucis, by which the ideal system must stand or fall; and it 
 brings the matter to a short issue : extension, figure, motion, 
 may, any one or all of them, be taken for the subject of this 
 experiment. Either they are ideas of sensation, or they are not. 
 If any one of them can be shown to be an idea of sensation, or 
 to have the least resemblance to any sensation, I lay my hand 
 upon my mouth, and give up all pretence to reconcile reason to 
 common sense in this matter, and must suffer the ideal scepticism 
 to triumph. But if, on the other hand, they are not ideas of sen- 
 sation, nor like to any sensation, then the ideal system is a rope of 
 sand, and all the laboured arguments of the sceptical philosophy 
 against a material world, and against the existence of every thing 
 but impressions and ideas, proceed upon. a false hypothesis. 
 
 If our philosophy concerning the mind be so lame with regard 
 to the origin of our notions of the clearest, most simple, and 
 most familiar objects of thought, and the powers from which 
 they are derived, can we expect that it should be more perfect 
 in the account it gives of the origin of our opinions and belief ? 
 We have seen already some instances of its imperfection in this 
 respect : and perhaps that same nature which hath given us the 
 power to conceive things altogether unlike to any of our sensa- 
 tions, or to any operation of our minds, hath likewise provided 
 for our belief of them, by some part of our constitution hitherto 
 not explained. 
 
 Bishop Berkeley hath proved, beyond the possibility of reply, 
 that we cannot by reasoning infer the existence of matter from 
 our sensations : and the author of the " Treatise of Human Na- 
 ture" hath proved no less clearly that we cannot by reasoning 
 infer the existence of our own or other minds from our sensations. 
 But are we to admit nothing but what can be proved by reason- 
 ing ? Then we must be sceptics indeed, and believe nothing at 
 all. The author of the " Treatise of Human Nature" appears to 
 me to be but a half-sceptic. He hath not followed his principles 
 so far as they lead him : but after having, with unparalleled intre- 
 pidity and success, combated vulgar prejudices, when he had but 
 one blow to strike, his courage fails him, he fairly lays down 
 his arms, and yields himself a captive to the most common of all 
 vulgar prejudices, I mean the belief of the existence of his own 
 impressions and ideas. 
 
 I beg therefore to have the honour of making an addition to 
 
of touch. 453 
 
 the sceptical system, without which I conceive it cannot hang 
 together. I affirm that [the belief of the existence of impres- 
 sions and ideas is as little supported by reason as that of the 
 existence of minds and bodies.] No man ever did or could offer 
 any reason for this belief. Des Cartes took it for granted, that he 
 thought, and had sensations and ideas : so have all his followers 
 done. Even the hero of scepticism hath yielded this point, I 
 crave leave to say, weakly and imprudently. I say so, because 
 I am persuaded that there is no principle of his philosophy that 
 obliged him to make this concession. And what is there in 
 impressions and ideas so formidable, that this all- conquering 
 philosophy, after triumphing over every other existence, should 
 pay homage to them ? Besides, the concession is dangerous : for 
 BaF belief is of such a nature, that if you leave any root, it will 
 spread ; and you may more easily pull it up altogether than 
 say, Hitherto shalt thou go, and no further ; the existence of 
 impressions and ideas I give up to thee : but see thou pretend to 
 nothing more. A thorough and consistent sceptic will never, 
 therefore, yield this point ; and while he holds it, you can never 
 oblige him to yield any thing else. 
 
 To such a sceptic I have nothing to say ; but of the semi- 
 sceptics I should beg to know why they believe the existence of 
 their impressions and ideas. The true reason I take to be, be- 
 cause they cannot help it ; and the same reason will lead them 
 to believe many other things. 
 
 [All reasoning must be from first principles, and for first prin- 
 ciples no other reason can be given but this, that, by the consti- 
 tution of our nature, we are under a necessity of assenting to 
 them.] Such principles are parts of our constitution, no less 
 than the power of thinking : reason can neither make nor destroy 
 them ; nor can it do any thing without them : ggr it is like a 
 telescope, which may help a man to see further, who hath eyes ; 
 but without eyes a telescope shows nothing at all. A mathema- 
 tician cannot prove the truth of his axioms, nor can he prove 
 any thing, unless he takes them for granted. We cannot prove 
 the existence of our minds, nor even of our thoughts and sen- 
 sations. A historian, or a witness, can prove nothing, unless it 
 is taken for granted that the memory and senses may be trusted. 
 A natural philosopher can prove nothing, unless it is taken for 
 granted that the course of nature is steady and uniform. 
 
 How or when I got such first principles, upon which I build 
 all my reasoning, I know not ; for I had them before I can 
 remember : but I am sure they are parts of my constitution, and 
 that I cannot throw them off. That our thoughts and sensations 
 must have a subject, which we call our self, is not therefore an 
 opinion got by reasoning, but a natural principle. That our 
 sensations of touch indicate something external, extended, 
 
454 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 figured, hard or soft, is not a deduction of reason, but a natural 
 principle. The belief of it, and the very conception of it, are 
 equally parts of our constitution. If we are deceived in it, we 
 are deceived by Him that made us, and there is no remedy. 
 
 I do not mean to affirm, that the sensations of touch do from 
 the very first suggest the same notions of body and its qualities, 
 which they do when we are grown up. Perhaps nature is frugal 
 in this, as in her other operations. The passion of love, with all 
 its concomitant sentiments and desires, is naturally suggested by 
 the perception of beauty in the other sex. Yet the same per- 
 ception does not suggest the tender passion, till a certain period 
 of life. A blow given to an infant, raises grief and lamentation ; 
 but when he grows up, it as naturally stirs resentment, and 
 prompts him to resistance. Perhaps a child in the womb, or for 
 some short period of its existence, is merely a sentient being : 
 the faculties, by which it perceives an external world, by which 
 it reflects on its own thoughts, and existence, and relation to 
 other things, as well as its reasoning and moral faculties, do pos- 
 sibly unfold themselves by degrees ; so that it is inspired with 
 the various principles of common sense, as with the passions of 
 love and resentment, when it has occasion for them. 
 
 IX. Of the systems of philosophers concerning the senses. — 
 [All the systems of philosophers about our senses and their 
 objects have split upon this rock, of not distinguishing properly 
 sensations, which can have no existence but when they are felt, 
 from the things suggested by them.~] Aristotle, with as distin- 
 guishing a head as ever applied to philosophical disquisitions, 
 confounds these two ; and makes every sensation to be the form, 
 without the matter, of the thing perceived by it. &iF As the 
 impression of a seal upon wax has the form of the seal, but 
 nothing of the matter of it ; so he conceived our sensations to 
 be impressions upon the mind, which bear the image, likeness, or 
 form of the external thing perceived, without the matter of it. 
 Colour, sound, and smell, as well as extension, figure, and hard- 
 ness, are, according to him, various forms of matter : our sensa- 
 tions are the same forms imprinted on the mind, and perceived 
 in its own intellect. It is evident from this, that Aristotle made 
 no distinction between primary and secondary qualities of bodies, 
 although that distinction was made by Democritus, Epicurus, 
 and others of the ancients. 
 
 Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, revived the distinction 
 between primary and secondary qualities. But they made the 
 secondary qualities mere sensations, and the primary ones resem- 
 blances of our sensations. They maintained, that colour, sound, 
 and heat, are not any thing in bodies, but sensations of the mind : 
 at the same time, they acknowledged some particular texture or 
 modification of the body, to be the cause or occasion of those 
 
OF TOUCH. 455 
 
 sensations ; but to this modification they gave no name. Whereas, 
 by the vulgar, the names of colour, heat, and sound, are but 
 rarely applied to the sensations, and most commonly to those 
 unknown causes of them ; as hath been already explained. The 
 constitution of our nature leads us rather to attend to the things 
 signified by the sensation, than to the sensation itself, and to 
 give a name to the former rather than to the latter. Thus we 
 see, that with regard to secondary qualities, these philosophers 
 thought with the vulgar, and with common sense. Their para- 
 doxes were only an abuse of words. For when they maintain 
 as an important modern discovery, that there is no heat in the 
 fire, they mean no more, than that the fire does not feel heat, 
 which every one knew before. 
 
 With regard to primary qualities, these philosophers erred 
 more grossly : they indeed believed the existence of those quali- 
 ties ; but they did not at all attend to the sensations that suggest 
 them, which having no names, have been as little considered as 
 if they had no existence. They were aware, that figure, exten- 
 sion, and hardness, are perceived by means of sensations of touch ; 
 whence they rashly concluded, that these sensations must be 
 images and resemblances of figure, extension, and hardness. 
 
 The received hypothesis of ideas naturally led them to this 
 conclusion; and indeed could not consist with any other; for 
 according to that hypothesis, external things must be perceived 
 by means of images of them in the mind ; and what can those 
 images of external things in the mind be, but the sensations by 
 which we perceive them ? 
 
 This however was to draw a conclusion from a hypothesis 
 against fact. We need not have recourse to any hypothesis to 
 know what our sensations are, or what they are like. By a pro- 
 per degree of reflection and attention we may understand them 
 perfectly, and be as certain that they are not like any quality of 
 body, as we can be, that the toothache is not like a triangle. 
 How a sensation should instantly make us conceive and believe 
 the existence of an external thing altogether unlike to it, I do 
 not pretend to know ; and when I say that the one suggests the 
 other, I mean not to explain the manner of their connexion, but 
 to express a fact, which every one may be conscious of; namely, 
 that, by a law of our nature, such a conception and belief con- 
 stantly and immediately follow the sensation. 
 
 [Bishop Berkeley gave new light to this subject, by showing, 
 that the qualities of an inanimate thing, such as matter is con- 
 ceived to be, cannot resemble any sensation ; that it is impossible 
 to conceive any thing like the sensations of our minds, but the 
 sensations of other minds.~\ Every one that attends properly to 
 his sensations must assent to this ; yet it had escaped all the 
 philosophers that came before Berkeley : it had escaped even the 
 
456 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 
 
 ingenious Locke, who had so much practised reflection on the 
 operations of his own mind. So difficult it is to attend properly- 
 even to our own feelings. They are so accustomed to pass 
 through the mind unobserved, and instantly to make way for 
 that which nature intended them to signify, that it is extremely 
 difficult to stop, and survey them ; and when we think we have 
 acquired this power, perhaps the mind still fluctuates between 
 the sensation and its associated quality, so that they mix toge- 
 ther, and present something to the imagination that is com- 
 pounded of both. IHF Thus in a globe or cylinder, whose oppo- 
 site sides are quite unlike in colour, if you turn it slowly, the 
 colours are perfectly distinguishable, and their dissimilitude is 
 manifest ; but if it is turned fast, they lose their distinction, and 
 seem to be of one and the same colour. 
 
 No succession can be more quick than that of tangible quali- 
 ties to the sensations with which nature has associated them : 
 but when one has once acquired the art of making them separate 
 and distinct objects of thought, he will then clearly perceive, 
 that the maxim of Bishop Berkeley above mentioned is self- 
 evident ; and that the features of the face are not more unlike 
 to a passion of the mind which they indicate, than the sensations 
 of touch are to the primary qualities of body. 
 
 But let us observe what use the Bishop makes of this important 
 discovery : why, he concludes, that we can have no conception of 
 an inanimate substance, such as matter is conceived to be, or of 
 any of its qualities ; and that there is the strongest ground to 
 believe that there is no existence in nature but minds, sensations, 
 and ideas : if there is any other kind of existences, it must be 
 what we neither have nor can have any conception of. But how 
 does this follow ? Why thus : we can have no conception of any 
 thing but what resembles some sensation or idea in our minds ; 
 but the sensations and ideas in our minds can resemble nothing 
 but the sensations and ideas in other minds ; therefore, the con- 
 clusion is evident. This argument, we see, leans upon two pro- 
 positions. The last of them the ingenious author hath indeed 
 made evident to all that understand his reasoning, and can 
 attend to their own sensations : but the first proposition he never 
 attempts to prove ; it is taken from the doctrine of ideas, which 
 hath been so universally received by philosophers, that it was 
 thought to need no proof. 
 
 We may here again observe, that this acute writer argues from 
 a hypothesis against fact, and against the common sense of man- 
 kind. That we can have no conception of any thing, unless 
 there is some impression, sensation, or idea, in our minds which 
 resembles it, is indeed an opinion which hath been very generally 
 received among philosophers ; but it is neither self-evident, nor 
 hath it been clearly proved : and therefore it had been more rea- 
 
OF SEEING. 457 
 
 sonable to call in question this doctrine of philosophers, than to 
 discard the material world, and by that means expose philosophy 
 to the ridicule of all men who will not offer up common sense 
 as a sacrifice to metaphysics. 
 
 We ought, however, to do this justice both to the Bishop of 
 Cloyne and to the author of the " Treatise of Human Nature," 
 to acknowledge, that their conclusions are justly drawn from the 
 doctrine of ideas, which has been so universally received. On 
 the other hand, from the character of Bishop Berkeley, and of 
 his predecessors Des Cartes, Locke, and Malebranche, we may 
 venture to say, that if they had seen all the consequences of this 
 doctrine, as clearly as the author before mentioned did, they 
 would have suspected it vehemently, and examined it more care- 
 fully than they appear to have done. 
 
 The theory of ideas, like «the Trojan horse, had a specious 
 appearance both of innocence and beauty ; but if those philoso- 
 phers had known that it carried in its belly death and destruction 
 to all science and common sense, they w T ould not have broken 
 down their walls to give it admittance. 
 
 That we have clear and distinct conceptions of extension, 
 figure, motion, and other attributes of body, which are neither 
 sensations, nor like any sensation, is a fact of which we may be 
 as certain, as that we have sensations. And that all mankind 
 have a fixed belief of an external material world, a belief which 
 is neither got by reasoning nor education, and a belief which we 
 cannot shake off, even when we seem to have strong arguments 
 against it, and no shadow of argument for it, is likewise a fact, 
 for which we have all the evidence that the nature of the thing 
 admits. These facts are phenomena of human nature, from 
 which we may justly argue against any hypothesis, however 
 generally received. But to argue from a hypothesis against facts, 
 is contrary to the rules of true philosophy. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF SEEING. 
 
 I. The excellence and dignity of this faculty. — The advances 
 made in the knowledge of optics in the last age, and in the pre- 
 sent, and chiefly the discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton, do honour, 
 not to philosophy only, but to human nature. Such discoveries 
 ought for ever to put to shame the ignoble attempts of our 
 modern sceptics to depreciate the human understanding, and to 
 dispirit men in the search of truth, by representing the human 
 faculties as fit for nothing, but to lead us into absurdities and 
 contradictions. 
 
458 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 Of the faculties called the Jive senses, sight is without doubt 
 the noblest. The rays of light, which minister to this sense, 
 and of which, without it, we could never have had the least con- 
 ception, are the most wonderful and astonishing part of the inani- 
 mate creation. We must be satisfied of this, if we consider their 
 extreme minuteness, their inconceivable velocity, the regular 
 variety of colours which they exhibit, the invariable laws accord- 
 ing to which they are acted upon by other bodies, in their re- 
 flections, inflections, and refractions, without the least change of 
 their original properties, and the facility with which they pervade 
 bodies of great density, and of the closest texture, without resist- 
 ance, without crowding or disturbing one another, without giving 
 the least sensible impulse to the lightest bodies. 
 
 The structure of the eye, and of all its appurtenances, the 
 admirable contrivances of nature for performing all its various 
 external and internal motions, and the variety in the eyes of dif- 
 ferent animals, suited to their several natures and ways of life, 
 do clearly demonstrate this organ to be a masterpiece of nature's 
 work. And he must be very ignorant of what hath been disco- 
 vered about it, or have a very strange cast of understanding, who 
 can seriously doubt whether or not the rays of light and the 
 eye were made for one another, with consummate wisdom, and 
 perfect skill in optics. 
 
 If we should suppose an order of beings, endued with every 
 human faculty but that of sight, how incredible would it appear 
 to such beings, accustomed only to the slow informations of touch, 
 that by the addition of an organ, consisting of a ball and socket 
 of an inch diameter, they might be enabled in an instant of time, 
 without changing their place, to perceive the disposition of a 
 whole army, or the order of a battle, the figure of a magnificent 
 palace, or all the variety of a landscape ? If a man were by feel- 
 ing to find out the figure of the Peak of Teneriffe, or even of St. 
 Peter's church at Rome, it would be the work of a lifetime. 
 
 It would appear still more incredible to such beings as we have 
 supposed, if they were informed of the discoveries which may be 
 made by this little organ in things far beyond the reach of any 
 other sense : that by means of it we can find our way in the path- 
 less ocean ; that we can traverse the globe of the earth, determine 
 its figure and dimensions, and delineate every region of it : yea, 
 that we can measure the planetary orbs, and make discoveries in 
 the sphere of the fixed stars. 
 
 Would it not appear still more astonishing to such beings, if 
 they should be further informed, that, by means of this same 
 organ, we can perceive the tempers and dispositions, the passions 
 and affections of our fellow-creatures, even when they want most 
 to conceal them ? That when the tongue is taught most artfully 
 to lie and dissemble, the hypocrisy should appear in the coun- 
 
OF SEEING. 4,59 
 
 tenance to a discerning eye ? And that by this organ, we can 
 often perceive what is straight and what is crooked in the mind 
 as well as in the body ? How many mysterious things must a 
 blind man believe, if he will give credit to the relations of those 
 that see ? Surely he needs as strong a faith as is required of a 
 good Christian. 
 
 It is not, therefore, without reason, that the faculty of seeing 
 is looked upon, not only as more noble than the other senses, but 
 as having something in it of a nature superior to sensation. The 
 evidence of reason is called seeing, not feeling, smelling, or tast- 
 ing. Yea, we are wont to express the manner of the Divine 
 knowledge by seeing, as that kind of knowledge which is most 
 perfect in us. 
 
 II. Sight discovers almost nothing which the blind may not com- 
 prehend. The reason of this. — Notwithstanding what hath been 
 said of the dignity and superior nature of this faculty, it is 
 worthy of our observation, that there is very little of the know- 
 ledge acquired by sight, that may not be communicated to a man 
 born blind. One who never saw the light, may be learned and 
 knowing in every science, even in optics ; and may make disco- 
 veries in every branch of philosophy. He may understand as 
 much as another man, not only of the order, distances, and 
 motions of the heavenly bodies ; but of the nature of light, and 
 of the laws of the reflection and refraction of its rays. He may 
 understand distinctly, how those laws produce the phenomena of 
 the rainbow, the prism, the camera obscura, and the magic lan- 
 tern, and all the powers of the microscope and telescope. This 
 is a fact sufficiently attested by experience. 
 
 [In order to perceive the reason of it, we must distinguish the 
 appearance that objects make to the eye, from the things sug- 
 gested by that appearance : and again, in the visible appearance 
 of objects, we must distinguish the appearance of colour from 
 the appearance of extension, figure, and motion. First, then, 
 as to the visible appearance cf the figure, and motion, and exten- 
 sion of bodies, I conceive that a man born blind may have a dis- 
 tinct notion, if not of the very things, at least of something 
 extremely like to them. May not a blind man be made to con- 
 ceive, that a body moving directly from the eye, or directly 
 towards it, may appear to be at rest ? and that the same motion 
 may appear quicker or slower, according as it is nearer to the eye 
 or further off, more direct or more oblique ? May he not be 
 made to conceive, that a plain surface, in a certain position, may 
 appear as a straight line, and vary its visible figure, as its posi- 
 tion, or the position of the eye, is varied ? That a circle seen 
 obliquely will appear an ellipse ; and a square, a rhombus or an 
 oblong rectangle ? Dr. Saunderson understood the projection of 
 the sphere, and the common rules of perspective ; and if he did, 
 
460 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 he must have understood all that I have mentioned. If there 
 were any doubt of Dr. Saunderson's .understanding these things, 
 I could mention my having heard him say in conversation, that 
 he found great difficulty in understanding Dr. Halley's demon- 
 stration of that proposition, That the angles made by the circles 
 of the sphere, are equal to the angles made by their representa- 
 tives in the stereographic projection : but, said he, when I laid 
 aside that demonstration, and considered the proposition in my 
 own way, I saw clearly that it must be true. Another gentle- 
 man, of undoubted credit, and judgment in these matters, who 
 had part in this conversation, remembers it distinctly. 
 
 Secondly. As to the appearance of colour, a blind man must 
 be more at a loss ; because he hath no perception that resembles 
 it. Yet he may, by a kind of analogy, in part supply this defect. 
 To those who see, a scarlet colour signifies an unknown quality 
 in bodies, that makes to the eye an appearance which they are 
 well acquainted with, and have often observed : to a blind man, 
 it signifies an unknown quality that makes to the eye an appear- 
 ance which he is unacquainted with. But he can conceive the 
 eye to be variously affected by different colours, as the nose is by 
 different smells, or the ear by different sounds. Thus he can 
 conceive scarlet to differ from blue, as the sound of a trumpet 
 does from that of a drum ; or as the smell of an orange differs 
 from that of an apple. It is impossible to know whether a 
 scarlet colour has the same appearance to me which it hath to 
 another man ; and if the appearances of it to different persons 
 differed as much as colour does from sound, they might never be 
 able to discover this difference. Hence it appears obvious, that 
 a blind man might talk long about colours distinctly and perti- 
 nently : and if you were to examine him in the dark about the 
 nature, composition, and beauty of them, he might be able to 
 answer so as not to betray his defect. 
 
 We have seen how far a blind man may go in the knowledge 
 of the appearances which things make to the eye. As to the 
 things which are suggested by them, or inferred from them ; 
 although he could never discover them of himself, yet he may 
 understand them perfectly by the information of others. And 
 every thing of this kind that enters into our minds by the eye, 
 may enter into his by the ear. Thus, for instance, he would 
 never, if left to the direction of his own faculties, have dreamed 
 of any such thing as light : but he can be informed of every 
 thing we know about it. He can conceive, as distinctly as we, 
 the minuteness and velocity of its rays, their various degrees of 
 refrangibility and reflexibility, and all the magical powers and 
 virtues of that wonderful element. He would never of himself 
 have found out that there are such bodies as the sun, moon, and 
 stars ; but he may be informed of all the noble discoveries of 
 
OF SEEING. 4gl 
 
 astronomers about their motions, and the laws of nature by which 
 they are regulated. Thus . it appears that there is very little 
 knowledge got by the eye which may not be communicated by 
 language to those who have no eyes. 
 
 If we should suppose that it were as uncommon for men to 
 see as it is to be born blind, would not the few who had this 
 rare gift appear as prophets and inspired teachers to the many ? 
 We conceive inspiration to give a man no new faculty, but to 
 communicate to him in a new way, and by extraordinary means, 
 what the faculties common to mankind can apprehend, and what 
 he can communicate to others by ordinary means. On the sup- 
 position we have made, sight would appear to the blind very 
 similar to this : for the few who had this gift could communicate 
 the knowledge acquired by it to those who had it not. They 
 could not indeed convey to the blind any distinct notion of the 
 manner in which they acquired this knowledge. A ball and 
 socket would seem, to a blind man, in this case, as improper an 
 instrument for acquiring such a variety and extent of knowledge, 
 as a dream or a vision. The manner in which a man who sees 
 discerns so many things by means of the eye, is as unintelligible 
 to the blind, as the manner in which a man may be inspired with 
 knowledge by the Almighty is to us. Ought the blind man 
 therefore, without examination, to treat all pretences to the gift 
 of seeing as imposture ? Would he not, if he were candid and 
 tractable, find reasonable evidence of the reality of this gift in 
 others, and draw great advantages from it to himself? 
 
 The distinction we have made between the visible appearances 
 of the objects of sight, and things suggested by them, is necessary 
 to give us a just notion of the intention of nature in giving us 
 eyes. [If we attend duly to the operation of our mind in the 
 use of this faculty, we shall perceive that the visible appearance 
 of objects is hardly ever regarded by us. It is not at all made 
 an object of thought or reflection, but serves only as a sign to 
 introduce to the mind something else, which may be distinctly 
 conceived by those who never saw.] 
 
 Thus the visible appearance of things in my room varies almost 
 every hour, according as the day is clear or cloudy, as the sun is 
 in the east, or south, or west, and as my eye is in one part of the 
 room or in another : but I never think of these variations other- 
 wise than as signs of morning, noon, or night, of a clear or 
 cloudy sky. A book or a chair has a different appearance to the 
 eye in every different distance and position ; yet we conceive it 
 to be still the same ; and, overlooking the appearance, we imme- 
 diately conceive the real figure, distance, and position of the 
 body, of which its visible or perspective appearance is a sign and 
 indication. 
 
 When I see a man at the distance of ten yards, and afterwards 
 
462 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 see him at the distance of a hundred yards, his visible appearance, 
 in its length, breadth, and all its linear proportions, is ten times 
 less in the last case than it is in the first : yet I do not conceive 
 him one inch diminished by this diminution of his visible figure. 
 Nay, I do not in the least attend to this diminution, even when 
 I draw from it the conclusion of his being at a greater distance. 
 For such is the subtilty of the mind's operation in this case, that 
 we draw the conclusion without perceiving that ever the pre- 
 mises entered into the mind. A thousand such instances might 
 be produced, in order to show that the visible appearances of 
 objects are intended by nature only as signs or indications ; and 
 that the mind passes instantly to the thing signified, without 
 making the least reflection upon the sign, or even perceiving 
 that there is any such thing. It is in a way somewhat similar, 
 that the sounds of a language, after it is become familiar, are 
 overlooked, and we attend only to the things signified by them. 
 
 It is therefore a just and important observation of the Bishop 
 of Cloyne, that the visible appearance of objects is a kind of 
 language used by nature to inform us of their distance, magni- 
 tude, and figure. And this observation hath been very happily 
 applied by that ingenious writer, to the solution of some phe- 
 nomena in optics, which had before perplexed the greatest mas- 
 ters in that science. The same observation is further improved 
 by the judicious Dr. Smith, in his Optics, for explaining the 
 apparent figure of the heavens, and the apparent distances and 
 magnitudes of objects seen with glasses, or by the naked eye. 
 
 Avoiding as much as possible the repetition of what hath been 
 said by these excellent writers, we shall avail ourselves of the 
 distinction between the signs that nature useth in this visual lan- 
 guage, and the things signified by them ; and in what remains 
 to be said of sight, shall first make some observations upon the 
 signs. 
 
 III. Of the visible appearances of objects. — In this section we 
 must speak of things which are never made the object of reflec- 
 tion, though almost every moment presented to the mind. 
 Nature intended them only for signs ; and in the whole course 
 of life they are put to no other use. The mind has acquired a 
 confirmed and inveterate habit of inattention to them : for they 
 no sooner appear, than quick as lightning the thing signified 
 succeeds, and engrosses all our regard. They have no name in 
 language; and although we are conscious of them when they 
 pass through the mind, yet their passage is so quick, and so 
 familiar, that it is absolutely unheeded ; nor do they leave any 
 footsteps of themselves either in the memory or imagination. 
 That this is the case with regard to the sensations of touch, hath 
 been shown in the last chapter ; and it holds no less with regard 
 to the visible appearances of objects. 
 
OF SEEING. 4(33 
 
 I cannot, therefore, entertain the hope of being intelligible to 
 those readers who have not, by pains and practice, acquired the 
 habit of distinguishing the appearance of objects to the eye, from 
 the judgment which we form by sight of their colour, distance, 
 magnitude, and figure. The only profession in life wherein it is 
 necessary to make this distinction, is that of painting. The 
 painter hath occasion for an abstraction, with regard to visible 
 objects, somewhat similar to that which we here require ; and 
 this indeed is the most difficult part of his art. For it is evident, 
 that if he could fix in his imagination the visible appearance of 
 objects, without confounding it with the things signified by that 
 appearance, it would be as easy for him to paint from the life, 
 and to give every figure its proper shading and relief, and its 
 perspective proportions, as it is to paint from a copy. Perspec- 
 tive, shading, giving relief, and colouring, are nothing else but 
 copying the appearance which things make to the eye. We may 
 therefore borrow some light on the subject of visible appearance 
 from this art. 
 
 SUF Let one look upon any familiar object, such as a book, at 
 different distances and in different positions, is he not able to 
 affirm, upon the testimony of his sight, that it is the same book, 
 the same object, whether seen at the distance of one foot or of 
 ten, whether in one position or another ; that the colour is the 
 same, the dimensions the same, and the figure the same, as far 
 as the eye can judge ? This surely must be acknowledged. The 
 same individual object is presented to the mind, only placed at 
 different distances, and in different positions. Let me ask, in 
 the next place, whether this object has the same appearance to 
 the eye in these different distances ? Infallibly it hath not. For, 
 
 First. However certain our judgment may be that the colour 
 is the same, it is as certain that it hath not the same appear- 
 ance at different distances. There is a certain degradation of 
 the colour, and a certain confusion and indistinctness of the 
 minute parts, which is the natural consequence of the removal 
 of the object to a greater distance. Those that are not paint- 
 ers, or critics in painting, overlook this ; and cannot easily be 
 persuaded that the colour of the same object hath a different 
 appearance at the distance of one foot and of ten, in the shade 
 and in the light. But the masters in painting know how, by 
 the degradation of the colour, and the confusion of the minute 
 parts, figures, which are upon the same canvass, and at the same 
 distance from the eye, may be made to represent objects which 
 are at the most unequal distances. They know how to make the 
 objects appear to be of the same colour, by making their pic- 
 tures really of different colours according to their distances or 
 shades. 
 
 Secondly. Every one who is acquainted with the rules of per- 
 
4(34 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 spective knows, that the appearance of the figure of the book 
 must vary in every different position ; yet if you ask a man that 
 has no notion of perspective, whether the figure of it does not 
 appear to his eye to be the same in all its different positions, 
 he can, with a good conscience, affirm that it does. He hath 
 learned to make allowance for the variety of visible figure arising 
 from the difference of position, and to draw the proper conclu- 
 sions from it. But he draws these conclusions so readily and 
 habitually, as to lose sight of the premises ; and therefore, where 
 he hath made the same conclusion, he conceives the visible ap- 
 pearance must have been the same. 
 
 Thirdly. Let us consider the apparent magnitude or dimen- 
 sions of the book. Whether I view it at the distance of one 
 foot or of ten feet, it seems to be about seven inches long, five 
 broad, and one thick. I can judge of these dimensions very 
 nearly by the eye, and I judge them to be the same at both dis- 
 tances. But yet it is certain, that at the distance of one foot its 
 visible length and breadth is about ten times as great as at the 
 distance of ten feet ; and consequently its surface is about a 
 hundred times as great. This great change of apparent magni- 
 tude is altogether overlooked, and every man is apt to imagine, 
 that it appears to the eye of the same size at both distances. 
 Further, when I look at the book, it seems plainly to have three 
 dimensions, of length, breadth, and thickness ; but it is certain 
 that the visible appearance hath no more than two, and can be 
 exactly represented upon a canvass which hath only length and 
 breadth. 
 
 In the last place, does not every man, by sight, perceive the 
 distance of the book from his eye ? Can he not affirm with cer- 
 tainty, that in one case it is not above one foot distant, that in 
 another it is ten ? Nevertheless, it appears certain, that distance 
 from the eye is no immediate object of sight. There are certain 
 things in the visible appearance which are signs of distance from 
 the eye, and from which, as we shall afterwards show, we learn 
 by experience to judge of that distance within certain limits ; 
 but it seems beyond doubt, that a man born blind, and suddenly 
 made to see, could form no judgment at first of the distance of 
 the objects which he saw. The young man couched by Che- 
 selden thought, at first, that every thing he saw touched his eye, 
 and learned only by experience to judge of the distance of visi- 
 ble objects. 
 
 [1 have entered into this long detail, in order to show, that 
 the visible appearance of an object is extremely different from 
 the notion of it which experience teaches us to form by sight; 
 and to enable the reader to attend to the visible appearance of 
 colour, figure, and extension in visible things, which is no com- 
 mon object of thought, but must be carefully attended to by 
 
OF SEEING. 4g5 
 
 those who would enter into the philosophy of this sense, or would 
 comprehend what shall be said upon it.] gSF To a man newly 
 made to see, the visible appearance of objects would be the same 
 as to us ; but he would see nothing at all of their real dimen- 
 sions, as we do. He could form no conjecture, by means of his 
 sight only, how many inches or feet they were in length, breadth, 
 or thickness. He could perceive little or nothing of their real 
 figure ; nor could he discern, that this was a cube, that a sphere ; 
 that this was a cone, and that a cylinder. His eye could not in- 
 form him, that this object was near, and that more remote. The 
 habit of a man or of a woman, which appeared to us of one 
 uniform colour, variously folded and shaded, would present to 
 his eye neither fold nor shade, but variety of colour. In a word, 
 his eyes, though ever so perfect, would at first give him almost 
 no information of things without him. They would indeed pre- 
 sent the same appearances to him as they do to us, and speak the 
 same language ; but to him it is an unknown language, and there- 
 fore he would attend only to the signs, without knowing the 
 signification of them : whereas to us it is a language perfectly 
 familiar; and therefore we take no notice of the signs, but 
 attend only to the -things signified by them. 
 
 IV. That colour is a quality of bodies, not a sensation of the 
 mind. — [By colour, all men, who have not been tutored by modern 
 philosophy, understand, not a sensation of the mind, which can 
 have no existence when it is not perceived, but a quality or 
 modification of bodies, which continues to be the same, whether it 
 is seen or not.~\ The scarlet rose, which is before me, is still a 
 scarlet rose when I shut my eyes, and was so at midnight, when 
 no eye saw it. The colour remains, when the appearance ceases : 
 it remains the same when the appearance changes. For when I 
 view this scarlet rose through a pair of green spectacles, the ap- 
 pearance is changed, but I do not conceive the colour of the 
 rose changed. To a person in the jaundice, it has still another 
 appearance ; but he is easily convinced, that the change is in his 
 eye, and not in the colour of the object. Every different degree 
 of light makes it have a different appearance, and total darkness 
 takes away all appearance, but makes not the least change in the 
 colour of the body. We may, by a variety of optical experi- 
 ments, change the appearance of figure and magnitude in a body, 
 as well as that of colour ; we may make one body appear to be 
 ten. But all men believe, that as a multiplying glass does not 
 really produce ten guineas out of one, nor a microscope turn a 
 guinea into a ten pound piece ; so neither does a coloured glass 
 change the real colour of the object seen through it, when it 
 changes the appearance of that colour. 
 
 The common language of mankind shows evidently, that we 
 ought to distinguish between the colour of a body> which is con- 
 
 2 H 
 
4GG 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 ceived to be a fixed and permanent quality in the body, and the 
 appearance of that colour to the eye, which may be varied a thou- 
 sand ways, by a variation of the light, of the medium, of the eye 
 itself. The permanent colour of the body is the cause, which, 
 by the mediation of various kinds or degrees of light, and of 
 various transparent bodies interposed, produces all this variety of 
 appearances. When a coloured body is presented, there is a 
 certain apparition to the eye, or to the mind, which we have 
 called the appearance of colour. Mr. Locke calls it an idea ; 
 and indeed it may be called so with the greatest propriety. This 
 idea can have no existence but when it is perceived. It is a kind 
 of thought, and can only be the act of a percipient or thinking 
 being. By the constitution of our nature, we are led to conceive 
 this idea as a sign of something external, and are impatient till we 
 learn its meaning. Bgjf A thousand experiments for this purpose 
 are made every day by children, even before they come to the 
 use of reason. They look at things, they handle them, they put 
 them in various positions, at different distances, and in different 
 lights. The ideas of sight, by these means, come to be asso- 
 ciated with, and readily to suggest, things external, and alto- 
 gether unlike them. In particular, that idea which we have 
 called the appearance of colour, suggests the conception and be- 
 lief of some unknown quality in the body, which occasions the 
 idea ; and it is to this quality, and not to the idea, that we give 
 the name of colour. The various colours, although in their na- 
 ture equally unknown, are easily distinguished when we think 
 or speak of them, by being associated with the ideas which they 
 excite. In like manner, gravity, magnetism, and electricity, 
 although all unknown qualities, are distinguished by their diffe- 
 rent effects. As we grow up, the mind acquires a habit of pass- 
 ing so rapidly from the ideas of sight to the external things sug- 
 gested by them, that the ideas are not in the least attended to, 
 nor have they names given them in common language. 
 
 When we think or speak of any particular colour, however 
 simple the notion may seem to be which is presented to the 
 imagination, it is really in some sort compounded. It involves an 
 unknown cause, and a known effect. The name of colour be- 
 longs indeed to the cause only, and not to the effect. But as 
 the cause is unknown, we can form no distinct conception of it, 
 but by its relation to the known effect. And therefore both go 
 together in the imagination, and are so closely united, that they 
 are mistaken for one simple object of thought. When I would 
 conceive those colours of bodies which we call scarlet and blue ; 
 if I conceived them only as unknown qualities, I could perceive 
 no distinction between the one and the other. I must, there- 
 fore, for the sake of distinction, join to each of them in my ima- 
 gination some effect or some relation that is peculiar. And the 
 
OF SEEING. 4Q7 
 
 most obvious distinction is, the appearance which one and the 
 other makes to the eye. [Hence the appearance is, in the ima- 
 gination, so closely united with the quality called a scarlet colour, 
 that they are apt to he mistaken for one and the same thing, 
 although they are in reality so different and so unlike, that one 
 is an idea in the mind, the other is a quality of body.~\ 
 
 [I conclude, then, that colour is not a sensation, but a secon- 
 dary quality of bodies, in the sense we have already explained ; 
 that it is a certain power or virtue in bodies, that in fair daylight 
 exhibits to the eye an appearance which is very familiar to us, 
 although it hath no name.] Colour differs from other secondary 
 qualities in this, that whereas the name of the quality is some- 
 times given to the sensation which indicates it, and is occasioned 
 by it, we never, as far as I can judge, give the name of colour to 
 the sensation, but to the quality only. Perhaps the reason of 
 this may be, that the appearances of the same colour are so va- 
 rious, and changeable, according to the different modifications of 
 the light, of the medium, and of the eye, that language could 
 not afford names for them. And, indeed, they are so little inte- 
 resting, that they are never attended to, but serve only as signs 
 to introduce the things signified by them. Nor ought it to ap- 
 pear incredible, that appearances so frequent and so familiar 
 should have no names, nor be made objects of thought; since 
 we have before shown, that this is true of many sensations of 
 touch, w T hich are no less frequent, nor less familiar. 
 
 V. First inference from the preceding. — From what hath been 
 said about colour, we may infer two things. The first is, that 
 one of the most remarkable paradoxes of modern philosophy, 
 which hath been universally esteemed as a great discovery, is, in 
 reality, when examined to the bottom, nothing else but an abuse 
 of words. The paradox I mean is, that colour is not a quality of 
 bodies, but only an idea in the mind. We have shown, that the 
 word colour, as used by the vulgar, cannot signify an idea in the 
 mind, but a permanent quality of body. We have shown, that 
 there is really a permanent quality of body, to which the com- 
 mon use of this word exactly agrees. Can any stronger proof 
 be desired, that this quality is that to which the vulgar give the 
 name of colour ? If it should be said, that this quality to which 
 we give the name of colour, is unknown to the vulgar, and there- 
 fore can have no name among them ; I answer, it is indeed known, 
 only by its effects ; that is, by its exciting a certain idea in us : 
 but are there not numberless qualities of bodies which are known 
 only by their effects, to which, notwithstanding, we find it ne- 
 cessary to give names ? Medicine alone might furnish us with 
 a hundred instances of this kind. Do not the words astringent, 
 narcotic, epispastic, caustic, and innumerable others, signify 
 qualities of bodies which are known only by their effects upon 
 
 2h2 
 
468 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 animal bodies ? Why, then, should not the vulgar give a name to 
 a quality whose effects are every moment perceived by their eyes ? 
 We have all the reason, therefore, that the nature of the thing 
 admits, to think that the vulgar apply the name of colour to that 
 quality of bodies which excites in us what the philosophers call 
 the idea of colour. And that there is such a quality in bodies, 
 all philosophers allow, who allow that there is any such thing as 
 body. Philosophers have thought fit to leave that quality of 
 bodies which the vulgar call colour without a name, and to give 
 the name of colour to the idea or appearance, to which, as we 
 have shown, the vulgar give no name, because they never make 
 it an object of thought or reflection. [Hence it appears, that 
 when philosophers affirm that colour is not in bodies, but in the 
 mind, and the vulgar affirm, that colour is not in the mind, but 
 is a quality of bodies, there is no difference between them about 
 things, but only about the meaning of a word.~\ 
 
 The vulgar have undoubted right to give names to things 
 which they are daily conversant about ; and philosophers seem 
 justly chargeable with an abuse of language, when they change 
 the meaning of a common word without giving warning. 
 
 If it is a good rule to think with philosophers and speak with 
 the vulgar, it must be right to speak with the vulgar when we 
 think with them, and not to shock them by philosophical para- 
 doxes, which, when put into common language, express only the 
 common sense of mankind. 
 
 If you ask a man that is no philosopher, what colour is ? or, 
 what makes one body appear white, another scarlet ? he cannot 
 tell. He leaves that inquiry to philosophers, and can embrace 
 any hypothesis about it, except that of our modern philosophers, 
 who affirm, that colour is not in body, but only in the mind. 
 
 Nothing appears more shocking to his apprehension, than that 
 visible objects should have no colour, and that colour should be 
 in that which he conceives to be invisible. Yet this strange 
 paradox is not only universally received, but considered as one 
 of the noblest discoveries of modern philosophy e The ingenious 
 Mr. Addison, in the " Spectator," No. 413, speaks thus of it. 
 " I have here supposed that my reader is acquainted with that 
 great modern discovery, which is at present universally acknow- 
 ledged by all the inquirers into natural philosophy, namely, that 
 light and colours, as apprehended by the imagination, are only 
 ideas in the mind, and not qualities that have any existence in 
 matter. As this is a truth which has been proved incontestably 
 by many modern philosophers, and is indeed one of the finest 
 speculations in that science, if the English reader would see the 
 notion explained at large, he may find it in the eighth chapter 
 of the second book of Mr. Locke's * Essay on Human Under- 
 standing.' " 
 
OF SEEING. 4@9 
 
 Mr. Locke and Mr. Addison are writers who have deserved so 
 well of mankind, that one must feel some uneasiness in differing 
 from them, and would wish to ascribe all the merit that is due 
 to a discovery upon which they put so high a value. And indeed 
 it is just to acknowledge, that Mr. Locke, and other modern 
 philosophers, on the subject of secondary qualities, have the 
 merit of distinguishing more accurately than those that went 
 before them, between the sensation in the mind, and that consti- 
 tution or quality of bodies which gives occasion to the sensation. 
 They have shown clearly, that these two things are not only dis- 
 tinct, but altogether unlike : that there is no similitude between 
 the effluvia of an odorous body, and the sensation of smell which 
 they occasion ; nor between the vibrations of a sounding body, 
 and the sensation of sound: that there can be no resemblance 
 between the feeling of heat, and the constitution of the heated 
 body which occasions it ; nor between the appearance which a 
 coloured body makes to the eye, and the texture of the body 
 which causes that appearance. 
 
 Nor was the merit small of distinguishing these things accu- 
 rately ; because, however different and unlike in their nature, 
 they have been always so associated in the imagination, as to 
 coalesce as it were into one two-faced form, which, from its 
 amphibious nature, could not justly be appropriated either to 
 body or mind ; and until it was properly distinguished into its 
 different constituent parts, it was impossible to assign to either 
 their just shares in it. None of the ancient philosophers had 
 made this distinction. The followers of Democritus and Epi- 
 curus conceived the forms of heat, and sound, and colour, to be 
 in the mind only, but that our senses fallaciously represented 
 them as being in bodies. The Peripatetics imagined, that those 
 forms were really in bodies ;. and that the images of them were 
 conveyed to the mind by our senses. 
 
 The one system made the senses naturally fallacious and 
 deceitful ; the other made the qualities of body to resemble the 
 sensations of the mind. Nor was it possible to find a third, 
 without making the distinction we have mentioned; by which 
 indeed the errors of both these ancient systems are avoided, and 
 we are not left under the hard necessity of believing, either, on 
 the one hand, that our sensations are like to the qualities of 
 body, or, on the other, that God hath given us one faculty to 
 deceive us, and another to detect the cheat. 
 
 We desire, therefore, with pleasure, to do justice to the doc- 
 trine of Mr. Locke, and other modern philosophers, with regard 
 to colour, and other secondary qualities, and to ascribe to it its 
 due merit, while we beg leave to censure the language in which 
 they have expressed their doctrine. When they had explained 
 and established the distinction between the appearance which 
 
470 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 colour makes to the eye, and the modification of the coloured 
 body, which, by the laws of nature, causes that appearance ; the 
 question was, whether to give the name of colour to the cause, 
 or to the effect? By giving it, as they have done, to the effect, 
 they set philosophy apparently in opposition to common sense, 
 and expose it to the ridicule of the vulgar. But had they given 
 the name of colour to the cause, as they ought to have done, they 
 must then have affirmed, with the vulgar, that colour is a quality 
 of bodies ; and that there is neither colour, nor any thing like it, 
 in the mind. Their language, as well as their sentiments, would 
 have been perfectly agreeable to the common apprehensions 
 of mankind, and true philosophy would have joined hands with 
 common sense. As Mr. Locke was no enemy to common sense, 
 it may be presumed that in this instance, as in some others, he 
 was seduced by some received hypothesis : and that this was 
 actually the case, will appear in the following section. 
 
 VI. Second. That none of our sensations are resemblances of 
 any of the qualities of bodies. — A second inference is, that 
 although colour is really a quality of body, yet it is not repre- 
 sented to the mind by an idea or sensation that resembles it ; on 
 the contrary, it is suggested by an idea which does not in the least 
 resemble it. And this inference is applicable, not to colour only, 
 but to all the qualities of body which we have examined. 
 
 It deserves to be remarked, that in the analysis we have 
 hitherto given of the operations of the five senses, and of the 
 qualities of bodies discovered by them, no instance hath occurred, 
 either of any sensation which resembles any quality of body, or 
 of any quality of body whose image or resemblance is conveyed 
 to the mind by means of the senses. 
 
 There is no phenomenon in nature more unaccountable, than 
 the intercourse that is carried on between the mind and the 
 external material world : there is no phenomenon which philoso- 
 phical spirits have shown greater avidity to pry into, and to 
 resolve. It is agreed by all, that this intercourse is carried on 
 by means of the senses : and this satisfies the vulgar curiosity, 
 but not the philosophic. Philosophers must have some system, 
 some hypothesis, that shows the manner in which our senses 
 make us acquainted with external things. All the fertility of 
 human invention seems to have produced only one hypothesis for 
 this purpose ; which therefore hath been universally received ; 
 and that is, that the mind, like a mirror, receives the images of 
 things from without, by means of the senses ; so that their use 
 must be to convey these images into the mind. 
 
 ^ Whether to these images of external things in the mind we 
 give the name of sensible forms, or sensible species, with the 
 Peripatetics, or the name of ideas of sensation, with Mr. Locke ; 
 or whether, with later philosophers, we distinguish sensatiom, 
 
OF SEEING. 4/7I 
 
 which are immediately conveyed by the senses, from ideas of 
 sensation, which are faint copies of our sensations retained in the 
 memory and imagination ; these are only differences about words. 
 The hypothesis I have mentioned is common to all these different 
 systems. 
 
 The necessary and allowed consequence of this hypothesis is, 
 that no material thing, nor any quality of material things, can be 
 conceived by us, or made an object of thought, until its image is 
 conveyed to the mind by means of the senses. We shall exa- 
 mine this hypothesis particularly afterwards, and at this time 
 only observe, that in consequence of it one would naturally ex- 
 pect, that to every quality and attribute of body we know or can 
 conceive, there should be a sensation corresponding, which is the 
 image and resemblance of that quality ; and that the sensations 
 which have no similitude or resemblance to body, or to any of 
 its qualities, should give us no conception of a material world, or 
 of any thing belonging to it. These things might be expected 
 as the natural consequences of the hypothesis we have mentioned. 
 
 Now, we have considered, in this and the preceding chapters, 
 extension, figure, solidity, motion, hardness, roughness, as well 
 as colour, heat and cold, sound, taste, and smell. We have 
 endeavoured to show, that our nature and constitution lead us to 
 conceive these as qualities of body, as all mankind have always 
 conceived them to be. We have likewise examined, with great 
 attention, the various sensations we have by means of the five 
 senses, and are not able to find among them all one single image 
 of body, or of any of its qualities. From whence then come those 
 images of body and of its qualities into the mind ? Let philoso- 
 phers resolve this question. All I can say is, that they come not 
 by the senses. I am sure, that by proper attention and care I 
 may know my sensations, and be able to affirm with certainty 
 what they resemble, and what they do not resemble. I have 
 examined them one by one, and compared them with matter and 
 its qualities; and I cannot find one of them that confesses a 
 resembling feature. 
 
 A truth so evident as this, that our sensations are not images 
 of matter, or of any of its qualities, ought not to yield to an 
 hypothesis such as that above mentioned, however ancient, or 
 however universally received by philosophers ; nor can there be 
 any amicable union between the two. This will appear by some 
 reflections upon the spirit of the ancient and modern philosophy 
 concerning sensation. 
 
 [During the reign of the Peripatetic philosophy, our sensations 
 were not minutely or accurately examined. The attention of 
 philosophers, as well as of the vulgar, was turned to the things 
 signified by them : therefore, in consequence of the common 
 hypothesis, it was taken for granted, that all the sensations we 
 
47g OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 have from external things, were the forms or images of these 
 external things. And thus the truth we have mentioned, yielded 
 entirely to the hypothesis, and was altogether suppressed by it.] 
 
 Des Cartes gave a noble example of turning our attention 
 inward, and scrutinizing our sensations ; and this example hath 
 been very worthily followed by modern philosophers, particularly 
 by Malebranche, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume. [The effect of 
 this scrutiny hath been, a gradual discovery of the truth above 
 mentioned, to wit, the dissimilitude between the sensations of 
 our minds and the qualities or attributes of an insentient, inert 
 substance, such as we conceive matter to be.] But this valuable 
 and useful discovery, in its different stages, hath still been un- 
 happily united to the ancient hypothesis : and from this inauspi- 
 cious match of opinions, so unfriendly and discordant in their 
 natures, have arisen those monsters of paradox and scepticism 
 with which the modern philosophy is too justly chargeable. 
 
 Mr. Locke saw clearly, and proved incontestably, that the 
 sensations we have by taste, smell, and hearing, as well as the 
 sensations of colour, heat, and cold, are not resemblances of any 
 thing in bodies ; and in this he agrees with Des Cartes and 
 Malebranche. Joining this opinion with the hypothesis, it fol- 
 lows necessarily, that three senses of the five are cut off from 
 giving us any intelligence of the material world, as being alto- 
 gether inept for that office. Smell, and taste, and sound, as well 
 as colour and heat, can have no more relation to body, than anger 
 or gratitude ; nor ought the former to be called qualities of body, 
 whether primary or secondary, any more than the latter. For it 
 was natural and obvious to argue thus from that hypothesis : if 
 heat, and colour, and sound, are real qualities of body, the sen- 
 sations by which we perceive them, must be resemblances of 
 those qualities : but these sensations are not resemblances ; there- 
 fore those are not real qualities of body. 
 
 We see, then, that Mr. Locke having found, that the ideas of 
 secondary qualities are no resemblances, was compelled, by an 
 hypothesis common to all philosophers, to deny that they are real 
 qualities of body. It is more difficult to assign a reason, why, 
 after this, he should call them secondary qualities; for this name, 
 if I mistake not, was of his invention. Surely he did not mean 
 that they were secondary qualities of the mind ; and I do not 
 see with what propriety, or even by what tolerable license, he 
 could call them secondary qualities of body, after finding that 
 they were no qualities of body at all. In this, Mr. Locke seems 
 to have sacrificed to common sense, and to have been led by her 
 authority even in opposition to his hypothesis. The sanfe sove- 
 reign mistress of our opinions that led Mr. Locke to call those 
 things secondary qualities of body, which, according to his prin- 
 ciples and reasonings, were no qualities of body at all, hath led, 
 
OF SEEING. 473 
 
 not the vulgar of all ages only, but philosophers also, and even 
 the disciples of Mr. Locke, to believe them to be real qualities 
 of body : she hath led them to investigate, by experiments, the 
 nature of colour, and sound, and heat, in bodies. Nor hath this 
 investigation been fruitless, as it must have been, if there had 
 been no such thing in bodies : on the contrary, it hath produced 
 very noble and useful discoveries, which make a very consider- 
 able part of natural philosophy. If then natural philosophy be 
 not a dream, there is something in bodies which we call colour, 
 and heat, and sound. And if this be so, the hypothesis from 
 which the contrary is concluded, must be false : for the argu- 
 ment, leading to a false conclusion, recoils against the hypothesis 
 from which it was drawn, and thus directs its force backward. 
 If the qualities of body were known to us only by sensations 
 that resemble them, then colour, and sound, and heat, could be 
 no qualities of body : but these are real qualities of body ; and 
 therefore the qualities of body are not known only by means of 
 sensations that resemble them. 
 
 But to proceed : what Mr. Locke had proved with regard to 
 the sensations we have by smell, taste, and hearing, Bishop 
 Berkeley proved no less unanswerably with regard to all our 
 other sensations ; to wit, that none of them can in the least 
 resemble the qualities of a lifeless and insentient being, such as 
 matter is conceived to be. Mr. Hume hath confirmed this by 
 his authority and reasoning. This opinion surely looks with a 
 very malign aspect upon the old hypothesis ; yet that hypothesis 
 hath still been retained, and conjoined with it. And what a 
 brood of monsters hath this produced ! 
 
 The first-born of this union, and perhaps the most harmless, 
 was, that the secondary qualities of body were mere sensations 
 of the mind. To pass by Malebranche's notion of seeing all 
 things in the ideas of the Divine Mind, as a foreigner never na- 
 turalized in this island ; the next was Berkeley's system, That 
 extension, and figure, and hardness, and motion ; that land, and 
 sea, and houses, and our own bodies, as well as those of our 
 wives, and children, and friends, are nothing but ideas in the 
 mind ; and that there is nothing existing in nature but minds 
 and ideas. 
 
 The progeny that followed is still more frightful ; so that it is 
 surprising that one could be found who had the courage to act 
 the midwife, to rear it up, and to usher it into the world. No 
 causes nor effects ; no substances, material or spiritual ; no evi- 
 dence even in mathematical demonstration ; no liberty nor active 
 power ; no tiling existing in nature, but impressions and ideas, 
 following each other, without time, place, or subject. Surely 
 110 age ever produced such a system of opinions, justly deduced 
 with great acuteness, perspicuity, and elegance, from a principle 
 
474 0F THE HU MAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 universally received. The hypothesis we have mentioned is the 
 father of them all. The dissimilitude of our sensations and feel- 
 ings to external things is the innocent mother of most of them. 
 
 As it happens sometimes in an arithmetical operation, that 
 two errors balance one another, so that the conclusion is little 
 or nothing affected by them ; but when one of them is corrected, 
 and the other left, we are led further from the truth than by 
 both together ; so it seems to have happened in the Peripatetic 
 philosophy of sensation, compared with the modern. The Peri- 
 patetics adopted two errors, but the last served as a corrective to 
 the first, and rendered it mild and gentle ; so that their system 
 had no tendency to scepticism. The moderns have retained the 
 first of those errors, but have gradually detected and corrected 
 the last. The consequence hath been, that the light we have 
 struck out hath created darkness, and scepticism hath advanced 
 hand in hand with knowledge, spreading its melancholy gloom, 
 first over the material world, and at last over the whole face of 
 nature. Such a phenomenon as this is apt to stagger even the 
 lovers of light and knowledge, while its cause is latent; but 
 when that is detected, it may give hopes that this darkness shall 
 not be everlasting, but that it shall be succeeded by a more per- 
 manent light. 
 
 VII. Of visible figure and extension. — Although there is no 
 resemblance, nor, as far as we know, any necessary connexion, 
 between that quality in a body which we call its colour, and the 
 appearance which that colour makes to the eye ; it is quite other- 
 wise with regard to its figure and magnitude. There is cer- 
 tainly a resemblance, and a necessary connexion between the 
 visible figure and magnitude of a body, and its real figure and 
 magnitude. No man can give a reason why a scarlet colour af- 
 fects the eye in the manner it does : no man can be sure that it 
 affects his eye in the same manner as it affects the eye of another, 
 and that it has the same appearance to him as it has to another 
 man : but we can assign a reason why a circle placed obliquely 
 to the eye should appear in the form of an ellipse. The visible 
 figure, magnitude, and position, may, by mathematical reasoning, 
 be deduced from the real ; and it may be demonstrated that every 
 eye that sees distinctly and perfectly must, in the same situa- 
 tion, see it under this form, and no other. Nay, we may ven- 
 ture to affirm, that a man born blind, if he were instructed 
 in mathematics, would be able to determine the visible figure 
 of a body, when its real figure, distance, and position, are given. 
 Dr. Saunderson understood the projection of a sphere, and per- 
 spective. Now, I require no more knowledge in a blind man, 
 in order to his being able to determine the visible figure of bodies, 
 than that he can project the outline of a given body, upon the 
 surface of a hollow sphere, whose centre is in the e} r e. This pro- 
 
OF SEEING. 475 
 
 jection is the visible figure he wants ; for it is the same figure 
 with that which is projected upon the tunica retina in vision. 
 
 A blind man can conceive lines drawn from every point of the 
 object to the centre of the eye, making angles. He can conceive 
 that the length of the object will appear greater or less, in pro- 
 portion to the angle which it subtends at the eye ; and that, in 
 like manner, the breadth, and in general the distance of any one 
 point of the object from any other point, will appear greater or 
 less, in proportion to the angles which those distances subtend. 
 He can easily be made to conceive that the visible appearance has 
 no thickness, any more than a projection of the sphere, or a per- 
 fect draught. He may be informed that the eye, until it is 
 aided by experience, does not represent one object as nearer or 
 more remote than another. Indeed, he would probably conjec- 
 ture this of himself, and be apt to think that the rays of light 
 must make the same impression upon the eye, whether they 
 come from a greater or a less distance. 
 
 These are all the principles which we suppose our blind ma- 
 thematician to have ; and these he may certainly acquire by in- 
 formation and reflection. It is no less certain that from these 
 principles, having given the real figure and magnitude of a body, 
 and its position and distance with regard to the eye, he can find 
 out its visible figure and magnitude. He can demonstrate in 
 general, from these principles, that the visible figure of all 
 bodies will be the same with that of their projection upon the 
 surface of a hollow sphere, when the eye is placed in the centre. 
 And he can demonstrate that their visible magnitude will be 
 greater or less, according as their projection occupies a greater 
 or less part of the surface of this sphere. 
 
 To set this matter in another light, let us distinguish betwixt 
 the position of objects with regard to the eye, and their distance 
 from it. Objects that lie in the same right line drawn from the 
 centre of the eye, have the same position, however different their 
 distances from the eye may be : but objects which lie in differ- 
 ent right lines drawn from the eye's centre, have a different po- 
 sition ; and this difference of position is greater or less in propor- 
 tion to the angle made at the eye by the right lines mentioned. 
 Having thus defined what we mean by the position of objects 
 with regard to the eye, it is evident that as the real figure of a 
 body consists in the situation of its several parts with regard to 
 one another, so its visible figure consists in the position of its se- 
 veral parts with regard to the eye ; and as he that hath a distinct 
 conception of the situation of the parts of the body with regard 
 to one another, must have a distinct conception of its real figure ; 
 so he that conceives distinctly the position of its several parts 
 with regard to the eye, must have a distinct conception of its 
 visible figure. Now, there is nothing surely to hinder a blind 
 
476 0F TIIE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 man from conceiving the position of the several parts of a- body 
 with regard to the eye, any more than to conceive their situation 
 with regard to one another ; and therefore I conclude that a blind 
 man may attain a distinct conception of the visible figure of bodies. 
 
 Although we think the arguments that have been offered are 
 sufficient to prove that a blind man may conceive the visible ex- 
 tension and figure of bodies ; yet, in order to remove some pre- 
 judices against this truth, it will be of use to compare the notion 
 which a blind mathematician might form to himself of visible 
 figure, with that which is presented to the eye in vision, and to 
 observe wherein they differ. 
 
 [First. Visible figure is never presented to the eye but in con- 
 junction with colour : and although there be no connexion be- 
 tween them frGm the nature of the things, yet having so invari- 
 ably kept company together, we are hardly able to disjoin them 
 even in our imagination.] What mightily increases this diffi- 
 culty is, that we have never been accustomed to make visible 
 figure an object of thought. It is only used as a sign, and hav- 
 ing served this purpose, passes aw T ay, without leaving a trace 
 behind. The drawer or designer, whose business it is to hunt 
 this fugitive form, and to take a copy of it, finds how difficult 
 his task is, after many years' labour and practice. Happy ! if 
 at last he can acquire the art of arresting it in his imagination, 
 until he can delineate it. For then it is evident that he must be 
 able to draw as accurately from the life as from a copy. But 
 how few of the professed masters of designing are ever able to 
 arrive at this degree of perfection ? It is no wonder, then, that 
 we should find so great difficulty in conceiving this form apart 
 from its constant associate, when it is so difficult to conceive it 
 at all. But our blind man's notion of visible figure will not be 
 associated with colour, of which he hath no conception : but it 
 will perhaps be associated with hardness or smoothness, with 
 which he is acquainted by touch. These different associations 
 are apt to impose upon us, and to make things seem different, 
 which in reality are the same. 
 
 [Secondly, .The blind man forms the notion of visible Jig ure to 
 himself, by thought, and by mathematical reasoning from prin- 
 ciples ; whereas the man that sees, has it presented to his eye at 
 once, without any labour, without any reasoning, by a kind of in- 
 spiration.] A man may form to himself the notion of a parabola, 
 or a cycloid, from the mathematical definition of those figures, 
 although he had never seen them drawn or delineated. Another, 
 who knows nothing of the mathematical definition of the figures, 
 may see them delineated on paper, or feel them cut out in wood. 
 Each may have a distinct conception of the figures, one by mathe- 
 matical reasoning, the other by sense. Now, the blind man forms 
 his notion of visible figure in the same manner as the first of 
 
OF SEEING. 4~7 
 
 these formed his notion of a parabola or a cycloid, which he 
 never saw. 
 
 [Tliirdly, Visible figure leads the man that sees, directly to the 
 conception of the real figure, of which it is a sign. But the 
 blind man's thoughts move in a contrary direction. For he 
 must first know the real figure, distance, and situation, of the 
 body, and from thence he slowly traces out the visible figure by 
 mathematical reasoning. Nor does his nature lead him to con- 
 ceive this visible figure as a sign; it is a creature of his own 
 reason and imagination.] 
 
 VIII. Some queries concerning visible figure answered. — It 
 may be asked, What kind of thing is this visible figure ? Is it 
 a sensation, or an idea ? If it is an idea, from what sensation is 
 it copied ? These questions may seem trivial or impertinent to 
 one who does not know, that there is a tribunal of inquisition 
 erected by certain modern philosophers, before which every 
 thing in nature must answer. The articles of inquisition are 
 few indeed, but very dreadful in their consequences. They are 
 only these : is the prisoner an impression, or an idea ? If an 
 idea, from what impression copied ? Now, if it appears that the 
 prisoner is neither an impression, nor an idea copied from some 
 impression, immediately, without being allowed to offer any thing 
 in arrest of judgment, he is sentenced to pass out of existence, 
 and to be, in all time to come, an empty unmeaning sound, or 
 the ghost of a departed entity. 
 
 Before this dreadful tribunal, cause and effect, time and place, 
 matter and spirit, have been tried and cast : how then shall such 
 a poor flimsy form as visible figure stand before it ? It must 
 even plead guilty, and confess that it is neither an impression, 
 nor an idea. For, alas ! it is notorious, that it is extended in 
 length and breadth ; it may be long or short, broad or narrow, 
 triangular, quadrangular, or circular : and therefore unless ideas 
 and impressions are extended and figured, it cannot belong to 
 that category. 
 
 If it should still be asked, To what category of beings does 
 visible figure then belong ? I can only in answer give some 
 tokens, by which those who are better acquainted with the cate- 
 gories, may chance to find its place. [It is, as we have said, the 
 position of the several parts of a figured body, with regard to the 
 eye.] The different positions of the several parts of the body, 
 with regard to the eye, when put together, make a real figrue, 
 which is truly extended in length and breadth, and which repre- 
 sents a figure that is extended in length, breadth, and thickness. 
 In like manner, a projection of the sphere is a real figure, and 
 hath length and breadth, but represents the sphere, which hath 
 three dimensions. A projection of the sphere, or a perspective 
 view of a palace, is a representative in the very same sense as 
 
478 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 visible figure is, and wherever they have their lodgings in the 
 categories, this will be found to dwell next door to them. 
 
 It may further be asked, Whether there be any sensation pro- 
 per to visible figure, by which it is suggested in vision ? Or by 
 what means it is presented to the mind ? This is a question of 
 some importance, in order to our having a distinct notion of the 
 faculty of seeing : and to give all the light to it we can, it is 
 necessary to compare this sense with other senses, and to make 
 some suppositions, by which we may be enabled to distinguish 
 things that are apt to be confounded, although they are totally 
 different. 
 
 There are three of our senses which give us intelligence of 
 things at a distance ; smell, hearing, and sight. In smelling, 
 and in hearing, we have a sensation or impression upon the mind, 
 which, by our constitution, we conceive to be a sign of something 
 external : but the position of this external thing, with regard 
 to the organ of sense, is not presented to the mind along with 
 the sensation. |®§F When I hear the sound of a coach, I could 
 not, previous to experience, determine whether the sounding 
 body was above or below, to the right hand or to the left. So 
 that the sensation suggests to me some external object as the 
 cause or occasion of it ; but it suggests not the position of that 
 object, whether it lies in this direction or in that. The same 
 thing *nay be said with regard to smelling. But the case is quite 
 different with regard to seeing. When I see an object, the 
 appearance which the colour of it makes, may be called the sen- 
 sation, which suggests to me some external thing as its cause ; 
 but it suggests likewise the individual direction and position of 
 this cause with regard to the eye. I know it is precisely in such 
 a direction, and in no other. At the same time I am not con- 
 scious of any thing that can be called sensation, but the sensation 
 of colour. The position of the coloured thing is no sensation, 
 but it is by the laws of my constitution presented to the mind 
 along with the colour, without any additional sensation. 
 
 Let us suppose, that the eye were so constituted, that the rays 
 coming from any one point of the object w r ere not, as they are 
 in our eyes, collected in one point of the retina, but diffused over 
 the whole : it is evident to those who understand the structure 
 of the eye, that such an eye as we have supposed, would show 
 the colour of a body as our eyes do, but that it would neither 
 show figure nor position. The operation of such an eye would 
 be precisely similar to that of hearing and smell ; it would give 
 no perception of figure or extension, but merely of colour. 
 Nor is the supposition we have made altogether imaginary : for 
 it is nearly the case of most people who have cataracts, whose 
 crystalline, as Mr. Cheselden observes, does not altogether exclude 
 the rays of light, but diffuses them over the retina, so that such 
 
OF SEEING. 479 
 
 persons see things as one does through a glass of broken jelly : 
 they perceive the colour, but nothing of the figure or magnitude 
 of objects. 
 
 Again, if we should suppose, that smell and sound were con- 
 veyed in right lines from the objects, and that every sensation of 
 hearing and smell suggested the precise direction or position of 
 its object ; in this case the operations of hearing and smelling 
 would be similar to that of seeing ; we should smell and hear 
 the figure of objects, in the same sense as now we see ; and every 
 smell and sound would be associated with some figure in the 
 imagination, as colour is in our present state. 
 
 We have reason to believe, that the rays of light make some 
 impression upon the retina ; but we are not conscious of this 
 impression ; nor have anatomists or philosophers been able to 
 discover the nature and effects of it ; whether it produces a vibra- 
 tion in the nerve, or the motion of some subtile fluid contained 
 in the nerve, or something different from either, to which we 
 cannot give a name. Whatever it is, we shall call it the material 
 impression ; remembering carefully, that it is not an impression 
 upon the mind, but upon the body ; and that it is no sensation, 
 nor can resemble sensation, any more than figure or motion can 
 resemble thought. Now, this material impression, made upon a 
 particular point of the retina, by the laws of our constitution 
 suggests two things to the mind, namely, the colour, and the 
 position of some external object. No man can give a reason, 
 why the same material impression might not have suggested 
 sound, or smell, or any of these along with the position of the 
 object. That it should suggest colour and position, and nothing 
 else, we can resolve only into our constitution, or the will of our 
 Maker. And since there is no necessary connexion between 
 these two things suggested by this material impression, it might, 
 if it had so pleased our Creator, have suggested one of them with- 
 out the other. Let us suppose, therefore, since it plainly appears 
 to be possible, that our eyes had been so framed, as to suggest 
 to us the position of the object, without suggesting colour, or 
 any other quaKty. What is the consequence of this supposition ? 
 It is evidently this, that the person endued with such an eye, 
 would perceive the visible figure of bodies, without having any 
 sensation or impression made upon his mind. The figure he 
 perceives is altogether external ; and therefore cannot be called 
 an impression upon the mind, without the grossest abuse of lan- 
 guage. If it should be said, that it is impossible to perceive a 
 figure, unless there be some impression of it upon the mind ; I 
 beg leave not to admit the impossibility of this without some 
 proof ; and I can find none. [Neither can I conceive what is 
 meant by an impression of figure upon the mind. I can conceive 
 an impression of figure upon wax, or upon any body that is fit to 
 
480 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 receive it ; but an impression of it upon the mind is to me quite 
 unintelligible ; and although I form the most distinct conception 
 of the figure, I cannot, upon the strictest examination, find any 
 impression of it upon my mind.] 
 
 If we suppose, last of all, that the eye hath the power restored 
 of perceiving colour, I apprehend that it will be allowed, that now 
 it perceives figure in the very same manner as before, with this 
 difference only, that colour is always joined with it. 
 
 [In answer therefore to the question proposed, there seems to 
 be no sensation that is appropriated to visible figure, or whose 
 office it is to suggest it. It seems to be suggested immediately 
 by the material impression Upon the organ, of which we are not 
 conscious :] and why may not a material impression upon the 
 retina suggest visible figure, as well as the material impression 
 made upon the hand, when we grasp a ball, suggests real figure ? 
 One and the same material impression, in one case, suggests both 
 colour and visible figure ; and in the other case, one and the 
 same material impression suggests hardness, heat, or cold, and 
 real figure, all at the same time. 
 
 We shall conclude this section with another question upon 
 this subject. Since the visible figure of bodies is a real and 
 external object to the eye, as their tangible figure is to the touch ; 
 it may be asked, whence arises the difficulty of attending to the 
 first, and the facility of attending to the last?* It is certain that 
 the first is more frequently presented to the eye, than the last is 
 to the touch ; the first is as distinct and determinate an object as 
 the last, and seems in its own nature as proper for speculation. 
 Yet so little hath it been attended to, that it never had a name 
 in any language, until Bishop Berkeley gave it that which we 
 have used after his example, to distinguish it from the figure 
 which is the object of touch. 
 
 The difficulty of attending to the visible figure of bodies, and 
 making it an object of thought, appears so similar to that which 
 we find in attending to our sensations, that both have probably 
 like causes. Nature intended the visible figure as a sign of the 
 tangible figure and situation of bodies, and hath taught us by a 
 kind of instinct to put it always to this use. Hence it happens, 
 that the mind passes over it with a rapid motion, to attend to the 
 things signified by it. It is as unnatural to the mind to stop at 
 the visible figure, and attend to it, as it is to a spherical body to 
 stop upon an inclined plane. There is an inward principle, which 
 constantly carries it forward, and which cannot be overcome but 
 by a contrary force. 
 
 There are other external things which nature intended for 
 signs ; and we find this common to them all, that the mind is 
 disposed to overlook them, and to attend only to the things sig- 
 
 * Vide p. 481. 
 
OF SEEING. 4gl 
 
 nified by them. Thus there are certain modifications of the 
 human face, which are natural signs of the present disposition of 
 the mind. Every man understands the meaning of these signs, 
 but not one of a hundred ever attended to the signs themselves, 
 or knows any thing about them. Hence you may find many an 
 excellent practical physiognomist, who knows nothing of the 
 proportions of a face, nor can delineate or describe the expression 
 of any one passion. 
 
 EHF An excellent painter or statuary can tell, not only what 
 are the proportions of a good face, but what changes every pas- 
 sion makes in it. This, however, is one of the chief mysteries 
 of his art, to the acquisition of which, infinite labour and atten- 
 tion, as well as a happy genius, are required. But when he puts 
 his art in practice, and happily expresses a passion by its proper 
 signs, every one understands the meaning of these signs, without 
 art, and without reflection. 
 
 What has been said of painting, might easily be applied to all 
 the fine arts. The difficulty in them all consists in knowing and 
 attending to those natural signs, whereof every man understands 
 the meaning. 
 
 [We ^ass from the sign to the thing signified, with ease and by 
 natural impulse ; but to go backward from the thing signified to 
 the sign, is a work of labour and difficulty. So visible figure 
 being intended by nature to be a sign, we pass on immediately 
 to the thing signified, and cannot easily return to give any atten- 
 tion to the sign.] 
 
 Nothing shows more clearly our indisposition to attend to 
 visible figure and visible extension than this, that although ma- 
 thematical reasoning is no less applicable to them than to tangi- 
 ble figure and extension, yet they have entirely escaped the 
 notice of mathematicians. While that figure and that extension 
 which are objects of touch, have been tortured ten thousand ways 
 for twenty centuries, and a very noble system of science drawn 
 out of them; not a single proposition do we find with regard 
 to the figure and extension which are the immediate objects of 
 sight ! 
 
 When the geometrician draws a diagram with the most perfect 
 accuracy ; when he keeps his eye fixed upon it, while he goes 
 through a long process of reasoning, and demonstrates the rela- 
 tions of the several parts of his figure ; he does not consider that 
 the visible figure presented to his eye, is only the representative 
 of a tangible figure, upon which all his attention is fixed ; he 
 does not consider that these two figures have really different 
 properties ; and that what he demonstrates to be true of the one, 
 is not true of the other. 
 
 This perhaps will seem so great a paradox, even to mathema- 
 ticians, as to require demonstration before it can be believed. 
 
 2i 
 
432 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 Nor is the demonstration at all difficult, if the reader will have 
 patience to enter but a little into the mathematical considera- 
 tion of visible figure, which we shall call the geometry of 
 
 IX. Of the geometry of visibles. — In this geometry, the defi- 
 nitions of a point ; of a line, whether straight or curve ; of an 
 angle, whether acute, or right, or obtuse ; and of a circle, are the 
 same as in common geometry. The mathematical reader will 
 easily enter into the whole mystery of this geometry, if he 
 attends duly to these few evident principles. 
 
 1 . Supposing the eye placed in the centre of a sphere, every 
 great circle of the sphere will have the same appearance to the 
 eye as if it was a straight line. For the curvature of the circle 
 being turned directly toward the eye, is not perceived by it. And 
 for the same reason, any line which is drawn in the plane of a 
 great circle of the sphere, whether it be in reality straight or 
 curve, will appear straight to the eye. 
 
 2. Every visible right line will appear to coincide with some 
 great circle of the sphere ; and the circumference of that great 
 circle, even when it is produced, until it returns into itself, will 
 appear to be a continuation of the same visible right line, all the 
 parts of it being visibly in directum. For the eye, perceiving 
 only the position of objects with regard to itself, and not their 
 distance, will see those points in the same visible place which 
 have the same position with regard to the eye, how different 
 soever their distances from it may be. Now, since a plane passing 
 through the eye and a given visible right line, will be the plane 
 of some great circle of the sphere, every point of the visible right 
 line will have the same position as some point of the great circle ; 
 therefore they will both have the same visible place, and coincide 
 to the eye; and the whole circumference of the great circle 
 continued even until it returns into itself, will appear to be a 
 continuation of the same visible right line. 
 
 Hence it follows, 
 
 3. That every visible right line, when it is continued in direc- 
 tum, as far as it may be continued, will be represented by a 
 great circle of a sphere, in whose centre the eye is placed. It 
 follows, 
 
 4. That the visible angle comprehended under two visible 
 right lines, is equal to the spherical angle comprehended under 
 the two great circles which are the representatives of these visible 
 lines. For since the visible lines appear to coincide with the 
 great circles, the visible angle comprehended under the former, 
 must be equal to the visible angle comprehended under the 
 latter. But the visible angle comprehended under the two great 
 circles, when seen from the centre, is of the same magnitude 
 with the spherical angle which they really comprehend, as 
 
OF SEEING. 4gg 
 
 mathematicians know ; therefore the visible angle made by any 
 two visible lines, is equal to the spherical angle made by the two 
 great circles of the sphere which are their representatives. 
 
 5. Hence it is evident, that every visible right-lined triangle 
 will coincide in all its parts with some spherical triangle. The 
 sides of the one will appear equal to the sides of the other, and 
 the angles of the one to the angles of the other, each to each ; 
 and therefore the whole of the one triangle will appear equal to 
 the whole of the other. In a word, to the eye they will be one 
 and the same, and have the same mathematical properties. The 
 properties therefore of visible right-lined triangles, are not the 
 same with the properties of plain triangles, but are the same 
 with those of spherical triangles. 
 
 6. Every lesser circle of the sphere, will appear a circle to the 
 eye placed, as we have supposed all along, in the centre of the 
 sphere. And, on the other hand, every visible circle will appear 
 to coincide with some lesser circle of the sphere. 
 
 7. Moreover, the whole surface of the sphere will represent 
 the whole of visible space : for since every visible point coincides 
 with some point of the surface of the sphere, and has the same 
 visible place, it follows, that all the parts of the spherical surface 
 taken together, will represent all possible visible places, that is, 
 the whole of visible space. And from this it follows, in the last 
 place, 
 
 8. That every visible figure will be represented by that part 
 of the surface of the sphere, on which it might be projected, the 
 eye being in the centre. And every such visible figure will bear 
 the same ratio to the whole of visible space, as the part of the 
 spherical surface which represents it, bears to the whole spherical 
 surface. 
 
 The mathematical reader, I hope, will enter into these princi- 
 ples with perfect facility, and will as easily perceive, that the 
 following propositions with regard to visible figure and space, 
 which we offer only as a specimen, may be mathematically 
 demonstrated from them, and are not less true nor less evident 
 than the propositions of Euclid, with regard to tangible figures. 
 
 Prop. 1. Every right line being produced, will at last return 
 into itself. 
 
 2. A right line returning into itself, is the longest possible 
 right line ; and all other right lines bear a finite ratio to it. 
 
 3. A right line returning into itself, divides the whole of visi- 
 ble space into two equal parts, which will both be comprehended 
 under this right line. 
 
 4. The whole of visible space bears a finite ratio to any part 
 of it. 
 
 5. Any two right lines being produced, will meet in two 
 points, and mutually bisect each other. 
 
 2i2 
 
484 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 6. If two lines be parallel, that is, every where equally distant 
 from each other, they cannot both be straight. 
 
 7. Any right line being given, a point may be found, which 
 is at the same distance from all the points of the given right 
 line. 
 
 8. A circle may be parallel to a right line, that is, may be 
 equally distant from it in all its parts. 
 
 9. Right-lined triangles that are similar, are also equal. 
 
 10. Of every right-lined triangle, the three angles taken toge- 
 ther, are greater than two right angles. 
 
 1 1 . The angles of a right-lined triangle may all be right angles, 
 or all obtuse angles. 
 
 12. Unequal circles are not as the squares of their diameters, 
 nor are their circumferences, in the ratio of their diameters. 
 
 This small specimen of the geometry of visibles is intended to 
 lead the reader to a clear and distinct conception of the figure 
 and extension which is presented to the mind by vision ; and to 
 demonstrate the truth of what we have affirmed above, namely, 
 That those figures and that extension which are the immediate 
 objects of sight, are not the figures and the extension about which 
 common geometry is employed ; that the geometrician, while he 
 looks at his diagram, and demonstrates a proposition, hath a 
 figure presented to his eye, which is only a sign and representa- 
 tive of a tangible figure ; that he gives not the least attention to 
 the first, but attends only to the last ; and that these two figures 
 have different properties, so that what he demonstrates of the 
 one, is not true of the other. 
 
 It deserves, however, to be remarked, that as a small part of a 
 spherical surface differs not sensibly from a plain surface ; so a 
 small part of visible extension differs very little from that exten- 
 sion in length and breadth, which is the object of touch. And it 
 is likewise to be observed, that the human eye is so formed, that 
 an object which is seen distinctly and at one view, can occupy but 
 a small part of visible space : for we never see distinctly what is 
 at a considerable distance from the axis of the eye ; and there- 
 fore, when we would see a large object at one view, the eye must 
 be at so great distance, that the object occupies but a small part 
 of visible space. From these two observations it follows, that 
 plain figures which are seen at one view, when their planes are 
 not oblique, but direct to the eye, differ little from the visible 
 figures which they present to the eye. The several lines in the 
 tangible figure, have very nearly the same proportion to each 
 other as in the visible ; and the angles of the one are very nearly, 
 although not strictly and mathematically, equal to those of the 
 other. Although, therefore, we have found many instances of 
 natural signs which have no similitude to the things signified, 
 this is not the case with regard to visible figure. It hath in all 
 
OF SEEING. 4g^ 
 
 cases such a similitude to the thing signified by it, as a plan or 
 profile hath to that which it represents ; and in some cases the 
 sign and thing signified have to all sense the same figure and the 
 same proportions. If we could find a being endued with sight 
 only, without any other external sense, and capable of reflecting 
 and reasoning upon what he sees, the notions and philosophical 
 speculations of such a being, might assist us in the difficult task 
 of distinguishing the perceptions which we have purely by sight, 
 from those which derive their origin from other senses. Let us 
 suppose such a being, and conceive, as well as we can, what 
 notion he would have of visible objects, and what conclusions he 
 would deduce from them. We must not conceive him disposed 
 by his constitution, as we are, to consider the visible appearance 
 as a sign of something else : it is no sign to him, because there is 
 nothing signified by it ; and therefore we must suppose him as 
 much disposed to attend to the visible figure and extension of 
 bodies, as we are disposed to attend to their tangible figure and 
 extension. 
 
 If various figures were presented to his sense, he might with- 
 out doubt, as they grow familiar, compare them together, and 
 perceive wherein they agree, and wherein they differ. He might 
 perceive visible objects to have length and breadth, but could 
 have no notion of a third dimension, any more than we can have 
 of a fourth. All visible objects would appear to be terminated 
 by lines, straight or curve ; and objects terminated by the same 
 visible lines, would occupy the same place, and fill the same part 
 of visible space. It would not be possible for him to conceive 
 one object to be behind another, or one to be nearer, another 
 more distant. 
 
 To us, who conceive three dimensions, a line may be conceived 
 straight; or it may be conceived incurvated in one dimension, 
 and straight in another ; or, lastly, it may be incurvated in two 
 dimensions. Suppose a line to be drawn upwards and down- 
 wards, its length makes one dimension, which we shall call 
 upwards and downwards ; and there are two dimensions remain- 
 ing, according to which it may be straight or curve. It may be 
 bent to the right or to the left ; and if it has no bending either 
 to right or left, it is straight in this dimension. But supposing 
 it straight in this dimension of right and left, there is still another 
 dimension remaining, in which it may be curve ; for it may be 
 bent backwards or forwards. When we conceive a tangible 
 straight line, we exclude curvature in either of these two dimen- 
 sions : and as what is conceived to be excluded, must be con- 
 ceived, as well as what is conceived to be included, it follows, 
 that all the three dimensions enter into our conception of a 
 straight line. Its length is one dimension, its straightness in two 
 
486 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 other dimensions is included, or curvature in these two dimen- 
 sions excluded, in the conception of it. 
 
 The being we have supposed, having no conception of more 
 than two dimensions, of which the length of a line is one, cannot 
 possibly conceive it either straight or curve in more than one 
 dimension : so that in his conception of a right line, curvature 
 to the right hand or left is excluded ; but curvature backwards 
 or forwards cannot be excluded, because he hath not, nor can 
 have any conception of such curvature. Hence we see the rea- 
 son that a line which is straight to the eye, may return into 
 itself : for its being straight to the eye, implies only straightness 
 in one dimension ; and a line which is straight in one dimension, 
 may notwithstanding be curve in another dimension, and so may 
 return into itself. 
 
 To us, who conceive three dimensions, a surface is that which 
 hath length and breadth, excluding thickness : and a surface 
 may be either plain in this third dimension, or it may be incur- 
 vated : so that the notion of a third dimension enters into our 
 conception of a surface ; for it is only by means of this third 
 dimension that we can distinguish surfaces into plain and curve 
 surfaces ; and neither one nor the other can be conceived with- 
 out conceiving a third dimension. 
 
 The being we have supposed having no conception of a third 
 dimension, his visible figures have length and breadth indeed; 
 but thickness is neither included nor excluded, being a thing of 
 which he has no conception. And therefore visible figures, 
 although they have length and breadth, as surfaces have, yet 
 they are neither plain surfaces, nor curve surfaces. Eor a curve 
 surface implies curvature in a third dimension, and a plain sur- 
 face implies the want of curvature in a third dimension ; and 
 such a being can conceive neither of these, because he has no 
 conception of a third dimension. Moreover, although he hath a 
 distinct conception of the inclination of two lines which makes an 
 angle, yet he can neither conceive a plain angle nor a spherical 
 angle. Even his notion of a point is somewhat less determined 
 than ours. In the notion of a point we exclude length, breadth, 
 and thickness ; he excludes length and breadth, but cannot 
 either exclude or include thickness, because he hath no concep- 
 tion of it. 
 
 Having thus settled the notions which such a being as we have 
 supposed might form of mathematical points, lines, angles, and 
 figures, it is easy to see, that by comparing these together, and 
 reasoning about them, he might discover their relations, and form 
 geometrical conclusions built upon self-evident principles. He 
 might likewise without "doubt have the same notions of numbers 
 as we have, and form a system of arithmetic. It is not material 
 
OF SEEING. 4g7 
 
 to say in what order he might proceed in such discoveries, or 
 how much time and pains he might employ about them ; but 
 what such a being, by reason and ingenuity, without any mate- 
 rials of sensation but those of sight only, might discover. 
 
 As it is more difficult to attend to a detail of possibilities, than 
 of facts even of slender authority, I shall beg leave to give an 
 extract from the travels of Johannes Rudolphus Anepigraphus, 
 a Rosicrucian philosopher, who having by deep study of the 
 occult sciences, acquired the art of transporting himself to various 
 sublunary regions, and of conversing with various orders of intel- 
 ligences, in the course of his adventures became acquainted with 
 an order of beings exactly such as I have supposed. 
 
 How they communicate their sentiments to one another, and 
 by what means he became acquainted with their language, and 
 was initiated into their philosophy, as well as of many other par- 
 ticulars, which might have gratified the curiosity of his readers, 
 and perhaps added credibility to his relation, he hath not thought 
 fit to inform us ; these being matters proper for adepts only to 
 know. 
 
 His account of their philosophy is as follows. 
 
 " The Idomenians," saith he, " are many of them very inge- 
 nious, and much given to contemplation. In arithmetic, geo- 
 metry, metaphysics, and physics, they have most elaborate 
 systems. In the two latter indeed they have had many disputes 
 carried on with great subtilty, and are divided into various sects ; 
 yet in the two former there hath been no less unanimity than 
 among the human species. Their principles relating to numbers 
 and arithmetic, making allowance for their notation, differ in no- 
 thing from ours : but their geometry differs very considerably." 
 
 As our author's account of the geometry of the Idomenians 
 agrees in every thing with the geometry of visibles, of which we 
 have already given a specimen, we shall pass over it. He goes on 
 thus : " Colour, extension, and figure, are conceived to be the 
 essential properties of body. A very considerable sect maintains, 
 that colour is the essence of body. If there had been no colour, 
 say they, there had been no perception or sensation. Colour is 
 all that we perceive, or can conceive, that is peculiar to body ; 
 extension and figure being modes common to body and to empty 
 space. And if we should suppose a body to be annihilated, co- 
 lour is the only thing in it that can be annihilated ; for its place, 
 and consequently the figure and extension of that place must 
 remain, and cannot be imagined not to exist. These philoso- 
 phers hold space to be the place of all bodies, immoveable and 
 indestructible, without figure, and similar in all its parts, inca- 
 pable of increase or diminution, yet not unmeasurable : for every 
 the least part of space bears a finite ratio to the whole. So that 
 with them the whole extent of space is the common and natural 
 
488 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 measure of every thing that hath length and breadth, and the 
 magnitude of every body and of every figure is expressed by its 
 being such a part of the universe. In like manner, the common 
 and natural measure of length is an infinite right line, which, as 
 hath been before observed, returns into itself, and hath no limits, 
 but bears a finite ratio to every other line. 
 
 " As to their natural philosophy, it is now acknowledged by 
 the wisest of them to have been for many ages in a very low 
 state. The philosophers observing, that one body can differ from 
 another only in colour, figure, or magnitude, it was taken for 
 granted, that all their particular qualities must arise from the 
 various combinations of these their essential attributes. And 
 therefore it was looked upon as the end of natural philosophy, 
 to show how the various combinations of these three qualities 
 in different bodies produced all the phenomena of nature. It 
 were endless to enumerate the various systems that were invented 
 with this view, and the disputes that were carried on for ages ; 
 the followers of every system exposing the weak sides of other 
 systems, and palliating those of their own with great art. 
 
 " At last, some free and facetious spirits, wearied with eternal 
 disputation, and the labour of patching and propping weak sys- 
 tems, began to complain of the subtilty of nature ; of the infi- 
 nite changes that bodies undergo in figure, colour, and magni- 
 tude ; and of the difficulty of accounting for these appearances, 
 making this a pretence for giving up all inquiries into the 
 causes of things, as vain and fruitless. 
 
 " These wits had ample matter of mirth and ridicule in the 
 systems of philosophers, and finding it an easier task to pull 
 down than to build or support, and that every sect furnished 
 them with arms and auxiliaries to destroy another, they began 
 to spread mightily, and went on with great success. Thus philo- 
 sophy gave way to scepticism and irony, and those systems which 
 had been the work of ages, and the admiration of the learned, 
 became the jest of the vulgar : for even the vulgar readily took 
 part in the triumph over a kind of learning which they had long 
 suspected, because it produced nothing but wrangling and alter- 
 cation. The wits having now acquired great reputation, and 
 being flushed with success, began to think their triumph incom- 
 plete, until every pretence to knowledge was overturned ; and 
 accordingly began their attacks upon arithmetic, geometry, and 
 even upon the common notions of untaught Idomenians. So 
 difficult it hath always been (says our author) for great con- 
 querors to know where to stop. 
 
 " In the mean time, natural philosophy began to rise from its 
 ashes, under the direction of a person of great genius, who is 
 looked upon as having had something in him above Idomenian 
 nature. He observed, that the Idomenian faculties were cer- 
 
OF SEEING. 4g9 
 
 tainly intended for contemplation, and that the works of nature 
 were a nobler subject to exercise them upon than the follies of 
 systems or the errors of the learned ; and being sensible of the 
 difficulty of finding out the causes of natural things, he pro- 
 posed, by accurate observation of the phenomena of nature, to 
 find out the rules according to which they happen, without in- 
 quiring into the causes of those rules. In this he made con- 
 siderable progress himself, and planned out much work for his 
 followers, who call themselves inductive philosophers. The scep- 
 tics look with envy upon this rising sect, as eclipsing their repu- 
 tation, and threatening to limit their empire ; but they are at a 
 loss on what hand to attack it. The vulgar begin to reverence 
 it, as producing useful discoveries. 
 
 " It is to be observed, that every Idomenian firmly believes, 
 that two or more bodies may exist in the same place. For this 
 they have the testimony of sense, and they can no more doubt of 
 it, than they can doubt whether they have any perception at all. 
 They often see two bodies meet, and coincide in the same place, 
 and separate again, without having undergone any change in 
 their sensible qualities by this penetration. When two bodies 
 meet, and occupy the same place, commonly one only appears 
 in that place, and the other disappears. That which continues 
 to appear, is said to overcome, the other to be overcome." 
 
 To this quality of bodies they give a name, which our author 
 tells us hath no word answering to it in any human language. 
 And therefore, after making a long apology, which I omit, he 
 begs leave to call it the overcoming quality of bodies. He assures 
 us, that " the speculations which had been raised about this single 
 quality of bodies, and the hypotheses contrived to account for it, 
 were sufficient to fill many volumes. Nor have there been fewer 
 hypotheses invented by their philosophers, to account for the 
 changes of magnitude and figure ; which, in most bodies that 
 move, they perceive to be in a continual fluctuation. The founder 
 of the inductive sect, believing it to be above the reach of Ido- 
 menian faculties, to discover the real causes of these phenomena, 
 applied himself to find from observation, by what laws they are 
 connected together ; and discovered many mathematical ratios 
 and relations concerning the motions, magnitudes, figures, and 
 overcoming quality of bodies, which constant experience con- 
 firms. But the opposers of this sect choose rather to content 
 themselves with feigned causes of these phenomena, than to ac- 
 knowledge the real laws whereby they are governed, which hum- 
 ble their pride, by being confessedly unaccountable." 
 
 Thus far Johannes Rudolphus Anepigraphus. Whether this 
 Anepigraphus be the same who is recorded among the Greek 
 alchemistical writers not yet published, by Borrichius, Fabri- 
 cius, and others, I do not pretend to determine. The identity 
 
490 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 of their name, and the similitude of their studies, although no 
 slight arguments, yet are not absolutely conclusive. Nor will I 
 take upon me to judge of the narrative of this learned traveller 
 by the external marks of his credibility ; I shall confine myself 
 to those which the critics call internal. It would even be of 
 small importance to inquire, whether the Idomenians have a real, 
 or only an ideal existence ; since this is disputed among the 
 learned with regard to things with which we are more nearly con- 
 nected. The important question is, Whether the account above 
 given is a just account of their geometry and philosophy ? We 
 have all the faculties which they have, with the addition of others 
 which they have not : we may, therefore, form some judgment of 
 their philosophy and geometry, by separating from all others, 
 the perceptions, we have by sight, and reasoning upon them. 
 As far as I am able to judge in this way after a careful exami- 
 nation, their geometry must be such as Anepigraphus hath de- 
 scribed. Nor does his account of their philosophy appear to 
 contain any evident marks of imposture ; although here, no 
 doubt, proper allowance is to be made for liberties which tra- 
 vellers take, as well as for involuntary mistakes which they are 
 apt to fall into. 
 
 X. Of the parallel motion of the eyes. — Having explained as 
 distinctly as we can visible figure, and shown its connexion with 
 the things signified by it, it will be proper next to consider some 
 phenomena of the eyes and of vision, which have commonly been 
 referred to custom, to anatomical or to mechanical causes ; but 
 which, as I conceive, must be resolved into original powers and 
 principles of the human mind; and therefore belong properly to 
 the subject of this inquiry. 
 
 The first is, the parallel motion of the eyes, by which, when 
 one eye is turned to the right or to the left, upwards or down- 
 wards, or straight forwards, the other always goes along with it 
 in the same direction. We see plainly, when both eyes are 
 open, that they are always turned the same way, as if both were 
 acted upon by the same motive force ; and if one eye is shut, 
 and the hand laid upon it, while the other turns various ways, 
 we feel the eye that is shut turn at the same time, and that 
 whether we will or not. What makes this phenomenon sur- 
 prising is, that it is acknowledged by all anatomists, that the 
 muscles which move the two eyes, and the nerves which serve 
 these muscles, are entirely distinct and unconnected. It would 
 be thought very surprising and unaccountable, to see a man who, 
 from his birth, never moved one arm without moving the other 
 precisely in the same manner, so as to keep them always parallel : 
 yet it would not be more difficult to find the physical cause of 
 such a motion of the arms, than it is to find the cause of the 
 parallel motion of the eyes, which is perfectly similar. 
 
OP SEEING. 491 
 
 [The only cause that hath been assigned of this parallel mo- 
 tion of the eyes, is custom. We find by experience, it is said, 
 when we begin to look at objects, that in order to have distinct 
 vision, it is necessary to turn both eyes the same way ; there- 
 fore we soon acquire the habit of doing it constantly, and by 
 degrees lose the power of doing otherwise.] 
 
 This account of the matter seems to be insufficient ; because 
 habits are not got at once ; it takes time to acquire and to con- 
 firm them ; and if this motion of the eyes were got by habit, 
 we should see children, when they are born, turn their eyes dif- 
 ferent ways, and move one without the other, as they do their 
 hands or legs. I know some have affirmed that they are apt to 
 do so. But I have never found it true from my own observation, 
 although I have taken pains to make observations of this kind, 
 and have had good opportunities. I have likewise consulted ex- 
 perienced midwives, mothers, and nurses, and found them agree, 
 that they had never observed distortions of this kind in the eyes 
 of children, but when they had reason to suspect convulsions, or 
 some preternatural cause. 
 
 [It seems, therefore, to be extremely probable, that, previous 
 to custom, there is something in the constitution, some natural 
 instinct, which directs us to move both eyes always the same 
 way.] 
 
 We know not how the mind acts upon the body, nor by what 
 power the muscles are contracted and relaxed ; but we see, that 
 in some of the voluntary, as well as in some of the involuntary 
 motions, this power is so directed, that many muscles which 
 have no material tie or connexion, act in concert, each of them 
 being taught to play its part in exact time and measure. Nor 
 doth a company of expert players in a theatrical performance, 
 or of excellent musicians in a concert, or of good dancers in 
 a country-dance, with more regularity and order, conspire and 
 contribute their several parts, to produce one uniform effect, 
 than a number of muscles do, in many of the animal functions, 
 and in many voluntary actions. Yet we see such actions no less 
 skilfully and regularly performed in children, and in those who 
 know not that they have such muscles, than in the most skilful 
 anatomist and physiologist. 
 
 Who taught all the muscles that are concerned in sucking, in 
 swallowing our food, in breathing, and in the several natural 
 expulsions, to act their part in such regular order and exact 
 measure ? It was not custom, surely. It was that same powerful 
 and wise Being who made the fabric of the human body, and 
 fixed the laws by which the mind operates upon every part of it, 
 so that they may answer the purposes intended by them. And 
 when we see, in so many other instances, a system of uncon- 
 nected muscles conspiring so wonderfully in their several func- 
 
492 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 tions, without the aid of habit, it needs not be thought strange, 
 that the muscles of the eyes should, without this aid, conspire 
 to give that direction to the eyes, without which they could not 
 answer their end. 
 
 We see a like conspiring action in the muscles which contract 
 the pupils of the two eyes ; and in those muscles, whatever they 
 be, by which the conformation of the eyes is varied according to 
 the distance of objects. 
 
 [It ought, however, to be observed, that although it appears to 
 be by natural instinct that both eyes are always turned the same 
 way, there is still some latitude left for custom.] 
 
 What we have said of the parallel motion of the eyes, is not 
 to be understood so strictly as if nature directed us to keep their 
 axes always precisely and mathematically parallel to each other. 
 Indeed, although they are always nearly parallel, they hardly 
 ever are exactly so. When we look at an object, the axes of the 
 eyes meet in that object ; and therefore make an angle, which is 
 always small, but will be greater or less, according as the object 
 is nearer or more remote. Nature hath very wisely left us the 
 power of varying the parallelism of our eyes a little, so that 
 we can direct them to the same point, whether remote or near. 
 This, no doubt, is learned by custom ; and accordingly we see, 
 that it is a long time before children get this habit in perfection. 
 
 This power of varying the parallelism of the eyes is naturally 
 no more than is sufficient for the purpose intended by it, but by 
 much practice and straining it may be increased. Accordingly 
 we see, that some have acquired the power of distorting their 
 eyes into unnatural directions, as others have acquired the power 
 of distorting their bodies into unnatural postures. 
 
 [Those who have lost the sight of an eye, commonly lose what 
 they had got by custom, in the direction of their eyes, but retain 
 what they had by nature ; that is, although their eyes turn and 
 move always together ; yet, when they look upon an object, the 
 blind eye will often have a very small deviation from it ;] which 
 is not perceived by a slight observer, but may be discerned by 
 one accustomed to make exact observations in these matters. 
 
 XI. Of our seeing objects erect by inverted images. — Another 
 phenomenon which hath perplexed philosophers, is our seeing 
 objects erect, when it is well known that their images or pictures 
 upon the tunica retina of the eye are inverted. 
 
 The sagacious Kepler first made the noble discovery, that dis- 
 tinct but inverted pictures of visible objects, are formed upon 
 the retina by the rays of light coming from the object. The 
 same great philosopher demonstrated, from the principles of 
 optics, how these pictures are formed, to wit, that the rays 
 coming from any one point of the object, and falling upon the 
 various parts of the pupil, are, by the cornea and crystalline, 
 
OF SEEING. 493 
 
 refracted so as to meet again in one point of the retina, and there 
 paint the colour of that point of the object from which they 
 come. As the rays from different points of the object cross each 
 other before they come to the retina, the picture they form must 
 be inverted ; the upper part of the object being painted upon 
 the lower part of the retina, the right side of the object upon 
 the left of the retina, and so of the other parts. 
 
 [This philosopher thought that we see objects erect by means 
 of these inverted pictures, for this reason, that as the rays from 
 different points of the object cross each other, before they fall 
 upon the retina, we conclude that the impulse which we feel 
 upon the lower part of the retina, comes from above ; and that 
 the impulse which we feel upon the higher part, comes from 
 below.] 
 
 Des Cartes afterwards gave the same solution of this pheno- 
 menon, and illustrated it by the judgment which we form of the 
 position of objects which we feel with our arms crossed, or with 
 two sticks that cross each other. 
 
 But we cannot acquiesce in this solution. First, Because it 
 supposes our seeing things erect, to be a deduction of reason, 
 drawn from certain premises ; whereas it seems to be an imme- 
 diate perception. And, secondly, Because the premises from 
 which all mankind are supposed to draw this conclusion, never 
 entered into the minds of the far greater part, but are absolutely 
 unknown to them. We have no feeling or perception of the 
 pictures upon the retina, and as little surely of the position of 
 them. In order to see objects erect, according to the principles 
 of Kepler or Des Cartes, we must previously know, that the rays 
 of light come from the object to the eye in straight lines ; we 
 must know, that the rays from different points of the object cross 
 one another, before they form the pictures upon the retina ; and 
 lastly, we must know that these pictures are really inverted. 
 Now, although all these things are true, and known to philoso- 
 phers, yet they are absolutely unknown to the far greatest part 
 of mankind : nor is it possible that they who are absolutely igno- 
 rant of them, should reason from them, and build conclusions 
 upon them. Since therefore visible objects appear erect to the 
 ignorant as well as to the learned, this cannot be a conclusion 
 drawn from premises which never entered into the minds of the 
 ignorant. We have indeed had occasion to observe many in- 
 stances of conclusions drawn, either by means of original prin- 
 ciples, or by habit, from premises which pass through the mind 
 very quickly, and which are never made the objects of reflection ; 
 but surely no man will conceive it possible to draw conclusions 
 from premises which never entered into the mind at all. 
 
 Bishop Berkeley having justly rejected this solution, gives one 
 founded upon his own principles ; wherein he is followed by the 
 
494 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 judicious Mr. Smith, in his " Optics ;" and this we shall next 
 explain and examine. 
 
 That ingenious writer conceives the ideas of sight to be alto- 
 gether unlike those of touch. And since the notions we have of 
 an object by these different senses have no similitude, we can 
 learn only by experience how one sense will be affected, by what, 
 in a certain manner, affects the other. Figure, position, and 
 even number, in tangible objects, are ideas of touch ; and although 
 there is no similitude between these and the ideas of sight, yet 
 we learn by experience, that a triangle affects the sight in such 
 a manner, and that a square affects it in such another manner : 
 hence we judge that which affects it in the first manner, to be a 
 triangle, and that which affects it in the second, to be a square. 
 [In the same way, finding from experience, that an object in an 
 erect position, affects the eye in one manner, and the same object 
 in an inverted position, affects it in another, we learn to judge, 
 by the manner in which the eye is affected, whether the object is 
 erect or inverted.] In a word, visible ideas, according to this 
 author, are signs of the tangible ; and the mind passeth from the 
 sign to the thing signified, not by means of any similitude be- 
 tween the one and the other, nor by any natural principle ; but 
 by having found them constantly conjoined in experience, as the 
 sounds of a language are with the things they signify. So that 
 if the images upon the retina had been always erect, they would 
 have shown the objects erect, in the same manner as they do 
 now that they are inverted: nay, if the visible idea which we 
 now have from an inverted object, had been associated from the 
 beginning with the erect position of that object, it would have 
 signified an erect position, as readily as it now signifies an in- 
 verted one. And if the visible appearance of two shillings had 
 been found connected from the beginning with the tangible idea 
 of one shilling, that appearance would as naturally and readily 
 have signified the unity of the object, as now it signifies its 
 duplicity. 
 
 This opinion is undoubtedly very ingenious ; and if it is just, 
 serves to resolve, not only the phenomenon now under considera- 
 tion, but likewise that which we shall next consider, our seeing 
 objects single with tivo eyes. 
 
 It is evident, that in this solution it is supposed, that we do 
 not originally, and previous to acquired habits, see things either 
 erect or inverted, of one figure or another, single or double, but 
 learn from experience to judge of their tangible position, figure, 
 and number, by certain visible signs. 
 
 Indeed it must be acknowledged to be extremely difficult to 
 distinguish the immediate and natural objects of sight, from the 
 conclusions which we have been accustomed from infancy to 
 draw from them. Bishop Berkeley was the first that attempted 
 
OF SEEING. 4,9^ 
 
 to distinguish the one from the other, and to trace out the 
 boundary that divides them. And if, in doing so, he hath gone 
 a little to the right hand or to the left, this might be expected 
 in a subject altogether new, and of the greatest subtilty. The 
 nature of vision hath received great light from this distinction ; 
 and many phenomena in optics, which before appeared altogether 
 unaccountable, have been clearly and distinctly resolved by it. 
 It is natural, and almost unavoidable, to one who hath made an 
 important discovery in philosophy, to carry it a little beyond its 
 sphere, and to apply* it to the resolution of phenomena which do 
 not fall within its province. Even the great Newton, when he 
 had discovered the universal law of gravitation, and observed how 
 many of the phenomena of nature depend upon this, and other 
 laws of attraction and repulsion, could not help expressing his 
 conjecture, that all the phenomena of the material world depend 
 upon attracting and repelling forces in the particles of matter. 
 And I suspect that the ingenious Bishop of Cloyne having found 
 so many phenomena of vision reducible to the constant associa- 
 tion of the ideas of sight and touch, carried this principle a little 
 beyond its just limits. 
 
 In order to judge as well as we can, whether it is so, let us 
 suppose such a blind man as Dr. Saunderson, having all the 
 knowledge and abilities which a blind man may have, suddenly 
 made to see perfectly. Let us suppose him kept from all oppor- 
 tunities of associating his ideas of sight with those of touch, until 
 the former become a little familiar ; and the first surprise occa- 
 sioned by objects so new being abated, he has time to canvass 
 them, and to compare them in his mind, with the notions which 
 he formerly had by touch ; and in particular to compare in his 
 mind that visible extension which his eyes present, with the 
 extension in length and breadth with which he was before ac- 
 quainted. 
 
 We have endeavoured to prove, that a blind man may form a 
 notion of the visible extension and figure of bodies, from the 
 relation which it bears to their tangible extension and figure. 
 Much more, when this visible extension and figure are presented 
 to his eye, will he be able to compare them with tangible exten- 
 sion and figure, and to perceive, that the one has length and 
 breadth as well as the other ; that one may be bounded by lines, 
 either straight or curve, as well as the other. And therefore 
 he will perceive, that there may be visible, as well as tangible 
 circles, triangles, quadrilateral and multilateral figures. And 
 although the visible figure is coloured, and the tangible is not, 
 they may, notwithstanding, have the same figure ; as two objects 
 of touch may have the same figure, although one is hot and the 
 other cold. 
 
 We have shown above, that the properties of visible figures 
 
490 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 differ from those of the plain figures which they represent : but 
 it was observed at the same time, that when the object is so small 
 as to be seen distinctly at one view, and is placed directly before 
 the eye, the difference between the visible and the tangible figure 
 is too small to be perceived by the senses. Thus it is true, that 
 of every visible triangle, the three angles are greater than two 
 right angles ; whereas in a plain triangle, the three angles are 
 equal to two right angles : but when the visible triangle is small, 
 its three angles will be so nearly equal to two right angles, that 
 the sense cannot discern the difference. In like manner, the 
 circumferences of unequal visible circles are not, but those of 
 plain circles are, in the ratio of their diameters ; yet in small 
 visible circles, the circumferences are very nearly in the ratio of 
 their diameters; and the diameter bears the same ratio to the 
 circumference, as in a plain circle, very nearly. 
 
 Hence it appears, that small visible figures (and such only can 
 be seen distinctly at one view) have not only a resemblance to 
 the plain tangible figures which have the same name, but are to 
 all sense the same. So that if Dr. Saunderson had been made 
 to see, and had attentively viewed the figures of the first book 
 of Euclid, he might, by thought and consideration, without 
 touching them, have found out that they were the very figures 
 he was before so well acquainted with by touch. 
 
 When plain figures are seen obliquely, their visible figure 
 differs more from the tangible ; and the representation which is 
 made to the eye, of solid figures, is still more imperfect ; because 
 visible extension hath not three, but two dimensions only. Yet 
 as it cannot be said that an exact picture of a man hath no 
 resemblance of the man, or that a perspective view of a house 
 hath no resemblance of the house ; so it cannot be said, with any 
 propriety, that the visible figure of a man, or of a house, hath no 
 resemblance of the objects which they represent. 
 
 Bishop Berkeley therefore proceeds upon a capital mistake, in 
 supposing that there is no resemblance betwixt the extension, 
 figure, and position which we see, and that which we perceive 
 by touch. 
 
 We may further observe, that Bishop Berkeley's system with 
 regard to material things, must have made him see this question, 
 of the erect appearance of objects, in a very different light from 
 that in which it appears to those who do not adopt his system. 
 
 In his theory of vision, he seems indeed to allow, that there is 
 an external material world : but he believed that this external 
 world is tangible only, and not visible ; and that the visible world, 
 the proper object of sight, is not external, but in the mind. If 
 this is supposed, he that affirms that he sees things erect and not 
 inverted, affirms that there is a top and a bottom, a right and a 
 left in the mind. Now, I confess I am not so well acquainted 
 
OF SEEING. 497 
 
 with the topography of the mind, as to be able to affix a mean- 
 ing to these words when applied to it. 
 
 We shall therefore allow, that if visible objects were not ex- 
 ternal, but existed only in the mind, they could have no figure, 
 or position, or extension ; and that it would be absurd to affirm, 
 that they are seen either erect or inverted ; or that there is any 
 resemblance between them and the objects of touch. But when 
 we propose the question, Why objects are seen erect, and not 
 inverted ? we take it for granted, that we are not in Bishop 
 Berkeley's ideal world, but in that world which men who yield 
 to the dictates of common sense believe themselves to inhabit. 
 We take it for granted, that the objects both of sight and of 
 touch are external, and have a certain figure, and a certain posi- 
 tion with regard to one another, and with regard to our bodies, 
 whether we perceive it or not. 
 
 When I hold my walking-cane upright in my hand, and look 
 at it, I take it for granted, that I see and handle the same indi- 
 vidual object. When I say that I feel it erect, my meaning is, 
 that I feel the head directed from the horizon, and the point 
 directed towards it : and when I say that I see it erect, I mean 
 that I see it with the head directed from the horizon, and the 
 point towards it. I conceive the horizon as a fixed object both 
 of sight and touch, with relation to which, objects are said to be 
 high or low, erect or inverted : and when the question is asked, 
 Why I see the object erect, and not inverted? it is the same as 
 if you should ask, why I see it in that position which it really 
 hath ? or why the eye shows the real position of objects, and 
 doth not show them in an inverted position, as they are seen by 
 a common astronomical telescope, or as their pictures are seen 
 upon the retina of an eye when it is dissected ? 
 
 XII. The same subject continued. — It is impossible to give a 
 satisfactory answer to this question, otherwise than by pointing 
 out the laws of nature which take place in vision ; for by these 
 the phenomena of vision must be regulated. 
 
 Therefore I answer, first, That, by a law of nature, the rays of 
 light proceed from every point of the object to the pupil of the 
 eye in straight lines. Secondly, That, by the laws of nature, the 
 rays coming from any one point of the object to the various parts 
 of the pupil, are so refracted, as to meet again in one point of 
 the retina ; and the rays from different points of the object, first 
 crossing each other, and then proceeding to as many different 
 points of the retina, form an inverted picture of the object. 
 
 [So far the principles of optics carry us ; and experience fur- 
 ther assures us, that if there is no such picture upon the retina, 
 there is no vision ; and that such as the picture on the retina 
 is, such is the appearance of the object, in colour and figure, 
 distinctness or indistinctness, brightness or faintness.] 
 
 2 K 
 
498 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 It is evident, therefore, that the pictures upon the retina are, 
 by the laws of nature, a mean of vision ; but in what way they 
 accomplish their end, we are totally ignorant. Philosophers con- 
 ceive that the impression made on the retina by the rays of light 
 is communicated to the optic nerve, and by the optic nerve con- 
 veyed to some part of the brain, by them called the sensorium ; 
 and that the impression thus conveyed to the sensorium is imme- 
 diately perceived by the mind, which is supposed to reside there. 
 But we know nothing of the seat of the soul : and we are so far 
 from perceiving immediately what is transacted in the brain, that 
 of all parts of the human body we know least about it. It 
 is indeed very probable that the optic nerve is an instrument of 
 vision no less necessary than the retina ; and that some impres- 
 sion is made upon it, by means of the pictures on the retina. 
 But of what kind this impression is, we know nothing. 
 
 There is not the least probability that there is any picture or 
 image of the object either in the optic nerve or brain. The pic- 
 tures on the retina are formed by the rays of light ; and whether 
 we suppose, with some, that their impulse upon the retina 
 causes some vibration of the fibres of the optic nerve ; or, with 
 others, that it gives motion to some subtile fluid contained in 
 the nerve ; neither that vibration, nor this motion, can resemble 
 the visible object which is presented to the mind. [Nor is there 
 any probability that the mind perceives the pictures upon the re- 
 tina. These pictures are no more objects of our perception than 
 the brain is, or the optic nerve. No man ever saw the pictures 
 in his own eye, nor indeed the pictures in the eye of another, 
 until it was taken out of the head, and duly prepared.] 
 
 It is very strange that philosophers of all ages should have 
 agreed in this notion, " That the images of external objects are 
 conveyed by the organs of sense to the brain, and are there 
 perceived by the mind." Nothing can be more unphilosophical. 
 [For, first, This notion hath no foundation in fact and observa- 
 tion.] Of all the organs of sense, the eye only, as far as we can 
 discover, forms any kind of image of its object ; and the images 
 formed by the eye are not in the brain, but only in the bottom 
 of the eye ; nor are they at all perceived or felt by the mind. 
 [Secondly, It is as difficult to conceive how the mind perceives 
 images in the brain, as how it perceives things more distant.] If 
 any man will show how the mind may perceive images in the 
 brain, I will undertake to show how it may perceive the most 
 distant objects : for if we give eyes to the mind, to perceive what 
 is transacted at home in its dark chamber, why may we not 
 make these eyes a little longer sighted ? and then we shall have 
 no occasion for that unphilosophical fiction of images in the 
 brain. In a word, the manner and mechanism of the mind's 
 perception is quite beyond our comprehension : and this way of 
 
OF SEEING. 499 
 
 explaining it by images in the brain, seems to be founded upon 
 very gross notions of the mind and its operations ; as if the sup- 
 posed images in the brain, by a kind of contact, formed similar 
 impressions or images of objects upon the mind, of which im- 
 pressions it is supposed to be conscious. 
 
 We have endeavoured to show, throughout the course of this 
 inquiry, that the impressions made upon the mind by means of 
 the five senses, have not the least resemblance to the objects of 
 sense: and therefore, as we see no shadow of evidence, that 
 there are any such images in the brain, so we see no purpose, in 
 philosophy, that the supposition of them can answer. Since the 
 picture upon the retina, therefore, is neither itself seen by the 
 mind, nor produces any impression upon the brain or sensorium, 
 which is seen by the mind, nor makes any impression upon the 
 mind that resembles the object, it may still be asked, How this 
 picture upon the retina causes vision ? 
 
 Before we answer this question, it is proper to observe, that 
 in the operations of the mind, as well as in those of bodies, we 
 must often be satisfied with knowing that certain things are con- 
 nected, and invariably follow one another, without being able to 
 discover the chain that goes between them. It is to such con- 
 nexions that we give the name of laws of nature ; and when we 
 say that one thing produces another by a law of nature, this sig- 
 nifies no more, but that one thing, which we call in popular lan- 
 guage the cause, is constantly and invariably followed by another, 
 which we call the effect ; and that we know not how they are 
 connected. Thus we see it is a fact, that bodies gravitate to- 
 wards bodies ; and that this gravitation is regulated by certain 
 mathematical proportions, according to the distances of the 
 bodies from each other, and their quantities of matter. Being un- 
 able to discover the cause of this gravitation, and presuming that 
 it is the immediate operation, either of the Author of nature, or 
 of some subordinate cause, which we have not hitherto been able 
 to reach, we call it a law of nature. If any philosopher should 
 hereafter be so happy as to discover the cause of gravitation, this 
 can only be done by discovering some more general law of na- 
 ture, of which the gravitation of bodies is a necessary consequence. 
 In every chain of natural causes, the highest link is a primary 
 law of nature ; and the highest link which we can trace, by just 
 induction, is either this primary law of nature, or a necessary 
 consequence of it. To trace out the laws of nature, by induc- 
 tion, from the phenomena of nature, is all that true philosophy 
 aims at, and all that it can ever reach. 
 
 There are laws of nature, by which the operations of the mind 
 are regulated ; there are also laws of nature that govern the ma- 
 terial system : and as the latter are the ultimate conclusions 
 which the human faculties can reach in the philosophy of bodies, 
 
 2 k 2 
 
5QQ OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 so the former are the ultimate conclusions we can reach in the 
 philosophy of minds. 
 
 To return, therefore, to the question above proposed,* we 
 may see, from what hath been just now observed, that it amounts 
 to this : " By what law of nature is a picture upon the retina, the 
 mean or occasion of my seeing an external object of the same 
 figure and colour, in a contrary position, and in a certain direc- 
 tion from the eye ?" 
 
 It will, without doubt, be allowed, that I see the whole object 
 in the same manner and by the same law by which I see any one 
 point of it. Now, I know it to be a fact, that, in direct vision, 
 I see every point of the object in the direction of the right line 
 that passeth from the centre of the eye to that point of the ob- 
 ject ; and I know, likewise, from optics, that the ray of light 
 that comes to the centre of my eye, passes on to the retina in 
 the same direction. Hence it appears to be a fact, that every 
 point of the object is seen in the direction of a right line passing 
 from the picture of that point on the retina through the centre 
 of the eye. As this is a fact that holds universally and invariably, 
 it must either be a law of nature, or the necessary consequence 
 of some more general law of nature. And according to the just 
 rules of philosophizing, we may hold it for a law of nature, until 
 some more general law be discovered, whereof it is a necessary 
 consequence, which I suspect can never be done. 
 
 Thus we see, that the phenomena of vision lead us by the hand 
 to a law of nature, or a law of our constitution, of which law our 
 seeing objects erect by inverted images is a necessary conse- 
 quence. For it necessarily follows, from the law we have men- 
 tioned, that the object whose picture is lowest on the retina, 
 must be seen in the highest direction from the eye ; and that 
 the object whose picture is on the right of the retina, must be 
 seen on the left ; so that if the pictures had been erect in the 
 retina, we should have seen the object inverted. My chief inten- 
 tion in handling this question, was to point out this law of na- 
 ture ; which, as it is a part of the constitution of the human 
 mind, belongs properly to the subject of this inquiry. For this 
 reason I shall make some further remarks upon it, after doing 
 justice to the ingenious Dr. Porterfield, who, long ago in the 
 " Medical Essays," and more lately in his " Treatise of the Eye," 
 pointed out, as a primary law of our nature, " That a visible ob- 
 ject appears in the direction of a right line perpendicular to the 
 retina at that point where its image is painted." If lines drawn 
 from the centre of the eye to all parts of the retina be perpen- 
 dicular to it, as they must be very nearly, this coincides with 
 the law we have mentioned, and is the same in other words. In 
 
 * Vide preceding page. 
 
OF SEEING. 5Q I 
 
 order, therefore, that we may have a more distinct notion of this 
 law of our constitution, we may observe, 
 
 1 . That we can give no reason why the retina is, of all parts 
 of the body, the only one on which pictures made by the rays of 
 light cause vision : and therefore we must resolve this solely into 
 a law of our constitution. We may form such pictures, by means 
 of optical glasses, upon the hand, or upon any other part of the 
 body ; but they are not felt, nor do they produce any thing like 
 vision. A picture upon the retina is as little felt as one upon 
 the hand ; but it produces vision ; for no other reason, that we 
 know, but because it is destined by the wisdom of nature to this 
 purpose. The vibrations of the air strike upon the eye, the 
 palate, and the olfactory membrane, with the same force as upon 
 the membrana tympani of the ear : the impression they make 
 upon the last produces the sensation of sound ; but their im- 
 pression upon any of the former produces no sensation at all. 
 This may be extended to all the senses, whereof each hath its 
 peculiar laws, according to which, the impressions made upon 
 the organ of that sense produce sensations or perceptions in the 
 mind that cannot be produced by impressions made upon any 
 other organ. 
 
 2. We may observe, that the laws of perception, by the dif- 
 ferent senses, are very different, not only in respect of the na- 
 ture of the objects perceived by them, but likewise in respect of 
 the notices they give us of the distance and situation of the 
 object. In all of them the object is conceived to be external, 
 and to have real existence, independent of our perception : but 
 in one, the distance, figure, and situation of the object, are all 
 presented to the mind ; in another, the figure and situation, but 
 not the distance ; and in others, neither figure, situation, nor 
 distance. In vain do we attempt to account for these varieties 
 in the manner of perception by the different senses, from princi- 
 ples of anatomy or natural philosophy. They must at last be 
 resolved into the will of our Maker, who intended that our 
 powers of perception should have certain limits, and adapted 
 the organs of perception, and the laws of nature by which they 
 operate, to his wise purposes. 
 
 When we hear an unusual sound, the sensation indeed is in 
 the mind, but we know that there is something external that 
 produced this sound. At the same time our hearing does not 
 inform us, whether the sounding body is near or at a distance, 
 in this direction or that : and therefore we look round to dis- 
 cover it. 
 
 If any new phenomenon appears in the heavens, we see 
 exactly its colour, its apparent place, magnitude, and figure ; but 
 we see not its distance. It may be in the atmosphere, it maybe 
 
502 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 among the planets, or it may be in the sphere of the fixed stars, 
 for any thing the eye can determine. 
 
 The testimony of the sense of touch reaches only to objects 
 that are contiguous to the organ, but with regard to them is 
 more precise and determinate. When we feel a body with our 
 hand, we know the figure, distance, and position of it, as well as 
 whether it is rough or smooth, hard or soft, hot or cold. 
 
 The sensations of touch, of seeing, and hearing, are all in the 
 mind, and can have no existence but when they are perceived. 
 How do they all constantly and invariably suggest the conception 
 and belief of external objects, which exist whether they are per- 
 ceived or not ? No philosopher can give any other answer to 
 this, but that such is the constitution of our nature. How do 
 we know that the object of touch is at the finger's end, and no 
 where else? that the object of sight is in such a direction from 
 the eye, and in no other, but may be at any distance ? and that 
 the object of hearing may be at any distance, and in any direc- 
 tion ? Not by custom, surely ; not by reasoning, or comparing 
 ideas ; but by the constitution of our nature. How do we per- 
 ceive visible objects in the direction of right lines perpendicular 
 to that part of the retina on which their rays strike, while we do 
 not perceive the objects of hearing in lines perpendicular to the 
 membrana tympani, upon which the vibrations of the air strike ? 
 Because such are the laws of our nature. How do we know the 
 parts of our bodies affected by particular pains ? Not by expe- 
 rience or reasoning, but by the constitution of nature. The 
 sensation of pain is, no doubt, in the mind, and cannot be said to 
 have any relation from its own nature to any part of the body ; 
 but this sensation, by our constitution, gives a perception of 
 some particular part of the body, whose disorder causes the 
 uneasy sensation. If it were not so, a man who never before 
 felt either the gout or the tooth-ache, when he is first seized 
 with the gout in his toe, might mistake it for the tooth-ache. 
 
 Every sense, therefore, hath its peculiar laws and limits, by 
 the constitution of our nature ; and one of the laws of sight is, 
 that we always see an object in the direction of a right line pass- 
 ing from its image on the retina through the centre of the eye. 
 
 3. Perhaps some readers will imagine that it is easier, and will 
 answer the purpose as well, to conceive a law of nature, by 
 which we shall always see objects in the place in which they are, 
 and in their true position, without having recourse to images on 
 the retina, or to the optical centre of the eye. 
 
 To this I answer, That nothing can be a law of nature which 
 is contrary to fact. The laws of nature are the most general 
 facts we can discover in the operations of nature. Like other 
 facts, they are not to be hit upon by a happy conjecture, but 
 
OF SEEING. 503 
 
 justly deduced from observation : like other general facts, they 
 are not to be drawn from a few particulars, but from a copious, 
 patient, and cautious induction. That we see things always in 
 their true place and position, is not fact ; and therefore it can 
 be no law of nature. In a plain mirror, I see myself, and other 
 things, in places very different from those they really occupy. 
 And so it happens in every instance, wherein the rays coming 
 from the object are either reflected or refracted before falling 
 upon the eye. Those who know any thing of optics, know that, 
 in all such cases, the object is seen in the direction of a line 
 passing from the centre of the eye to the point where the rays 
 were last reflected or refracted ; and that upon this all the powers 
 of the telescope and microscope depend. 
 
 Shall we say, then, that it is a law of nature that the object is 
 seen in the direction which the rays have when they fall on the 
 eye, or rather in the direction contrary to that of the rays when 
 they fall upon the eye ? No. This is not true ; and therefore it 
 is no law of nature. For the rays, from any one point of the 
 object, come to all parts of the pupil ; and therefore must have 
 different directions : but we see the object only in one of these 
 directions, to wit, in the direction of the rays that come to the 
 centre of the eye. And this holds true, even when the rays 
 that should pass through the centre are stopped, and the object 
 is seen by rays that pass at a distance from the centre. 
 
 Perhaps it may still be imagined, that although we are not 
 made so as to see objects always in their true place, nor so as to 
 see them precisely in the direction of the rays when they fall 
 upon the cornea ; yet we may be so made as to see the object in 
 the direction which the rays have when they fall upon the retina, 
 after they have undergone all their refractions in the eye, that is, 
 in the direction in which the rays pass from the crystalline to the 
 retina. But neither is this true ; and consequently it is no law of 
 our constitution. In order to see that it is not true, we must con- 
 ceive all the rays that pass from the crystalline to one point of the 
 retina, as forming a small cone, whose base is upon the back of 
 the crystalline, and whose vertex is a point of the retina. It is 
 evident that the rays which form the picture in this point, have 
 various directions, even after they pass the crystalline ; yet the 
 object is seen only in one of these directions, to wit, in the di- 
 rection of the rays that come from the centre of the eye. Nor 
 is this owing to any particular virtue in the central rays, or in the 
 centre itself ; for the central rays may be stopped. When they 
 are stopped, the image will be formed upon the same point of the 
 retina as before, by rays that are not central, nor have the same 
 direction which the central rays had : and in this case the object 
 is seen in the same direction as before, although there are now 
 no rays coming in that direction. 
 
504 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 From this induction we conclude, that our seeing an object in 
 that particular direction in which we do see it, is not owing to 
 any law of nature by which we are made to see it in the direction 
 of the rays, either before their refractions in the eye, or after, 
 but " to a law of our nature, by which we see the object in the 
 direction of the right line that passe th from the picture of the 
 object upon the retina to the centre of the eye." 
 
 The facts upon which I ground this induction, are taken from 
 some curious experiments of Schemer, in his "Fundament. Optic." 
 quoted by Dr. Porterfield, and confirmed by his experience. I 
 have also repeated these experiments, and found them to answer. 
 As they are easily made, and tend to illustrate and confirm the 
 law of nature I have mentioned, I shall recite them as briefly 
 and distinctly as I can. 
 
 Experiment 1. Let a very small object, such as the head of 
 a pin, well illuminated, be fixed at such a distance from the eye, 
 as to be beyond the nearest limit and within the farthest limit of 
 distinct vision. For a young eye, not near-sighted, the object 
 may be placed at the distance of eighteen inches. Let the eye 
 be kept steadily in one place, and take a distinct view of the ob- 
 ject. We know from the principles of optics, that the rays from 
 any one point of this object, whether they pass through the centre 
 of the eye, or at any distance from the centre which the breadth 
 of the pupil will permit, do all unite again in one point of the 
 retina. We know, also, that these rays have different directions, 
 both before they fall upon the eye, and after they pass through 
 the crystalline. 
 
 Now we can see the object by any one small parcel of these 
 rays, excluding the rest, by looking through a small pin-hole in 
 a card. Moving this pin-hole over the various parts of the pupil, 
 we can see the object, first by the rays that pass above the centre 
 of the eye, then by the central rays, then by the rays that pass 
 below the centre, and in like manner by the rays that pass on the 
 right and left of the centre. Thus we view this object, succes- 
 sively, by rays that are central, and by rays that are not central ; 
 by rays that have different directions, and are variously inclined 
 to each other, both when they fall upon the cornea, and when 
 they fall upon the retina ; but always by rays which fall upon 
 the same point of the retina. And what is the event ? It is this, 
 that the object is seen in the same individual direction, whether 
 seen by all these rays together, or by any one parcel of them. 
 
 Experiment 2. Let the object above mentioned be now placed 
 within the nearest limit of distinct vision, that is, for an eye 
 that is not near-sighted, at the distance of four or five inches. 
 We know that, in this case, the rays coming from one point of 
 the object, do not meet in one point, of the retina, but spread over 
 a small circular spot of it : the central rays occupying the centre 
 
OF SEEING, 5Q5 
 
 of this circle, the rays that pass above the centre occupying the 
 upper part of the circular spot, and so of the rest. And we know 
 that the object is in this case seen confused, every point of it 
 being seen, not in one, but in various directions. To remedy 
 this confusion, we look at the object through the pin-hole, and 
 while we move the pin-hole over the various parts of the pupil, 
 the object does not keep its place, but seems to move in a con- 
 trary direction. 
 
 It is here to be observed, that when the pin-hole is carried 
 upwards over the pupil, the picture of the object is carried up- 
 wards upon the retina, and the object at the same time seems to 
 move downwards, so as to be always in the right line passing 
 from the picture through the centre of the eye. It is likewise to 
 be observed, that the rays which form the upper and the lower 
 pictures upon the retina do not cross each other as in ordinary 
 vision ; yet still the higher picture shows the object lower, and 
 the lower picture shows the object higher, in the same manner as 
 when the rays cross each other. Whence we may observe, by the 
 way, that this phenomenon of our seeing objects in a position con- 
 trary to that of their pictures upon the retina, does not depend 
 upon the crossing of the rays, as Kepler and Des Cartes conceived. 
 
 Experiment 3. Other things remaining as in the last experi- 
 ment, make three pin-holes in a straight line, so near, that the 
 rays coining from the object through all the holes, may enter 
 the pupil at the same time. In this case we have a very curious 
 phenomenon ; for the object is seen triple with one eye. And 
 if you make more holes within the breadth of the pupil, you will 
 see as many objects as there are holes. However, we shall sup- 
 pose them only three ; one on the right, one in the middle, and 
 one on the left ; in which case you see three objects standing 
 in a line from right to left. 
 
 It is here to be observed, that there are three pictures on the 
 retina ; that on the left being formed by the rays which pass on 
 the left of the eye's centre ; the middle picture being formed by 
 the central rays ; and the right-hand picture by the rays which 
 pass on the right of the eye's centre. It is further to be ob- 
 served, that the object which appears on the right is not that 
 which is seen through the hole on the right, but that which is. 
 seen through the hole on the left ; and in like manner, the left- 
 hand object is seen through the hole on the right, as is easily 
 proved by covering the holes successively. So that, whatever is 
 the direction of the rays which form the right-hand and left-hand 
 pictures, still the right-hand picture shows a left-hand object, 
 and the left-hand picture shows a right-hand object. 
 
 Experiment 4. It is easy to see how the two last experiments 
 may be varied, by placing the object beyond the furthest limit of 
 
506 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 distinct vision. In order to make this experiment, I looked at 
 a candle at the distance of ten feet, and put the eye of my spec- 
 tacles behind the card, that the rays from the same point of the 
 object might meet, and cross each other, before they reached 
 the retina. In this case, as in the former, the candle was seen 
 triple through the three pin-holes ; but the candle on the right 
 was seen through the hole on the right ; and, on the contrary, 
 the left-hand candle was seen through the hole on the left. In 
 this experiment it is evident from the principles of optics, that 
 the rays forming the several pictures on the retina cross each 
 other a little before they reach the retina ; and therefore the 
 left-hand picture is formed by the rays which pass through the 
 hole on the right : so that the position of the pictures is contrary 
 to that of the holes by which they are formed ; and therefore is 
 also contrary to that of their objects, as we have found it to be 
 in the former experiments. 
 
 These experiments exhibit several uncommon phenomena, 
 that regard the apparent place, and the direction of visible objects 
 from the eye ; phenomena that seem to be most contrary to the 
 common rules of vision. When we look at the same time through 
 three holes that are in a right line, and at certain distances from 
 each other, we expect that the objects seen through them should 
 really be, and should appear to be, at a distance from each other : 
 yet, by the first experiment, we may, through three such holes, 
 see the same object, and the same point of that object; and 
 through all the three it appears in the same individual place and 
 direction. 
 
 When the rays of light come from the object in right lines to 
 the eye, without any reflection, inflection, or refraction, we ex- 
 pect that the object should appear in its real and proper direc- 
 tion from the eye ; and so it commonly does : but in the second, 
 third, and fourth experiments we see the object in a direction 
 which is not its true and real direction from the eye, although 
 the rays come from the object to the eye, without any inflection, 
 reflection, or refraction. 
 
 When both the "object and the eye are fixed without the least 
 motion, and the medium unchanged, we expect that the object 
 should appear to rest, and keep the same place. Yet in the 
 second and fourth experiments, when both the eye and the object 
 are at rest, and the medium unchanged, we make the object 
 appear to move upwards or downwards, or in any direction we 
 please. 
 
 When we look at the same time, and with the same eye, 
 through holes that stand in a line from right to left, we expect, 
 that the object seen through the left-hand hole should appear on 
 the left, and the object seen through the right-hand hole should 
 
OF SEEING. 507 
 
 appear on the right. Yet in the third experiment, we find the 
 direct contrary. Although many instances occur of seeing the 
 same object double with two eyes, we always expect that it 
 should appear single when seen only by one eye. Yet in the 
 second and fourth experiments, we have instances wherein the 
 same object may appear double, triple, or quadruple to one eye, 
 without the help of a polyhedron or multiplying glass. 
 
 All these extraordinary phenomena, regarding the direction of 
 visible objects from the eye, as well as those that are common 
 and ordinary, lead us to that law of nature- which I have men- 
 tioned, and are the necessary consequences of it. [And, as there 
 is no probability that we shall ever be . able to give a reason why 
 pictures upon the retina should make us see external objects, 
 any more than pictures upon the hand or upon the cheek ; or 
 that we shall ever be able to give a reason why we should see 
 the object in the direction of a line passing from its picture 
 through the centre of the eye, rather than in any other direc- 
 tion ; I am therefore apt to look upon this law as a primary law 
 of our constitution. ~\ 
 
 To prevent being misunderstood, I beg the reader to observe, 
 that I do not mean to affirm, that the picture upon the retina 
 will make us see an object in the direction mentioned, or in any 
 direction, unless the optic nerve, and the other more immediate 
 instruments of vision, be sound, and perforin their function. We 
 know not well what is the office of the optic nerve, nor in what 
 manner it performs that office ; but that it hath some part in 
 the faculty of seeing, seems to be certain ; because, in an amau- 
 rosis, which is believed to be a disorder of the optic nerve, the 
 pictures on the retina are clear and distinct, and yet there is no 
 vision. 
 
 We know still less of the use and function of the choroid 
 membrane ; but it seems likewise to be necessary to vision : for 
 it is well known, that pictures upon that part of the retina where 
 it is not covered by the choroid, I mean at the entrance of the 
 optic nerve, produce no vision, any more than a picture upon the 
 hand. We acknowledge, therefore, that the retina is not the 
 last and most immediate instrument of the mind in vision. There 
 are other material organs, whose operation is necessary to seeing, 
 even after the pictures upon the retina are formed. If ever we 
 come to know the structure and use of the choroid membrane, 
 the optic nerve, and the brain, and what impressions are made 
 upon them by means of the pictures on the retina, some more 
 links of the chain may be brought within our view, and a more 
 general law of vision discovered : but while we know so little of 
 the nature and office of these more immediate instruments of 
 vision, it seems to be impossible to trace its laws beyond the 
 pictures upon the retina. 
 
508 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 Neither do I pretend to say, that there may not be diseases of 
 the eye, or accidents, which may occasion our seeing objects in a 
 direction somewhat different from that mentioned above. I shall 
 beg leave to mention one instance of this kind that concerns 
 myself. 
 
 In May, 1761, being occupied in making an exact meridian, 
 in order to observe the transit of Venus, I rashly directed to the 
 sun, by my right eye, the cross hairs of a small telescope. I 
 had often done the like in my younger days with impunity ; but 
 I suffered by it at last, which I mention as a warning to others. 
 
 I soon observed a remarkable dimness in that eye ; and for 
 many weeks, when I was in the dark, or shut my eyes, there ap- 
 peared before the right eye a lucid spot, which trembled much 
 like the image of the sun seen by reflection from water. This 
 appearance grew fainter and less frequent by degrees ; so that 
 now there are seldom any remains of it. But some other very 
 sensible effects of this hurt still remain. For, first, The sight 
 of the right eye continues to be more dim than that of the left. 
 Secondly, The nearest limit of distinct vision is more remote in 
 the right eye than in the other ; although, before the time men- 
 tioned, they were equal in both these respects, as I had found by 
 many trials. But, thirdly, What I chiefly intended to mention 
 is, that a straight line, in some circumstances, appears to the 
 right eye to have a curvature in it. Thus, when I look upon a 
 music-book, and, shutting my left eye, direct the right to a 
 point of the middle line of the five which compose the staff of 
 music, the middle line appears dim indeed, at the point to 
 which the eye is directed, but straight ; at the same time the 
 two lines above it, and the two below it, appear to be bent out- 
 wards, and to be more distant from each other, and from the 
 middle line, than at other parts of the staff, to which the eye is 
 not directed. Fourthly, Although I have repeated this experi- 
 ment times innumerable, within these sixteen months, I do not 
 find that custom and experience take away this appearance of 
 curvature in straight lines. Lastly, This appearance of curva- 
 ture is perceptible when I look with the right eye only, but not 
 when I look with both eyes : yet I see better with both eyes 
 together than even with the left eye alone. 
 
 I have related this fact minutely as it is, without regard to 
 any hypothesis, because I think such uncommon facts deserve 
 to be recorded. I shall leave it to others to conjecture the 
 cause of this appearance. To me it seems most probable, that 
 a small part of the retina towards the centre is shrunk, and that 
 thereby the contiguous parts are drawn nearer to the centre, 
 and to one another, than they were before ; and that objects 
 whose images fall on these parts appear at that distance from 
 each other which corresponds, not to the interval of the parts in 
 
OF SEEING. 5Q9 
 
 their present preternatural contraction, but to their interval in 
 their natural and sound state. 
 
 XIII. Of seeing objects single with two eyes. — Another phe- 
 nomenon of vision which deserves attention, is our seeing objects 
 single with two eyes. There are two pictures of the object, 
 one on each retina ; and each picture by itself makes us see an 
 object in a certain direction from the eye : yet both together 
 commonly make us see only one object. All the accounts or 
 solutions of this phenomenon given by anatomists and philo- 
 sophers seem to be unsatisfactory. I shall pass over the opinions 
 of Galen, of Gassendus, of Baptista Porta, and of Rohault. 
 The reader may see these examined and refuted by Dr. Porter- 
 field. I shall examine Dr. Porterfield's own opinion, Bishop 
 Berkeley's, and some others. But it will be necessary first to 
 ascertain the facts ; for if we mistake the phenomena of single 
 and double vision, it is ten to one but this mistake will lead us 
 wrong in assigning the causes. This likewise w r e ought care- 
 fully to attend to, which is acknowledged in theory by all who 
 have any true judgment or just taste in inquiries of this nature, 
 but is very often overlooked in practice, namely, That in the 
 solution .of natural phenomena, all the length that the human 
 faculties can carry us, is only this, that from particular pheno- 
 mena, we may, by induction, trace out general phenomena, of 
 which all the particular ones are necessary consequences. And 
 when we have arrived at the most general phenomena we can 
 reach, there we must stop. If it is asked, Why such a body 
 gravitates towards the earth ? all the answer that can be given 
 is, Because all bodies gravitate towards the earth. This is re- 
 solving a particular phenomenon into a general one. If it should 
 again be asked, Why do all bodies gravitate towards the earth ? 
 we can give no other solution of this phenomenon, but that all 
 bodies whatsoever gravitate towards each other. This again is 
 resolving a general phenomenon into a more general one. If it 
 should be asked, Why all bodies gravitate to one another ? we 
 cannot tell ; but if we could tell, it could only be by resolving 
 this universal gravitation of bodies into some other phenomenon 
 still more general, and of which the gravitation of all bodies is 
 a particular instance. The most general phenomena we can 
 reach, are what we call laws of nature. So that the laws of 
 nature are nothing else but the most general facts relating to 
 the operations of nature, which include a great many particular 
 facts under them. And if in any case we should give the name 
 of a law of nature to a general phenomenon, which human 
 industry shall afterwards trace to one more general, there is no 
 great harm done. The most general assumes the name of a law 
 of nature, when it is discovered; and the less general is con- 
 tained and comprehended in it. Having premised these things, 
 
510 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. Vt. 
 
 we proceed to consider the phenomena of single and double 
 vision, in order to discover some general principle to which they 
 all lead, and of which they are the necessary consequences. If 
 we can discover any such general principle, it must either be a 
 law of nature, or the necessary consequence of some law of 
 nature ; and its authority will be equal, whether it is the first or 
 the last. 
 
 1. We find, that when the eyes are sound and perfect, and the 
 axes of both directed to one point, an object placed in that 
 point is seen single : and here we observe, that in this case the 
 two pictures which show the object single, are in the centres of 
 the retinae. When two pictures of a small object are formed 
 upon points of the retinae, if they show the object single, we 
 shall, for the sake of perspicuity, call such two points of the 
 retinae corresponding points ; and where the object is seen double, 
 we shall call the points of the retinae on which the pictures are 
 formed, points that do not correspond. Now, in this first pheno- 
 menon it is evident, that the two centres of the retinae are cor- 
 responding points. 
 
 2. Supposing the same things as in the last phenomenon, 
 other objects at the same distance from the eyes as that to which 
 their axes are directed, do also appear single. Thus, if I direct 
 my eyes to a candle placed at the distance of ten feet ; and, 
 while I look at this candle, another stands at the same distance 
 from my eyes, within the field of vision ; I can, while I look at 
 the first candle, attend to the appearance which the second makes 
 to the eye ; and I find that in this case it always appears single. 
 It is here to be observed, that the pictures of the second candle 
 do not fall upon the centres of the retinae, but they both fall 
 upon the same side of the centres, that is, both to the right, or 
 both to the left, and both are at the same distance from the 
 centres. This might easily be demonstrated from the princi- 
 ples of optics. Hence it appears, that in this second pheno- 
 menon of single vision, the corresponding points are points of 
 the two retinae, which are similarly situate with respect to the 
 two centres, being both upon the same side of the centre, and at 
 the same distance from it. It appears, likewise, from this phe- 
 nomenon, that every point in one retina corresponds with that 
 which is similarly situate in the other. 
 
 3. Supposing still the same things, objects which are much 
 nearer to the eyes, or much more distant from them, than that 
 to which the two eyes are directed, appear double. Thus, if 
 the candle is placed at the distance of ten feet, and I hold my 
 finger at arm's-length between my eyes and the candle, when I 
 look at the candle, I see my finger double ; and when I look at 
 my finger, I see the candle double : and the same thing happens 
 with regard to all other objects at like distances which fall within 
 
OF SEEING. 5U 
 
 the sphere of vision. In this phenomenon it is evident to those 
 who understand the principles of optics, that the pictures of the 
 objects which are seen double, do not fall upon points of 
 the retinae which are similarly situate, but that the pictures of the 
 objects seen single do fall npon points similarly situate. Whence 
 we infer, that as the points of the two retinas which are simi- 
 larly situate with regard to the centres, do correspond, so those 
 which are dissimilarly situate do not correspond. 
 
 4. It is to be observed, that although in such cases as are men- 
 tioned in the last phenomenon, we have been accustomed from 
 infancy to see objects double which we know to be single ; yet 
 custom, and experience of the unity of the object, never take away 
 this appearance of duplicity. 
 
 5. It may however be remarked, that the custom of attending 
 to visible appearances has a considerable effect, and makes the 
 phenomenon of double vision to be more or less observed and 
 remembered. Thus you may find a man that can say with a good 
 conscience, that he never saw things double all his life. Yet this 
 very man, put in the situation above mentioned, with his finger 
 between him and the candle, and desired to attend to the appear- 
 ance of the object which he does not look at, will, upon the first 
 trial, see the candle double, when he looks at his finger ; and his 
 finger double, when he looks at the candle. Does he now see other- 
 wise than he saw before ? No, surely, but he now attends to what 
 he never attended to before. The same double appearance of an 
 object hath been a thousand times presented to his eye before 
 now; but he did not attend to it ; and so it is as little an object 
 of his reflection and memory, as if it had never happened. 
 
 When we look at an object, the circumjacent objects may be 
 seen at the same time, although more obscurely and indistinctly ; 
 for the eye hath a considerable field of vision, which it takes in 
 at once. But we attend only to the object we look at. The 
 other objects which fall within the field of vision are not at- 
 tended to, and therefore are as if they were not seen. If any 
 of them draws our attention, it naturally draws the eyes at the 
 same time, (for in the common course of life, the eyes always follow 
 the attention,) or if at any. time, in a reverie, they are separated 
 from it, we hardly at that time see what is directly before us. 
 Hence we may see the reason, why the man we are speaking of 
 thinks that he never before saw an object double. When he looks 
 at any object, he sees it single, and takes no notice of other visible 
 objects at that time, whether they appear single or double. If any 
 of them draws his attention, it draws his eyes at the same time ; and 
 as soon as the eyes are turned towards it, it appears single. But 
 in order to see things double, at least in order to have any reflec- 
 tion or remembrance that he did so, it is necessary that he 
 should look at one object, and at the same time attend to the 
 
512 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 faint appearance of other objects which are within the field of 
 vision. This is a practice which perhaps he never used, nor at- 
 tempted; and therefore he does not recollect that ever he saw 
 an object double. But when he is put upon giving this attention, 
 he immediately sees objects double in the same manner, and 
 with the very same circumstances, as they who have been accus- 
 tomed, for the greatest part of their lives, to give this attention. 
 There are many phenomena of a similar nature, which show 
 that the mind may not attend to, and thereby, in some sort, not 
 perceive, objects that strike the senses. I had occasion to men- 
 tion several instances of this in the second chapter ; and I have 
 been assured, by persons of the best skill in music, that in hear- 
 ing a tune upon the harpsichord, when they give attention to the 
 treble, they do not hear the bass ; and when they attend to the 
 bass, they do not perceive the air of the treble. Some persons 
 are so near-sighted, that, in reading, they hold the book to one 
 eye, while the other is directed to other objects. Such persons 
 acquire the habit of attending in this case to the objects of one 
 eye, while they give no attention to those of the other. 
 
 6. It is observable, that in all cases wherein we see an object 
 double, the two appearances have a certain position with regard 
 to one another, and a certain apparent or angular distance. This 
 apparent distance is greater or less in different circumstances ; 
 but in the same circumstances, it is always the same, not only to 
 the same, but to different persons. 
 
 Thus, in the experiment above mentioned, if twenty different 
 persons, who see perfectly with both eyes, shall place their finger 
 and the candle at the distances above expressed, and hold their 
 heads upright, looking at the finger, they will see two candles, 
 one on the right, another on the left. That which is seen on the 
 right, is seen by the right eye, and that which is seen on the 
 left, by the left eye ; and they will see them at the same appa- 
 rent distance from each other. If again they look at the candle, 
 they will see two fingers, one on the right, and the other on the 
 left ; and all will see them at the same apparent distance ; the 
 finger towards the left being seen by the right eye, and the other 
 by the left. If the head is laid horizontally to one side, other 
 circumstances remaining the same, one appearance of the object 
 seen double, will be directly above the other. In a word, vary 
 the circumstances as you please, and the appearances are varied 
 to all the spectators in one and the same manner. 
 
 7. Having made many experiments in order to ascertain the ap- 
 parent distance of the two appearances. of an object seen double, 
 I have found, that in all cases this apparent distance is pro- 
 portioned to the distance between the point of the retina, where 
 the picture is made in one eye, and the point which is situate 
 similarly to that on which the picture is made on the other eye. 
 
OF SEEING. frig 
 
 So that as the apparent distance of two objects seen with one 
 eye, is proportioned to the arch of the retina, which lies between 
 their pictures ; in like manner, when an object is seen double 
 with the two eyes, the apparent distance of the two appearances 
 is proportioned to the arch of either retina, which lies between 
 the picture in that retina, and the point corresponding to that of 
 the picture in the other retina. 
 
 8. As in certain circumstances we invariably see one object 
 appear double, so in others we as invariably see two objects unite 
 into one ; and in appearance lose their duplicity. This is evi- 
 dent in the appearance of the binocular telescope. And the 
 same thing happens when any two similar tubes are applied to 
 the two eyes in a parallel direction ; for in this case we see only 
 one tube. And if two shillings are placed at the extremities of 
 the two tubes, one exactly in the axis of one eye, and the other 
 in the axis of the other eye, we shall see but one shilling. If 
 two pieces of coin, or other bodies, of different colour, and of 
 different figure, be properly placed in the two axes of the eyes, 
 and at the extremities of the tubes, we shall see both the bodies 
 in one and the same place, each as it were spread over the other, 
 without hiding it ; and the colour will be that which is com- 
 pounded of the two colours. 
 
 9. From these phenomena, and from all the trials I have been 
 able to make, it appears evidently, that in perfect human eyes, 
 the centres of the two retinae correspond and harmonize with 
 one another ; and that every other point in one retina, doth cor- 
 respond and harmonize with the point which is similarly situate 
 in the other ; in such manner, that pictures falling on the cor- 
 responding points of the two retinas, show only one object, even 
 when there are really two ; and pictures falling upon points of the 
 retinae which do not correspond, show us two visible appear- 
 ances, although there be but one object. So that pictures upon 
 corresponding points of the two retinae, present the same appear- 
 ance to the mind as if they had both fallen upon the same 
 point of one retina ; and pictures upon points of the two retinae 
 which do not correspond, present to the mind the same apparent 
 distance and position of two objects, as if one of those pictures 
 was carried to the point corresponding to it in the other retina. 
 This relation and sympathy between corresponding points of the 
 two retinae, I do not advance as an hypothesis, but as a general 
 fact or phenomenon of vision. All the phenomena before men- 
 tioned, of single or double vision, lead to it, and are necessary 
 consequences of it. It holds true invariably in all perfect human 
 eyes, as far as I am able to collect from innumerable trials of 
 various kinds made upon my own eyes, and many made by others 
 at my desire. Most of the hypotheses that have been contrived 
 to resolve the phenomena of single and double vision, suppose 
 
 2l 
 
514 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 this general fact, while their authors were not aware of it. Sir 
 Isaac Newton, who was too judicious a philosopher, and too ac- 
 curate an observer, to have offered even a conjecture which did 
 not tally with the facts that had fallen under his observation, 
 proposes a query with respect to the cause of it, " Optics," quer. 
 15. The judicious Dr. Smith, in his "Optics," lib. 1. § 137, 
 hath confirmed the truth of this general phenomenon from his 
 own experience, not only as to the apparent unity of objects 
 whose pictures fall upon the corresponding points of the retinae, 
 but also as to the apparent distance of the two appearances of 
 the same object when seen double. 
 
 This general phenomenon appears, therefore, to be founded 
 upon a very full induction, which is all the evidence we can have 
 for a fact of this nature. Before we make an end of this subject, 
 it will be proper to inquire, first, Whether those animals whose 
 eyes have an adverse position in their heads, and look contrary 
 ways, have such corresponding points in their retinae ? Secondly, 
 What is the position of the corresponding points in imperfect 
 human eyes, I mean in those that squint ? And, in the last 
 place, Whether this harmony of the corresponding points in the 
 retinae be natural and original, or the effect of custom ? And if 
 it is original, Whether it can be accounted for by any of the laws 
 of nature already discovered ? or whether it is itself to be looked 
 upon as a law of nature, and a part of the human constitution ? 
 
 XIV. Of the laws of vision in brute animals. — It is the inten- 
 tion of nature, in giving eyes to animals, that they may perceive 
 the situation of visible objects, or the direction in which they are 
 placed : it is probable, therefore, that in ordinary cases, every 
 animal, whether it has many eyes or few, whether of one struc- 
 ture or of another, sees objects single and in their true and proper 
 direction. And since there is a prodigious variety in the struc- 
 ture, the motions, and the number of eyes in different animals 
 and insects, it is probable that the laws by which vision is regu- 
 lated, are not the same in all, but various, adapted to the eyes 
 which nature hath given them. 
 
 Mankind naturally turn their eyes always the same way, so 
 that the axes of the two eyes meet in one point. They naturally 
 attend to, or look at that object only which is placed in the point 
 where the axes meet. And whether the object be more or less 
 distant, the configuration of the eye is adapted to the distance of 
 the object, so as to form a distinct picture of it. 
 
 When we use' our eyes in this natural way, the two pictures 
 of the object we look at, are formed upon the centres of the two 
 retinae ; and the two pictures of any contiguous object are formed 
 upon points of the retinae which are similarly situate with regard 
 to the centres. Therefore, in order to our seeing objects single, 
 and in their proper direction, with two eyes, it is sufficient that 
 
OF SEEING. 515 
 
 we be so constituted, that objects whose pictures are formed upon 
 the centres of the two retinae, or upon points similarly situate 
 with regard to these centres, shall be seen in the same visible 
 place. And this is the constitution which nature hath actually 
 given to human eyes. 
 
 When we distort our eyes from their parallel direction, which 
 is an unnatural motion, but may be learned by practice ; or 
 when we direct the axes of the two eyes to one point, and at the 
 same time direct our attention to some visible object much nearer 
 or much more distant than that point, which is also unnatural, 
 yet may be learned ; in these cases, and in these only, we see one 
 object double, or two objects confounded in one. In these cases, 
 the two pictures of the same object are formed upon .points of the 
 retinae which are not similarly situate, and so the object is seen 
 double, or the two pictures of different objects are formed upon 
 points of the retinae which are similarly situate, and so the two 
 objects are seen confounded in one place. 
 
 Thus it appears that the laws of vision in the human constitu- 
 tion are wisely adapted to the natural use of human eyes, but not 
 to that use of them which is unnatural. We see objects truly 
 when we use our eyes in the natural way ; but have false appear- 
 ances presented to us when we use them in a way that is unna- 
 tural. We may reasonably think, that the case is the same with 
 other animals. But is it not unreasonable to think, that those ani- 
 mals which naturally turn one eye towards one object, and another 
 towards another, must thereby have such false appearances pre- 
 sented to them, as we have when we do so against nature ? 
 
 IgF Many animals have their eyes by nature placed adverse 
 and immoveable, the axes of the two eyes being always directed 
 to opposite points. Do objects painted on the centres of the two 
 retinae appear to such animals as they do to human eyes, in one 
 and the same visible place ? I think it is highly probable that 
 they do not ; and that they appear, as they really are, in oppo- 
 site places. 
 
 If we judge from analogy in this case, it will lead us to think, 
 that there is a certain correspondence between points of the two 
 retinae in such animals, but of a different kind from that which 
 we have found in human eyes. The centre of one retina will 
 correspond with the centre of the other, in such manner that the 
 objects whose pictures are formed upon these corresponding 
 points, shall appear not to be in the same place as in human eyes, 
 but in opposite places. And in the same manner will the supe- 
 rior part of one retina correspond with the inferior part of the 
 other, and the anterior part of one with the posterior part of the 
 other. 
 
 Some animals, by nature, turn their eyes with equal facility, 
 either the same way, or different ways, as we turn our hands and 
 
 2l2 
 
515 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI 
 
 arms. Have such animals corresponding points in their retinae, 
 and points which do not correspond, as the human kind has ? I 
 think it is prohable that they have not ; because such a constitu- 
 tion in them could serve no other purpose but to exhibit false 
 appearances. 
 
 If we judge from analogy, it will lead us to think that as such 
 animals move their eyes in a manner similar to that in which we 
 move our arms, they have an immediate and natural perception 
 of the direction they give to their eyes, as we have of the direc- 
 tion we give to our arms, and perceive the situation of visible 
 objects by their eyes, in a manner similar to that in which we 
 perceive the situation of tangible objects with our hands. 
 
 We cannot teach brute animals to use their eyes in any other 
 way than in that which nature hath taught them ; nor can we 
 teach them to communicate to ns the appearances which visible 
 objects make to them, either in ordinary or in extraordinary 
 cases. We have not, therefore, the same means of discovering 
 the laws of vision in them as in our own kind, but must satisfy 
 ourselves with probable conjectures : and what we have said upon 
 this subject is chiefly intended to show that animals to which 
 nature hath given eyes differing in their number, in their posi- 
 tion, and in their natural motions, may very probably be sub- 
 jected to different laws of vision, adapted to the peculiarities of 
 their organs of vision. 
 
 XV. The phenomena of squinting considered hypothetically. — 
 Whether there be corresponding points in the retinae of those who 
 have an involuntary squint ? and if there are, whether they be 
 situate in the same manner as in those who have no squint ? are 
 not questions of mere curiosity. They are of real importance to 
 the physician who attempts the cure of a squint, and to the patient 
 who submits to the cure. After so much hath been said of the 
 strabismus, or squint, both by medical and by optical w r riters, 
 one might expect to find abundance of facts for determining these 
 questions. Yet I confess I have been disappointed in this ex- 
 pectation, after taking some pains both to make observations, 
 and to collect those which have been made by others. 
 
 Nor will this appear very strange, if we consider, that to make 
 the observations which are necessary for determining these ques- 
 tions, knowledge of the principles of optics, and of the laws of 
 vision, must concur with opportunities rarely to be met with. 
 
 Of those who squint, the far greater part have no distinct 
 vision with one eye. When this is the case, it is impossible, and 
 indeed of no importance, to determine the situation of the cor- 
 responding points. When both eyes are good, they commonly 
 differ so much in their direction, that the same object cannot be 
 seen by both at the same time : and in this case it will be very 
 difficult to determine the situation of the corresponding points ; 
 
 
OF SEEING. 517 
 
 for such persons will probably attend only to the objects of one 
 eye, and the objects of the other will be as little regarded as if 
 they were not seen. 
 
 We have before observed, that when we look at a near object, 
 and attend to it, we do not perceive the double appearances of 
 more distant objects, even when they are in the same direction, 
 and are presented to the eye at the same time. It is probable 
 that a squinting person, when he attends to the objects of one 
 eye, will, in like manner, have his attention totally diverted from 
 the objects of the other; and that he will perceive them as little 
 as we perceive the double appearances of objects when we use 
 our eyes in the natural way. Such a person, therefore, unless 
 he is so much a philosopher as to have acquired the habit of 
 attending very accurately to the visible appearances of objects, 
 and even of objects w r hich he does not look at, will not be able 
 to give any light to the questions now under consideration. 
 
 HsF It is very probable that hares, rabbits, birds, and fishes, 
 whose eyes are fixed in an adverse position, have the natural 
 faculty of attending at the same time to visible objects placed in 
 different, and even in contrary directions ; because, without this 
 faculty, they could not have those advantages from the contrary 
 direction of their eyes, which nature seems to have intended. 
 But it is not probable that those who squint have any such 
 natural faculty ; because we find no such faculty in the rest of 
 the species. We naturally attend to objects placed in the point 
 where the axes of the two eyes meet, and to them only. To 
 give attention to an object in a different direction is unnatural, 
 and not to be learned without pains and practice. 
 
 A very convincing proof of this may be drawn from a fact now 
 well known to philosophers : when one eye is shut, there is a cer- 
 tain space within the field of vision, where we can see nothing at all ; 
 the space which is directly opposed to that part of the bottom of 
 the eye where the optic nerve enters. This defect of sight in 
 one part of the eye, is common to all human eyes, and hath been 
 so from the beginning of the world ; yet it was never known, 
 until the sagacity of the Abbe Mariotte discovered it in the last 
 century. And now when it is known, it cannot be perceived, 
 but by means of some particular experiments, which require care 
 and attention to make them succeed. 
 
 What is the reason that so remarkable a defect of sight, com- 
 mon to all mankind, was so long unknown, and is now perceived 
 with so much difficulty ? It is surely this, that the defect is at 
 some distance from the axis of the eye, and consequently in a 
 part of the field of vision to which we never attend naturally, 
 and to which we cannot attend at all, without the aid of some 
 particular circumstances. 
 
 From what we have said it appears, that to determine the 
 
518 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 situation of trie corresponding points in tlie eyes of those who 
 squint is impossible, if they do not see distinctly with both eyes ; 
 and that it will be very difficult, unless the two eyes differ so 
 little in their direction, that the same object may be seen with 
 both at the same time. Such patients I apprehend are rare ; at 
 least there are very few of them with whom I have had the for- 
 tune to meet ; and therefore, for the assistance of those who may 
 have happier opportunities, and inclination to make the proper 
 use of them, we shall consider the case of squinting hypo the ti- 
 cally, pointing out the proper articles of inquiry, the observa- 
 tions that are wanted, and the conclusions that may be drawn 
 from them. 
 
 1 . It ought to be inquired, whether the squinting person sees 
 equally well with both eyes ? and, if there be a defect in one, 
 the nature and degree of that defect ought to be remarked. The 
 experiments by which this may be done, are so obvious that I 
 need not mention them. But I would advise the observer to 
 make the proper experiments, and not to rely upon the testi- 
 mony of the patient ; because I have found many instances, both 
 of persons that squinted, and others, who were found, upon trial, 
 to have a great defect in the sight of one eye, although they were 
 never aware of it before. In all the following articles it is sup- 
 posed that the patient sees with both eyes so well, as to be able 
 to read with either, when the other is covered. 
 
 2. It ought to be inquired, whether, when one eye is covered, 
 the other is turned directly to the object ? This ought to be 
 tried in both eyes successively. By this observation, as a touch- 
 stone, we may try the hypothesis concerning squinting, invented 
 by M. de la Hire, and adopted by Boerhaave, and many others 
 of the medical faculty. 
 
 The hypothesis is, that in one eye of a squinting person, the 
 greatest sensibility and the most distinct vision is not, as in other 
 men, in the centre of the retina, but upon one side of the centre ; 
 and that he turns the axis of this eye aside from the object, in 
 order that the picture of the object may fall upon the most sen- 
 sible part of the retina, and thereby give the most distinct vision. 
 If this is the cause of squinting, the squinting eye will be turned 
 aside from the object, when the other eye is covered, as well as 
 when it is not. 
 
 A trial so easy to be made, never was made, for more than 
 forty years ; but the hypothesis was very generally received. So 
 prone are men to invent hypotheses, and so backward to examine 
 them by facts. At last Dr. Jurin having made the trial, found 
 that persons who squint, turn the axis of the squinting eye 
 directly to the object, when the other eye is covered. This fact 
 is confirmed by Dr. Porterfield ; and I have found it verified in 
 all the instances that have fallen under my observation. 
 
OF SEEING. 519 
 
 3. It ought to be inquired, whether the axes of the two eyes 
 follow one another, so as to have always the same inclination, or 
 make the same angle, when the person looks to the right or to 
 the left, upward or downward, or straight forward. By this 
 observation we may judge, whether a squint is owing to any 
 defect in the muscles which move the eye, as some have sup- 
 posed. In the following articles we suppose that the inclination 
 of the axes of the eyes is found to be always the same. 
 
 4. It ought to be inquired, whether the person that squints 
 sees an object single or double ? 
 
 If he sees the object double ; and if the two appearances have 
 an angular distance equal to the angle which the axes of his eyes 
 make with each other, it may be concluded that he hath corre- 
 sponding points in the retinas of his eyes, and that they have the 
 same situation as in those who have no squint. If the two 
 appearances should have an angular distance which is always the 
 same, but manifestly greater or less than the angle contained 
 under the optic axes, this would indicate corresponding points in 
 the retinas, whose situation is not the same as in those who have 
 no squint; but it is difficult to judge accurately of the angle 
 which the optic axes make. 
 
 A squint too small to be perceived, may occasion double vision 
 of objects : for if we speak strictly, every person squints more or 
 less, whose optic axes do not meet exactly in the object which 
 he looks at. Thus, if a man can only bring the axes of his eyes 
 to be parallel, but cannot make them converge in the least, he 
 must have a small squint in looking at near objects, and will see 
 them double, while he sees very distant objects single. Again, 
 if the optic axes always converge, so as to meet eight or ten feet 
 before the face at farthest, such a person will see near objects 
 single; but when he looks at very distant objects, he will squint 
 a little, and see them double. 
 
 An instance of this kind is related by Aguilonius in his 
 " Optics;" who says, that he had seen a young man to whom near 
 objects appeared single, but distant objects appeared double. 
 
 Dr. Briggs, in his " Nova Yisionis Theoria," having collected 
 from authors several instances of double vision, quotes this from 
 Aguilonius, as the most wonderful and unaccountable of all, in 
 so much that he suspects some imposition on the part of the 
 young man: but to those who understand the laws by which 
 single and double vision are regulated, it appears to be the 
 natural effect of a very small squint. 
 
 Double vision may always be owing to a small squint, when 
 the two appearances are seen at a small angular distance, although 
 no squint was observed : and I do not remember any instances of 
 double vision recorded by authors, wherein any account is given 
 of the angular distance of the appearances. 
 
520 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 ' 111 almost all the instances of double vision, there is reason to 
 suspect a squint or distortion of the eyes, from the concomitant 
 circumstances, which we find to be one or other of the following, 
 the approach of death, or of a deliquium, excessive drinking, or 
 other intemperance, violent headach, blistering the head, smoking 
 tobacco, blows or wounds in the head. In all these cases, it is 
 reasonable to suspect a distortion of the eyes, either from spasm, 
 or paralysis, in the muscles that move them. But although it be 
 probable that there is always a squint greater or less where there 
 is double vision ; yet it is certain that there is not double vision 
 always where there is a squint. I know no instance of double 
 vision that continued for life, or even for a great number of years. 
 We shall therefore suppose, in the following articles, that the 
 squinting person sees objects single. 
 
 5. The next inquiry then ought to be, whether the object is 
 seen with both eyes at the same time, or only with the eye whose 
 axis is directed to it ? It hath been taken for granted, by the 
 writers upon the strabismus, before Dr. Jurin, that those who 
 squint, commonly see objects single with both eyes at the same 
 time ; but I know not one fact advanced by any writer which 
 proves it. Dr. Jurin is of a contrary opinion ; and as it is of 
 consequence, so it is very easy, to determine this point in parti- 
 cular instances, by this obvious experiment. While the person 
 that squints looks steadily at an object, let the observer carefully 
 remark the direction of both his eyes, and observe their motions ; 
 and let an opaque body be interposed between the object and the 
 two eyes successively. If the patient, notwithstanding this inter- 
 position, and without changing the direction of his eyes, con- 
 tinues to see the object all the time, it may be concluded 
 that he saw it with both eyes at once. But if the interposition 
 of the body between one eye and the object, makes it disappear, 
 then we may be certain, that it was seen by that eye only. In 
 the two following articles we shall suppose the first to happen, 
 according to the common hypothesis. 
 
 6. IJpon this supposition it ought to be inquired, whether the 
 patient sees an object double in those circumstances wherein it 
 appears double to them who have no squint ? Let him, for in- 
 stance, place a candle at the distance of ten feet ; and holding his 
 finger at arm's length between him and the candle, let him ob- 
 serve, when he looks at the candle, whether he sees his finger 
 with both eyes, and whether he sees it single or double ; and 
 when he looks at his finger, let him observe whether he sees the 
 candle with both eyes, and whether single or double. 
 
 [By this observation, it may be determined, whether to this 
 patient, the phenomena of double as w r ell as of single vision are 
 the same as to them who have no squint. If they are not the 
 same ; if he sees objects single with two eyes, not only in the 
 
OF SEEING. 
 
 521 
 
 cases wherein they appear single, but in those also wherein they 
 appear double to other men ; the conclusion to be drawn from 
 this supposition is, that his single vision does not arise from cor- 
 responding points in the retince of his eyes ; and that the laws of 
 vision are not the same in him as in the rest of mankind.] 
 
 7. If, on the other hand, he sees objects double in those cases 
 wherein they appear double to others, the conclusion must be, 
 that he hath corresponding points in the retinas of his eyes, but 
 unnaturally situate ; and their situation may be thus determined. 
 
 When he looks at an object, having the axis of one eye directed 
 to it, and the axis of the other turned aside from it ; let us sup- 
 pose a right line to pass from the object through the centre of 
 the diverging eye. We shall, for the sake of perspicuity, call 
 this right line the natural axis of the eye : and it will make an 
 angle with the real axis, greater or less, according as his squint 
 is greater or less. We shall also call that point of the retina in 
 which the natural axis cuts it, the natural centre of the retina ; 
 which will be more or less distant from the real centre, according 
 as the squint is greater or less. 
 
 Having premised these definitions, it will be evident to those 
 who understand the principles of optics, that in this person the 
 natural centre of one retina corresponds with the real centre of 
 the other, in the very same manner as the two real centres cor- 
 respond in perfect eyes ; and that the points similarly situate 
 with regard to the real centre in one retina, and the natural cen- 
 tre in the other, do likewise correspond, in the very same manner 
 as the points similarly situate with regard to the two real centres 
 correspond in perfect eyes. 
 
 If it is true, as has been commonly affirmed, that one who 
 squints sees an object with both eyes at the same time, and yet 
 sees it single, the squint will most probably be such as we have 
 described in this article. And we may farther conclude, that if 
 a person affected with such a squint as we have supposed, could 
 be brought to the habit of looking straight, his sight would 
 thereby be greatly hurt. For he would then see every thing 
 double which he saw with both eyes at the same time, and dis- 
 tant objects would appear to be confounded together. His eyes 
 are made for squinting, as much as those of other men are made 
 for looking straight ; and his sight would be no less injured by 
 looking straight, than that of another man by squinting. He 
 can never see perfectly when he does not squint, unless the cor- 
 responding points of his eyes should by custom change their 
 place ; but how small the probability of this is, will appear in 
 the seventeenth section. 
 
 Those of the medical faculty who attempt the cure of a squint, 
 would do well to consider, whether it is attended with such 
 symptoms as are above described. If it is, the cure would be 
 

 522 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 worse than the malady : for every one will readily acknowledge, 
 that it is better to put up with the deformity of a squint, than 
 to purchase the cure by the loss of perfect and distinct vision. 
 
 8. We shall now return to Dr. Jurin's hypothesis, and suppose 
 that our patient, when he saw objects single notwithstanding 
 his squint, was found, upon trial, to have seen them only with 
 one eye. 
 
 We would advise such a patient to endeavour, by repeated 
 efforts, to lessen his squint, and to bring the axes of his eyes 
 nearer to a parallel direction. We have naturally the power of 
 making small variations in the inclination of the optic axes ; and 
 this power may be greatly increased by exercise. 
 
 In the ordinary and natural use of our eyes, we can direct 
 their axes to a fixed star ; in this case they must be parallel : we 
 can direct them also to an object six inches distant from the eye; 
 and in this case the axes must make an angle of fifteen or twenty 
 degrees. We see young people in their frolics learn to squint, 
 making their eyes either converge or diverge, when they will, to 
 a very considerable degree. Why should it be more difficult for 
 a squinting person to learn to look straight when he pleases ? If 
 once, by an effort of his will, he can but lessen his squint, fre- 
 quent practice will make it easy to lessen it, and will daily 
 increase his power. So that if he begins this practice in youth, 
 and perseveres in it, he may probably, after some time, learn to 
 direct both his eyes to one object. 
 
 When he hath acquired this power, it will be no difficult mat- 
 ter to determine, by proper observations, whether the centres of 
 the retinas, and other points similarly situate with regard to the 
 centres, correspond, as in other men. 
 
 9. Let us now suppose that he finds this to be the case ; and 
 that he sees an object single with both eyes, when the axes of 
 both are directed to it. It will then concern him to acquire the 
 habit of looking straight, as he hath got the power, because he 
 will thereby not only remove a deformity, but improve his sight : 
 and I conceive this habit, like all others, may be got by frequent 
 exercise. He may practise before a mirror when alone, and in 
 company he ought to have those about him, who will observe 
 and admonish him when he squints. 
 
 10. What is supposed in the 9th article is not merely ima- 
 ginary ; it is really the case of some squinting persons, as will 
 appear in the next section. Therefore it ought further to be 
 inquired, how it comes to pass, that such a person sees an object 
 which he looks at only with one eye, when both are open. In 
 order to answer this question, it may be observed, first, Whether, 
 when he looks at an object, the diverging eye is not drawn so 
 close to the nose, that it can have no distinct images ? Or, 
 secondly, Whether the pupil of the diverging eye is not covered 
 
OF SEEING. 5^3 
 
 wholly, or in part, by the upper eye-lid ? Dr. Jurin observed 
 instances of these cases in persons that squinted, and assigns 
 them as causes of their seeing the object only with one eye. 
 Thirdly, it may be observed, Whether the diverging eye is not so 
 directed, that the picture of the object falls upon that part of the 
 retina where the optic nerve enters, and where there is no vision ? 
 This will probably happen in a squint wherein the axes of the 
 eyes converge so as to meet about six inches before the nose. 
 
 11. In the last place, it ought to be inquired, whether such a 
 person hath any distinct vision at all with the diverging eye, at 
 the time he is looking at an object with the other? 
 
 It may seem very improbable that he should be able to read 
 with the diverging eye when the other is covered ; and yet, when 
 both are open, have no distinct vision with it at all. But this 
 perhaps will not appear so improbable, if the following consider- 
 ations are duly attended to. 
 
 Let us suppose that one who saw perfectly gets, by a blow on 
 the head, or some other accident, a permanent and involuntary 
 squint. According to the laws of vision, he will see objects 
 double, and will see distant objects confounded together: but 
 such vision being very disagreeable, as well as inconvenient, he 
 will' do every thing in his power to remedy it. For alleviating 
 such distresses, nature often teaches men wonderful expedients, 
 which the sagacity of a philosopher would be unable to discover. 
 Every accidental motion, every direction or conformation of his 
 eyes, which lessens the evil, will be agreeable ; it will be repeated 
 until it be learned to perfection, and become habitual, even with- 
 out thought or design. Now, in this case, what disturbs the 
 sight of one eye, is the sight of the other ; and all the disagree- 
 able appearances in vision would cease, if the light of one eye 
 was extinct : the sight of one eye will become more distinct and 
 more agreeable in the same proportion as that of the other be- 
 comes faint and indistinct. It may therefore be expected, that 
 every habit will, by degrees, be acquired, which tends to destroy 
 distinct vision in one eye, while it is preserved in the other. 
 These habits will be greatly facilitated, if one eye was at first 
 better than the other ; for in that case the best eye will always 
 be directed to the object which he intends to look at, and every 
 habit will be acquired which tends to hinder his seeing it at all 
 or seeing it distinctly by the other at the same time. 
 
 I shall mention one or two habits that may probably be ac- 
 quired in such a case ; perhaps there are others which we cannot 
 so easily conjecture. First, By a small increase or diminution 
 of his squint, he may bring it to correspond with one or other of 
 the cases mentioned in the last article. Secondly, The diverging 
 eye may be brought to such a conformation as to be extremely 
 short-sighted, and consequently to have no distinct vision of 
 

 524 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 objects at a distance. I knew this to be the case of one person that 
 squinted ; but cannot say whether the short-sightedness of the 
 diverging eye was original, or acquired by habit. 
 
 We see, therefore, that one who squints, and originally saw 
 objects double by reason of that squint, may acquire such habits, 
 that when he looks at an object, he shall see it only with one 
 eye : nay, he may acquire such habits, that when he looks at an 
 object with his best eye, he shall have no distinct vision with 
 the other at all. Whether this is really the case, being unable 
 to determine in the instances that have fallen under my observa- 
 tion, I shall leave to future inquiry. 
 
 I have endeavoured, in the foregoing articles, to delineate 
 such a process as is proper in observing the phenomena of squint- 
 ing. 1 know well by experience, that this process appears more 
 easy in theory than it will be found to be in practice ; and that, 
 in order to carry it on with success, some qualifications of mind 
 are necessary in the patient, which are not always to be met 
 with. But if those who have proper opportunities, and inclina- 
 tion, to observe such phenomena, attend duly to this process, 
 they may be able to furnish facts less vague and uninstructive 
 than those we meet with, even in authors of reputation. By 
 such facts, vain theories may be exploded, and our knowledge 
 of the laws of nature which regard the noblest of our senses, 
 enlarged. 
 
 XVI. Facts relating to squinting. — Having considered the 
 phenomena of squinting hypothetically, and their connexion with 
 corresponding points in the retinae, I shall now mention the 
 facts I have had occasion to observe myself, or to meet with in 
 authors that can give any light to this subject. 
 
 Having examined above twenty persons that squinted, I found 
 in all of them a defect in the sight of one eye. Four only had 
 so much of distinct vision in the weak eye as to be able to read 
 with it, when the other was covered. The rest saw nothing at 
 all distinctly with one eye. Dr. Porterfield says that this is 
 generally the case of people that squint : and I suspect it is so 
 more generally than is commonly imagined. Dr. Jurin, in a very 
 judicious dissertation upon squinting, printed in Dr. Smith's 
 " Optics," observes, that those who squint, and see with both 
 eyes, never see the same object with both at the same time ; 
 that when one eye is directed straight forward to an object, the 
 other is drawn so close to the nose, that the object cannot at all 
 be seen by it, the images being too oblique and too indistinct 
 to affect the eye. In some squinting persons, he observed the 
 diverging eye drawn under the upper eye-lid while the other 
 was directed to the object. From these observations he con- 
 cludes, that the eye is thus distorted, "not for the sake of 
 seeing better with it, but rather to avoid seeing at all with it as 
 
OF SEEING. ^25 
 
 much as possible." From all the observations he had made, he 
 was satisfied that there is nothing peculiar in the structure of a 
 squinting eye ; that the fault is only in its wrong direction ; and 
 that this wrong direction is got by habit. Therefore he proposes 
 that method of cure which we have described in the 8th and 
 9th articles of the last section. He tells us, that he had at- 
 tempted a cure after this method, upon a young gentleman, with 
 promising hopes of success, but was interrupted by his falling 
 ill of the small pox, of which he died. 
 
 It were to be wished that Dr. Jurin had acquainted us whether 
 he ever brought the young man to direct the axes of both eyes to 
 the same object, and whether, in that case, he saw the object 
 single, and saw it with both eyes : and that he had likewise 
 acquainted us whether he saw objects double when his squint was 
 diminished. But as to these facts he is silent. 
 
 I wished long for an opportunity of trying Dr. Jurin's method 
 of curing a squint, without finding one ; having always, upon 
 examination, discovered so great a defect in the sight of one eye 
 of the patient as discouraged the attempt. 
 
 But I have lately found three young gentlemen, with whom I 
 am hopeful this method may have success, if they have patience 
 and perseverance in using it. Two of them are brothers, and, 
 before I had access to examine them, had been practising this 
 method by the direction of their tutor, with such success, that 
 the elder looks straight when he is upon his guard : the younger 
 can direct both his eyes to one object ; but they soon return to 
 their usual squint. 
 
 A third young gentleman, who had never heard of this method 
 before, by a few days' practice was able to direct both his eyes 
 to one object, but could not keep them long in that direction. 
 All the three agree in this, that when both eyes are directed to 
 one object, they see it and the adjacent objects single ; but when 
 they squint, they see objects sometimes single and sometimes 
 double. I observed of all the three, that when they squinted 
 most, that is, in the way they had been accustomed to, the axes 
 of their eyes converged so as to meet five or six inches before the 
 nose. It is probable that in this case the picture of the object 
 in the diverging eye, must fall upon that part of the retina 
 where the optic nerve enters ; and therefore the object could not 
 be seen by that eye. 
 
 All the three have some defect in the sight of one eye, which 
 none of them knew until I put them upon making trials ; and 
 when they squint, the best eye is always directed to the object, 
 and the weak eye is that which diverges from it. But when the 
 best eye is covered, the weak eye is turned directly to the object. 
 Whether this defect of sight in one eye be the effect of its having 
 
526 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 been long disused, as it must have been when they squinted, 
 or whether some original defect in one eye might be the occa- 
 sion of their squinting, time may discover. The two brothers 
 have found the sight of the weak eye improved by using to 
 read with it while the other is covered. The elder can read an 
 ordinary print with the weak eye ; the other, as well as the 
 third gentleman, can only read a large print with the weak eye. 
 
 I have met with one other person only who squinted, and yet 
 could read a large print with the weak eye. He is a young man 
 whose eyes are both tender and weak-sighted, but the left much 
 weaker than the right. When he looks at any object, he always 
 directs the right eye to it, and then the left is turned towards 
 the nose so much, that it is impossible for him to see the same 
 object with both eyes at the same time. When the right eye is 
 covered, he turns the left directly to the object ; but he sees it 
 indistinctly, and as if it had a mist about it. 
 
 I made several experiments, some of them in the company and 
 with the assistance of an ingenious physician, in order to discover 
 whether objects that were in the axes of the two eyes were seen 
 in one place confounded together, as in those who have no invo- 
 luntary squint. The object placed in the axis of the weak eye 
 was a lighted candle, at the distance of eight or ten feet. Before 
 the other eye we placed a printed book, at such a distance as that 
 he could read upon it. He said that while he read upon the book, 
 he saw the candle, but very faintly. And from what we could 
 learn, these two objects did not appear in one place, but had 
 all that angular distance in appearance which they had in reality. 
 
 If this was really the case, the conclusion to be drawn from it 
 is, that the corresponding points in his eyes are not situate in 
 the same manner as in other men ; and that if he could be 
 brought to direct both eyes to one object, he would see it double. 
 But considering that the young man had never been accustomed 
 to observations of this kind, and that the sight of one eye was so 
 imperfect, I do not pretend to draw this conclusion with cer- 
 tainty from this single instance. 
 
 All that can be inferred from these facts is, that of four per- 
 sons who squint, three appear to have nothing preternatural in 
 the structure of their eyes. The centres of their retinae, and 
 the points similarly situate with regard to the centres, do cer- 
 tainly correspond in the same manner as in other men. So that 
 if they can be brought to the habit of directing their eyes right 
 to an object, they will not only remove a deformity, but improve 
 their sight. With regard to the fourth, the case is dubious, 
 with some probability of a deviation from the usual course of 
 nature in the situation of the corresponding points of his eyes. 
 XVII. Of the effect of custom in seeing objects single. — It 
 
OF SEEING. 5£>7 
 
 appears from the phenomena of single and double vision, recited 
 in sect. 13, that our seeing an object single with two eyes, de- 
 pends upon these two things. First, upon that mutual corres- 
 pondence of certain points of the retinae which we have often 
 described. Secondly, upon the two eyes being directed to the 
 object so accurately, that the two images of it fall upon corres- 
 ponding points. These two things must concur in order to our 
 seeing an object single with two eyes ; and as far as they de- 
 pend upon custom, so far only can single vision depend upon 
 custom. 
 
 With regard to the second, that is, the accurate direction of 
 both eyes to the object, I think it must be acknowledged that 
 this is only learned by custom. Nature hath wisely ordained 
 the eyes to move in such manner, that their axes shall always 
 be nearly parallel ; but hath left it in our power to vary their 
 inclination a little, according to the distance of the object we 
 look at. Without this power, objects would appear single at 
 one particular distance only ; and at distances much less, or muck 
 greater, would always appear double. The wisdom of nature is 
 conspicuous in giving us this power, and no less conspicuous in 
 making the extent of it exactly adequate to the end. 
 
 [The parallelism of the eyes in general, is therefore the work 
 of nature ;. but that precise and accurate direction, which must 
 be varied according to the distance of the object, is the effect 
 of custom.] The power which nature hath left us of varying the 
 inclination of the optic axes a little, is turned into a habit of 
 giving them always that inclination which is adapted to the dis- 
 tance of the object. 
 
 But it may be asked, What gives rise to this habit ? The 
 only answer that can be given to this question is, that it is found 
 necessary to perfect and distinct vision. A man who hath lost 
 the sight of one eye, very often loses the habit of directing it 
 exactly to the object he looks at, because that habit is no longer 
 of use to him. And if he should recover the sight of his eye, 
 he would recover this habit, by finding it useful. No part of 
 the human constitution is more admirable than that whereby we 
 acquire habits which are found useful, without any design or 
 intention. Children must see imperfectly at first ; but by using 
 their eyes, they learn to use them in the best manner, and ac- 
 quire, without intending it, the habits necessary for that pur- 
 pose. Every man becomes most expert in that kind of vision 
 which is most useful to him in his particular profession and man- 
 ner of life. A miniature painter, or an engraver, sees very near 
 objects better than a sailor ; but the sailor sees very distant 
 objects much better than they. A person that is short-sighted, 
 in looking at distant objects, gets the habit of contracting the 
 aperture of his eyes, by almost closing his eye-lids. Why ? 
 
528 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 For no other reason, but because this makes him see the object 
 more distinct. In like manner, the reason why every man ac- 
 quires the habit of directing both eyes accurately to the object, 
 must be, because thereby he sees it more perfectly and distinctly. 
 
 It remains to be considered, whether that correspondence be- 
 tween certain points of the retinae, which is likewise necessary 
 to single vision, be the effect of custom, or an original property 
 of human eyes. 
 
 A strong argument for its being an original property, may 
 be drawn from the habit just now mentioned of directing the 
 eyes accurately to an object. This habit is got by our finding 
 it necessary to perfect and distinct vision. But why is it neces- 
 sary ? For no other reason but this, — because thereby the two 
 images of the object falling upon corresponding points, the eyes 
 assist each other in vision, and the object is seen better by both 
 together, than it could be by one ; but when the eyes are not 
 accurately directed, the two images of an object fall upon points 
 that do not correspond, whereby the sight of one eye disturbs 
 the sight of the other, and the object is seen more indistinctly 
 with both eyes, than it would be with one. Whence it is reason- 
 able to conclude, that this correspondence of certain points of 
 the retinae, is prior to the habits we acquire in vision, and conse- 
 quently is natural and original. We have all acquired the habit 
 of directing our eyes always in a particular manner, which causes 
 single vision. Now, if nature hath ordained that we should have 
 single vision only when our eyes are thus directed, there is an 
 obvious reason why all mankind should agree in the habit of 
 directing them in this manner. But if single vision is the effect 
 of custom, any other habit of directing the eyes would have 
 answered the purpose ; and no account can be given why this 
 particular habit should be so universal ; and it must appear very 
 strange, that no one instance hath been found of a person who 
 had acquired the habit of seeing objects single with both eyes, 
 while they were directed in any other manner. 
 
 The judicious Dr. Smith, in his excellent system of optics, 
 maintains the contrary opinion, and offers some reasonings and 
 facts in proof of it. He agrees with Bishop Berkeley in attri- 
 buting it entirely to custom, that we see objects single with two 
 eyes, as well as that we see objects erect by inverted images. 
 Having considered Bishop Berkeley's reasonings in the 11th sec- 
 tion, we shall now beg leave to make some remarks on what 
 Dr. Smith hath said upon this subject, with the respect due to 
 an author to whom the world owes, not only many valuable dis- 
 coveries of his own, but those of the brightest mathematical 
 genius of this age, which, with great labour, he generously re- 
 deemed from oblivion. 
 
 He observes, that the question, Why we see objects single with 
 
OF SEEING. 529 
 
 two eyes ? is of the same sort with this, Why we hear sounds 
 single with two ears ? and that the same answer must serve both. 
 The inference intended to be drawn from this observation is, that 
 as the second of these phenomena is the effect of custom, so 
 likewise is the first. 
 
 Now I humbly conceive that the questions are not so much of 
 the same sort, that the same answer must serve for both ; and 
 moreover, that our hearing single with two ears is not the effect 
 of custom. 
 
 Two or more visible objects, although perfectly similar, and 
 seen at the very same time, may be distinguished by their visible 
 places : but two sounds perfectly similar, and heard at the same 
 time, cannot be distinguished ; for from the nature of sound, 
 the sensations they occasion must coalesce into one, and lose all 
 distinction. If, therefore, it is asked, Why we hear sounds 
 single with two ears ? I answer, Not from custom ; but because 
 two sounds which are perfectly like and synchronous, have nothing 
 by which they can be distinguished. But will this answer fit 
 the other question ? I think not. 
 
 The object makes an appearance to each eye, as the sound 
 makes an impression upon each ear ; so far the two senses agree. 
 But the visible appearances may be distinguished by place, when 
 perfectly like in other respects ; the sounds cannot be thus dis- 
 tinguished ; and herein the two senses differ. Indeed, if the 
 two appearances have the same visible place, they are, in that 
 case, as incapable of distinction as the sounds were, and we see 
 the object single. But when they have not the same visible 
 place, they are perfectly distinguishable, and we see the object 
 double. We see the object single only, when the eyes are di- 
 rected in one particular manner ; while there are many other 
 ways of directing them within the sphere of our power, by which 
 we see the object double. 
 
 Dr. Smith justly attributes to custom mr that well-known fal- 
 lacy in feeling, whereby a button pressed with two opposite sides 
 of two contiguous fingers laid across, is felt double. I agree with 
 him, that the cause of this appearance is, that those opposite 
 sides of the fingers have never been used to feel the same object, 
 but two different objects, at the same time. And I beg leave to 
 add, that as custom produces this phenomenon, so a contrary 
 custom destroys it : for if a man frequently accustoms himself 
 to feel the button with his fingers across, it will at last be felt 
 single ; as I have found by experience. 
 
 It may be taken for a general rule, that things which are pro- 
 duced by custom, may be undone or changed by disuse, or by a 
 contrary custom. On the other hand, it is a strong argument, 
 that an effect is not owing to custom, but to the constitution of 
 nature, when a contrary custom, long continued, is found neither 
 
 2 M 
 
530 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 to change nor weaken it. I take this to be the best rule by 
 which we can determine the question presently under considera- 
 tion. I shall, therefore, mention two facts brought by Dr. Smith, 
 to prove that the corresponding points of the retinae have been 
 changed by custom ; and then I shall mention some facts tending 
 to prove, that there are corresponding points in the retinae of 
 the eyes originally, and that custom produces no change in them. 
 
 " One fact is related, upon the authority of Martin Folkes, 
 Esq., who was informed by Dr. Hepburn, of Lynn, that the 
 Rev. Mr. Foster, of Clinchwharton, in that neighbourhood, hav- 
 ing been blind for some years of a gutta serena, was restored to 
 sight by salivation ; and that upon his first beginning to see, all 
 objects appeared to him double ; but afterwards the two appear- 
 ances approaching by degrees, he came at last to see single, and 
 as distinctly as he did before he was blind." 
 
 Upon this case I observe, first, That it does not prove any 
 change of the corresponding points of the eyes, unless we sup- 
 pose, what is not affirmed, that Mr. Foster directed his eyes to 
 the object at first, when he saw double, with the same accuracy, 
 and in the same manner, that he did afterwards when he saw 
 single. Secondly, If we should suppose this, no account can be 
 given, why at first the two appearances should be seen at one 
 certain angular distance rather than another : or why this angu- 
 lar distance should gradually decrease, until at last the appear- 
 ances coincided. How could this effect be produced by custom ? 
 But, thirdly, Every circumstance of this case may be accounted 
 for on the supposition that Mr. Foster had corresponding points 
 in the retinae of his eyes from the time he began to see, and that 
 custom made no change with regard . to them. We need only 
 farther suppose, what is common in such cases, that by some 
 years' blindness, he had lost the habit of directing his eyes accu- 
 rately to an object, and that he gradually recovered this habit 
 when he came to see. 
 
 The second fact mentioned by Dr. Smith is taken from Mr. 
 Cheselden's anatomy, and is this: " A gentleman who, from a 
 blow on the head, had one eye distorted, found every object ap- 
 pear double ; but by degrees the most familiar ones became 
 single ; and in time all objects became so, without any amend- 
 ment of the distortion." 
 
 I observe here, that it is not said that the two appearances 
 gradually approached, and at last united, without any amend- 
 ment of the distortion. This would indeed have been a decisive 
 proof of a change in the corresponding points of the retinae ; and 
 yet of such a change as could not be accounted for from custom. 
 But this is not said : and if it had been observed, a circumstance 
 so remarkable would have been mentioned by Mr. Cheselden, as 
 it was in the other case by Dr. Hepburn. We may therefore 
 
OF SEEING. Wi 
 
 take it for granted, that one of the appearances vanished by 
 degrees, without approaching to the other. And this, I con- 
 ceive, might happen several ways. First, The sight of the dis- 
 torted eye might gradually decay by the hurt : so the appearances 
 presented by that eye would gradually vanish. Secondly, A 
 small and unperceived change in the manner of directing the 
 eyes, might occasion his not seeing the object with the distorted 
 eye, as appears from sect. 15, art. 10. Thirdly, By acquiring the 
 habit of directing one and the same eye always to the object, the 
 faint and oblique appearance presented by the other eye, might 
 be so little attended to when it became familiar, as not to be per- 
 ceived. One of these causes, or more of them, concurring, might 
 produce the effect mentioned, without any change of the corre- 
 sponding points of the eyes. 
 
 For these reasons, the facts mentioned by Dr. Smith, although 
 curious, seem not to be decisive. 
 
 The following facts ought to be put in the opposite scale : 
 First, In the famous case of the young gentleman couched by 
 Mr. Cheselden, after having had cataracts on both eyes until he 
 was thirteen years of age, it appears, that he saw objects single 
 from the time he began to see with both eyes. Mr. Cheselden's 
 words are — " And now being lately couched of his other eye, 
 he says, that objects at first appeared large to this eye, but not 
 so large as they did at first to the other ; and looking upon the 
 same object with both eyes, he thought it looked about twice as 
 large as with the first couched eye only, but not double, that we 
 can any ways discover." 
 
 Secondly, The three young gentlemen mentioned in the last 
 section, who had squinted, as far as I know, from infancy; as 
 soon as they learned to direct both eyes to an object, saw it 
 single. In these four cases it appears evident, that the centres 
 of the retinae corresponded originally, and before custom could 
 produce any such effect ; for Mr. Cheselden's young gentleman 
 had never been accustomed to see at all before he was couched ; 
 and the other three had never been accustomed to direct the axes 
 of both eyes to the object. 
 
 Thirdly, From the facts recited in sect. 13, it appears, that 
 from the time we are capable of observing the phenomenon of 
 single and double vision, custom makes no change in them. 
 
 I have amused myself with such observations for more than 
 thirty years ; and in every case wherein I saw the object double 
 at first, I see it so to this day, notwithstanding the constant expe- 
 rience of its being single. In other cases, where I know there 
 are two objects, there appears only one, after thousands of expe- 
 riments. 
 
 Let a man look at a familiar object through a polyhedron or 
 
 2u2 
 
532 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 multiplying-glass every hour of his life, the number of visible 
 appearances will be the same at last as at first : nor does any 
 number of experiments, or length of time, make the least 
 change. 
 
 Effects produced by habit, must vary according as the acts by 
 which the habit is acquired are more or less frequent : but the 
 phenomena of single and double vision are so invariable and 
 uniform in all men, and so exactly regulated by mathematical 
 rules, that I think we have good reason to conclude, that they 
 are not the effect of custom, but of fixed and immutable laws of 
 nature. 
 
 XVIII. Of Dr. TorterfielaV s account of single and double 
 vision. — Bishop Berkeley and Dr. Smith seem to attribute too 
 much to custom in vision, Dr. Porterfield too little. 
 
 This ingenious writer thinks that, by an original law of our 
 nature, antecedent to custom and experience, we perceive visible 
 objects in their true place, not only as to their direction, but 
 likewise as to their distance from the eye ; and therefore he ac- 
 counts for our seeing objects single, with two eyes, in this 
 manner : Having the faculty of perceiving the object with each 
 eye in its true place, we must perceive it with both eyes in the 
 same place ; and consequently must perceive it single. 
 
 He is aware, that this principle, although it accounts for our 
 seeing objects single with two eyes, yet does not at all account 
 for our seeing objects double: and whereas other writers on this 
 subject take it to be a sufficient cause for double vision, that we 
 have two eyes, and only find it difficult to assign a cause for 
 single vision ; on the contrary, Dr. Porterfield's principle throws 
 all the difficulty on the other side. 
 
 Therefore, in order to account for the phenomena of double 
 vision, he advances another principle, without signifying whe- 
 ther he conceives it to be an original law of our nature, or the 
 effect of custom. [It is — that our natural perception of the 
 distance of objects from the eye, is not extended to all the ob- 
 jects that fall within the field of vision, but limited to that which 
 we directly look at ; and that the circumjacent objects, whatever 
 be their real distance, are seen at the same distance with the 
 object we look at, as if they were all in the surface of a sphere 
 whereof the eye is the centre.] 
 
 Thus, single vision is accounted for by our seeing the true 
 distance of an object which we look at ; and double vision by a 
 false appearance of distance in objects which we do not directly 
 look at. 
 
 We agree with this learned and ingenious author, that it is by 
 a natural and original principle that we see visible objects in a 
 certain direction from the eye, and honour him as the author of 
 
OF SEEING. 533 
 
 this discovery : but we cannot assent to either of those prin- 
 ciples by which he explains single and double vision, for the 
 following reasons : — 
 
 1. Our having a natural and original perception of the distance 
 of objects from the eye, appears contrary to a well-attested fact ; 
 for the young gentleman couched by Mr. Cheselden, imagined 
 at first, that whatever he saw touched Iris eye, as what he felt 
 touched his hand. 
 
 2. The perception we have of the distance of objects from the 
 eye, whether it be from nature or custom, is not so accurate and 
 determinate as is necessary to produce single vision. A mistake 
 of the twentieth or thirtieth part of the distance of a small ob- 
 ject, such as a pin, ought, according to Dr. Porterfield's hypo- 
 thesis, to make it appear double. Very few can judge of the 
 distance of a visible object with such accuracy. Yet we never 
 find double vision produced by mistaking the distance of the 
 object. There are many cases in vision, even with the naked 
 eye, wherein we mistake the distance of an object by one half or 
 more : why do we see such objects single ? When I move my 
 spectacles from my eyes toward a small object, two or three feet 
 distant, the object seems to approach, so as to be seen at last at 
 about half its real distance ; but it is seen single at that appa- 
 rent distance, as well as when we see it with the naked eye at its 
 real distance. And when we look at an object with a binocular 
 telescope, properly fitted to the eyes, we see it single, while it 
 appears fifteen or twenty times nearer than it is. There are then 
 few cases wherein the distance of an object from the eye is seen 
 so accurately as is necessary for single vision, upon this hypo- 
 thesis : this seems to be a conclusive argument against the ac- 
 count given of single vision. We find, likewise, that false judg- 
 ments or fallacious appearances of the distance of an object, do 
 not produce double vision. This seems to be a conclusive argu- 
 ment against the account given of double vision. 
 
 3. The perception we have of the linear distance of objects, 
 seems to be wholly the effect of experience. This I think hath 
 been proved by Bishop Berkeley and by Dr. Smith ; and when 
 we come to point out the means of judging of distance by sight, 
 it will appear that they are all furnished by experience. 
 
 4. Supposing that by a law of our nature, the distance of 
 objects from the eye were perceived most accurately, as well as 
 their direction, it will not follow that we must see the object 
 single. Let us consider what means such a law of nature would 
 furnish for resolving the question, Whether the objects of the 
 two eyes are in one and the same place, and consequently are 
 not two, but one ? 
 
 Suppose then two right lines, one drawn from the centre of 
 one eye to its object, the other drawn, in like manner, from the 
 
534 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 centre of the other eye to its object. This law of nature gives 
 us the direction or position of each of these right lines, and the 
 length of each ; and this is all that it gives. These are geome- 
 trical data, and we may learn from geometry what is determined 
 by their means. Is it then determined by these data, whether 
 the two right lines terminate in one and the same point, or not ? 
 No, truly. In order to determine this, we must have three other 
 data. We must know whether the two right lines are in one 
 plane : we must know what angle they make : and we must 
 know the distance between the centres of the eyes. And when 
 these things are known, we must apply the rules of trigonometry, 
 before we can resolve the question, whether the objects of the 
 two eyes are in one and the same place ? and consequently whe- 
 ther they are two or one ? 
 
 5. That false appearance of distance into which double vision 
 is resolved, cannot be the effect of custom ; for constant expe- 
 rience contradicts it : neither hath it the features of a law of 
 nature ; because it does not answer any good purpose, nor indeed 
 any purpose at all but to deceive us. But why should we seek 
 for arguments, in a question concerning what appears to us, or 
 does not appear ? The question is, at what distances do the 
 objects presently in my eye appear ? Do they all appear at one 
 distance, as if placed in the concave surface of a sphere, the eye 
 being in the centre ? Every man surely may know this with 
 certainty ; and, if he will but give attention to the testimony of 
 his eyes, needs not ask a philosopher, how visible objects appear 
 to him. Now, it is very true, that if I look up to a star in the 
 heavens, the other stars that appear at the same time, do appear 
 in this manner : yet this phenomenon does not favour Dr. Por- 
 terfield's hypothesis ; for the stars and heavenly bodies do not 
 appear at their true distances when we look directly to them, 
 any more than when they are seen obliquely : and if this pheno- 
 menon be an argument for Dr. Porterfield's second principle, it 
 must destroy the first. 
 
 The true cause of this phenomenon will be given afterwards ; 
 therefore setting it aside for the present, let us put another case. 
 1 sit presently in my room, and direct my eyes to the door, which 
 appears to be about sixteen feet distant : at the same time I see 
 many other objects faintly and obliquely ; the floor, floor-cloth, 
 the table which I write upon, papers, standish, candle, &c. Now, 
 do all these objects appear at the same distance of sixteen feet ? 
 Upon the closest attention, I find they do not. 
 
 XIX. Of Dr. Briggss theory, and Sir Isaac Newtoris con- 
 jecture on this subject. — I am afraid the reader, as well as the 
 writer, is already tired of the subject of single and double vision. 
 The multitude of theories advanced by authors of great name, 
 and the multitude of facts, observed without sufficient skill in 
 
OF SEEING. 535 
 
 optics, or related without attention to the most material and 
 decisive circumstances, have equally contributed to perplex it. 
 
 In order to bring it to some issue, I have, in the 13th section, 
 given a more full and regular deduction than had been given 
 heretofore, of the phenomena of single and double vision, in those 
 whose sight is perfect ; and have traced them up to one general 
 principle, which appears to be a law of vision in human eyes that 
 are perfect and in their natural state. 
 
 In the 14th section I have made it appear, that this law of 
 vision, although excellently adapted to the fabric of human eyes, 
 cannot answer the purposes of vision in some other animals ; and 
 therefore, very probably, is not common to all animals. The 
 purpose of the 15th and 16th sections is, to inquire, whether 
 there be any deviation from this law of vision in those who 
 squint ? a question which is of real importance in the medical 
 art, as well as in the philosophy of vision ; but which, after all 
 that hath been observed and written on the subject, seems not to 
 be ripe for a determination, for want of proper observations. 
 Those who have had skill to make proper observations, have 
 wanted opportunities ; and those who have had the opportunities, 
 have wanted skill or attention. I have therefore thought it worth 
 while to give a distinct account of the observations necessary for 
 the determination of this question, and what conclusions may be 
 drawn from the facts observed. I have likewise collected, and 
 set in one view, the most conclusive facts that have occurred in 
 authors, or have fallen under my own observation. 
 
 It must be confessed that these facts, when applied to the 
 question in hand, make a very poor figure ; and the gentlemen 
 of the medical faculty are called upon, for the honour of their 
 profession, and for the benefit of mankind, to add to them. 
 
 All the medical, and all the optical writers, upon the strabis- 
 mus, that I have met with, except Dr. Jurin, either affirm, or 
 take it for granted, that squinting persons see the object with 
 both eyes, and yet see it single. Dr. Jurin affirms, that squint- 
 ing persons never see the object with both eyes ; and that if they 
 did, they would see it double. If the common opinion be true, 
 the cure of a squint would be as pernicious to the sight of the 
 patient, as the causing of a permanent squint would be to one 
 who naturally had no squint : and therefore no physician ought 
 to attempt such a cure ; no patient ought to submit to it. But 
 if Dr. Jurin's opinion be true, most young people that squint 
 may cure themselves, by taking some pains ; and may not only 
 remove the deformity, but at the same time improve their sight. 
 If the common opinion be true, the centres and other points of 
 the two retinas in squinting persons do not correspond as in other 
 men, and nature in them deviates from her common rule. But 
 if Dr. Jurin's opinion be true, there is reason to think, that the 
 

 536 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 same general law of vision which we have found in perfect human 
 eyes, extends also to those which squint. 
 
 It is impossible to determine, by reasoning, which of these 
 opinions is true ; or whether one may not be found true in some 
 patients, and the other in others. Here, experience and obser- 
 vation are our only guides ; and a deduction of instances is the 
 only rational argument. It might therefore have been expected, 
 that the patrons of the contrary opinions should have given 
 instances in support of them that are clear and indisputable : but 
 I have not found one such instance on either side of the ques- 
 tion, in all the authors I have met with. I have given three 
 instances from my own observation, in confirmation of Dr. Jurin's 
 opinion, which admit of no doubt ; and one which leans rather 
 to the other opinion, but is dubious. And here I must leave the 
 matter to further observation. 
 
 In the 17th section, I have endeavoured to show, that the cor- 
 respondence and sympathy of certain points of the two retinae, 
 into which we have resolved all the phenomena of single and 
 double vision, is not, as Dr. Smith conceived, the effect of custom, 
 nor can be changed by custom, but is a natural and original pro- 
 perty of human eyes : and in the last section, that it is not owing 
 to an original and natural perception of the true distance of 
 objects from the eye, as Dr. Porterfield imagined. After this 
 recapitulation, which is intended to relieve the attention of the 
 reader, shall we enter into more theories upon this subject ? 
 
 That of Dr. Briggs, first published in English, in the " Philo- 
 sophical Transactions," afterwards in Latin, under the title of 
 " Nova visionis theoria," with a prefatory epistle of Sir Isaac 
 Newton to the author, amounts to this, that the fibres of the 
 optic nerves passing from corresponding points of the retinae to 
 the thalami nervorum opticorum, having the same length, the 
 same tension, and a similar situation, will have the same tone ; 
 and therefore their vibrations excited by the impression of the 
 rays of light will be like unisons in music, and will present one 
 and the same image to the mind : but the fibres passing from 
 parts of the retinae which do not correspond, having different 
 tensions and tones, will have discordant vibrations ; and therefore 
 present different images to the mind. 
 
 I shall not enter upon a particular examination of this theory. 
 It is enough to observe in general, that it is a system of conjec- 
 tures concerning things of which we are entirely ignorant ; and 
 that all such theories in philosophy deserve rather to be laughed 
 at, than to be seriously refuted. 
 
 From the first dawn of philosophy to this day, it hath been 
 believed that the optic nerves are intended to carry the images of 
 visible objects from the bottom of the eye to the mind ; and that 
 the nerves belonging to the organs of the other senses have a 
 
OF SEEING. 537 
 
 like office. But how do we know this ? we conjecture it : and 
 taking this conjecture for a truth, we consider how the nerves 
 may best answer this purpose. The system of the nerves, for 
 many ages, was taken to be an hydraulic engine, consisting of a 
 bundle of pipes which carry to and fro a liquor called animal 
 spirits. About the time of Dr. Briggs, it was thought rather to 
 be a stringed instrument, composed of vibrating chords, each of 
 which had its proper tension and tone. But some, with as great 
 probability, conceived it to be a wind instrument, which played 
 its part by the vibrations of an elastic ether in the nervous fibrils. 
 
 These, I think, are all the engines into which the nervous sys- 
 tem hath been moulded by philosophers, for conveying the 
 images of sensible things from the organ to the sensorium. And 
 for all that we know of the matter, every man may freely choose 
 which he thinks fittest for the purpose ; for from fact and 
 experiment no one of them can claim preference to another. 
 Indeed they all seem so unhandy engines for carrying images, 
 that a man would be tempted to invent a new one. 
 
 Since, therefore, a blind man may guess as well in the dark as 
 one that sees, I beg leave to offer another conjecture touching 
 the nervous system, which I hope will answer the purpose as well 
 as those we have mentioned, and which recommends itself by its 
 simplicity. Why may not the optic nerves, for instance, be made 
 up of empty tubes, opening their mouths wide enough to receive 
 the rays of light which form the image upon the retina, and 
 gently conveying them safe, and in their proper order, to the 
 very seat of the soul, until they flash in her face ? It is easy for 
 an ingenious philosopher to fit the caliber of these empty tubes 
 to the diameter of the particles of light, so as they shall receive 
 no grosser kind of matter. And if these rays should be in danger 
 of mistaking their way, an expedient may also be found to pre- 
 vent this. For it requires no more than to bestow upon the 
 tubes of the nervous system a peristaltic motion, like that of the 
 alimentary tube. 
 
 It is a peculiar advantage of this hypothesis, that although all 
 philosophers believe that the species or images of things are con- 
 veyed by the nerves to the soul, yet none of their hypotheses 
 show how this may be done. For how can the images of sound, 
 taste, smell, colour, figure, and all sensible qualities, be made out 
 of the vibrations of musical chords, or the undulations of animal 
 spirits, or of ether ? We ought not to suppose means inadequate 
 to the end. Is it not as philosophical, and more intelligible, to 
 conceive, that as the stomach receives its food, so the soul receives 
 her images by a kind of nervous deglutition ? I might add, that 
 we need only continue this peristaltic motion of the nervous tubes 
 from the sensorium to the extremities of the nerves that serve 
 the muscles, in order to account for muscular motion. 
 

 
 538 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 Thus nature will be consonant to herself; and as sensation 
 will be the conveyance of the ideal aliment to the mind, so mus- 
 cular motion will be the expulsion of the recrementitious part of 
 it. For who can deny, that the images of things conveyed by 
 sensation, may, after due concoction, become fit to be thrown off 
 by muscular motion ? I only give hints of these things to the 
 ingenious, hoping that in time this hypothesis may be wrought 
 up into a system as truly philosophical, as that of animal spirits, 
 or the vibration of nervous fibres. 
 
 To be serious : in the operations of nature, I hold the theories 
 of a philosopher, which are unsupported by fact, in the same 
 estimation with the dreams of a man asleep, or the ravings of a 
 madman. We laugh at the Indian philosopher, who, to account 
 for the support of the earth, contrived the hypothesis of a huge 
 elephant, and to support the elephant, a huge tortoise. If we 
 will candidly confess the truth, we know as little of the operation 
 of the nerves, as he did of the manner in which the earth is sup- 
 ported ; and our hypotheses about animal spirits, or about the 
 tension and vibrations of the nerves, are as like to be true, as his 
 about the support of the earth. His elephant was an hypothesis, 
 and our hypotheses are elephants. Every theory in philosophy 
 which is built on pure conjecture is an elephant ; and every theory 
 that is supported partly by fact, and partly by conjecture, is like 
 Nebuchadnezzar's image, whose feet were partly of iron, and 
 partly of clay. 
 
 The great Newton first gave an example to philosophers, which 
 always ought to be, but rarely hath been, followed, by distin- 
 guishing his conjectures from his conclusions, and putting the 
 former by themselves, in the modest form of queries. This is 
 fair and legal ; but all other philosophical traffic in conjecture, 
 ought to be held contraband and illicit. Indeed his conjectures 
 have commonly more foundation in fact, and more verisimilitude, 
 than the dogmatical theories of most other philosophers ; and 
 therefore we ought not to omit that which he hath offered con- 
 cerning the cause of our seeing objects single with two eyes, in 
 the 15th query annexed to his " Optics." 
 
 " Are not the species of objects seen with both eyes, united 
 where the optic nerves meet before they come into the brain, 
 the fibres on the right side of both nerves uniting there, and 
 after union going thence into the brain in the nerve which is on 
 the right side of the head, and the fibres on the left side of both 
 nerves uniting in the same place, and after union going into the 
 brain in the nerve which is on the left side of the head, and these 
 two nerves meeting in the brain in such a manner that their 
 fibres make but one entire species or picture, half of which on 
 the right side of the sensorium comes from the right side of both 
 eyes through the right side of both optic nerves to the place 
 
OF SEEING. 539 
 
 where the nerves meet, and from thence on the right side of the 
 head into the brain, and the other half on the left side of the 
 sensorium comes in like manner from the left side of both eyes ? 
 For the optic nerves of such animals as look the same way with 
 both eyes (as men, dogs, sheep, oxen, &c.) meet before they 
 come into the brain : but the optic nerves of such animals as do 
 not look the same way with both eyes (as of fishes and of the 
 chameleon) do not meet, if I am rightly informed." 
 
 I beg leave to distinguish this query into two, which are of 
 very different natures: one being purely anatomical, the other 
 relating to the carrying species or pictures of visible objects to 
 the sensorium. 
 
 The first question is, Whether the fibres coming from corres- 
 ponding points of the two retinae, do not unite at the place where 
 the optic nerves meet, and continue united from thence to the 
 brain ; so that the right optic nerve, after the meeting of the 
 two nerves, is composed of the fibres coming from the right side 
 of both retinae, and the left, of the fibres coming from the left 
 side of both retinae. 
 
 This is undoubtedly a curious and rational question, because 
 if we could find ground from anatomy to answer it in the affirm- 
 ative, it would lead us a step forward in discovering the cause of 
 the correspondence and sympathy which there is between certain 
 points of the two retinae. For although we know not what is 
 the particular function of the optic nerves, yet it is probable 
 that some impression made upon them, and communicated along 
 their fibres, is necessary to vision : and whatever be the nature 
 of this impression, if two fibres are united into one, an impression 
 made upon one of them, or upon both, may probably produce 
 the same effect. Anatomists think it a sufficient account of a 
 sympathy between two parts of the body, when they are served 
 by branches of the same nerve ; we should therefore look upon 
 it as an important discovery in anatomy, if it were found that 
 the same nerve sent branches to the corresponding points of the 
 retinae. 
 
 But hath any such discovery been made ? No, not so much as 
 in one subject, as far as I can learn. But in several subjects, 
 the contrary seems to have been discovered. Dr. Porterfi eld hath 
 given us two cases at length from Vesalius, and one from Caesal- 
 pinus, wherein the optic nerves, after touching one another as 
 usual, appeared to be reflected back to the same side whence 
 they came, without any mixture of their fibres. Each of these 
 persons had lost an eye some time before his death, and the optic 
 nerve belonging to that eye was shrunk, so that it could be 
 distinguished from the other at the place where they met. An- 
 other case which the same author gives from Vesalius, is still 
 more remarkable ; for in it the optic nerves did not touch at all; 
 
540 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 and yet, upon inquiry, those who were most familiar with the 
 person in his lifetime, declared that he never complained of any 
 defect of sight, or of his seeing objects double. Diemerbroek 
 tells us, that Aquapendens and Valverda likewise affirm, that 
 they have met with subjects wherein the optic nerves did not 
 touch. 
 
 As these observations were made before Sir Isaac Newton put 
 this query, it is uncertain whether he was ignorant of them, or 
 whether he suspected some inaccuracy in them, and desired that 
 the matter might be more carefully examined. But from the 
 following passage of the most accurate Winslow, it does not ap- 
 pear that later observations have been more favourable to his 
 conjecture. " The union of these [optic] nerves, by the small 
 curvatures of their cornua, is very difficult to be unfolded in 
 human bodies. This union is commonly found to be very close, 
 but in some subjects it seems to be no more than a strong adhe- 
 sion, in others to be partly made by an intersection or crossing 
 of fibres. They have been found quite separate ; and in other 
 subjects, one of them has been found to be very much altered 
 both in size and colour through its whole passage, the other 
 remaining in its natural state." 
 
 When we consider this conjecture of Sir Isaac Newton by 
 itself, it appears more ingenious, and to have more verisimilitude, 
 than any thing that has been offered upon the subject; and we 
 admire the caution and modesty of the author, in proposing it 
 only as a subject of inquiry : but when we compare it with the 
 observations of anatomists which contradict it, we are naturally 
 led to this reflection, That if we trust to the conjectures of men 
 of the greatest genius in the operations of nature, we have only 
 the chance of going wrong in an ingenious manner. 
 
 The second part of the query is, Whether the two species of 
 objects from the two eyes are not, at the place where the optic 
 nerves meet, united into one species or picture, half of which is 
 carried thence to the sensorium in the right optic nerve, and the 
 other half in the left ? and whether these two halves are not so 
 put together again at the sensorium, as to make one species or 
 picture ? 
 
 Here it seems natural to put the previous question, What 
 reason have we to believe, that pictures of objects are at all car- 
 ried to the sensorium, either by the optic nerves, or by any other 
 nerves ? Is it not possible, that this great philosopher, as well as 
 many of a lower form, having been led into this opinion at first 
 by education, may have continued in it, because he never thought 
 of calling it in question ? I confess this was my own case for a 
 considerable part of my life. But since I was led by accident to 
 think seriously what reason I had to believe it, I could find none 
 at all. It seems to be a mere hypothesis, as much as the Indian 
 
OF SEEING. 541 
 
 philosopher's elephant. I am not conscious of any pictures of 
 external objects in my sensorium, any more than in my stomach: 
 the things which I perceive by my senses, appear to be external, 
 and not in any part of the brain ; and my sensations properly so 
 called, have no resemblance of external objects. 
 
 [The conclusion from all that hath been said, in no less than 
 seven sections, upon our seeing objects single with two eyes, is 
 this, That, by an original property of human eyes, objects painted 
 upon the centres of the two retinae, or upon points similarly si- 
 tuate with regard to the centres, appear in the same visible place ; 
 that the most plausible attempts to account for this property of 
 the eyes, have been unsuccessful ; and therefore, that it must be 
 either a primary law of our constitution, or the consequence of 
 some more general law which is not yet discovered.] 
 
 We have now finished what we intended to say, both of the 
 visible appearances of things to the eye, and of the laws of our 
 constitution by which those appearances are exhibited. But it 
 was observed in the beginning of this chapter, that the visible 
 appearances of objects serve only as signs of their distance, mag- 
 nitude, figure, and other tangible qualities. The visible appear- 
 ance is that which is presented to the mind, by nature, according 
 to those laws of our constitution which have been explained. But 
 the thing signified by that appearance, is that which is presented 
 to the mind by custom. 
 
 When one speaks to us in a language that is familiar, we hear 
 certain sounds, and this is all the effect that his discourse has upon 
 us by nature : but by custom we understand the meaning of 
 these sounds, and therefore we fix our attention, not upon the 
 sounds, but upon the things signified by them. In like manner, 
 we see only the visible appearance of objects by nature ; but we 
 learn by custom to interpret these appearances, and to under- 
 stand their meaning. And when this visual language is learned, 
 and becomes familiar, we attend only to the things signified ; 
 and cannot, without great difficulty, attend to the signs by which 
 they are presented. The mind passes from one to the other so 
 rapidly and so familiarly, that no trace of the sign is left in the 
 memory, and we seem immediately, and without the intervention 
 of any sign, to perceive the thing signified. 
 
 ggF When I look at the apple-tree which stands before my 
 window, I perceive at the first glance its distance and magni- 
 tude, the roughness of its trunk, the disposition of its branches, 
 the figure of its leaves and fruit. I seem to perceive all these 
 things immediately. The visible appearance which presented 
 them all to the mind, has entirely escaped me ; I cannot, with- 
 out great difficulty, and painful abstraction, attend to it, even 
 when it stands before me. Yet it is certain that this visible ap- 
 pearance only is presented to my eye by nature, and that I 
 

 
 542 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 learned by custom to collect all the rest from it. If I had never 
 seen before now, I should not perceive either the distance or 
 tangible figure of the tree, and it would have required the prac- 
 tice of seeing for many months, to change that original percep- 
 tion which nature gave me by my eyes, into that which I now 
 have by custom. 
 
 [The objects which we see naturally and originally, as hath 
 been before observed, have length and breadth, but no thickness 
 nor distance from the eye. Custom, by a kind of legerdemain, 
 withdraws gradually these original and proper objects of sight, 
 and substitutes in their place objects of touch, which have length, 
 breadth, and thickness, and a determinate distance from the eye.] 
 By what means this change is brought about, and what princi- 
 ples of the human mind concur in it, we are next to inquire. 
 
 XX. Of perception in general. — Sensation and the percep- 
 tion of external objects by the senses, though very different in 
 their nature, have commonly been considered as one and the 
 same thing. The purposes of common life do not make it 
 necessary to distinguish them, and the received opinions of phi- 
 losophers, tend rather to confound them : but without attend- 
 ing carefully to this distinction, it is impossible to have any just 
 conception of the operations of our senses. The most simple 
 operations of the mind admit not of a logical definition : all we 
 can do is to describe them, so as to lead those who are conscious 
 of them in themselves, to attend to them, and reflect upon them : 
 and it is often very difficult to describe them so as to answer this 
 intention. 
 
 The same mode of expression is used to denote sensation and 
 perception ; and therefore we are apt to look upon them as 
 things of the same nature. Thus, / feel a pain ; I see a tree : 
 the first denoteth a sensation, the last a perception. The gram- 
 matical analysis of both expressions is the same : for both consist 
 of an active verb and an object. But if we attend to the thing 
 signified by these expressions, we shall find that in the first, 
 the distinction between the act and the object is not real, but 
 grammatical ; in the second, the distinction is not only gramma- 
 tical but real. 
 
 The form of the expression, I feel pain, might seem to im- 
 ply that the feeling is something distinct from the pain felt ; 
 yet, in reality, there is no distinction. As thinking a thought, 
 is an expression which could signify no more than thinking, so 
 feeling a pain signifies no more than being pained. What we 
 have said of pain is applicable to every other mere sensation. 
 It is difficult to give instances, very few of our sensations having 
 names ; and where they have, the name being common to the 
 sensation, and to something else which is associated with it. But 
 when we attend to the sensation by itself, and separate it from 
 
OF SEEING. 54,3 
 
 other things which are conjoined with it in the imagination, it 
 appears to be something which can have no existence but in a 
 sentient mind, no distinction from the act of the mind by which 
 it is felt. 
 
 Perception, as we here understand it, hath always an object 
 distinct from the act by which it is perceived; an object which 
 may exist whether it be perceived or not. I perceive a tree that 
 grows before my window ; there is here an object which is per- 
 ceived ; and an act of the mind by which it is perceived ; and these 
 two are not only distinguishable, but they are extremely unlike 
 in their natures. The object is made up of a trunk, branches 
 and leaves ; but the act of the mind by which it is perceived, 
 hath neither trunk, branches, nor leaves. I am conscious of this 
 act of my mind and I can reflect upon it ; but it is too simple 
 to admit of an analysis, and I cannot find proper words to describe 
 it. I find nothing that resembles it so much as the remem- 
 brance of the tree, or the imagination of it. Yet both these 
 differ essentially from perception ; they differ likewise one from 
 another. It is in vain that a philosopher assures me that the 
 imagination of the tree, the remembrance of it, and the percep- 
 tion of it, are all one, and differ only in degree of vivacity. I 
 know the contrary ; for I am as well acquainted with all the 
 three, as I am with the apartments of my own house. I know 
 this also, that the perception of an object implies both a concep- 
 tion of its form, and a belief of its present existence. I know, 
 moreover, that this belief is not the effect of argumentation and 
 reasoning ; it is the immediate effect of my constitution. 
 
 [I am aware that this belief which I have in perception, stands 
 exposed to the strongest batteries of scepticism.] But they make 
 no great impression upon it. The sceptic asks me, Why do you 
 believe the existence of the external object which you perceive ? 
 This belief, Sir, is none of my manufacture ; it came from the 
 mint of nature ; it bears her image and superscription ; and if it 
 is not right, the fault is not mine : I even took it upon trust, 
 and without suspicion. Reason, says the sceptic, is the only 
 judge of truth, and you ought to throw off every opinion and 
 every belief that is not grounded on reason. Why, Sir, should 
 I believe the faculty of reason more than that of perception ? they 
 came both out of the same shop, and were made by the same 
 artist; and if he puts one piece of false ware into my hands, what 
 should hinder him from putting another ? 
 
 Perhaps the sceptic will agree to distrust reason, rather than 
 give any credit to perception. For, says he, since by your own 
 concession, the object which you perceive, and that act of your 
 mind by which you perceive it, are quite different things, the 
 one may exist without the other ; and as the object may exist 
 without being perceived, so the perception may be without an 
 

 
 544 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 object. There is nothing so shameful in a philosopher as to be 
 deceived and deluded-; and therefore you ought to resolve firmly 
 to withhold assent, and to throw off this belief of external ob- 
 jects, which may be all delusion. For my part, I will never at- 
 tempt to throw it off; and although the sober part of mankind 
 will not be very anxious to know my reasons, yet if they can be 
 of use to any sceptic, they are these : — - 
 
 First, Because it is not in my power : why then should I make 
 a vain attempt ? It would be agreeable to fly to the moon, and 
 to make a visit to Jupiter and Saturn : but when I know that 
 nature has bound me down by the law of gravitation to this 
 planet which I inhabit, I rest contented, and quietly suffer my- 
 self to be carried along in its orbit. My belief is carried along 
 by perception, as irresistibly as my body by the earth. And the 
 greatest sceptic will find himself to be in the same condition. 
 He may struggle hard to disbelieve the informations of his senses, 
 as a man does to swim against a torrent ; but ah ! it is in vain. 
 It is in vain that he strains every nerve, and wrestles with nature, 
 and with every object that strikes upon his senses. For after all, 
 when his strength is spent in the fruitless attempt, he will be 
 carried down the torrent with the common herd of believers. 
 
 Secondly, I think it would not be prudent to throw off this 
 belief, if it were in my power. If nature intended to deceive 
 me, and impose upon me by false appearances, and I, by my great 
 cunning and profound logic, have discovered the imposture ; pru- 
 dence would dictate to me in this case, even to put up with this in- 
 dignity done me, as quietly as I could, and not to call her an im- 
 postor to her face, lest she should be even with me in another 
 way. For what do I gain by resenting this injury ? You ought 
 at least not to believe what she says. This, indeed, seems rea- 
 sonable, if she intends to impose upon me. But what is the 
 consequence ? I resolve not to believe my senses. I break my 
 nose against a post that comes in my way ; I step into a dirty 
 kennel ; and after twenty such wise and rational actions, I am 
 taken up and clapped into a madhouse. Now I confess I would 
 rather make one of the credulous fools whom nature imposes 
 upon, than of those wise and rational philosophers who resolve 
 to withhold assent at all this expense. If a man pretends to be 
 a sceptic with regard to the informations of sense, and yet pru- 
 dently keeps out of harm's way as other men do, he must excuse 
 my suspicion, that he either acts the hypocrite, or imposes upon 
 himself. For if the scale of his belief were so evenly poised, as to 
 lean no more to one side than to the contrary, it is impossible 
 that his actions could be directed by any rules of common pru- 
 dence. 
 
 Thirdly, Although the two reasons already mentioned are per- 
 haps two more than enough, I shall offer a third. I gave implicit 
 
OF SEEING. 545 
 
 belief to the informations of nature by my senses, for a consider- 
 able part of my life, before I had learned so much logic as to be 
 able to start a doubt concerning them. And now, when I re- 
 flect upon what is past, I do not find that I have been imposed 
 upon by this belief. I find, that without it I must have perished 
 by a thousand accidents. I find, that without it I should have 
 been no wiser now than when I was born. I should not even 
 have been able to acquire that logic which suggests these sceptical 
 doubts with regard to my senses. Therefore, I consider this 
 instinctive belief as one of the best gifts of nature. I thank the 
 Author of my being who bestowed it upon me, before the eyes of 
 my reason were opened, and still bestows it upon me to be my 
 guide, where reason leaves me in the dark. And now I yield to 
 the direction of my senses, not from instinct only, but from con- 
 fidence and trust in a faithful and beneficent Monitor, grounded 
 upon the experience of his paternal care and goodness. 
 
 In all this, I deal with the Author of my being, no otherwise 
 than I thought it reasonable to deal with my parents and tutors. 
 I believed by instinct whatever they told me, long before I had 
 the idea of a lie, or thought of the possibility of their deceiving 
 me. Afterwards, upon reflection, I found they had acted like 
 fair and honest people who wished me well. 1 found, that if I 
 had not believed what they told me, before I could give a reason 
 of my belief, I had to this day been little better than a change- 
 ling. And although this natural credulity hath sometimes occa- 
 sioned my being imposed upon by deceivers, yet it hath been of 
 infinite advantage to me upon the whole ; therefore I consider it 
 as another good gift of nature. And I continue to give that 
 credit, from reflection, to those of whose integrity and veracity 
 I have had experience, which before I gave from instinct. 
 
 [There is a much greater similitude than is commonly ima- 
 gined, between the testimony of nature given by our senses, and 
 the testimony of men given by language. The credit we give to 
 both is at first the effect of instinct only.] When we grow up, 
 and begin to reason about them, the credit given to human testi- 
 mony is restrained and weakened by the experience we have of 
 deceit. But the credit given to the testimony of our senses, is 
 established and confirmed by the uniformity and constancy of 
 the laws of nature. 
 
 [Our perceptions are of two kinds : some are natural and ori- 
 ginal; others acquired, and the fruit of experience.] When I 
 perceive that this is the taste of cyder, that of brandy ; that this 
 is the smell of an apple, that of an orange ; that this is the noise 
 of thunder, that the ringing of bells ; this the sound of a coach 
 passing, that the voice of such a friend ; these perceptions, and 
 others of the same kind, are not original, they are acquired. But 
 the perception which I have by touch of the hardness and soft- 
 
 2 N 
 

 
 546 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 ness of bodies, of their extension, figure, and motion, is not 
 acquired, it is original. 
 
 In all our senses, the acquired perceptions are many more than 
 the original, especially in sight. By this sense we perceive ori- 
 ginally the visible figure and colour of bodies only, and their 
 visible place : but we learn to perceive by the eye, almost every 
 thing which we can perceive by touch. The original perceptions 
 of this sense, serve only as signs to introduce the acquired. 
 
 The signs by which objects are presented to us in perception, 
 are the language of nature to man ; and as in many respects it 
 hath great affinity with the language of man to man, so particu- 
 larly in this, that both are partly natural and original, partly 
 acquired by custom. Our original or natural perceptions are 
 analogous to the natural language of man to man, of which we 
 took notice in the fourth chapter ; and our acquired perceptions 
 are analogous to artificial language, which, in our mother-tongue, 
 is got very much in the same manner with our acquired percep- 
 tions, as we shall afterwards more fully explain. 
 
 B^T Not only men, but children, idiots, and brutes, acquire by 
 habit many perceptions which they had not originally. Almost 
 every employment in life hath perceptions of this kind, that are 
 peculiar to it. The shepherd knows every sheep of his flock, 
 as we do our acquaintance, and can pick them out of another 
 flock, one by one. The butcher knows by sight the weight and 
 quality of his beeves and sheep before they are killed. The 
 farmer perceives by his eye, very nearly, the quantity of hay in 
 a rick, or of corn in a heap. The sailor sees the burthen, the 
 build, and the distance of a ship at sea, while she is a great way 
 off. Every man accustomed to writing, distinguishes his ac- 
 quaintance by their handwriting, as he does by their faces. And 
 the painter distinguishes, in the works of his art, the style of all 
 the great masters. In a word, acquired perception is very dif- 
 ferent in different persons, according to the diversity of objects 
 about which they are employed, and the application they bestow 
 in observing them. 
 
 [Perception ought not only to be distinguished from sensation, 
 but likewise from that knowledge of the objects of sense which 
 is got by reasoning. There is no reasoning in perception, as hath 
 been observed. The belief which is implied in it, is the effect 
 of instinct'] But there are many things with regard to sensible 
 objects which we can infer from what we perceive ; and such con- 
 clusions of reason ought to be distinguished from what is merely 
 perceived. When I look at the moon, I perceive her to be some- 
 times circular, sometimes horned, and sometimes gibbous. This 
 is simple perception, and is the same in the philosopher and in 
 the clown : but from these various appearances of her enlightened 
 part, I infer that she is really of a spherical figure. This con- 
 
OF SEEING. 547 
 
 elusion is not obtained by simple perception, but by reasoning. 
 Simple perception has the same relation to the conclusions of 
 reason drawn from our perceptions, as the axioms in mathema- 
 tics have to the propositions. I cannot demonstrate, that two 
 quantities which are equal to the same quantity, are equal to 
 each other ; neither can I demonstrate, that the tree which I 
 perceive exists. But, by the constitution of my nature, my be- 
 lief is irresistibly carried along by my apprehension of the axiom ; 
 and, by the constitution of my nature, my belief is no less irre- 
 sistibly carried along by my perception of the tree. All rea- 
 soning is from principles. The first principles of mathematical 
 reasoning are mathematical axioms and definitions ; and the first 
 principles of all our reasoning about existences, are our percep- 
 tions. The first principles of every kind of reasoning are given 
 us by nature, and are of equal authority with the faculty of 
 reason itself, which is also the gift of nature. The conclusions 
 of reason are all built upon first principles, and can have no other 
 foundation. Most justly, therefore, do such principles disdain 
 to be tried, by reason, and laugh at all the artillery of the logi- 
 cian, when it is directed against them. 
 
 When a long train of reasoning is necessary, in demonstrating 
 a mathematical proposition, it is easily distinguished from an 
 axiom, and they seem to be things of a very different nature. 
 But there are some propositions which lie so near to axioms, that 
 it is difficult to say, whether they ought to be held as axioms, or 
 demonstrated as propositions. The same thing holds with regard 
 to perception, and the conclusions drawn from it. Some of these 
 conclusions follow our perceptions so easily, and are so imme- 
 diately connected with them, that it is difficult to fix the limit 
 which divides the one from the other. 
 
 Perception, whether original or acquired, implies no exercise 
 of reason, and is common to men, children, idiots, and brutes. 
 The more obvious conclusions drawn from our perceptions by 
 reason, make what we call common understanding ; by which men 
 conduct themselves in the common affairs of life, and by which 
 they are distinguished from idiots. The more remote conclu- 
 sions which are drawn from our perceptions by reason, make 
 what we commonly call science in the various parts of nature, 
 whether in agriculture, medicine, mechanics, or in any part of 
 natural philosophy. When I see a garden in good order, con- 
 taining a great variety of things of the best kinds, and in the 
 most flourishing condition, I immediately conclude from these 
 signs, the skill and industry of the gardener. A farmer, when 
 he rises in the morning, and perceives that the neighbouring 
 brook overflows his field, concludes that a great deal of rain hath 
 fallen in the night. Perceiving his fence broken, and his corn 
 trodden down, he concludes that some of his own or his neigh- 
 
 2x2 
 

 
 54<8 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 hours' cattle have broke loose. Perceiving that his stable-door 
 is broke open, and some of his horses gone, he concludes that a 
 thief has carried them off. He traces the prints of his horse's 
 feet in the soft ground, and by them discovers which road the 
 thief hath taken. These are instances of common understanding, 
 which dwells so near to perception, that it is difficult to trace the 
 line which divides the one from the other. In like manner, the 
 science of nature dwells so near to common understanding, that 
 we cannot discern where the latter ends and the former begins. 
 I perceive that bodies lighter than water swim in water, and that 
 those which are heavier sink. Hence I conclude, that if a body 
 remains wherever it is put under water, whether at the top or 
 bottom, it is precisely of the same weight with water. If it will 
 rest only when part of it is above water, it is lighter than water. 
 And the greater the part above water is, compared with the 
 whole, the lighter is the body. If it had no gravity at all, it 
 w T ould make no impression upon the water, but stand wholly 
 above it. Thus every man, by common understanding, has a rule 
 by which he judges of the specific gravity of bodies which swim 
 in water ; and a step or two more leads him into the science of 
 hydrostatics. 
 
 All that we know of nature, or of existences, may be compared 
 to a tree, which hath its root, trunk, and branches. In this tree 
 of knowledge, perception is the root, common understanding is 
 the trunk, and the sciences are the branches. 
 • XXI, Of the process of nature in perception. — Although 
 there is no reasoning in perception, yet there are certain means 
 and instruments, which, by the appointment of nature, must 
 intervene between the object and our perception of it ; and by 
 these, our perceptions are limited and regulated. First, If the 
 object is not in contact with the organ of sense, there must be 
 some medium which passes between them. Thus, in vision, the 
 rays of light ; in hearing, the vibrations of elastic air ; in smell- 
 ing, the effluvia of the body smelt, must pass from the object to 
 the organ ; otherwise we have no perception. Secondly, There 
 must be some action or impression upon the organ of sense, either 
 by the immediate application of the object, or by the medium 
 that goes between them. Thirdly, The nerves which go from 
 the brain to the organ, must receive some impression by means 
 of that which was made upon the organ ; and probably, by means 
 of the nerves, some impression must be made upon the brain. 
 Fourthly, The impression made upon the organ, nerves, and 
 brain, is followed by a sensation. And, last of all, this sensation 
 is followed by the perception of the object. 
 
 Thus our perception of objects is the result of a train of ope- 
 rations ; some of which affect the body only, others affect the 
 mind. We know very little of the nature of some of these ope- 
 
OF SEEING. 549 
 
 rations ; we know not at all how they are connected together, or 
 in what way they contribute to that perception which is the result 
 of the whole : but by the laws of our constitution, we perceive 
 objects in this, and in no other way. 
 
 There may be other beings, who can perceive external objects 
 without rays of light, or vibrations of air, or effluvia of bodies ; 
 without impressions on bodily organs, or even without sensa- 
 tions : but we are so framed by the Author of nature, that even 
 when we are surrounded by external objects, we may perceive 
 none of them. Our faculty of perceiving an object lies dor- 
 mant, until it is roused and stimulated by a certain corresponding 
 sensation. Nor is this sensation always at hand to perform its 
 office ; for it enters into the mind only in consequence of a cer- 
 tain corresponding impression made on the organ of sense by the 
 object. 
 
 Let us trace this correspondence of impressions, sensations, 
 and perceptions, as far as we can ; beginning with that which is 
 first in order, the impression made upon the bodily organ. But, 
 alas ! we know not of what nature these impressions are, far less 
 how they excite sensations in the mind. 
 
 We know that one body may act upon another by pressure, 
 by percussion, by attraction, by repulsion, and probably in 
 many other ways which we neither know, nor have names to 
 express. But in which of these ways objects, when perceived by 
 us, act upon the organs of sense, these organs upon the nerves, 
 and the nerves upon the brain, we know not. Can any man tell 
 me how, in vision, the rays of light act upon the retina, how 
 the retina acts upon the optic nerve, and how the optic nerve 
 acts upon the brain ? No man can. When I feel the pain of the 
 gout in my toe, I know that there is some unusual impression 
 made upon that part of my body. But of what kind is it ? Are 
 the small vessels distended with some redundant elastic or un- 
 elastic fluid ? Are the fibres unusually stretched ? Are they 
 torn asunder by force, or gnawed and corroded by some acrid 
 humour ? I can answer none of these questions. All that I feel 
 is pain, which is not an impression upon the body, but upon the 
 mind; and all that I perceive by this sensation is, that some 
 distemper in my toe occasions this pain. But as I know not 
 the natural temper and texture of my toe when it is at ease, I 
 know as little what change or disorder of its parts occasions this 
 uneasy sensation. In like manner, in every other sensation 
 there is, without doubt, some impression made upon the organ 
 of sense ; but -an impression of which we know not the nature. 
 It is too subtile to be discovered by our senses, and we may 
 make a thousand conjectures without coming near the truth. If 
 we understood the structure of our organs of sense so minutely, 
 as to discover what effects are produced upon them by external 
 
550 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 objects, this knowledge would contribute nothing to our percep- 
 tion of the object ; for they perceive as distinctly who know 
 least about the manner of perception, as the greatest adepts. It 
 is necessary that the impression be made upon our organs, but 
 not that it be known. Nature carries on this part of the process 
 of perception, without our consciousness or concurrence. 
 
 But we cannot be unconscious of the next step in this process, 
 the sensation of the mind, which always immediately follows 
 the impression made upon the body. It is essential to a sensa- 
 tion to be felt, and it can be nothing more than we feel it to be. 
 If we can only acquire the habit of attending to our sensations, 
 we may know them perfectly. But how are the sensations of the 
 mind produced by impressions upon the body I Of this we are 
 absolutely ignorant, having no means of knowing how the body 
 acts upon the mind, or the mind upon the body. When we con- 
 sider the nature and attributes of both, they seem to be so differ- 
 ent, and so unlike, that we can find no handle by w r hich the one 
 may lay hold of the other. There is a deep and a dark gulf 
 between them, which our understanding cannot pass: and the 
 manner of their correspondence and intercourse is absolutely 
 unknown. 
 
 Experience teaches us that certain impressions upon the body 
 are constantly followed by certain sensations of the mind ; and 
 that, on the other hand, certain determinations of the mind are 
 constantly followed by certain motions in the body : but we see 
 not the chain that ties these things together. Who knows but 
 their connexion may be arbitrary, and owing to the will of our 
 Maker ? Perhaps the same sensations might have been connected 
 with other impressions, or other bodily organs ? Perhaps we 
 might have been so made, as to taste with our fingers, to smell 
 with our ears, and to hear by the nose. Perhaps w r e might have 
 been so made, as to have all the sensations and perceptions 
 which we have, without any impression made upon our bodily 
 organs at all. 
 
 [However these things may be, if Nature had given us nothing 
 more than impressions made upon the body, and sensations in our 
 minds corresponding to them, we should in that case have been 
 merely sentient^ but not percipient beings.] We should never 
 have been able to form a conception of any external object, far 
 less a belief of its existence. Our sensations have no resem- 
 blance to external objects ; nor can we discover, by our reason, 
 any necessary connexion between the existence of the former 
 and that of the latter. 
 
 We might perhaps, (1) have been made of such a constitution, 
 as to have our present perceptions connected with other sensations. 
 We might, perhaps, (2) have had the perception of external ob- 
 jects, without either impressions upon the organs of sense, or 
 
OF SEEING. 55 1 
 
 sensations. Or lastly, (3) The perceptions we have, might have 
 been immediately connected with the impressions upon our 
 organs, without any intervention of sensations. This last seems 
 really to be the case in one instance, to wit, in our perception of 
 the visible figure of bodies, as was observed in the fourth section 
 of this chapter. 
 
 The process of nature in perception by the senses, may there- 
 fore be conceived as a kind of drama, wherein some things are 
 performed behind the scenes, others are represented to the mind 
 in different scenes, one succeeding another. The impression 
 made by the object upon the organ, either by immediate contact, 
 or by some intervening medium, as well as the impression made 
 upon the nerves and brain, is performed behind the scenes, and 
 the mind sees nothing of it. But every such impression, by the 
 laws of the drama, is followed by a sensation, which is the first 
 scene exhibited to the mind ; and this scene is quickly succeeded 
 by another, which is the perception of the object. 
 
 In this drama, nature is the actor, we are the spectators. We 
 know nothing of the machinery by means of which every different 
 impression upon the organ, nerves, and brain, exhibits its corre- 
 sponding sensation ; or of the machinery by means of which each 
 sensation exhibits its corresponding perception. We are inspired 
 with the sensation, and we are inspired with the corresponding 
 perception, by means unknown. And because the mind passes 
 immediately from the sensation to that conception and belief of 
 the object which we have in perception, in the same manner as it 
 passes from signs to the things signified by them, we have there- 
 fore called our sensations signs of external objects ; finding no 
 word more proper to express the function which nature hath as- 
 signed them in perception, and the relation which they bear to 
 their corresponding objects. 
 
 There is no necessity of a resemblance between the sign and 
 the thing signified : and indeed no sensation can resemble any 
 external object. But there are two things necessary to our 
 knowing things by means of signs. First, That a real connexion 
 between the sign and thing signified be established, either by 
 the course of nature, or by the will and appointment of men. 
 When they are connected by the course of nature, it is a natural 
 sign ; when by human appointment, it is an artificial sign. Thus, 
 smoke is a natural sign of fire ; certain features are natural signs 
 of anger : but our words, whether expressed by articulate sounds 
 or by writing, are artificial signs of our thoughts and purposes. 
 
 Another requisite to our knowing things by signs is, that the 
 appearance of the sign to the mind, be followed by the concep- 
 tion and belief of the thing signified. Without this the sign is 
 not understood or interpreted ; and therefore is no sign to us, 
 however fit in its own nature for that purpose. 
 
552 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAF. VI. 
 
 [Now, there are three ways in which the mind passes from the 
 appearance of a natural sign to the conception and belief of the 
 thing signified ; by original principles of our constitution, by 
 custom, and by reasoning. 
 
 Our original perceptions are got in the first of these ways, our 
 acquired perceptions in the second, and all that reason discovers 
 in the course of nature, in the third.] In the first of these ways, 
 nature, by means of the sensations of touch, informs us of the 
 hardness and softness of bodies ;. of their extension, figure, and 
 motion ; and of that space in which they move and are placed, as 
 hath been already explained in the fifth chapter of this inquiry. 
 And in the second of these ways she informs us, by means of our 
 eyes, of almost all the same things which originally we could 
 perceive only by touch. 
 
 In order, therefore, to understand more particularly how we 
 learn to perceive so many things by the eye,, which originally 
 could be perceived only by touch, it will be proper, first, To 
 point out the signs by which those things are exhibited to the 
 eye, and their connexion with the things signified by them ; and> 
 secondly, To consider how the experience of this connexion pro- 
 duces that habit by which the mind, without any reasoning or 
 reflection, passes from the sign to the conception and belief of 
 the thing signified. 
 
 Of all the acquired perceptions which we have by sight, the 
 most remarkable is the perception of the distance of objects from 
 the eye ; we shall therefore particularly consider the signs by 
 which this perception is exhibited, and only make some general 
 remarks with regard to the signs which are used in other acquired 
 perceptions. 
 
 XXII. Of the signs by which we learn to perceive distance 
 from the eye. — It was before observed in general, That the ori- 
 ginal perceptions of sight are signs which serve to introduce 
 those that are acquired : but this is not to be understood as if no 
 other signs were employed for that purpose. [There are several 
 motions of the eyes, which, in order to distinct vision, must be 
 varied, according as the object is more or less distant; and such 
 motions being by habit connected with the corresponding dis- 
 tances of the object, become signs of those distances.] These 
 motions were at first voluntary and unconfined ; but as the inten- 
 tion of nature was, to produce perfect and distinct vision by their 
 means, we soon learn by experience to regulate them according 
 to that intention only, without the least reflection. 
 
 ggg" A ship requires a different trim for every variation of the 
 direction and strength of the wind : and, if we may be allowed to 
 borrow that word, the eyes require a different trim for every de- 
 gree of light, and for every variation of the distance of the object, 
 while it is within certain limits. The eyes are trimmed for a 
 
OF SEEING. 
 
 particular object, by contracting certain muscles, and relaxing 
 others ; as the ship is trimmed for a particular wind, by drawing 
 certain ropes, and slackening others. The sailor learns the trim 
 of his ship, as we learn the trim of our eyes, by experience. A 
 ship, although the noblest machine that human art can boast, is 
 far inferior to the eye in this respect, that it requires art and in- 
 genuity to navigate her ; and a sailor must know what ropes he 
 must pull, and what he must slacken, to fit her to a particular 
 wind ; but with such superior wisdom is the fabric of the eye, 
 and the principles of its motion contrived, that it requires 
 no art nor ingenuity to see by it. Even that part of vision 
 which is got by experience, is attained by idiots. We need 
 not know what muscles we are to contract, and what we 
 are to relax, in order to fit the eye to a particular distance of the 
 object. 
 
 But although we are not conscious of the motions we perforin 
 in order to fit the eyes to the distance of the object, we are con- 
 scious of the effort employed in producing these * motions ; and 
 probably have some sensation which accompanies them, to which 
 we give as little attention as to other sensations. And thus, an 
 effort consciously exerted, or a sensation consequent upon that 
 effort, comes to be conjoined with the distance of the object 
 which gave occasion to it, and by this conjunction becomes a sign 
 of that distance. Some instances of this will appear in consider- 
 ing the means or signs by which we learn to see the distance of 
 objects from the eye. In the enumeration of these, we agree 
 with Dr. Porterfield, notwithstanding that distance from the eye, 
 in his opinion, is perceived originally, but, in our opinion, by 
 experience only. 
 
 In general, when a near object affects the eye in one manner, 
 and the same object placed at a greater distance, affects it in a dif- 
 ferent manner ; these various affections of the eye become signs 
 of the corresponding distances. The means of perceiving dis- 
 tance by the eye, will therefore be explained, by showing in what 
 various ways objects affect the eye differently, according to their 
 proximity or distance. 
 
 1. It is well known, that to see objects distinctly at various 
 distances, the form of the eye must undergo some change. And 
 nature hath given us the power of adapting it to near objects, by 
 the contraction of certain muscles, and to distant objects by the 
 contraction of other muscles. As to the manner in which this is 
 done, and the muscular parts employed, anatomists do not alto- 
 gether agree. The ingenious Dr. Jurin, in his excellent essay 
 on distinct and indistinct vision, seems to have given the most 
 probable account of this matter ; and to him I refer the reader. 
 
 But whatever be the manner in which this change of the form 
 of the eye is effected, it is certain that young people have com- 
 
554 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 monly the power of adapting their eyes to all distances of the 
 object, from six or seven inches to fifteen or sixteen feet ; so as 
 to have perfect and distinct vision at any distance within these 
 limits. From this it follows, that the effort which we consciously 
 employ to adapt the eye to any particular distance of objects 
 within these limits, will be connected and associated with that 
 distance, and will become a sign of it. When the object is re- 
 moved beyond the farthest limit of distinct vision, it will be seen 
 indistinctly ; but more or less so, according as its distance is 
 greater or less ; so that the degrees of indistinctness of the ob- 
 ject, may become the signs of distances considerably beyond the 
 farthest limit of distinct vision. 
 
 [If we had no other mean but this, of perceiving the distance 
 of visible objects, the most distant would not appear to be above 
 twenty or thirty feet from the eye, and the tops of houses and 
 trees would seem to touch the clouds ; for in that case the signs 
 of all greater distances being the same, they have the same sig- 
 nification, and give the same perception of distance.] 
 
 But it is of more importance to observe, that because the 
 nearest limit of distinct vision in the time of youth, when we 
 learn to perceive distance by the eye, is about six or seven inches, 
 no object seen distinctly, ever appears to be nearer than six or 
 seven inches from the eye. We can, by art, make a small object 
 appear distinct, when it is in reality not above half an inch from 
 the eye ; either by using a single microscope, or by looking 
 through a small pin-hole in a card. When by either of these 
 means an object is made to appear distinct, however small its 
 distance is in reality, it seems to be removed at least to the dis- 
 tance of six or seven inches, that is, within the limits of distinct 
 vision. 
 
 This observation is the more important, because it affords the 
 only reason we can give why an object is magnified either by a 
 single microscope, or by being seen through a pin-hole ; and the 
 only mean by which we can ascertain the degree in which the 
 object will be magnified by either. Thus, if the object is really 
 half an inch distant from the eye, and appears to be seven inches 
 distant, its diameter will seem to be enlarged in the same propor- 
 tion as its distance, that is, fourteen times. 
 
 2. In order to direct both eyes to an object, the optic axes 
 must have a greater or less inclination, according as the object is 
 nearer or more distant. And although we are not conscious of 
 this inclination, yet we are conscious of the effort employed in it. 
 By this mean we perceive small distances more accurately than 
 we could do by the conformation of the eye only. And there- 
 fore we find, that those who have lost the sight of one eye, are 
 apt, even within arm's-length, to make mistakes in the distance 
 of objects, which are easily avoided by those who see with both 
 
OF SEEING. 555 
 
 eyes. Such mistakes are often discovered in snuffing a candle, 
 in threading a needle, or in filling a tea- cup. 
 
 When a picture is seen with both eyes, and at no great dis- 
 tance, the representation appears not so natural as when it is seen 
 only with one. The intention of painting being to deceive the 
 eye, and to make things appear at different distances which in 
 reality are upon the same piece of canvass, this deception is not 
 so easily put upon both eyes as upon one ; because we perceive 
 the distance of visible objects more exactly and determinately 
 with two eyes than with one. If the shading and relief be exe- 
 cuted in the best manner, the picture may have almost the same 
 appearance to one eye as the objects themselves would have, but 
 it cannot have the same appearance to both. This is not the 
 fault of the artist, but an unavoidable imperfection in the art. 
 And it is owing to what we just now observed, that the percep- 
 tion we have of the distance of objects by one eye is more un- 
 certain, and more liable to deception, than that which we have 
 by both. 
 
 [The great impediment, and T think the only invincible impe- 
 diment, to that agreeable deception of the eye which the painter 
 aims at, is the perception which we have of the distance of visible 
 objects from the eye, partly (1) by means of the conformation of 
 the eye, but chiefly (2) by means of the inclination of the optic 
 axes.] If this perception could be removed, I see no reason 
 why a picture might not be made so perfect as to deceive the eye 
 in reality, and to be mistaken for the original object. Therefore, 
 in order to judge of the merit of a picture, we ought, as much 
 as possible, to exclude these two means of perceiving the dis- 
 tance of the several parts of it. 
 
 In order to remove this perception of distance, the connois- 
 seurs in painting use a method which is very proper. They look 
 at the picture with one eye, through a tube which excludes the 
 view of all other objects. By this method, the principal mean 
 whereby we perceive the distance of the object, to wit, the incli- 
 nation of the optic axes, is entirely excluded. I would humbly 
 propose, as an improvement of this method of viewing pictures, 
 that the aperture of the tube next to the eye should be very 
 small. If it is as small as a pin-hole, so much the better, pro- 
 viding there be light enough to see the picture clearly. The 
 reason of this proposal is, that when we look at an object through 
 a small aperture, it will be seen distinctly whether the conform- 
 ation of the eye be adapted to its distance or not, and we have no 
 mean left to judge of the distance, but the light and colouring, 
 which are in the painter's power. If, therefore, the artist per- 
 forms his part properly, the picture will by this method affect the 
 eye in the same manner that the object represented would do, 
 which is the perfection of this art. 
 
55Q OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 Although this second mean of perceiving the distance of visible 
 objects be more determinate and exact than the first, yet it hath 
 its limits, beyond which it can be of no use. For when the 
 optic axes directed to an object are so nearly parallel, that in 
 directing them to an object yet more distant, we are not con- 
 scious of any new effort, nor have any different sensation, there 
 our perception of distance stops ; and as all more distant objects 
 affect the eye in the same manner, we perceive them to be at the 
 same distance. This is the reason why the sun, moon, planets, 
 and fixed stars, when seen not near the horizon, appear to be all 
 at the same distance, as if they touched the concave surface of a 
 great sphere. The surface of this celestial sphere is at that dis- 
 tance beyond which all objects affect the eye in the same manner. 
 Why this celestial vault appears more distant towards the hori- 
 zon, than towards the zenith, will afterwards appear. 
 
 3. The colours of objects, according as they are more distant, 
 become more faint and languid, and are tinged more with the 
 azure of the intervening atmosphere : to this we may add, that 
 their minute parts become more indistinct, and their outline less 
 accurately defined. It is by these means chiefly, that painters 
 can represent objects at very different distances upon the same 
 canvass. And the diminution of the magnitude of an object, 
 would not have the effect of making it appear to be at a great 
 distance, without this degradation of colour, and indistinctness 
 of the outline, and of the minute parts. If a painter should 
 make a human figure ten times less than other human figures 
 that are in the same piece, having the colours as bright, and the 
 outline and minute parts as accurately defined, it would not have 
 the appearance of a man at a great distance, but of a pigmy or 
 Lilliputian. 
 
 When an object hath a known variety of colours, its distance 
 is more clearly indicated by the gradual dilution of the colours 
 into one another, than when it is of one uniform colour. In 
 the steeple which stands before me, at a small distance the join- 
 ings of the stones are clearly perceptible, the grey colour of the 
 stone and the white cement are distinctly limited: when I see it 
 at a greater distance, the joinings of the stones are less distinct, 
 and the colours of the stone and of the cement begin to dilute 
 into one another ; at a distance still greater, the joinings disap- 
 pear altogether, and the variety of colour vanishes. 
 
 In an apple-tree which stands at the distance of about twelve 
 feet, covered with flowers, I can perceive the figure and the co- 
 lour of the leaves and petals ; pieces of branches, some larger, 
 others smaller, peeping through the intervals of the leaves, some 
 of them enlightened by the sun's rays, others shaded ; and some 
 openings of the sky are perceived through the whole. When I 
 gradually remove from this tree, the appearance, even as to 
 
OF SEEING. 
 
 557 
 
 colour, changes every minute. First, the smaller parts, then the 
 larger, are gradually confounded and mixed. The colours of 
 leaves, petals, branches, and sky, are gradually diluted into each 
 other, and the colour of the whole becomes more and more uni- 
 form. This change of appearance, corresponding to the several 
 distances, marks the distance more exactly than if the whole 
 object had been of one colour. 
 
 Dr. Smith, in his " Optics," gives us a very curious observa- 
 tion made by Bishop Berkeley, in his travels through Italy and 
 Sicily. He observed, that in those countries, cities and palaces 
 seen at a great distance, appeared nearer to him, by several miles, 
 than they really were ; and he very judiciously imputed it to this 
 cause — that the purity of the Italian and Sicilian air, gave to 
 very distant objects that degree of brightness and distinctness, 
 which, in the grosser air of his own country, was to be seen only 
 in those that are near. The purity of the Italian air hath been 
 assigned as the reason why the Italian painters commonly give a 
 more lively colour to the sky than the Flemish. Ought they 
 not, for the same reason, to give less degradation of the colours, 
 and less indistinctness of the minute parts, in the representation 
 of very distant objects ? 
 
 It is very certain, that as in air uncommonly pure, we are apt 
 to think visible" objects nearer, and less than they really are ; so 
 in air uncommonly foggy, we are apt to think them more distant 
 and larger than the truth. Walking by the sea-side in a thick 
 fog, I see an object which seems to me to be a man on horse- 
 back, and at the distance of about half a mile. My companion, 
 who has better eyes, or is more accustomed to see such objects in 
 such circumstances, assures me, that it is a sea-gull, and not a 
 man on horseback. Upon a second view, I immediately assent 
 to his opinion, and now it appears to me to be a sea-gull, and at 
 the distance only of seventy or eighty yards. The mistake made 
 on this occasion, and the correction of it, are both so sudden, 
 that we are at a loss whether to call them by the name of judg- 
 ment, or by that of simple perception.* 
 
 It is not worth while to dispute about names ; but it is evi- 
 dent that my belief, both first and last, was produced rather by 
 signs than by arguments : and that the mind proceeded to the 
 conclusion in both cases by habit, and not by ratiocination. And 
 the process of the mind seems to have been this : first, not know- 
 ing, or not minding, the effect of a foggy air on the visible 
 appearance of objects, the object seems to me to have that degra- 
 dation of colour, and that indistinctness of the outline, which 
 objects have at the distance of half a mile ; therefore, from the 
 visible appearance as a sign, I immediately proceed to the belief 
 that the object is half a mile distant. Then, this distance, toge- 
 
 * They are ideas of perception, or sensation, changed by the judgment. 
 
OF THE HUMAN MIND. 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 558 
 
 ther with the visible magnitude, signify to me the real magni- 
 tude, which, supposing the distance to be half a mile, must be 
 equal to that of a man on horseback ; and the figure, considering 
 the indistinctness of the outline, agrees with that of a man on 
 horseback. Thus the deception is brought about. But when I 
 am assured that it is a sea-gull, the real magnitude of a sea-gull, 
 together with the visible magnitude presented to the eye, imme- 
 diately suggest the distance, which in this case cannot be above 
 seventy or eighty yards : the indistinctness of the figure likewise 
 suggests the fogginess of the air as its cause : and now the whole 
 chain of signs and things signified, seems stronger and better 
 connected than it was before ; the half-mile vanishes to eighty 
 yards ; the man on horseback dwindles to a sea-gull ; I get a 
 new perception, and wonder how I got the former, or what is 
 become of it ; for it is now so entirely gone, that I cannot 
 recover it. 
 
 It ought to be observed, that in order to produce such decep- 
 tions from the clearness or fogginess of the air, it must be 
 uncommonly clear, or uncommonly foggy ; for we learn from 
 experience, to make allowance for that variety of constitutions 
 of the air which we have been accustomed to observe, and of 
 which we are aware. Bishop Berkeley therefore committed a 
 mistake, when he attributed the large appearance of the horizon- 
 tal moon to the faintness of her light, occasioned by its passing- 
 through a larger tract of atmosphere : for we are so much accus- 
 tomed to see the moon in all degrees of faintness and brightness, 
 from the greatest to the least, that we learn to make allowance 
 for it ; and do not imagine her magnitude increased by the faint- 
 ness of her appearance. Besides, it is certain that the horizontal 
 moon seen through a tube which cuts off the view of the interja- 
 cent ground, and of all terrestrial objects, loses all that unusual 
 appearance of magnitude. - 
 
 4. We frequently perceive the distance of objects by means 
 of intervening or contiguous objects whose distance or magnitude 
 is otherwise known. When I perceive certain fields or tracts of 
 ground to lie between me and an object, it is evident that these 
 may become signs of its distance. And although we have no 
 particular information of the dimensions of such fields or tracts, 
 yet their similitude to others which we know, suggests their 
 dimensions. 
 
 We are so much accustomed to measure with our eye the 
 ground which we travel, and to compare the judgments of dis- 
 tances formed by sight, with our experience or information, that 
 we learn by degrees, in this way, to form a more accurate judg- 
 ment of the distance of terrestrial objects, than we could do by 
 any of the means before mentioned. An object placed upon the 
 top of a high building, appears much less than when placed upon 
 the ground at the same distance. When it stands upon the 
 
OF SEEING. 559 
 
 ground, the intervening tract of ground serves as a sign of its 
 distance ; and the distance, together with the visible magnitude, 
 serves as a sign of its real magnitude. But when the object is 
 placed on high, this sign of its distance is taken away : the 
 remaining signs lead us to place it at a less distance ; and this 
 less distance, together with the visible magnitude, becomes a sign 
 of a less real magnitude. 
 
 The two first means we have mentioned, would never of them- 
 selves make a visible object appear above a hundred and fifty or 
 two hundred feet distant ; because, beyond that, there is no sen- 
 sible change, either of the conformation of the eyes, or of the 
 inclination of their axes : the third mean, is but a vague and 
 indeterminate sign, when applied to distances above two or three 
 hundred feet, unless we know the real colour and figure of the 
 object : and the fifth mean, to be afterwards mentioned, can only 
 be applied to objects which are familiar, or whose real magnitude 
 is known. Hence it follows, that when unknown objects, upon, 
 or near the surface of the earth, are perceived to be at the dis- 
 tance of some miles, it is always by this fourth mean that we are 
 led to that conclusion. 
 
 Dr. Smith hath observed, very justly, that the known distance 
 of the terrestrial objects which terminate our view, makes that 
 part of the sky which is towards the horizon, appear more dis- 
 tant than that which is towards the zenith. Hence it comes to 
 pass, that the apparent figure of the sky is not that of a hemi- 
 sphere, but rather a less segment of a sphere. And hence like- 
 wise it comes to pass, that the diameter of the sun or moon, or 
 the distance between two fixed stars, seen contiguous to a hill, or 
 to any distant terrestrial object, appears much greater than when 
 no such object strikes the eye at the same time. 
 
 These observations have been sufficiently explained and con- 
 firmed by Dr. Smith. I beg leave to add, that when the visible 
 horizon is. terminated by very distant objects, the celestial vault 
 seems to be enlarged in all its dimensions. When I view it from 
 a confined street or lane, it bears some proportion to the build- 
 ings that surround me : but when I view it from a large plain, 
 terminated on all hands, by hills which rise one above another, 
 to the distance of twenty miles from the eye, methinks I see a 
 new heaven, whose magnificence declares the greatness of its 
 Author, and puts every human edifice out of countenance ; for 
 now the lofty spires and the gorgeous palaces shrink into nothing 
 before it, and bear no more proportion to the celestial dome, than 
 their makers bear to its Maker. 
 
 5. There remains another mean by which we perceive the dis- 
 tance of visible objects, and that is, the diminution of their visible 
 or apparent magnitude. By experience I know what figure a 
 man, or any other known object, makes to my eye, at the dis- 
 
I 
 
 
 560 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 tance of ten feet : I perceive the gradual and proportional dimi- 
 nution of this visible figure, at the distance of twenty, forty, a 
 hundred feet, and at greater distances, until it vanish altogether. 
 Hence a certain visible magnitude of a known object, becomes 
 the sign of a certain determinate distance, and carries along with 
 it the conception and belief of that distance. 
 
 In this process of the mind, the sign is not a sensation ; it is 
 an original perception. We perceive the visible figure and visible 
 magnitude of the object, by the original powers of vision ; but 
 the visible figure is used only as a sign of the real figure, and the 
 visible magnitude is used only as a sign either of the distance, 
 or of the real magnitude, of the object ; and therefore these ori- 
 ginal perceptions, like other mere signs, pass through the mind 
 without any attention or reflection. 
 
 This last mean of perceiving the distance of known objects, 
 serves to explain some very remarkable phenomena in optics, 
 which would otherwise appear very mysterious. When we view 
 objects of known dimensions through optical glasses, there is no 
 other mean left of determining their distance, but this fifth. 
 Hence it follows, that known objects seen through glasses, must 
 seem to be brought nearer, in proportion to the magnifying power 
 of the glass, or to be removed to a greater distance, in proportion 
 to the diminishing power of the glass. 
 
 If a man who had never before seen objects through a tele- 
 scope, were told, that the telescope which he is about to use, 
 magnifies the diameter of the object ten times ; when he looks 
 through this telescope at a man six feet high, what would he 
 expect to see ? Surely he would very naturally expect to see a 
 giant sixty feet high. But he sees no such thing. The man 
 appears no more than six feet high, and consequently no bigger 
 than he really is ; but he appears ten times nearer than he is. 
 The telescope indeed magnifies the image of this man upon the 
 retina ten times in diameter, and must therefore magnify his 
 visible figure in the same proportion ; and as we have been 
 accustomed to see him of this visible magnitude when he was ten 
 times nearer than he is presently, and in no other case ; this 
 visible magnitude, therefore, suggests the conception and belief 
 of that distance of the object with which it hath been always con- 
 nected. We have been accustomed to conceive this amplifica- 
 tion of the visible figure of a known object, only as the effect or 
 sign of its being brought nearer : and we have annexed a certain 
 determinate distance to every degree of visible magnitude of the 
 object ; and therefore any particular degree of visible magnitude, 
 whether seen by the naked eye or by glasses, brings along with 
 it the conception and belief of the distance which corresponds to 
 it. This is the reason why a telescope seems not to magnify 
 known objects, but to bring them nearer to the eye. 
 
OF SEEING. 5gl 
 
 When we look through a pin-hole, or a single microscope, at 
 an object which is half an inch from the eye, the picture of the 
 object upon the retina is not enlarged, but only rendered distinct ; 
 neither is the visible figure enlarged : yet the object appears to 
 the eye twelve or fourteen times more distant, and as many times 
 larger in diameter, than it really is. Such a telescope as we have 
 mentioned amplifies the image on the retina, and the visible 
 figure of the object, ten times in diameter, and yet makes it seem 
 no bigger, but only ten times nearer. These appearances had 
 been long observed by the writers on optics ; they tortured their 
 invention to find the causes of them from optical principles ; but 
 in vain : they must be resolved into habits of perception, which 
 are acquired by custom, but are apt to be mistaken for original 
 perceptions. The Bishop of Cloyne first furnished the world 
 with the proper key for opening up these mysterious appear- 
 ances ; but he made considerable mistakes in the application of 
 it. Dr. Smith, in his elaborate and judicious treatise of " Optics," 
 hath applied it to the apparent distance of objects seen with glasses, 
 and to the apparent figure of the heavens, with such happy suc- 
 cess, that there can be no more doubt about the causes of these 
 phenomena. 
 
 XXIII. Of the signs used in these acquired perceptions, — 
 The distance of objects from the eye, is the most important lesson 
 in vision. Many others are easily learned in consequence of it. 
 [The distance of the object, joined with its visible magnitude, is 
 a sign of its real magnitude : and the distance of the several parts 
 of an object, joined with its visible figure, becomes a sign of its 
 real figure.] Thus, when I look at a globe which stands before 
 me ; by the original powers of sight I perceive only something 
 of a circular form, variously coloured. The visible figure hath 
 no distance from the eye, no convexity, nor hath it three dimen- 
 sions ; even its length and breadth are incapable of being mea- 
 sured by inches, feet, or other linear measures. But when I 
 have learned to perceive the distance of every part of this object 
 from the eye, this perception gives it convexity, and a spherical 
 figure ; and adds a third dimension to that which had but two 
 before. The distance of the whole object makes me likewise 
 perceive the real magnitude; for being accustomed to observe 
 how an inch or a foot of length affects the eye at that distance, 
 I plainly perceive by my eye the linear dimensions of the globe, 
 and can affirm with certainty that its diameter is about one foot 
 and three inches. 
 
 It was shown in the seventh section of this chapter, that the 
 visible figure of a body may, by mathematical reasoning, be 
 inferred from its real figure, distance, and position, with regard 
 to the eye : in like manner we may, by mathematical reasoning, 
 from the visible figure, together with the distance of the several 
 
 2 o 
 
562 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 parts of it from the eye, infer the real figure and position. But 
 this last inference is not commonly made by mathematical reason- 
 ing, nor indeed by reasoning of any kind, but by custom. 
 
 The original appearance which the colour of an object makes 
 to the eye, is a sensation for which we have no name, because it 
 is used merely as a sign, and is never made an object of attention 
 in common life : but this appearance, according to the different 
 circumstances, signifies various things. If a piece of cloth, of 
 one uniform colour, is laid so, that part of it is in the sun, and 
 part in the shade ; the appearance of colour, in these different 
 parts, is very different : yet we perceive the colour to be the 
 same ; we interpret the variety of appearance as a sign of light 
 and shade, and not as a sign of real difference in colour. But if 
 the eye could be so far deceived, as not to perceive the difference 
 of light in the two parts of the cloth, we should, in that case, 
 interpret the variety of appearance to signify a variety of colour 
 in the parts of the cloth. 
 
 Again, if we suppose a piece of cloth placed as before, but 
 having the shaded part so much brighter in the colour, that it 
 gives the same appearance to the eye as the more enlightened 
 part; the sameness of appearance w r ill here be interpreted to 
 signify a variety of colour, because we shall make allowance for 
 the effect of light and shade. 
 
 When the real colour of an object is known, the appearance 
 of it indicates, hi some circumstances, the degree of light or 
 shade, in others, the colour of the circumambient bodies, whose 
 rays are reflected by it ; and in other circumstances it indicates 
 the distance or proximity of the object, as was observed in the 
 last section ; and by means of these, many other things are sug- 
 gested to the mind. Thus, an unusual appearance in the colour 
 of familiar objects, may be the diagnostic of a disease in the 
 spectator. The appearance of things in my room may indicate 
 sunshine or cloudy weather, the earth covered with snow, or 
 blackened with rain. It hath been observed, that the colour of 
 the sky, in a piece of painting, may indicate the country of the 
 painter, because the Italian sky is really of a different colour 
 from the Flemish. 
 
 It was already observed, that the original and acquired per- 
 ceptions which we have by our senses, are the language of nature 
 to man, which, in many respects, hath a great affinity to human 
 languages. The instances which we have given of acquired per- 
 ceptions suggest this affinity, that as in human languages ambi- 
 guities are often found, so this language of nature in our acquired 
 perceptions is not exempted from them. We have seen, in 
 vision particularly, that the same appearance to the eye, may, in 
 different circumstances, indicate different things. Therefore, 
 when the circumstances are unknown upon which the interpreta- 
 
OF SEEING. 5gg 
 
 tion of the signs depends, their meaning must be ambiguous ; 
 and when the circumstances are mistaken, the meaning of the 
 signs must also be mistaken. 
 
 This is the case in all the phenomena which we call fallacies 
 of the senses , and particularly in those which are called fallacies 
 in vision. The appearance of things to the eye always corre- 
 sponds to the fixed laws of nature ; therefore, if we speak pro- 
 perly, there is no fallacy in the senses. Nature always speaketh 
 the same language, and useth the same signs in the same circum- 
 stances : but we sometimes mistake the meaning of the signs, 
 either through ignorance of the laws of nature, or through igno- 
 rance of the circumstances which attend the signs. 
 
 To a man unacquainted with the principles of optics, almost 
 every experiment that is made w T ith the prism, with the magic 
 lantern, with the telescope, with the microscope, seems to pro- 
 duce some fallacy in vision. Even the appearance of a common 
 mirror, to one altogether unacquainted with the effects of it, 
 would seem most remarkably fallacious. For how can a man be 
 more imposed upon, than in seeing that before him which is 
 really behind him ? How can he be more imposed upon, than 
 in being made to see himself several yards removed from himself ? 
 Yet children, even before they can speak their mother- tongue, 
 learn not to be deceived by these appearances. These, as well 
 as all the other surprising appearances produced by optical glasses, 
 are a part of the visual language ; and, to those* who understand 
 the laws of nature concerning light and colours, are no wise falla- 
 cious, but have a distinct and true meaning. 
 
 XXIV. Of the analogy between perception and the credit we 
 give to human testimony. — The objects of human knowledge are 
 innumerable, but the channels by which it is conveyed to the 
 mind are few. Among these, the perception of external things 
 by our senses, and the informations which we receive upon human 
 testimony, are not the least considerable : and so remarkable is 
 the analogy between these two, and the analogy between the 
 principles of the mind which are subservient to the one and those 
 which are subservient to the other, that, without further apology, 
 we shall consider them together. 
 
 In the testimony of nature given by the senses, as well as in 
 human testimony given by language, things are signified to us 
 by signs : and in one as well as the other, the mind, either by 
 original principles, or by custom, passes from the sign to the 
 conception and belief of the thing signified. 
 
 [We have distinguished our perceptions into original and 
 acquired; and language, into natural and artificial. Between 
 acquired perception and artificial language, there is a great 
 analogy ; but still a greater between original perception and 
 natural language.] 
 
 2o2 
 

 564 * 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 The signs in Original perception are sensations, of which nature 
 hath given us a great variety, suited to the variety of the things 
 signified hy them. Nature hath established a real connexion 
 between these signs and the things signified, and nature hath 
 also taught us the interpretation of the signs ; so that, previous 
 to experience, the sign suggests the thing signified, and creates 
 the belief of it. 
 
 The signs in natural language are features of the face, gestures 
 of the body, and modulations of the voice ; the variety of which is 
 suited to the variety of the things signified by them. Nature hath 
 established a real connexion between these signs, and the thoughts 
 and dispositions of the mind which are signified by them ; and 
 nature hath taught us the interpretation of these signs ; so that, 
 previous to experience, the sign suggests the thing signified, and 
 creates the belief of it. 
 
 fi^ 3 A man in company, without doing good or evil, without 
 uttering an articulate sound, may behave himself gracefully, 
 civilly, politely ; or, on the contrary, meanly, rudely, and imper- 
 tinently. We see the dispositions of his mind, by their natural 
 signs in his countenance and behaviour, in the same manner as 
 we perceive the figure and other qualities of bodies by the sen- 
 sations which nature hath connected with them. 
 
 The signs in the natural language of the human countenance 
 and behaviour, as well as the signs in our original perceptions, 
 have the same signification in all climates and in all nations ; and 
 the skill of interpreting them is not acquired, but innate. 
 
 In acquired perception, the signs are either sensations, or 
 things which we perceive by means of sensations. The con- 
 nexion between the sign and the thing signified is established by 
 nature : and we discover this connexion by experience ; but not 
 without the aid of our original perceptions, or of those which we 
 have already acquired. After this connexion is discovered, the 
 sign, in like manner as in original perception, always suggests 
 the thing signified, and creates the belief of it. 
 
 In artificial language, the signs are articulate sounds, whose 
 connexion with the things signified by them is established by 
 the will of men : and in learning our mother-tongue we discover 
 this connexion by experience ; but not without the aid of natural 
 language, or of what we had before attained of artificial lan- 
 guage. And after this connexion is discovered, the sign, as in 
 natural language, always suggests the thing signified, and creates 
 the belief of it. 
 
 Our original perceptions are few, compared with the ac- 
 quired ; but without the former we could not possibly attain the 
 latter. In like manner, natural language is scanty, compared 
 with artificial ; but without the former, we could not possibly 
 attain the latter. 
 
OF SEEING. 5Q5 
 
 Our original perceptions, as well as the natural language of 
 human features and gestures, must be resolved into particular 
 principles of the human constitution. Thus, it is by one par- 
 ticular principle of our constitution, that certain features express 
 anger ; and by another particular principle that certain features 
 express benevolence. It is in like manner, by one particular 
 principle of our constitution, that a certain sensation signifies 
 hardness in the body which I handle ; and it is by another par- 
 ticular principle that a certain sensation signifies motion in that 
 body. 
 
 But our acquired perceptions, and the information we receive 
 by means of artificial language, must be resolved into general 
 principles of the human constitution. When a painter per- 
 ceives that this picture is the work of Raphael, that the work of 
 Titian ; a jeweller, that this is a true diamond, that a counter- 
 feit ; a sailor that this is a ship of five hundred ton, that, of four 
 hundred : these different acquired perceptions are produced by 
 the same general principles of the human mind, which have a 
 different operation in the same person, according as they are va- 
 riously applied, and in different persons according to the diver- 
 sity of their education and manner of life. In like manner, 
 when certain articulate sounds convey to my mind the knowledge 
 of the battle of Pharsalia, and others, the knowledge of the 
 battle of Pultowa ; when a Frenchman and an Englishman receive 
 the same information by different articulate sounds ; the signs 
 used in these different cases produce the knowledge and belief of 
 the things signified, by means of the same general principles of 
 the human constitution. 
 
 Now, if we compare the general principles of our constitution, 
 which fit us for receiving information from our fellow-creatures 
 by language, with the general principles which fit us for acquir- 
 ing the perception of tilings by our senses, we shall find them to 
 be very similar in their nature and manner of operation. 
 
 When we begin to learn our mother-tongue, we perceive, by 
 the help of natural language, that they who speak to us use cer- 
 tain sounds to express certain things : we imitate the same sounds 
 when we would express the same things, and find that we are 
 understood. 
 
 But here a difficulty occurs which merits our attention, be- 
 cause the solution of it leads to some original principles of the 
 human mind, which are of great importance, and of very exten- 
 sive influence. We know by experience that men have used 
 such words to express such things. But all experience is of the 
 past, and can of itself give no notion or belief of what is future. 
 How come we then to believe, and to rely upon it with assur- 
 ance, that men who have it in their power to do otherwise will 
 continue to use the same words when they think the same things ? 
 
56f) OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 Whence comes this knowledge and belief, this foresight, we 
 ought rather to call it, of the future and voluntary actions of our 
 fellow-creatures ? Have they promised that they will never im- 
 pose upon us by equivocation or falsehood ? No, they have not. 
 And if they had, this would not solve the difficulty : for such 
 promise must be expressed by words, or by other signs ; and 
 before we can rely upon it, we must be assured that they put the 
 same meaning upon those signs as they have used to do. No 
 man of common sense ever thought of taking a man's own word 
 for his honesty ; and it is evident that we take his veracity for 
 granted when we lay any stress upon his word or promise. I 
 might add, that this reliance upon the declarations and testimony 
 of men is found in children long before they know what a pro- 
 mise is. 
 
 There is therefore in the human mind an early anticipation, 
 neither derived from experience, nor from reason, nor from any 
 compact or promise, that our fellow-creatures will use the same 
 signs in language, when they have the same sentiments. 
 
 This is, in reality, a kind of prescience of human actions ; and 
 it seems to me to be an original principle of the human constitu- 
 tion, without which we should be incapable of language, and 
 consequently incapable of instruction. 
 
 -The wise and beneficent Author of nature, who intended that 
 we should be social creatures, and that we should receive the 
 greatest and most important part of our knowledge by the infor- 
 mation of others, hath, for these purposes, implanted in our 
 natures two principles that tally with each other. 
 
 [The first of these principles is, a propensity to speak truth, 
 and to use the signs of language, so as to convey our real senti- 
 ments.] This principle has a powerful operation, even in the 
 greatest liars ; for where they lie once, they speak truth a 
 hundred times. Truth is always uppermost, and is the natural 
 issue of the mind. It requires no art or training, no inducement 
 or temptation, but only that we yield to a natural impulse. Ly- 
 ing, on the contrary, is doing violence to our nature ; and is 
 never practised, even by the worst men, without some temptation. 
 Speaking truth is like using our natural food, which we would 
 do from appetite, although it answered no end ; but lying is like 
 taking physic, which is nauseous to the taste, and which no man 
 takes but for some end which he cannot otherwise attain. 
 
 If it should be objected, That men may be influenced by moral 
 or political considerations to speak truth, and therefore that 
 their doing so is no proof of such an original principle as we 
 have mentioned ; I answer, first, That moral or political conside- 
 rations can have no influence, until we arrive at years of under- 
 standing and reflection ; and it is certain from experience, that 
 children keep to truth invariably, before they are capable of being 
 
OF SEEING. 507 
 
 influenced by such considerations. Secondly, When we are in- 
 fluenced by moral or political considerations, we must be con- 
 scious of that influence, and capable of perceiving it upon 
 reflection. Now, when I reflect upon my actions most attentively, 
 I am not conscious that in speaking truth, I am influenced on 
 ordinary occasions by any motive moral or political. I find, that 
 truth is always at the door of my lips, and goes forth spontaneously, 
 if not held back. It requires neither good nor bad intention to 
 bring it forth, but only that I be artless and undesigning. There 
 may indeed be temptations to falsehood, which would be too 
 strong for the natural principle of veracity, unaided by principles 
 of honour or virtue ; but where there is no such temptation, we 
 speak truth by instinct : and this instinct is the principle I have 
 been explaining. 
 
 By this instinct, a real connexion is formed between our words 
 and our thoughts, and thereby the former become fit to be signs 
 of the latter, which they could not otherwise be. And although 
 this connexion is broken in every instance of lying and equivoca- 
 tion, yet these instances being comparatively few, the authority 
 of human testimony is only weakened by them, but not des- 
 troyed. 
 
 [Another original principle implanted in us by the Supreme 
 Being, is a disposition to confide in the veracity of others, and to 
 believe what they tell us.] This is the counter-part to the for- 
 mer ; and as that may be called the principle of veracity, we 
 shall, for want of a more proper name, call this the principle of 
 credulity. It is unlimited in children, until they meet with in- 
 stances of deceit and falsehood : and it retains a very considerable 
 degree of strength through life. 
 
 If nature had left the mind of the speaker in equilibrio, 
 without any inclination to the side of truth more than to that of 
 falsehood, children would lie as often as they speak truth, until 
 reason was so far ripened, as to suggest the imprudence of lying, 
 or conscience, as to suggest its immorality. And if nature had 
 left the mind of the hearer in equilibrio, without any inclination 
 to the side of belief more than to that of disbelief, we should take 
 no man's word until we had positive evidence that he spoke 
 truth. His testimony would, in this case, have no more autho- 
 rity than his dreams ; which may be true or false, but no man 
 is disposed to believe them, on this account, that they were 
 dreamed. It is evident, that in the matter of testimony, the 
 balance of human judgment is by nature inclined to the side of 
 belief ; and turns to that side of itself, when there is nothing put 
 into the opposite scale. If it was not so, no proposition that is 
 uttered in discourse would be believed, until it was examined 
 and tried by reason ; and most men would be unable to find 
 reasons for believing the thousandth part of what is told them. 
 
568 . 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI, 
 
 Such distrust and incredulity would deprive us of the greatest 
 benefits of society, and place us in a worse condition than that of 
 savages. 
 
 Children, on this supposition, would be absolutely incredulous ; 
 and therefore absolutely incapable of instruction : those who had 
 little knowledge of human life, and of the manners and characters 
 of men, would be in the next degree incredulous : and the most 
 credulous men would be those of greatest experience, and of the 
 deepest penetration ; because, in many cases, they would be able 
 to find good reasons for believing testimony, which the weak and 
 the ignorant could not discover. 
 
 In a word, if credulity were the effect of reasoning and expe- 
 rience, it must grow up and gather strength, in the same propor- 
 tion as reason and experience do. But if it is the gift of nature, 
 it will be strongest in childhood, and limited and restrained by 
 experience ; and the most superficial view of human life shows, 
 that the last is really the case, and not the first. 
 
 It is the intention of nature, that we should be carried in arms' 
 before we are able to walk upon our legs ; and it is likewise the 
 intention of nature, that our belief should be guided by the autho- 
 rity and reason of others, before it can be guided by our own 
 reason. The weakness of the infant, and the natural affection 
 of the mother, plainly indicate the former ; and the natural cre- 
 dulity of youth, and authority of age, as plainly indicate the 
 latter. The infant, by proper nursing and care, acquires strength 
 to walk without support. Reason hath likewise her infancy, 
 when she must be carried in arms : then she leans entirely upon 
 authority, by natural instinct, as if she was conscious of her 
 own weakness ; and without this support, she becomes vertigi- 
 nous. When brought to maturity by proper culture, she begins 
 to feel her own strength, and leans less upon the reason of others ; 
 she learns to suspect testimony in some cases, and to disbelieve 
 it in others ; and sets bounds to that authority to which she was 
 at first entirely subject. But still, to the end of life she finds a 
 necessity of borrowing light from testimony where she has none 
 within herself, and of leaning in some degree upon the reason 
 of others, where she is conscious of her own imbecility. 
 
 And as in many instances reason, even in her maturity, bor- 
 rows aid from testimony ; so in others she mutually gives aid 
 to it, and strengthens its authority. For as we find good reason 
 to reject testimony in some cases, so in others we find good reason 
 to rely upon it with perfect security, in our most important con- 
 cerns. The character, the number, and the disinterestedness of 
 witnesses, the impossibility of collusion, and the incredibility of 
 their concurring in their testimony, without collusion, may give 
 an irresistible strength to testimony, compared to which its native 
 and intrinsic authority is very inconsiderable. 
 
OF SEEING. 569 
 
 Having now considered the general principles of the human 
 mind which fit us for receiving information from our fellow- 
 creatures, by the means of language ; let us next consider the 
 general principles which fit us for receiving the information of 
 nature by our acquired perceptions. 
 
 It is undeniable, and indeed is acknowledged by all, that when 
 we have found two things to have been constantly conjoined in 
 the course of nature, the appearance of one of them is immediately 
 followed by the conception and belief of the other. The former 
 becomes a natural sign of the latter ; and the knowledge of their 
 constant conjunction in time past, whether got by experience 
 or otherwise, is sufficient to make us rely with assurance upon 
 the continuance of that conjunction. 
 
 This process of the human mind is so familiar, that we never 
 think of inquiring into the principles upon which it is founded. 
 We are apt to conceive it as a self-evident truth, that what is 
 to come must be similar to what is past. Thus, if a certain de- 
 gree of cold freezes water to-day, and has been known to do so 
 in all time past, we have no doubt but the same degree of cold 
 will freeze water to-morrow, or a year hence. That this a truth, 
 which all men believe as soon as they understand it, I readily ad- 
 mit ; but the question is, Whence does its evidence arise ? Not 
 from comparing the ideas, surely. For when I compare the idea 
 of cold with that of water hardened into a transparent solid 
 body, I can perceive no connexion between them : no man can 
 show the one to be the necessary effect of the other : no man can 
 give a shadow of reason why nature hath conjoined them. But 
 do we not learn their conjunction from experience ? True ; expe- 
 rience informs us that they have been conjoined in time past ; 
 but no man ever had any experience of what is future ; and this 
 is the very question to be resolved, How we come to believe that 
 the future will be like the past ? Hath the Author of nature 
 promised this ? Or were we admitted to his council, when he 
 established the present laws of nature, and determined the time 
 of their continuance ? No surely. Indeed if we believe that 
 there is a wise and good Author of nature, we may see a good 
 reason why he should continue the same laws of nature, and the 
 same connexions of things, for a long time ; because, if he did 
 otherwise, we could learn nothing from what is past, and all our 
 experience would be of no use to us. But though this conside- 
 ration, when we come to the use of reason, may confirm our 
 belief of the continuance of the present course of nature, it is 
 certain that it did not give rise to this belief ; for children and 
 idiots have this belief as soon as they know that fire will burn 
 them. It must therefore be the effect of instinct, not of reason. 
 
 The wise Author of our nature intended that a great and 
 necessary part of our knowledge should be derived from experi- 
 
570 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 ence, before we are capable of reasoning, and he hath provided 
 means perfectly adequate to this intention. For; first, He governs 
 nature by fixed laws, so that we find innumerable connexions of 
 things which continue from age to age. Without this stability 
 of the course of nature, there could be no experience : or it would 
 be a false guide, and lead us into error and mischief. If there 
 were not a principle of veracity in the human kind, men's words 
 would not be signs of their thoughts : and if there were no regu- 
 larity in the course of nature, no one thing could be a natural 
 sign of another. Secondly, He hath implanted in human minds 
 an original principle by which we believe and expect the con- 
 tinuance of the course of nature, and the continuance of those 
 connexions which we have observed in time past. It is by this 
 general principle of our nature, that when two things have been 
 found connected in time past, the appearance of the one produces 
 the belief of the other. 
 
 I think the ingenious author of the " Treatise of Human Na- 
 ture" first observed, that our belief of the continuance of the 
 laws of nature cannot be founded either upon knowledge or pro- 
 bability : but, far from conceiving it to be an original principle 
 of the mind, he endeavours to account for it from his favourite 
 hypothesis, that belief is nothing but a certain degree of vivacity 
 in the idea of the thing believed. I made a remark upon this 
 curious hypothesis in the second chapter, and shall now make 
 another. 
 
 [The belief which we have in perception, is a belief of the pre- 
 sent existence of the object ; that which we have in memory, is 
 a belief of its past existence ; the belief of which we are now 
 speaking, is a belief of its future existence, and in imagination 
 there is no belief at all.] Now I would gladly know of this au- 
 thor, how one degree of vivacity fixes the existence of the object 
 to the present moment ; another carries it back to time past ; a 
 third, taking a contrary direction, carries into futurity; and a 
 fourth, carries it out of existence altogether. Suppose, for in- 
 stance, that I see the sun rising out of the sea ; I remember to 
 have seen him rise yesterday ; I believe he will rise to-morrow 
 near the same place ; I can likewise imagine him rising in that 
 place, without any belief at all. Now, according to this sceptical 
 hypothesis, this perception, this memory, this foreknowledge, 
 and this imagination, are all the same idea, diversified only by 
 different degrees of vivacity. The perception of the sun rising 
 is the most lively idea ; the memory of his rising yesterday, is the 
 same idea a little more faint ; the belief of his rising to-morrow 
 is the same idea yet fainter ; and the imagination of his rising, is 
 still the same idea, but faintest of all. One is apt to think that 
 this idea might gradually pass through all possible degrees of viva- 
 city without stirring out of its place. But if we think so, we de- 
 
OF SEEING. 571 
 
 ceive ourselves ; for no sooner does it begin to grow languid, than 
 it moves backward into time past. Supposing this to be granted, 
 we expect at least that as it moves backward by the decay of its 
 vivacity, the more that vivacity decays, it will go back the farther, 
 until it remove quite out of sight. But here we are deceived 
 again ; for there is a certain period of this declining vivacity, 
 when, as if it had met an elastic obstacle in its motion backward, 
 it suddenly rebounds from the past to the future, without taking 
 the present in its way. And now having got into the regions of 
 futurity, we are apt to think that it has room enough to spend all 
 its remaining vigour : but still we are deceived ; for, by another 
 sprightly bound, it mounts up into the airy region of imagination. 
 So that ideas, in the gradual declension of their vivacity, seem 
 to imitate the inflection of verbs in grammar. They begin with 
 the present, and proceed in order to the preterite, the future, 
 and the indefinite. This article of the sceptical creed is indeed 
 so full of mystery, on whatever side we view it, that they who 
 hold that creed are very injuriously charged with incredulity : 
 for to me it appears to require as much faith as that of Saint 
 Athanasius. 
 
 However, we agree with the author of the " Treatise of Hu- 
 man Nature" in this, [that our belief of the continuance of na- 
 ture's laws is not derived from reason. It is an instinctive pre- 
 science of the operations of nature, very like to that prescience 
 of human actions which makes us rely upon the testimony of our 
 fellow-creatures : and as, without the latter we should be inca- 
 pable of receiving information from men by language ; so with- 
 out the former we should be incapable of receiving the informa- 
 tion of nature by means of experience.] 
 
 All our knowledge of nature, beyond our original perceptions, 
 is got by experience, and consists in the interpretation of natural 
 signs. The constancy of nature's laws connects the sign with 
 the thing signified, and by the natural principle just now ex- 
 plained, we rely upon the continuance of the connexions which 
 experience hath discovered ; and thus the appearance of the sign 
 is followed by the belief of the thing signified. 
 
 Upon this principle of our constitution, not only acquired 
 perception, but all inductive reasoning, and all our reasoning 
 from analogy, is grounded : and therefore, for want of another 
 name, we shall beg leave to call it the inductive principle. It is 
 from the force of this principle that we immediately assent to that 
 axiom upon which all our knowledge of nature is built, that 
 effects of the same kind must have the same cause. For effects 
 and causes, in the operations of nature, mean nothing but signs, 
 and the things signified by them. We perceive no proper caus- 
 ality or efficiency in any natural cause, but only a connexion esta- 
 blished by the course of nature between it and what is called its 
 
572 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 effect. Antecedently to all reasoning, we have, by our con- 
 stitution, an anticipation that there is a fixed and steady course 
 of nature ; and we have an eager desire to discover this course of 
 nature. We attend to every conjunction of things which presents 
 itself, and expect the continuance of that conjunction. And 
 when such a conjunction has been often observed, we conceive 
 the things to be naturally connected, and the appearance of one, 
 without any reasoning or reflection, carries along with it the 
 belief of the other. 
 
 If any reader should imagine that the inductive principle may 
 be resolved into what philosophers usually call the association of 
 ideas, let him observe, that by this principle, natural signs are 
 not associated with the idea only, but with the belief of the things 
 signified. Now, this can with no propriety be called an associ- 
 ation of ideas, unless ideas and belief be one and the same thing. 
 A child has found the prick of a pin conjoined with pain, hence 
 he believes, and knows, that these things are naturally con- 
 nected ; he knows that the one will always follow the other. 
 If any man will call this only an association of ideas, I dispute not 
 about words, but I think he speaks very improperly. For if we 
 express it in plain English, it is a prescience that things which 
 he hath found conjoined in time past, will be conjoined in time 
 to come. And this prescience is not the effect of reasoning, but 
 of an original principle of human nature, which I have called 
 the inductive principle. 
 
 This principle, like that of credulity, is unlimited in infancy, 
 and gradually restrained and regulated, as we grow up. It leads 
 us often into mistakes, but is of infinite advantage upon the 
 whole. By it the child once burnt shuns the fire ; by it, he like- 
 wise runs away from the surgeon, by whom he was inoculated. 
 It is better that he should do the last than that he should not do 
 the first. 
 
 But the mistakes we are led into by these two natural prin- 
 ciples are of a different kind. Men sometimes lead us into mis- 
 takes, when we perfectly understand their language, by speaking 
 lies. But nature never misleads us in this way : her language 
 is always true ; and it is only by misinterpreting it that we 
 fall into error. There must be many accidental conjunctions 
 of things, as well as natural connexions ; and the former are 
 apt to be mistaken for the latter. Thus, in the instance above 
 mentioned, the child connected the pain of inoculation with 
 the surgeon ; whereas it was really connected with the incision 
 only. Philosophers, and men of science, are not exempted 
 from such mistakes ; indeed all false reasoning in philosophy is 
 owing to them : it is drawn from experience and analogy, as well 
 as just reasoning, otherwise it could have no verisimilitude : but 
 the one is an unskilful and rash, the other, a just and legitimate 
 
OF SEEING. 573 
 
 interpretation of natural signs. If a child, or a man of common 
 understanding, were put to interpret a book of science, wrote in 
 his mother- tongue, how many blunders and mistakes would he 
 be apt to fall into ? Yet he knows as much of this language as 
 is necessary for his manner of life. 
 
 The language of nature is the universal study ; and the stu- 
 dents are of different classes. Brutes, idiots, and children, em- 
 ploy themselves in this study, and owe to it all their acquired 
 perceptions. Men of common understanding make a greater 
 progress, and learn, by a small degree of reflection, many things 
 of which children are ignorant. 
 
 Philosophers fill up the highest form in this school, and are 
 critics in the language of nature. All these different classes have 
 one teacher, experience enlightened by the inductive principle. 
 Take away the light of this inductive principle, and experience 
 is as blind as a mole : she may indeed feel what is present, and 
 w T hat immediately touches her ; but she sees nothing that is either 
 before or behind, upon the right hand or upon the left, future 
 or past. 
 
 The rules of inductive reasoning, or of a just interpretation of 
 nature, as well as the fallacies by which we are apt to misinter- 
 pret her language, have been, with wonderful sagacity, delineated 
 by the great genius of Lord Ba,con : so that his " Novum Orga- 
 num" may justly be called a grammar of the language of nature. 
 It adds greatly to the merit of this work, and atones for its 
 defects, that at the time it was written, the world had not seen 
 any tolerable model of inductive reasoning from which the rules 
 of it might be copied. The arts of poetry and eloquence were 
 grown up to perfection when Aristotle described them : but the 
 art of interpreting nature was yet in embryo when Bacon deli- 
 neated its manly features and proportions. Aristotle drew his 
 rules from the best models of those arts that have yet appeared ; 
 but the best models of inductive reasoning that have yet appeared, 
 which I take to be the third book of the " Principia" and the 
 " Optics" of Newton, were drawn from Bacon's rules. The pur- 
 pose of all those rules is, to teach us to distinguish seeming or 
 apparent connexions of things in the course of nature, from such 
 as are real. 
 
 They that are unskilful in inductive reasoning, are more apt 
 to fall into error in their reasonings from the phenomena of 
 nature, than in their acquired perceptions ; because we often 
 reason from a few instances, and thereby are apt to mistake 
 accidental conjunctions of things for natural connexions : but 
 that habit of passing, without reasoning, from the sign to the 
 thing signified, which constitutes acquired perception, must be 
 learned by many instances or experiments ; and the number 
 of experiments serves to disjoin those things which have been 
 
574 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 
 
 accidentally conjoined, as well as to confirm our belief of natural 
 connexions. 
 
 From the time that children begin to use their hands, nature 
 directs them to handle every thing over and over, to look at it 
 while they handle it, and to put it in various positions, and at 
 various distances from the eye. We are apt to excuse this as a 
 childish diversion, because they must be doing something, and 
 have not reason to entertain themselves in a more manly way. 
 But if we think more justly, we shall find, that they are engaged 
 in the most serious and important study ; and if they had all the 
 reason of philosophers, they could not be more properly em- 
 ployed. For it is this childish employment that enables them to 
 make the proper use of their eyes. They are thereby every day 
 acquiring habits of perception which are of greater importance 
 than any thing we can teach them. The original perceptions 
 which nature gave them are few, and insufficient for the purposes 
 of life ; and therefore she made them capable of acquiring many 
 more perceptions by habit. And to complete her work, she hath 
 given them an unwearied assiduity in applying to the exercises 
 by which those perceptions are acquired. 
 
 This is the education which nature gives to her children. And 
 since we have fallen upon this subject, we may add, that another 
 part of nature's education is, that, by the course of things, chil- 
 dren must often exert all their muscular force, and employ all 
 their ingenuity, in order to gratify their curiosity, and satisfy 
 their little appetites. What they desire is only to be obtained 
 at the expense of labour and patience, and many disappoint- 
 ments. By the exercise of body and mind necessary for satisfy- 
 ing their desires, they acquire agility, strength, and dexterity in 
 their motions, as well as health and vigour to their constitutions ; 
 they learn patience and perseverance ; they learn to bear pain 
 without dejection, and disappointment without despondence. 
 The education of nature is most perfect in savages, who have no 
 other tutor : and we see, that in the quickness of all their senses, 
 in the agility of their motions, in the hardiness of their constitu- 
 tions, and in the strength of their minds to bear hunger, thirst, 
 pain, and disappointment, they commonly far exceed the civil- 
 ized. A most ingenious writer, on this account, seems to prefer 
 the savage life to that of society. But the education of nature 
 could never of itself produce a Rousseau. It is the intention 
 of nature, that human education should be joined to her insti- 
 tution, in order to form the man. And she hath fitted us for 
 human education, by the natural principles of imitation and cre- 
 dulity, which discover themselves almost in infancy, as well as 
 by others which are of later growth. 
 
 When the education which we receive from men does not give 
 scope to the education of nature, it is wrong directed ; it tends 
 
conclusion. 575 
 
 to hurt our faculties of perception, and to enervate both the body 
 and mind. Nature hath her way of rearing men, as she hath of 
 curing their diseases. The art of medicine is to follow nature, 
 to imitate and to assist her in the cure of diseases ; and the art 
 of education is to follow nature, to assist and to imitate her in her 
 way of rearing men. g§p° The ancient Balearides followed nature 
 in the manner of teaching their children to be good archers, when 
 they hung their dinner aloft by a thread, and left the younkers 
 to bring it down by their skill in arching. 
 
 The education of nature, without any more human care than 
 is necessary to preserve life, makes a perfect savage. Human 
 education, joined to that of nature, may make a good citizen a 
 skilful artizan, or a well-bred man. But reason and reflection 
 must superadd their tutory, in order to produce a Rousseau, a 
 Bacon, or a Newton. 
 
 Notwithstanding the innumerable errors committed in human 
 education, there is hardly any education so bad, as to be worse 
 than none. And I apprehend, that if even Rousseau were to 
 choose whether to educate a son among the French, the Italians, 
 the Chinese > or among the Esquimaux, he would not give the 
 preference to the last. 
 
 When reason is properly employed, she will confirm the docu- 
 ments of nature, which are always true and wholesome ; she will 
 distinguish, in the documents of human education, the good from 
 the bad, rejecting the last with modesty, and adhering to the first 
 with reverence. 
 
 Most men continue all their days to be just what nature and 
 human education made them. Their manners, their opinions, 
 their virtues, and their vices, are all got by habit, imitation, and 
 instruction ; and reason has little or no share in forming them. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Containing, reflections upon the opinions of philosophers on 
 this subject. — There are two ways in which men may form their 
 notions and opinions concerning the mind, and concerning its 
 powers and operations. The first is the only way that leads to 
 truth ; but it is narrow and rugged, and few have entered upon 
 it. The second is broad and smooth, and hath been much beaten, 
 not only by the vulgar, but even by philosophers : it is sufficient 
 for common life, and is well adapted to the purposes of the poet 
 and orator ; but, in philosophical disquisitions concerning the 
 mind, it leads to error and delusion. 
 
 We may call the first of these ways, the way of reflection. 
 

 576 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 When the operations of the mind are exerted, we are conscious 
 of them ; and it is in our power to attend to them, and to reflect 
 upon them, until they become familiar objects of thought. This 
 is the only way in which we can form just and accurate notions 
 of those operations. But this attention and reflection is so diffi- 
 cult to man, surrounded on all hands by external objects which 
 constantly solicit his attention, that it has been very little prac- 
 tised, even by philosophers. In the course of this inquiry, we 
 have had many occasions to show how little attention hath been 
 given to the most familiar operations of the senses. 
 
 The second, and the most common way, in which men form 
 their opinions concerning the mind and its operations, we may 
 call the way of analogy. There is nothing in the course of nature 
 so singular, but we can find some resemblance, or at least some 
 analogy, between it and other things with which we are ac- 
 quainted. The mind naturally delights in hunting after such 
 analogies, and attends to them with pleasure. From them, poetry 
 and wit derive a great part of their charms ; and eloquence not a 
 little of its persuasive force. 
 
 [Besides (1) the pleasure we receive from analogies, (2) they are 
 of very considerable use both to facilitate the conception of 
 things, when they are not easily apprehended without such a 
 handle, and to lead us to probable conjectures about their nature 
 and qualities, when we want the means of more direct and imme- 
 diate knowledge.] gg^° When I consider that the planet Jupiter, 
 in like manner as the earth, rolls round his own axis, and revolves 
 round the sun, and that he is enlightened by several secondary 
 planets, as the earth is enlightened by the moon ; I am apt to 
 conjecture from analogy, that as the earth by these means is 
 fitted to be the habitation of various orders of animals, so the 
 planet Jupiter is, by the like means, fitted for the same purpose : 
 and having no argument more direct and conclusive to determine 
 me in this point, I yield to this analogical reasoning a degree of 
 assent proportioned to its strength. When I observe, that the 
 potato-plant very much resembles the solanum in its flower and 
 fructification, and am informed that the last is poisonous, I am 
 apt from analogy to have some suspicion of the former : but in 
 this case, I have access to more direct and certain evidence ; and 
 therefore ought not to trust to analogy, which would lead me 
 into an error. 
 
 [Arguments from analogy are always at hand, and grow up 
 spontaneously in a fruitful imagination, while arguments that are 
 more direct, and more conclusive, often require painful attention 
 and application : and therefore mankind in general have been 
 very much disposed to trust to the former.] If one attentively 
 examines the systems of the ancient philosophers, either concern- 
 ing the material world, or concerning the mind, he will find them 
 
conclusion. 577 
 
 to be built solely upon the foundation of analogy. Lord Bacon 
 first delineated the strict and severe method of induction ; since 
 his time it has been applied with very happy success in some 
 parts of natural philosophy ; and hardly in any thing else. But 
 there is no subject in which mankind are so much disposed to 
 trust to the analogical way of thinking and reasoning, as in what 
 concerns the mind and its operations ; because, to form clear and 
 distinct notions of those operations in the direct and proper way, 
 and to reason about them, requires a habit of attentive reflection, 
 of which few are capable, and which, even by those few, cannot 
 be attained without much pains and labour. 
 
 Every man is apt to form his notions of things difficult to be 
 apprehended, or less familiar, from their analogy to things which 
 are more familiar. Thus, if a man bred to the seafaring life, and 
 accustomed to think and talk only of matters relating to naviga- 
 tion, enters into discourse upon any other subject ; it is well 
 known, that the language and the notions proper to his own pro- 
 fession are infused into every subject, and all things are measured 
 by the rules of navigation : and if he should take it into his head 
 to philosophize concerning the faculties of the mind, it cannot 
 be doubted, but he would draw his notions from the fabric of 
 his ship, and would find in the mind, sails, masts, rudder, and 
 compass. 
 
 Sensible objects of one kind or other, do no less occupy and 
 engross the rest of mankind, than things relating to navigation, 
 the seafaring man. For a considerable part of life, we can think 
 of nothing but the objects of sense ; and to attend to objects of 
 another nature, so as to form clear and distinct notions of them, 
 is no easy matter, even after we come to years of reflection. The 
 condition of mankind, therefore, affords good reason to appre- 
 hend, that their language, and their common notions, concerning 
 the mind and its operations, will be analogical, and derived from 
 the objects of sense ; and that these analogies will be apt to 
 impose upon philosophers, as well as upon the vulgar, and to 
 lead them to materialize the mind and its faculties : and expe- 
 rience abundantly confirms the truth of this. 
 
 How generally men of all nations, and in all ages of the world, 
 have conceived the soul, or thinking principle in man, to be some 
 subtile matter, like breath or wind, the names given to it almost 
 in all languages sufficiently testify. We have words which are 
 proper, and not analogical, to express the various ways in which 
 we perceive external objects by the senses ; such as feeling, sight, 
 taste : but we are often obliged to use these words analogically, 
 to express other powers of the mind which are of a very different 
 nature. And the powers which imply some degree of reflection, 
 have generally no names but such as are analogical. The objects 
 
 2 p 
 

 
 578 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 of thought are said to be in the mind, to be apprehended; compre- 
 hended, conceived, imagined, retained, weighed, ruminated. 
 
 It does not appear that the notions of the ancient philoso- 
 phers, with regard to the nature of the soul, were much more 
 refined than those of the vulgar, or that they were formed in any 
 other way. We shall distinguish the philosophy that regards 
 our subject into the old and the new. [The old reached down 
 to Des Cartes, who gave it a fatal blow, of which it has been 
 gradually expiring ever since, and is now almost extinct. Des 
 Cartes is the father of the new philosophy that relates to this 
 subject ; but it hath been gradually improving since his time, 
 upon the principles laid down by him.] The old philosophy 
 seems to have been purely analogical : the new is more derived 
 from reflection, but still with a very considerable mixture of the 
 old analogical notions. 
 
 Because the objects of sense consist of matter and form, the 
 ancient philosophers conceived every thing to belong to one of 
 these, or to be made up of both. Some, therefore, thought that 
 the soul is a particular kind of subtile matter, separable from 
 our gross bodies ; others thought that it is only a particular 
 form of the body, and inseparable from it. For there seem to 
 have been some among the ancients, as well as among the mo- 
 derns, who conceived that a certain structure or organization of 
 the body is all that is necessary to render it sensible and intelli- 
 gent. The different powers of the mind were accordingly, by 
 the last sect of philosophers, conceived to belong to different 
 parts of the body, as the heart, the brain, the liver, the stomach, 
 the blood. 
 
 They who thought that the soul is a subtile matter, separable 
 from the body, disputed to which of the four elements it belongs, 
 whether to earth, water, air, or fire. Of the three last, each had 
 its particular advocates. But some were of opinion that it par- 
 takes of all the elements ; that it must have something in its 
 composition similar to every thing we perceive ; and that we 
 perceive earth by the earthy part ; water, by the watery part ; 
 and fire, by the fiery part of the soul. Some philosophers, not 
 satisfied with determining of what kind of matter the soul is 
 made, inquired likewise into its figure, which they determined 
 to be spherical, that it might be the more fit for motion. The 
 most spiritual and sublime notion concerning the nature of the 
 soul, to be met with among the ancient philosophers, I conceive 
 to be that of the Platonists, who held that it is made of that 
 celestial and incorruptible matter of which the fixed stars were 
 made, and therefore has a natural tendency to rejoin its proper 
 element. I am at a loss to say in which of these classes of phi- 
 losophers Aristotle ought to be placed. He defines the soul to 
 
conclusion. 579 
 
 be, The first evTekex* 10 - °f a natural body which has potential 
 life. I beg to be excused from translating the Greek word, 
 because I know not the meaning of it. 
 
 The notions of the ancient philosophers with regard to the 
 operations of the mind, particularly with regard to perception 
 and ideas, seem likewise to have been formed by the same kind 
 of analogy. 
 
 [Plato, of the writers that are extant, first introduced the word 
 idea into philosophy ; but his doctrine upon this subject was 
 somewhat peculiar.] He agreed with the rest of the ancient 
 philosophers in this, that all things consist of matter and form ; 
 and that the matter of which all things were made, existed from 
 eternity, without form : but he likewise believed, that there are 
 eternal forms of all possible things which exist, without matter ; 
 and to these eternal and immaterial forms he gave the name of 
 ideas ; maintaining that they are the only object of true know- 
 ledge. It is of no great moment to us whether he borrowed 
 these notions from Parmenides, or whether they were the issue 
 of his own creative imagination. The later Platonists seem to 
 have improved upon them, in conceiving those ideas, or eternal 
 forms of things, to exist, not of themselves, but in the Divine 
 mind, and to be the models and patterns according to which all 
 things were made : 
 
 " Then lived th' Eternal One, then, deep retired 
 In his imfathomed essence, view'd at large 
 The uncreated images of things." 
 
 To these Platonic notions that of Malebranche is very nearly 
 allied. This author seems, more than any other, to have been 
 aware of the difficulties attending the common hypothesis con- 
 cerning ideas, to wit, that ideas of all objects of thought are in 
 the human mind ; and, therefore, in order to avoid those difficul- 
 ties, makes the ideas which are the immediate objects of human 
 thought, to be the ideas of things in the Divine mind ; who being 
 intimately present to every human mind, may discover his ideas 
 to it, as far as pleaseth him. 
 
 The Platonists and Malebranche excepted, all other philoso- 
 phers, as far as I know, have conceived that there are ideas or 
 images of every object of thought in the human mind, or at least 
 in some part of the brain, where the mind is supposed to have 
 its residence. 
 
 Aristotle had no good affection to the word idea, and seldom 
 or never uses it but in refuting Plato's notions about ideas. He 
 thought that matter might exist without form, but at the same 
 time he taught, that there could be no sensation, no imagination, 
 nor intellection, without forms, phantasms, or species in the 
 mind ; and that things sensible were perceived by sensible species, 
 
 2p2 
 

 580 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 and things intelligible by intelligible species. His followers 
 taught more explicitly, that these sensible and intelligible species 
 are sent forth by the objects, and make their impressions upon 
 the passive intellect ; and that the active intellect perceives 
 them in the passive intellect. ' And this seems to have been the 
 common opinion while the Peripatetic philosophy retained its 
 authority. 
 
 The Epicurean doctrine, as explained by Lucretius, though 
 widely different from the Peripatetic in many things, is almost 
 the same in this. He affirms, that slender films or ghosts (tenuia 
 rerum simulacra) are still going off from all things, and flying 
 about ; and that these being extremely subtile, easily penetrate 
 our gross bodies, and sti iking upon the mind, cause thought and 
 imagination. 
 
 After the Peripatetic system had reigned above a thousand 
 years in the schools of Europe, almost without a rival, it sunk 
 before that of Des Cartes ; the perspicuity of whose writings and 
 notions, contrasted with the obscurity of Aristotle and his com- 
 mentators, created a strong prejudice in favour of this new philo- 
 sophy. [The characteristic of Plato's genius was sublimity, that 
 of Aristotle's, subtilty ; but Des Cartes far excelled both in per- 
 spicuity, and bequeathed this spirit to his successors.] The 
 system which is now generally received, with regard to the mind, 
 and its operations, derives not only its spirit from Des Cartes, 
 but its fundamental principles ; and after all the improvements 
 made by Malebranche, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume, may still 
 be called the Cartesian system : we shall therefore make some 
 remarks upon its spirit and tendency in general, and upon its 
 doctrine concerning ideas in particular. 
 
 1. It may be observed, That the method which Des Cartes 
 pursued, naturally led him to attend more to the operations of 
 the mind by accurate reflection, and to trust less to analogical 
 reasoning upon this subject, than any philosopher had done before 
 him. Intending to build a system upon a new foundation, he 
 began with a resolution to admit nothing but what was absolutely 
 certain and evident. He supposed that his senses, his memory, 
 his reason, and every other faculty to which we trust in common 
 life, might be fallacious ; and resolved to disbelieve every thing, 
 until he was compelled by irresistible evidence to yield assent. 
 
 In this method of proceeding, what appeared to him, first of 
 all, certain and evident, was, that he thought, that he doubted, 
 that he deliberated. In a word, the operations of his own mind, 
 of which he was conscious, must be real, and no delusion ; and 
 though all his other faculties should deceive him, his conscious- 
 ness could not. This therefore he looked upon as the first of all 
 truths. This was the first firm ground upon which he set his 
 
CONCLUSION. 5gl 
 
 foot, after being tossed in the ocean of scepticism ; and he resolved 
 to bnild all knowledge upon it, without seeking after any more 
 first principles. 
 
 As every other truth, therefore, and particularly the existence 
 of the objects of sense, was to be deduced by a train of strict 
 argumentation from what he knew by consciousness, he was 
 naturally led to give attention to the operations of which he was 
 conscious, without borrowing his notions of them from external 
 things. 
 
 It was not in the way of analogy, but of attentive reflection, 
 that he was led to observe, that thought, volition, remembrance, 
 and the other attributes of the mind, are altogether unlike to 
 extension, to figure, and to all the attributes of body ; that we 
 have no reason, therefore, to conceive tliinking substances to 
 have any resemblance to extended substances ; and that, as the 
 attributes of the thinking substance are things of which we are 
 conscious, we may have a more certain and immediate knowledge 
 of them by reflection, than we can have of external objects by 
 our senses.] 
 
 These observations, as far as I know, were first made by Des 
 Cartes ; and they are of more importance, and throw more light 
 upon the subject, than all that had been said upon it before. 
 They ought to make us diffident and jealous of every notion 
 concerning the mind and its operations, which is drawn from sen- 
 sible objects, in the way of analogy, and to make us rely only 
 upon accurate reflection, as the source of all real knowledge upon 
 this subject. 
 
 2. I observe, That as the Peripatetic system has a tendency to 
 materialize the mind, and its operations ; so the Cartesian has a 
 tendency to spiritualize body, and its qualities. One error, com- 
 mon to both systems, leads to the first of these extremes in the 
 way of analogy, and to the last, in the way of reflection. The 
 error I mean is, that we can know nothing about body, or its 
 qualities, but as far as we have sensations which resemble those 
 qualities. Both systems agreed in this : but according to their 
 different methods of reasoning, they drew very different conclu- 
 sions from it; the Peripatetic drawing his notions of sensation 
 from the qualities of body ; the Cartesian, on the contrary, draw- 
 ing his notions of the qualities of body from his sensations. 
 
 The Peripatetic, taking it for granted that bodies and their 
 qualities do really exist, and are such as we commonly take them 
 to be, inferred from them the nature of his sensations, and rea- 
 soned in this manner : our sensations are the impressions which 
 sensible objects make upon the mind, and may be compared to 
 the impression of a seal upon wax ; the impression is the image 
 or form of the seal, without the matter of it : in like manner, 
 every sensation is the image or form of some sansible quality of 
 

 582 0F TH E HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 the object. This is the reasoning of Aristotle, and it has an evi- 
 dent tendency to materialize the mind, and its sensations. 
 
 The Cartesian, on the contrary, thinks, that the existence of 
 body, or of any of its qualities, is not to he taken as a first prin- 
 ciple ; and that we ought to admit nothing concerning it, but 
 what, by just reasoning, can be deduced from our sensations ; 
 and he knows, that by reflection we can form clear and distinct 
 notions of our sensations, without borrowing our notions of them 
 by analogy from the objects of sense. The Cartesians, therefore, 
 beginning to give attention to their sensations, first discovered 
 that the sensations corresponding to secondary qualities, cannot 
 resemble any quality of body. Hence Des Cartes and Locke 
 inferred, that sound, taste, smell, colour, heat, and cold, which 
 the vulgar took to be qualities of body, were not qualities of 
 body, but mere sensations of the mind. Afterwards the inge- 
 nious Berkeley, considering more attentively the nature of sensa- 
 tion in general, discovered, and demonstrated, that no sensation 
 whatever could possibly resemble any quality of an insentient 
 being, such as body is supposed to be : and hence he inferred, 
 very justly, that there is the same reason to hold extension, 
 figure, and all the primary qualities, to be mere sensations, as 
 there is to hold the secondary qualities to be mere sensations. 
 Thus, by just reasoning upon the Cartesian principles, matter was 
 stript of all its qualities ; the new system, by a kind of metaphy- 
 sical sublimation, converted all the qualities of matter into sensa- 
 tions, and spiritualized body, as the old had materialized spirit. 
 
 The way to avoid both these extremes, is, to admit the exist- 
 ence of what we see and feel as a first principle, as well as the 
 existence of things whereof we are conscious ; and to take our 
 notions of the qualities of body, from the testimony of our senses, 
 with the Peripatetics ; and our notions of our sensations, from 
 the testimony of consciousness, with the Cartesians. 
 
 3. I observe, That the modern scepticism is the natural issue 
 of the new system ; and that, although it did not bring forth this 
 monster until the year 1739, it may be said to have carried it in 
 its womb from the beginning. 
 
 The old system admitted all the principles of common sense as 
 first principles, without requiring any proof of them ; and there- 
 fore, though its reasoning was commonly vague, analogical, and 
 dark, yet it was built upon a broad foundation, and had no ten- 
 dency to scepticism.] We do not find that any Peripatetic 
 thought it incumbent upon him to prove the existence of a mate- 
 rial world ; but every writer upon the Cartesian system attempted 
 this, until Berkeley clearly demonstrated the futility of their 
 arguments ; and thence concluded, that there was no such thing 
 as a material world ; and that the belief of it ought to be rejected 
 as a vulgar error. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 [The new system admits only one of the principles of common 
 sense as a first principle ; and pretends, by strict argumentation, 
 to deduce all the rest from it.] That our thoughts, our sensa- 
 tions, and every thing of which we are conscious, hath a real 
 existence, is admitted in this system as a first principle ; but 
 every thing else must be made evident by the light of reason. 
 Reason must rear the whole fabric of knowledge upon this single 
 principle of consciousness. 
 
 There is a disposition in human nature to reduce things to as 
 few principles as possible ; and this, without doubt, adds to the^ 
 beauty of a system, if the principles are able to support what 
 rests upon them. The mathematicians glory very justly, in 
 having raised so noble and magnificent a system of science, upon 
 the foundation of a few axioms and definitions. This love of 
 simplicity, and of reducing things to few principles, hath pro- 
 duced many a false system ; but there never was any system in 
 which it appears so remarkably as that of Des Cartes. His whole 
 system concerning matter and spirit is built upon one axiom, 
 expressed in one word, cogito. Upon the foundation of conscious 
 thought, with ideas for his materials, he builds his system of the 
 human understanding, and attempts to account for all its pheno- 
 mena : and having, as he imagined, from his consciousness, proved 
 the existence of matter ; upon the existence of matter, and of a 
 certain quantity of motion originally impressed upon it, he builds 
 his system of the material world, and attempts to account for all 
 its phenomena. 
 
 These principles with regard to the material system have been 
 found insufficient ; and it has been made evident, that besides 
 matter and motion, we must admit gravitation, cohesion, corpus- 
 cular attraction, magnetism, and other centripetal and centrifugal 
 forces, by which the particles of matter attract and repel each 
 other. Newton, having discovered this, and demonstrated, that 
 these principles cannot be resolved into matter and motion, was 
 led by analogy, and the love of simplicity, to conjecture, but with 
 a modesty and caution peculiar to him, that all the phenomena 
 of the material world depended upon attracting and repelling 
 forces in the particles of matter. But we may now venture to 
 say, that this conjecture fell short of the mark. For, even in the 
 unorganized kingdom, the powers by which salts, crystals, spars, 
 and many other bodies, concrete into regular forms, can never be 
 accounted for by attracting and repelling forces in the particles 
 of matter. And in the vegetable and animal kingdoms, there are 
 strong indications of powers of a different nature from all the 
 powers of unorganized bodies. We see then, that although in 
 the structure of the material world there is, without doubt, all 
 the beautiful simplicity consistent with the purposes for which it 
 was made, it is not so simple as* the great Des Cartes determined 
 
584 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 H to be : nay, it is not so simple as the greater Newton modestly 
 conjectured it to be. Both were misled by analogy, and the love 
 of simplicity. One had been much conversant about extension, 
 figure, and motion ; the other had enlarged his views to attract- 
 ing and repelling forces ; and both formed their notions of the 
 unknown parts of nature, from those with which they were 
 acquainted, as the shepherd Tityrus formed his notion of the 
 city Rome from his country -village : 
 
 " Urbem quam dicunt Romam, Meliboee, putavi 
 
 Stultus ego, huic nostras similem, quo ssepe solemus 
 
 Pastores ovium teneros depellere foetus. 
 
 Sic canibus catulos similes, sic matribus haedos 
 
 Noram : sic parvis componere magna solebam." 
 
 Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome 
 Like Mantua, where on market days we come, 
 And thither drive our tender lambs from home ; 
 So kids and whelps their sires and dams express : 
 And so the great I measured by the less. 
 
 This is a just picture of the analogical way of thinking. 
 
 But to come to the system of Des Cartes concerning the human 
 understanding ; it was built, as we have observed, upon conscious- 
 ness as its sole foundation, and with ideas as its materials ; and 
 all his followers have built upon the same foundation and with 
 the same materials. They acknowledge that nature hath given 
 us various simple ideas : these are analogous to the matter of 
 Des Cartes' physical system. They acknowledge likewise a 
 natural power by which ideas are compounded, disjoined, asso- 
 ciated, compared: this is analogous to the original quantity of 
 motion in Des Cartes' physical system. From these principles 
 they attempt to explain the phenomena of the human understand- 
 ing, just as in the physical system the phenomena of nature were 
 to be explained by matter and motion. It must indeed be 
 acknowledged, that there is great simplicity in this system as well 
 as in the other. There is such a similitude between the two, as 
 may be expected between children of the same father : but as 
 the one has been found to be the child of Des Cartes, and not of 
 nature, there is ground to think that the other is so likewise. 
 
 [That the natural issue of this system is scepticism with regard 
 to every thing except the existence of our ideas, and of their 
 necessary relations which appear upon comparing them, is evi- 
 dent : for ideas being the only objects of thought, and having no 
 existence but when we are conscious of them, it necessarily follows, 
 that there is no object of our thought which can have a continued 
 and permanent existence.] Body and spirit, cause and effect, 
 time and space, to which we were wont to ascribe an existence 
 independent of our thought, are all turned out of existence by 
 this short dilemma : either these things are ideas of sensation or 
 reflection, or they arc not : if they are ideas of sensation or 
 
conclusion. 5g5 
 
 reflection, they can have no existence but when we are conscious 
 of them : if they are not ideas of sensation or reflection, they are 
 words without any meaning. 
 
 Neither Des Cartes nor Mr. Locke perceived this consequence 
 of their system concerning ideas. Bishop Berkeley was the first 
 who discovered it. And what followed upon this discovery ? 
 Why, with regard to the material world, and with regard to space 
 and time, he admits the consequence, that these things are mere 
 ideas, and have no existence but in our minds : but with regard 
 to the existence of spirits or minds, he does not admit the conse- 
 quence ; and if he had admitted it, he must have been an abso- 
 lute sceptic. But how does he evade this consequence with 
 regard to the existence of spirits ? The expedient which the 
 good Bishop uses on this occasion is very remarkable, and shows 
 his great aversion to scepticism. He maintains, that we have no 
 ideas of spirits ; and that we can think, and speak, and reason 
 about them, and about their attributes, without having any ideas 
 of them. If this is so, my lord, what should hinder us from 
 thinking and reasoning about bodies, and their qualities, without 
 having ideas of them ? The Bishop either did not think of this 
 question, or did not think fit to give any answer to it. However, 
 we may observe, that in order to avoid scepticism, he fairly starts 
 out of the Cartesian system, without giving any reason why he 
 did so in this instance, and in no other. This indeed is the only 
 instance of a deviation from Cartesian principles which I have 
 met with in the successors of Des Cartes ; and it seems to have 
 been only a sudden start, occasioned by the terror of scepticism ; 
 for in all other things Berkeley's system is founded upon Carte- 
 sian principles. 
 
 Thus we see, that Des Cartes and Locke take the road that 
 leads to scepticism, without knowing the end of it ; but they stop 
 short for want of light to carry them farther. Berkeley, frighted 
 at the appearance of the dreadful abyss, starts aside, and avoids 
 it. But the author of the " Treatise of Human Nature," more 
 daring and intrepid, without turning aside to the right hand or 
 to the left, like Virgil's Alecto, shoots directly into the gulf : 
 " Hie specus horrendum, et ssevi spiracula Ditis 
 Monstrantur : ruptoque ingens Acheron te vorago 
 Pestiferas aperit fauces." 
 
 There Pluto pants for breath from out his cell, 
 And opens wide the grinning jaws of hell. 
 
 4. We may observe, that the account given by the new system, 
 of that furniture of the human understanding which is the gift of 
 nature, and not the acquisition of our own reasoning faculty, is 
 extremely lame and imperfect. 
 
 The natural furniture of the human understanding is of two 
 kinds ; first, The notions or simple apprehensions which we have 
 

 586 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 of things ; and secondly, The judgments or the belief which we 
 have concerning them. As to our notions, the new system re- 
 duces them to two classes ; ideas of sensation, and ideas of 
 reflection ; the first are conceived to be copies of our sensations, 
 retained in the memory or imagination ; the second, to be copies 
 of the operations of our minds whereof we. are conscious, in like 
 manner retained in the memory or imagination: and we are 
 taught, that these two comprehend all the materials about which 
 the human understanding is, or can be employed. As to our 
 judgment of things, or the belief which we have concerning 
 them, the new system allows no part of it to be the gift of 
 nature, but holds it to be the acquisition of reason, and to be 
 got by comparing our ideas, and perceiving their agreements or 
 disagreements. Now I take this account, both of our notions, 
 and of our judgments or belief, to be extremely imperfect ; and 
 I shall briefly point out some of its capital defects. 
 
 [The division of our notions into ideas of sensation, and ideas 
 of reflection, is contrary to all rules of logic ; because the second 
 member of the division includes the first. .] For, can we form clear 
 and just notions of our sensations any other way than by reflec- 
 tion ? Surely we cannot. Sensation is an operation of the 
 mind of which we are conscious ; and we get the notion of sen- 
 sation, by reflecting upon that which we are conscious of. In 
 like manner, doubting and believing are operations of the mind 
 whereof we are conscious ; and we get the notion of them by 
 reflecting upon what we are conscious of. The ideas of sensa- 
 tion, therefore, are ideas of reflection, as much as the ideas of 
 doubting, or believing, or any other ideas whatsoever. 
 
 But to pass over the inaccuracy of this division, it is extremely 
 incomplete. For, since sensation is an operation of the mind, as 
 well as all the other things of which we form our notions by 
 reflection ; when it is asserted, that all our notions are either 
 ideas of sensation or ideas of reflection, the plain English of 
 this is, that mankind neither do, nor can think of any thing but 
 of the operations of their own minds. Nothing can be more con- 
 trary to truth, or more contrary to the experience of mankind. 
 I know that Locke, while he maintained this doctrine, believed 
 the notions which we have of body and of its qualities, and the 
 notions which we have of motion and of space, to be ideas of 
 sensation. But why did he believe this ? Because he believed 
 those notions to be nothing else but images of our sensations. 
 If, therefore, the notions of body and its qualities, of motion 
 and space, be not images of our sensations, will it not follow, 
 that those notions are not ideas of sensation ? Most certainly. 
 
 There is no doctrine of the new system which more directly 
 leads to scepticism than this. And the author of the " Treatise 
 of Human Nature," knew very well how to use it for that pur- 
 
CONCLUSION. 5§7 
 
 pose : for, if you maintain that there is any such existence as 
 body or spirit, time or place, cause or effect, he immediately 
 catches you between the horns of this dilemma ; your notions of 
 these existences are either ideas of sensation, or ideas of reflec- 
 tion ; if of sensation, from what sensation are they copied ? if 
 of reflection, from what operation of the mind are they copied ? 
 
 It is indeed to be wished, that those who have written much 
 about sensation, and about the other operations of the mind, had 
 likewise thought and reflected much, and with great care, upon 
 those operations : but is it not very strange, that they will not 
 allow it to be possible for mankind to think of any thing else ? 
 
 The account which this system gives of our judgment and 
 belief concerning things, is as far from the truth as the account 
 it gives of our notions or simple apprehensions. It represents 
 our senses as having no other office, but that of furnishing the 
 mind with notions or simple apprehensions of things ; and makes 
 [our judgment and belief concerning those things to be acquired 
 by comparing our notions together, and perceiving their agree- 
 ments or disagreements. ,] 
 
 We have shown, on the contrary, that every operation of the 
 senses, in its very nature, implies judgment or belief, as well as 
 simple apprehension. Thus, when I feel the pain of the gout 
 in my toe, I have not only a notion of pain, but a belief of its 
 existence, and a belief of some disorder in my toe which occa- 
 sions it ; and this belief is not produced by comparing ideas, 
 and perceiving their agreements and disagreements ; it is in- 
 cluded in the very nature of the sensation. When I perceive a 
 tree before me, my faculty of seeing gives me not only a notion 
 or simple apprehension of the tree, but a belief of its existence, 
 and of its figure, distance, and magnitude ; and this judgment 
 or belief is not got by comparing ideas, it is included in the 
 very nature of the perception. We have taken notice of several 
 original principles of belief in the course of this inquiry ; and 
 when other faculties of the mind are examined, we shall find 
 more, which have not occurred in the examination of the five 
 senses. 
 
 Such original and natural judgments are therefore a part of 
 that furniture which nature hath given to the human understand- 
 ing. They are the inspiration of the Almighty, no less than our 
 notions or simple apprehensions. They serve to direct us in the 
 common affairs of life, where our reasoning faculty would leave 
 us in the dark. They are a part of our constitution, and all the 
 discoveries of our reason are grounded upon them. They make 
 up what is called the common sense of mankind; and what is 
 manifestly contrary to any of those first principles, is what we 
 call absurd. The strength of them is good sense, which is often 
 found in those who are not acute in reasoning. A remarkable 
 
588 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 deviation from them, arising from a disorder in the constitution, 
 is what we call lunacy ; as when a man believes that he is made 
 of glass. When a man suffers himself to be reasoned out of the 
 principles of common sense by metaphysical arguments, we may 
 call this metaphysical lunacy ; which differs from the other spe- 
 cies of the distemper in this, that it is not continued, but inter- 
 mittent : it is apt to seize the patient in solitary and speculative 
 moments ; but when he enters into society, common sense reco- 
 vers her authority. A clear explication and enumeration of the 
 principles of common sense, is one of the chief desiderata in 
 logic. We have only considered such of them as occurred in 
 the examination of the five senses. 
 
 [5. The last observation that I shall make upon the new sys- 
 tem is, That, although it professes to set out in the way of reflec- 
 tion, and not of analogy, it hath retained some of the old analo- 
 gical notions concerning the operations of the mind ; particularly, 
 That things which do not presently exist in the mind itself, can 
 only be perceived, remembered, or imagined, by means of ideas 
 or images of them in the mind, which are the immediate objects 
 of perception, remembrance, and imagination.] This doctrine 
 appears evidently to be borrowed from the old system ; which 
 taught, that external things make impressions upon the mind, 
 like the impressions of a seal upon wax ; that it is by means of 
 those impressions that we perceive, remember, or imagine them ; 
 and that those impressions must resemble the things from which 
 they are taken. When we form our notions of the operations 
 of the mind by analogy, this way of conceiving them seems to 
 be very natural, and offers itself to our thoughts : for as every 
 thing which is felt must make some impression upon the body, 
 we are apt to think, that every thing which is understood must 
 make some impression upon the mind. 
 
 [From such analogical reasoning, this opinion of the existence 
 of ideas or images of things in the mind, seems to have taken 
 its rise, and to have been so universally received among philo- 
 sophers.] It was observed already, that Berkeley, in one in- 
 stance, apostatizes from this principle of the new system, by 
 affirming, that we have no ideas of spirits, and that we can think 
 of them immediately, without ideas. But I know not whether 
 in this he has had any followers. There is some difference, 
 likewise, among modern philosophers, with regard to the ideas 
 or images by which we perceive, remember, or imagine sensible 
 things. For, though all agree in the existence of such images, 
 they differ about their place ; some placing them in a particular 
 part of the brain, where the soul is thought to have her resi- 
 dence, and others placing them in the mind itself. Des Cartes 
 held the first of these opinions ; to which Newton seems like- 
 wise to have inclined ; for he proposes this query in his " Optics : " 
 
conclusion. 5§9 
 
 " Annon sensorium animalium est locus cui substantia sentiens 
 adest, et in quern sensibiles rerum species per nervos et cerebrum 
 deferuntur, ut ibi prassentes a pragsente sentiri possint?" But 
 Locke seems to place the ideas of sensible things in the mind : 
 and that Berkeley, and the author of the " Treatise of Human 
 Nature," were of the same opinion, is evident. The last makes 
 a very curious application of this doctrine, by endeavouring to 
 prove from it, that the mind either is no substance, or that it is 
 an extended and divisible substance ; because the ideas of exten- 
 sion cannot be in a subject which is indivisible and unextended. 
 
 [I confess I think his reasoning in this, as in most cases, is 
 clear and strong. For whether the idea of extension be only 
 another name for extension itself, as Berkeley and this author 
 assert ; or whether the idea of extension be an image and resem- 
 blance of extension, as Locke conceived ; I appeal to any man 
 of common sense, whether extension, or any image of extension, 
 can be in an unextended and indivisible subject.] But while I 
 agree with him in his reasoning, I would make a different appli- 
 cation of it. He takes it for granted, that there are ideas of 
 extension in the mind ; and thence infers, that if it is at all a 
 substance, it must be an extended and divisible substance. On 
 the contrary, I take it for granted, upon the testimony of com- 
 mon sense, that my mind is a substance, that is, a permanent 
 subject of thought ; and my reason convinces me, that it is an 
 unextended and indivisible substance ; and hence I infer, that 
 there cannot be in it any thing that resembles extension. If 
 this reasoning had occurred to Berkeley, it would probably have 
 led him to acknowledge, that we may think and reason concerning 
 bodies, without having ideas of them in the mind, as well as con- 
 cerning spirits. 
 
 I intended to have examined more particularly and fully this 
 doctrine of the existence of ideas or images of things in the 
 mind ; and likewise another doctrine, which is founded upon it, 
 to wit, — that judgment or belief is nothing but a perception of 
 the agreement or disagreement of our ideas : but having already 
 shown, through the course of this inquiry, that the operations 
 of the mind which we have examined, give no countenance to 
 either of these doctrines, and in many things contradict them, I 
 have thought it proper to drop this part of my design. It may 
 be executed with more advantage, if it is at all necessary, after 
 inquiring into some other powers of the human understanding. 
 
 Although we have examined only the five senses, and the 
 principles of the human mind which are employed about them, 
 or such as have fallen in our way in the course of this examina- 
 tion ; we shall leave the further prosecution of this inquiry to 
 future deliberation. The powers of memory, of imagination, of 
 taste, of reasoning, of moral perception, the will, the passions, 
 
590 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 
 
 the affections, and all the active powers of the soul, present a 
 vast and boundless field of philosophical disquisition, which the 
 author of this inquiry is far from thinking himself able to sur- 
 vey with accuracy. Many authors of ingenuity, ancient and 
 modern, have made excursions into this vast territory, and have 
 communicated useful observations : but there is reason to be- 
 lieve, that those who have pretended to give us a map of the 
 whole, have satisfied themselves with a very inaccurate and in- 
 complete survey. If Galileo had attempted a complete system 
 of natural philosophy, he had, probably, done little sendee to 
 mankind : but by confining himself to what was within his com- 
 prehension, he laid the foundation of a system of knowledge, 
 which rises by degrees, and does honour to the human under- 
 standing. Newton, building upon this foundation, and in like 
 manner confining his inquiries to the law of gravitation and the 
 properties of light, performed wonders. If he had attempted a 
 great deal more, he had done a great deal less, and perhaps 
 nothing at all. Ambitious of following such great examples, 
 with unequal steps, alas ! and unequal force, we have attempted 
 an inquiry only into one little corner of the human mind ; that 
 corner which seems to be most exposed to vulgar observation, 
 and to be most easily comprehended ; and yet, if we have deli- 
 neated it justly, it must be acknowledged, that the accounts 
 heretofore given of it, were very lame, and wide of the truth. 
 
 
AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY :* 
 
 OCCASIONED BY READING A TREATISE IN WHICH SIMPLE AND 
 COMPOUND RATIOS ARE APPLIED TO VIRTUE AND MERIT. 
 
 I. What quantity is. — Since mathematical demonstration is 
 thought to carry a peculiar evidence along with it, which leaves 
 no room for further dispute, it may be of some use, or entertain- 
 ment at least, to inquire to what subjects this kind of proof 
 may be applied. 
 
 Mathematics contain properly the doctrine of measure ; and 
 the object of this science is commonly said to be quantity ; there- 
 fore quantity ought to be denned, what may be measured. 
 Those who have defined quantity to be whatever is capable of 
 more or less, have given too wide a notion of it, which, 1 appre- 
 hend, has led some persons to apply mathematical reasoning to 
 subjects that do not admit of it. 
 
 Pain and pleasure admit of various degrees, but who can pre- 
 tend to measure them ? Had this been possible, it is not to be 
 doubted but we should have had as distinct names for their 
 various degrees as we have for measures of length or capacity ; 
 and a patient should have been able to describe the quantity of 
 his pain, as well as the time it began, or the part it affected. 
 To talk intelligibly of the quantity of pain, we should have some 
 standard to measure it by; some known degree of it, so well 
 ascertained, that all men, when they talked of it, should mean 
 the same thing ; we should also be able to compare other degrees 
 of pain with this, so as to perceive distinctly, not only whether 
 they exceed or fall short of it, but how far, or in what propor- 
 tion, — whether by a half, a fifth, or a tenth. 
 
 Whatever has quantity, or is measurable, must be made up 
 of parts, which bear proportion to one another and to the whole ; 
 so that it may be increased by addition of like parts, and dimin- 
 
 * This splendid specimen of metaphysical mathematics originally appeared 
 in the xlvth vol. of the " Philosophical Transactions," and has never before 
 been published in conjunction with the author's other Essays. 
 
592 AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 
 
 ished by subtraction, may be multiplied and divided, and, in a 
 word, may bear any proportion to another quantity of the same 
 kind, that one line or number can bear to another. That this 
 is essential to all mathematical quantity, is evident from the 
 first elements of algebra, which treats of quantity in general, or 
 of those relations and properties which are common to all kinds 
 of quantity. Every algebraical quantity is supposed capable not 
 only of being increased and diminished, but of being exactly 
 doubled, tripled, halved, or of bearing any assignable proportion 
 to another quantity of the same kind. This then is the charac- 
 teristic of quantity ; whatever has this property may be adopted 
 into mathematics, and its quantity and relations may be measured 
 with mathematical accuracy and certainty. 
 
 II. Of proper and improper quantity. — There are some quan- 
 tities which may be called proper and others improper. This 
 distinction is taken notice of by Aristotle, but it deserves some 
 explanation. 
 
 I call that proper quantity which is measured by its own kind, 
 or which of its own nature is capable of being doubled or tripled, 
 without taking in any quantity of a different kind as a measure 
 of it. Thus a line is measured by known lines, as inches, feet, 
 or miles ; and the length of a foot being known, there can be no 
 question about the length of two feet, or of any part or multiple 
 of a foot. And this known length, by being multiplied or 
 divided, is sufficient to give us a distinct idea of any length 
 whatsoever. 
 
 Improper quantity is that which cannot be measured by its 
 own kind ; but to which we assign a measure by the means 
 of some proper quantity that is related to it. Thus velocity of 
 motion, when we consider it by itself, cannot be measured. We 
 may perceive one body to move faster, another slower ; but we 
 can have no distinct idea of a proportion or ratio between their 
 velocities, without taking in some quantity of another kind to 
 measure them by. Having, therefore, observed that by a greater 
 velocity a greater space is passed over in the same time, by a less 
 velocity in a less space, and by an equal velocity in an equal 
 space ; we hence learn to measure velocity by the space passed 
 over in a given time, and to reckon it to be in exact proportion 
 to that space. And having once assigned this measure to it, we 
 can then, and not till then, conceive one velocity to be exactly 
 double, or half, or in any other proportion to another ; we may 
 then introduce it into mathematical reasoning without danger of 
 confusion or error, and may also use it as a measure of other 
 improper quantities. 
 
 All the kinds of proper quantity we know, may, I think, be 
 reduced to these four : extension, duration, number, and propor- 
 tion. Though proportion be measurable in its own nature, and 
 
AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 593 
 
 therefore hath proper quantity, yet as things cannot have propor- 
 tion which have not quantity of some other kind, it follows that 
 whatever has quantity must have it in one or other of these three 
 kinds, extension, duration, or number. These are the measure 
 of themselves, and of all things else that are measurable. 
 
 Number is applicable to some things to which it is not com- 
 monly applied by the vulgar. Thus, by attentive consideration, 
 lots and chances of various kinds appear to be made up of a 
 determinate number of chances that are allowed to be equal ; 
 and by numbering these the values and proportions of those 
 which are compounded of them may be demonstrated. 
 
 Velocity, the quantity of motion, density, elasticity, the vis 
 insita, and impressa, the various kinds of centripetal forces, and 
 different orders of fluxions, are all improper quantities, which, 
 therefore, ought not to be admitted into mathematics without 
 having a measure of them assigned. The measure of an impro- 
 per quantity ought always to be included in the definition of it ; 
 for it is the giving it a measure that makes it a proper subject 
 of mathematical reasoning. If all mathematicians had considered 
 this as carefully as Sir Isaac Newton appears to have done, some 
 labour had been saved both to themselves and to their readers. 
 That great man, whose clear and comprehensive understanding 
 appears even in his definitions, having frequent occasion to treat of 
 such improper quantities, never fails to define them, so as to give 
 a measure of them, either in proper quantities, or in such as had 
 a known measure. This may be seen in the definitions prefixed 
 to his " Princip. Phil. Nat. Math." 
 
 It is not easy to say how many kinds of improper quantity 
 may in time be introduced into mathematics, or to what new 
 subjects measures may be applied ; but this, I think, we may 
 conclude, that there is no foundation in nature for, nor can any 
 valuable end be served by, applying measure to anything but 
 what has these two properties. First, it must admit of degrees 
 of greater and less. Secondly, it must be associated with, or 
 related to something that has proper quantity, so as that when 
 one is increased the other is increased, when one is diminished 
 the other is diminished also ; and every degree of the one must 
 have a determinate magnitude or quantity of the other corres- 
 ponding to it. 
 
 It sometimes happens that w T e have occasion to apply different 
 measures to the same thing. Centripetal force, as defined by 
 Newton, may be measured various ways ; he himself gives differ- 
 ent measures of it, and distinguishes them by different names, as 
 may be seen in the above-mentioned definitions. 
 
 In reality, I conceive that the applying of measures to things 
 that properly have not quantity, is only a fiction or artifice of 
 
 2 Q 
 
594 AN ESSAY 0N QUANTITY. 
 
 the mind, for enabling us to conceive more easily and more dis- 
 tinctly to express and demonstrate the properties and relations 
 of those things that have real quantity. The propositions con- 
 tained in the two first books of Newton's " Principia," might, 
 perhaps, be expressed and demonstrated without those various 
 measures of motion, and of centripetal and impressed forces, 
 which he uses. But this would occasion such intricate and per- 
 plexed circumlocutions, and such a tedious length of demonstra- 
 tions, as would fright any sober person from attempting to read 
 them. 
 
 III. Corollary First. — From the nature of quantity we may 
 see what it is that gives mathematics such advantage over other 
 sciences in clearness and certainty ; namely, that quantity admits 
 of a much greater variety of relations than any other subject of 
 human reasoning ; and, at the same time, every relation or pro- 
 portion of quantities may, by the help of lines and numbers, be 
 so distinctly defined as to be easily distinguished from all others, 
 without any danger of mistake. Hence it is that we are able to 
 trace its relations through a long process of reasoning, and with 
 a perspicuity and accuracy which we in vain expect in subjects 
 not capable of mensuration. 
 
 Extended quantities, such as lines, surfaces and solids, besides 
 what they have in common with all other quantities, have this 
 peculiar, that their parts have a particular place and disposition 
 among themselves : a line may not only bear any assignable pro- 
 portion to another, in length or magnitude, but lines of the same 
 length may vary in the disposition of their parts ; one may be 
 straight, another may be part of a curve of any kind or dimen- 
 sion, of which there is an endless variety. The like may be said 
 of surfaces and solids. So that extended quantities admit of no 
 less variety with regard to their form than with regard to their 
 magnitude ; and as their various forms may be exactly defined 
 and measured, no less than their magnitudes, hence it is that 
 geometry, which treats of extended quantity, leads us into a 
 much greater compass and variety of reasoning than any other 
 branch of mathematics. Long deductions in algebra for the most 
 part are made, not so much by a train of reasoning in the mind, 
 as by an artificial kind of operation, which is built on a few very 
 simple principles : but in geometry, we may build one proposi- 
 tion upon another, a third upon that, and so on, without ever 
 coming to a limit which we cannot exceed. The properties of 
 the more simple figures can hardly be exhausted, much less those 
 of the more complex ones. 
 
 IV. Cor oil. 2. — It may I think be deduced from what hath 
 been above said, that mathematical evidence is an evidence sui 
 generis, not competent to any proposition which does not express 
 
AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 595 
 
 a relation of things measurable by lines or numbers. All proper 
 quantity may be measured by these, and improper quantities 
 must be measured by those that are proper. 
 
 There are many things capable of more and less, which perhaps 
 are not capable of mensuration. Tastes, smells, the sensation of 
 heat and cold, beauty, pleasure, all the affections and appetites 
 of the mind, wisdom, folly, and most kinds of probability, with 
 many other things too tedious to enumerate, admit of degrees, 
 but have not yet been reduced to measure, nor, as I apprehend, 
 ever can be. I say, most kinds of probability, because one kind 
 of it, viz., the probability of chances, is properly measurable by 
 number, as is above observed. 
 
 Although attempts have been made to apply mathematical 
 reasoning to some of these things, and the quantity of virtue and 
 merit in actions has been measured by simple and compound 
 ratios : yet I do not think that any real knowledge has been 
 struck out this way : it may perhaps, if discreetly used, be a help 
 to discourse on these subjects, by pleasing the imagination, and 
 illustrating what is already known ; but until our affections and 
 appetites shall themselves be reduced to quantity, and exact 
 measures of their various degrees be assigned, in vain shall we 
 essay to measure virtue and merit by them. This is only to ring- 
 changes upon words, and to make a show of mathematical reason- 
 ing, without advancing one step in real knowledge. 
 
 V. Coroll. 3. — I apprehend the account that hath been given 
 of the nature of proper and improper quantity, may also throw 
 some light upon the controversy about the force of moving bodies, 
 which long exercised the pens of many mathematicians, and, for 
 what I know, is rather dropped than ended ; to the no small 
 scandal of mathematics, which hath always boasted of a degree 
 of evidence, inconsistent with debates that can be brought to 
 no issue. 
 
 Though philosophers on both sides agree with one another, 
 and with the vulgar in this, That the force of a moving body is 
 the same while its velocity is the same, is increased when its 
 velocity is increased, and diminished when that is diminished. 
 But this vague notion of force, in which both sides agree, though 
 perhaps sufficient for common discourse, yet is not sufficient to 
 make it a subject of mathematical reasoning. In order to that, 
 it must be more accurately defined, and so defined as to give us 
 a measure of it, that we may understand what is meant by a 
 double or a triple force. The ratio of one force to another can- 
 not be perceived but by a measure ; and that measure must be 
 settled not by mathematical reasoning, but by a definition. Let 
 any one consider force without relation to any other quantity, 
 and see whether he can conceive one force exactly double to 
 another ; I am sure I cannot, nor shall, till I shall be endowed 
 
J! 
 
 59g AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 
 
 with some new faculty ; for I know nothing of force but by its 
 effects, and therefore can measure it only by its effects. Till 
 force then is defined, and by that definition a measure of it 
 assigned, we fight in the dark about a vague idea, which is not 
 sufficiently determined to be admitted into any mathematical 
 proposition. And when such a definition is given, the contro- 
 versy will presently be ended. 
 
 VI. Of the Newtonian measure of force. — You say, the force 
 of a body in motion is as its velocity ; either you mean to lay 
 this down as a definition as Newton himself has done ; or you 
 mean to affirm it as a proposition capable of proof. If you mean 
 to lay it down as a definition, it is no more than if you should 
 say, I call that a double force which gives a double velocity to 
 the same body, a triple force which gives, a triple velocity, and so 
 on in proportion. This I entirely agree to ; no mathematical 
 definition of force can be given that is more clear and simple, 
 none that is more agreeable to the common use of the word in 
 language. For since all men agree, that the force of the body 
 being the same, the velocity must also be the same ; the force 
 being increased or diminished, the velocity must be so also; what 
 can be more natural or proper than to take the velocity for the 
 measure of the force ? 
 
 Several other things might be advanced to show, that this defi- 
 nition agrees best with the common popular notion of the word 
 force. If two bodies meet directly with a shock, which mutually 
 destroys their motion without producing any other sensible effect, 
 the vulgar would pronounce, without hesitation, that they met 
 with equal force ; and so they do, according to the measure of 
 force above laid down : for we find by experience, that in this 
 case their velocities are reciprocally as their quantities of matter. 
 In mechanics, where by a machine two powers or weights are 
 kept in equilibrio, the vulgar would reckon, that these powers 
 act with equal force ; and so by this definition they do. The 
 power of gravity being constant and uniform, any one would 
 expect that it should give equal degrees of force to a body in equal 
 times ; and so by this definition it does. So that this definition 
 is not only clear and simple, but it agrees best with the use 
 of the word force in common language, and this, I think, is all 
 that can be desired in a definition. 
 
 But if you are not satisfied with laying it down as a definition, 
 that the force of a body is as its velocity, but will needs prove 
 it by demonstration or experiment, I must beg of you, before 
 you take one step in the proof, to let me know what you mean 
 by force, and what by a double or a triple force. This you must 
 do by a definition which contains a measure of force. Some pri- 
 mary measure of force must be taken for granted, or laid down 
 by way of definition ; otherwise we can never reason about its 
 
AN ESSAY OX QUANTITY. 59- 
 
 quantity. And why, then, may you not take the velocity for 
 the primary measure, as well as any other ? You will find none 
 that is more simple, more distinct, or more agreeable to the 
 common use of the word force : and he that rejects one definition 
 that has these properties, has equal right to reject any other. I 
 say, then, that it is impossible, by mathematical reasoning or 
 experiment, to prove that the force of a body is as its velocity, 
 without taking for granted the thing you would prove, or some- 
 thing else that is no more evident than the thing to be proved. 
 
 VII. Of the Leibnitzian measure of force. — Let us next hear 
 the Leibnitzian, who says, that the force of a body is as the 
 square of its velocity. If he lays this down as a definition, I 
 shall rather agree to it, than quarrel about words, and for the 
 future shall understand him, by a quadruple force, to mean that 
 which gives a double velocity, by nine times the force that which 
 gives three times the velocity, and -so on in duplicate proportion. 
 While he keeps by his definition, it will not necessarily lead him 
 into any error in mathematics or mechanics. For, however 
 paradoxical his conclusions may appear, however different in 
 words from theirs who measure force by the simple ratio of the 
 velocity, they will, in their meaning, be the same : just as he 
 who would call a foot twenty-four inches, without changing other 
 measures of length, when he says a yard contains a foot and 
 a-half, means the very same as you do, when you say a yard con- 
 tains three feet. 
 
 But though I allow this measure of force to be distinct, and 
 cannot charge it with falsehood, for no definition can be false, 
 yet I say, in the first place, it is less simple than the other ; for 
 why should a duplicate ratio be used, where the simple ratio 
 will do as well ? In the next place, this measure of force is less 
 agreeable to the common use of the word force, as hath been 
 shown above : and this, indeed, is all that the many laboured 
 arguments and experiments, brought to overturn it, do prove. 
 This also is evident, from the paradoxes into which it has led its 
 defenders. 
 
 We are next to consider the pretences of the Leibnitzian, 
 who will undertake to prove, by demonstration or experiment, 
 that force is as the square of the velocity. I ask him first, what 
 he lays down for the first measure of force ? The only measure 
 I remember to have been given by the philosophers of that side, 
 and which seems first of all to have led Leibnitz into his notion 
 of force, is this : the height to which a body is impelled by any 
 impressed force, is, says he, the whole effect of that force, and 
 therefore must be proportional to- the cause ; but this height is 
 found to be as the square of the velocity, which the body had 
 at the beginning of its motion. 
 
 In this argument, I apprehend that great man has been ex- 
 
598 
 
 AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 
 
 tremely unfortunate. For, first, Whereas all proof should be 
 taken from principles that are common to both sides, in order to 
 prove a thing we deny, he assumes a principle which we think 
 further from the truth ; namely, that the height to which the 
 body rises is the whole effect of the impulse, and ought to be 
 the whole measure of it. Secondly, His reasoning serves as well 
 against him as for him. For may I not plead with as good rea- 
 son, at least, thus ? The velocity given by an impressed force, 
 is the whole effect of that impressed force ; and therefore the 
 force must be as the velocity. Thirdly, Supposing the height to 
 which the body is raised to be the measure of the force, this 
 principle overturns the conclusion he would establish by it, as 
 well as that which he opposes. For, supposing the first velocity 
 of the body to be still the same, the height to which it rises will 
 be increased, if the power of gravity is diminished ; and dimi- 
 nished, if the power of gravity is increased. Bodies descend 
 slower at the equator, and faster towards the poles, as is found 
 by experiments made on pendulums. If, then, a body is driven 
 upwards at the equator with a given velocity, and the same body 
 is afterwards driven upwards at Leipsic with the same velocity, 
 the height to which it rises in the former case will be greater 
 than in the latter ; and therefore, according to his reasoning, 
 its force was greater in the former case ; but the velocity in 
 both was the same ; consequently, the force is not as the square 
 of the velocity, any more than as the velocity. 
 
 VIII. Reflections on this controversy . — Upon the whole, I 
 cannot but think the controvertists on both sides have had a 
 very hard task ; the one to prove, by mathematical reasoning 
 and experiment, what ought to be taken for granted ; the other, 
 by the same means, to prove what might be granted, making 
 some allowance for impropriety of expression, but can never be 
 proved. 
 
 If some mathematician should take it in his head to affirm, 
 that the velocity of a body is not as the space it passes over in 
 a given time, but as the square of that space, you might bring 
 mathematical arguments and experiments to confute him ; but 
 you would never by these force him to yield, if he was inge- 
 nuous in his way ; because you have no common principles left 
 you to argue from, and you differ from one another, not in a 
 mathematical proposition, but in a mathematical definition. 
 
 Suppose a philosopher has considered only that measure of 
 centripetal force which is proportional to the velocity generated 
 by it in a given time, and from this measure deduces several 
 propositions: another philosopher, in a distant country, who 
 has the same general notion of centripetal force, takes the velo- 
 city generated by it, and the quantity of matter together, as 
 the measure of it. From this he deduces several conclusions, 
 
 X 
 
AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 599 
 
 that seem directly contrary to those of the other. Thereupon, 
 a serious controversy is begun, whether centripetal force be as 
 the velocity, or as the velocity and quantity of matter taken 
 together. Much mathematical and experimental dust is raised ; 
 and yet neither party can ever be brought to yield ; for they are 
 both in the right, only they have been unlucky in giving the 
 same name to different mathematical conceptions. Had they 
 distinguished these measures of centripetal force as Newton has 
 done, calling the one "vis centripetse quantitatis acceleratrix," 
 the other, " quantitas motrix," all appearance of contradiction 
 had ceased, and their propositions, which seem so contrary, had 
 exactly tallied. 
 
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 EDITOR OF THE WORKS OF LOCKE, BERKELEY, STEWART, ETC. 
 
 VOL, II, 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG, CHEAPSIDE ; 
 
 R. GRIFFIN AND CO., GLASGOW; T. MESSURIER, DUBLIN; 
 J. AND S. A. TEGG, SYDNEY AND HOBART TOWN. 
 
 MDCCCXLIII. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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