THE
PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS
OF
DAVID HUME.
INCLUDING ALL THE ESSAYS, AND EXHIBITING THE
MORE IMPORTANT ALTERATIONS AND CORRECTIONS
IN THE SUCCESSIVE EDITIONS PUBLISHED
BY THE AUTHOR.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED FOR ADAM BLACK AND WILLIAM TAIT;
AND CHARLES TAIT, 63, FLEET STREET,
LONDON.
MDCCCXXVI.
[Illustration: Allan Ramsey pinx.--Robert Grace Sculp.--David Hume]
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Philosophical Writings of Mr Hume are here for the first time
collected in a uniform edition. The Essays are reprinted from the
Edition of 1777, in two octavo volumes, corrected by the Author for
the press, a short time before his death, and which he desired might
be regarded as containing his philosophical principles. The text of
that Edition has been faithfully adhered to in the present; but as
it has been thought an interesting object of curiosity, to trace the
successive variations of sentiment and taste in a mind like that of
Hume, and to mark the gradual and most observable increase of caution
in his expression of those sentiments, it has been the care of the
present Editor to compare the former Editions, of which a List is
here subjoined, and where any alterations were discovered, not merely
verbal, but illustrative of the philosophical opinions of the author,
to add these as Notes to the passages where they occur.
The Essays contained in the early Editions, but which were omitted
in that of 1777, will be found at the end of the last volume of the
present Collection of his Works, together with the Two Essays, on
Suicide, and the Immortality of the Soul.
In addition to the Author's Life, written by himself, the Account
of the Controversy with M. Rousseau has also been prefixed. It was
originally printed in French, and shortly afterwards in English, in the
year 1766. The English translation was superintended by Mr Hume; and as
it relates to an extraordinary occurrence in the Lives of these eminent
philosophers, has been thought a suitable appendage to the short Memoir
of himself.
EDINBURGH,
JUNE 1825.
EDITIONS OF THE ESSAYS COLLATED AND REFERRED TO.
Essays, Moral and Political. Edinburgh, Kincaid, 1741.
12mo. (A)
Essays, Moral and Political, Vol. II. Edinburgh, Kincaid,
1742. 12mo. pp. 105. (B)
Essays, Moral and Political, 2d Edition, corrected.
Edinburgh, Kincaid, 1742. 12mo. pp. 189. (C)
Essays, Moral and Political. By D. Hume, Esq. 3d Edition,
corrected, with additions. London, Millar, 1748. 12mo. (D)
Three Essays, Moral and Political, never before published,
which completes the former Edition, in two volumes octavo.
By D. Hume, Esq. London, Millar, 1748. 12mo. (E)
Political Discourses. By D. Hume, Esq. Edinburgh, Kincaid,
1752. Small 8vo. _To this Edition there is sometimes added
'a List of Scotticisms_.' (F)
Political Discourses. By D. Hume, Esq. 2d Edition.
Edinburgh, Kincaid, 1752. 12mo. _Merely a reprint of the
preceding_. (G)
Essays and Treatises on several Subjects. By D. Hume, Esq.
Vol. IV. containing Political Discourses. 3d Edition, with
Additions and Corrections. London, Millar, 1754. (H)
Four Dissertations: 1st, Natural History of Religion: 2d,
of the Passions: 3d, of Tragedy: 4th, of the Standard of
Taste. By D. Hume, Esq. London, Millar, 1757. 12mo. (I)
Philosophical Essays concerning Human Understanding. By the
Author of the Essays Moral and Political. London, Millar,
1748. 12mo. (K)
Philosophical Essays concerning Human Understanding. By
D. Hume, Esq. 2d Edition, with Additions and Corrections.
London, Millar, 1750. 12mo. (L)
An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals. By D. Hume,
Esq. London, Millar, 1751. (M)
Essays and Treatises on several Subjects. By D. Hume, Esq.
London, Millar, 1768. 2 vols. 4to. (N)
Essays and Treatises on several Subjects. By D. Hume, Esq.
London, Cadell, 1777. 2 vols 8vo. (O)
_The above List comprehends all the Editions which vary
materially from each other. Those which have been found on
examination to be mere reprints, are not included._
CONTENTS OF VOLUME FIRST.
Life of the Author
Letter from Adam Smith, LL.D. to William Strachan Esq.,
and Latter-will and Testament of Mr Hume
Account of the Controversy between Hume and Rousseau
List of Scotticisms
TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.
INTRODUCTION
BOOK I.--OF THE UNDERSTANDING.
PART I.
OF IDEAS, THEIR ORIGIN, COMPOSITION, CONNEXION, ABSTRACTION, &c.
Of the Origin of our Ideas
Division of the Subject
Of the Ideas of the Memory and Imagination
Of the Connexion or Association of Ideas
Of Relations
Of Modes and Substances
Of Abstract Ideas
PART II.
OF THE IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.
Of the infinite Divisibility of our Ideas of Space and Time
Of the infinite Divisibility of Space and Time
Of the other Qualities of our Ideas of Space and Time
Objections answered
The same Subject continued
Of the Idea of Existence, and of external Existence
PART III.
OF KNOWLEDGE AND PROBABILITY.
Of Knowledge
Of Probability, and of the Idea of Cause and Effect
Why a Cause is always necessary
Of the component parts of our Reasonings concerning Cause and
effect
Of the Impressions of the Senses and Memory
Of the Inference from the Impression to the Ideax
Of the Nature of the Idea or Belief
Of the Causes of Belief
Of the Effects of other Relations and other Habits
Of the Influence of Belief
Of the Probability of Chances
Of the Probability of Causes
Of unphilosophical Probability
Of the Idea of Necessary Connexion
Rules by which to judge of Causes and Effectsx
Of the Reason of Animals
PART IV.
OF THE SCEPTICAL AND OTHER SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY.
Of Scepticism with regard to Reason
Of Scepticism with regard to the Sensesx
Of the Ancient Philosophy
Of the Modern Philosophyx
Of the Immateriality of the Soul
Of Personal Identity
Conclusion of this Book
LIFE OF THE AUTHOR BY HIMSELF.
MY OWN LIFE.
It is difficult for a man to speak long of himself without vanity;
therefore, I shall be short. It may be thought an instance of vanity
that I pretend at all to write my life; but this Narrative shall
contain little more than the History of my Writings; as, indeed, almost
all my life has been spent in literary pursuits and occupations. The
first success of most of my writings was not such as to be an object of
vanity.
I was born the 26th of April 1711, old style, at Edinburgh. I was of a
good family, both by father and mother. My father's family is a branch
of the Earl of Home's or Hume's; and my ancestors had been proprietors
of the estate, which my brother possesses, for several generations. My
mother was daughter of Sir David Falconer, President of the College of
Justice; the title of Lord Halkerton came by succession to her brother.
My family, however, was not rich; and, being myself a younger brother,
my patrimony, according to the mode of my country, was of course very
slender. My father, who passed for a man of parts, died when I was
an infant, leaving me, with an elder brother and a sister, under the
care of our mother, a woman of singular merit, who, though young and
handsome, devoted herself entirely to the rearing and educating of
her children. I passed through the ordinary course of education with
success, and was seized very early with a passion for literature, which
has been the ruling passion of my life, and the great source of my
enjoyments. My studious disposition, my sobriety, and my industry, gave
my family a notion that the law was a proper profession for me; but I
found an unsurmountable aversion to every thing but the pursuits of
philosophy and general learning; and while they fancied I was poring
upon Voet and Vinnius, Cicero and Virgil were the authors which I was
secretly devouring.
My very slender fortune, however, being unsuitable to this plan of
life, and my health being a little broken by my ardent application, I
was tempted, or rather forced, to make a very feeble trial for entering
into a more active scene of life. In 1734, I went to Bristol, with some
recommendations to eminent merchants, but in a few months found that
scene totally unsuitable to me, I went over to France, with a view of
prosecuting my studies in a country retreat; and I there laid that plan
of life, which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I resolved
to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune, to
maintain unimpaired my independency, and to regard every object as
contemptible, except the improvement of my talents in literature.
During my retreat in France, first at Rheims, but chiefly at La Flêche,
in Anjou, I composed my _Treatise of Human Nature_. After passing three
years very agreeably in that country, I came over to London in 1737.
In the end of 1738, I published my Treatise, and immediately went down
to my mother and my brother, who lived at his country-house, and was
employing himself very judiciously and successfully in the improvement
of his fortune.
Never literary attempt was more unfortunate than my Treatise of Human
Nature. It fell _dead-born from the press_, without reaching such
distinction, as even to excite a murmur among the zealots. But being
naturally of a cheerful and sanguine temper, I very soon recovered
the blow, and prosecuted with great ardour my studies in the country.
In 1742, I printed at Edinburgh the first part of my Essays: the work
was favourably received, and soon made me entirely forget my former
disappointment. I continued with my mother and brother in the country,
and in that time recovered the knowledge of the Greek language, which I
had too much neglected in my early youth.
In 1745, I received a letter from the Marquis of Annandale, inviting me
to come and live with him in England; I found also, that the friends
and family of that young nobleman were desirous of putting him under
my care and direction, for the state of his mind and health required
it. I lived with him a twelvemonth. My appointments during that time
made a considerable accession to my small fortune. I then received
an invitation from General St Clair to attend him as a secretary to
his expedition, which was at first meant against Canada, but ended
in an incursion on the coast of France. Next year, to wit, 1747, I
received an invitation from the General to attend him in the same
station in his military embassy to the courts of Vienna and Turin.
I then wore the uniform of an officer, and was introduced at these
courts as _aide-de-camp_ to the General, along with Sir Harry Erskine
and Captain Grant, now General Grant. These two years were almost the
only interruptions which my studies have received during the course
of my life. I passed them agreeably, and in good company; and my
appointments, with my frugality, had made me reach a fortune, which I
called independent, though most of my friends were inclined to smile
when I said so; in short, I was now master of near a thousand pounds.
I had always entertained a notion, that my want of success in
publishing the Treatise of Human Nature, had proceeded more from the
manner than the matter, and that I had been guilty of a very usual
indiscretion, in going to the press too early. I, therefore, cast
the first part of that work anew in the Inquiry concerning Human
Understanding, which was published while I was at Turin. But this piece
was at first little more successful than the Treatise of Human Nature.
On my return from Italy, I had the mortification to find all England
in a ferment, on account of Dr Middleton's Free Inquiry, while my
performance was entirely overlooked and neglected. A new edition, which
had been published at London, of my Essays, Moral and Political, met
not with a much better reception.
Such is the force of natural temper, that these disappointments made
little or no impression on me. I went down in 1749, and lived two years
with my brother at his country-house, for my mother was now dead. I
there composed the second part of my Essays, which I called Political
Discourses, and also my Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals,
which is another part of my Treatise that I cast anew. Meanwhile, my
bookseller A. Millar informed me, that my former publications (all
but the unfortunate Treatise) were beginning to be the subject of
conversation; that the sale of them was gradually increasing, and that
new editions were demanded. Answers by Reverends, and Right Reverends,
came out two or three in a year; and I found, by Dr Warburton's
railing, that the books were beginning to be esteemed in good company.
However, I had fixed a resolution, which I inflexibly maintained, never
to reply to any body; and not being very irascible in my temper, I have
easily kept myself clear of all literary squabbles. These symptoms of
a rising reputation gave me encouragement, as I was ever more disposed
to see the favourable than unfavourable side of things; a turn of mind
which it is more happy to possess, than to be born to an estate of ten
thousand a year.
In 1751, I removed from the country to the town, the true scene for
a man of letters. In 1752, were published at Edinburgh, where I
then lived, my Political Discourses, the only work of mine that was
successful on the first publication. It was well received abroad
and at home. In the same year was published at London, my Inquiry
concerning the Principles of Morals; which, in my own opinion (who
ought not to judge on that subject), is of all my writings, historical,
philosophical, or literary, incomparably the best. It came unnoticed
and unobserved into the world.
In 1752, the Faculty of Advocates chose me their Librarian, an office
from which I received little or no emolument, but which gave me the
command of a large library. I then formed the plan of writing the
History of England; but being frightened with the notion of continuing
a narrative through a period of 1700 years, I commenced with the
accession of the House of Stuart, an epoch when, I thought, the
misrepresentations of faction began chiefly to take place. I was, I
own, sanguine in my expectations of the success of this work. I thought
that I was the only historian that had at once neglected present
power, interest, and authority, and the cry of popular prejudices; and
as the subject was suited to every capacity, I expected proportional
applause. But miserable was my disappointment: I was assailed by one
cry of reproach, disapprobation, and even detestation; English, Scotch,
and Irish, Whig and Tory, Churchman and Sectary, Free-thinker and
Religionist, Patriot and Courtier, united in their rage against the
man, who had presumed to shed a generous tear for the fate of Charles
I. and the Earl of Strafford; and after the first ebullitions of their
fury were over, what was still more mortifying, the book seemed to sink
into oblivion. Mr Millar told me, that in a twelvemonth he sold only
forty-five copies of it. I scarcely, indeed, heard of one man in the
three kingdoms, considerable for rank or letters, that could endure the
book. I must only except the primate of England, Dr Herring, and the
primate of Ireland, Dr Stone, which seem two odd exceptions. These
dignified prelates separately sent me messages not to be discouraged.
I was however, I confess, discouraged; and had not the war been at that
time breaking out between France and England, I had certainly retired
to some provincial town of the former kingdom, have changed my name,
and never more have returned to my native country. But as this scheme
was not now practicable, and the subsequent volume was considerably
advanced, I resolved to pick up courage, and to persevere.
In this interval, I published at London my Natural History of Religion,
along with some other small pieces. Its public entry was rather
obscure, except only that Dr Hurd wrote a pamphlet against it, with all
the illiberal petulance, arrogance and scurrility, which distinguish
the Warburtonian school. This pamphlet gave me some consolation for the
otherwise indifferent reception of my performance.
In 1756, two years after the fall of the first volume, was published
the second volume of my History, containing the period from the death
of Charles I. till the Revolution. This performance happened to give
less displeasure to the Whigs, and was better received. It not only
rose itself, but helped to buoy up its unfortunate brother.
But though I had been taught, by experience, that the Whig party
were in possession of bestowing all places, both in the state and
in literature, I was so little inclined to yield to their senseless
clamour, that in above a hundred alterations, which farther study,
reading or reflection, engaged me to make in the reigns of the two
first Stuarts, I have made all of them invariably to the Tory side. It
is ridiculous to consider the English constitution before that period
as a regular plan of liberty.
In 1759, I published my History of the House of Tudor. The clamour
against this performance was almost equal to that against the History
of the two first Stuarts. The reign of Elizabeth was particularly
obnoxious. But I was now callous against the impressions of public
folly, and continued very peaceably and contentedly in my retreat
at Edinburgh, to finish, in two volumes, the more early part of the
English History, which I gave to the public in 1761, with tolerable,
and but tolerable success.
But, notwithstanding this variety of winds and seasons, to which my
writings had been exposed, they had still been making such advances,
that the copy-money given me by the booksellers, much exceeded any
thing formerly known in England; I was become not only independent, but
opulent. I retired to my native country of Scotland, determined never
more to set my foot out of it; and retaining the satisfaction of never
having preferred a request to one great man, or even making advances of
friendship to any of them. As I was now turned of fifty, I thought of
passing all the rest of my life in this philosophical manner, when I
received, in 1763, an invitation from the Earl of Hertford, with whom I
was not in the least acquainted, to attend him on his embassy to Paris,
with a near prospect of being appointed secretary to the embassy,
and, in the meanwhile, of performing the functions of that office.
This offer, however inviting, I at first declined, both because I was
reluctant to begin connexions with the great, and because I was afraid
that the civilities and gay company of Paris, would prove disagreeable
to a person of my age and humour: but on his Lordship's repeating the
invitation, I accepted of it, I have every reason, both of pleasure and
interest, to think myself happy in my connexions with that nobleman, as
well as afterwards with his brother, General Conway.
Those who have not seen the strange effects of Modes, will never
imagine the reception I met with at Paris, from men and women of all
ranks and stations. The more I resiled from their excessive civilities,
the more I was loaded with them. There is, however, a real satisfaction
in living at Paris, from the great number of sensible, knowing, and
polite company with which that city abounds above all places in the
universe. I thought once of settling there for life.
I was appointed secretary to the embassy; and, in summer 1765, Lord
Hertford left me, being appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. I was
_chargé d'affaires_ till the arrival of the Duke of Richmond, towards
the end of the year. In the beginning of 1766, I left Paris, and
next summer went to Edinburgh, with the same view as formerly, of
burying myself in a philosophical retreat. I returned to that place,
not richer, but with much more money, and a much larger income,
by means of Lord Hertford's friendship, than I left it; and I was
desirous of trying what superfluity could produce, as I had formerly
made an experiment of a competency. But, in 1767, I received from Mr
Conway an invitation to be Under-secretary; and this invitation, both
the character of the person, and my connexions with Lord Hertford,
prevented me from declining. I returned to Edinburgh in 1769, very
opulent (for I possessed a revenue of 1000_l_. a year), healthy, and,
though somewhat stricken in years, with the prospect of enjoying long
my ease, and of seeing the increase of my reputation.
In spring 1775, I was struck with a disorder in my bowels, which at
first gave me no alarm, but has since, as I apprehend it, become
mortal and incurable. I now reckon upon a Speedy dissolution. I have
suffered very little pain from my disorder; and what is more strange,
have, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered
a moment's abatement of my spirits; insomuch, that were I to name the
period of my life, which I should most choose to pass over again, I
might be tempted to point to this later period. I possess the same
ardour as ever in study, and the same gaiety in company. I consider,
besides, that a man of sixty-five, by dying, cuts off only a few
years of infirmities; and though I see many symptoms of my literary
reputation's breaking out at last with additional lustre, I knew that
I could have but few years to enjoy it. It is difficult to be more
detached from life than I am at present.
To conclude historically with my own character. I am, or rather was
(for that is the style I must now use in speaking of myself, which
emboldens me the more to speak my sentiments); I was, I say, a man
of mild dispositions, of command of temper, of an open, social,
and cheerful humour, capable of attachment, but little susceptible
of enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions. Even my
love of literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper,
notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. My company was not
unacceptable to the young and careless, as well as to the studious and
literary; and as I took a particular pleasure in the company of modest
women, I had no reason to be displeased with the reception I met with
from them. In a word, though most men any wise eminent, have found
reason to complain of calumny, I never was touched, or even attacked
by her baleful tooth: and though I wantonly exposed myself to the
rage of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed
in my behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never had occasion to
vindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct: not but
that the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent
and propagate any story to my disadvantage, but they could never find
any which they thought would wear the face of probability. I cannot say
there is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope
it is not a misplaced one; and this is a matter of fact which is easily
cleared and ascertained.
APRIL 18. 1776.
LETTER FROM ADAM SMITH, LL.D.
TO
WILLIAM STRACHAN, ESQ.
_Kirkaldy, Fifeshire, Nov_. 9, 1776.
DEAR SIR,
It is with a real, though a very melancholy pleasure, that I sit down
to give you some account of the behaviour of our late excellent friend,
Mr Hume, during his last illness.
Though, in his own judgment, his disease was mortal and incurable,
yet he allowed himself to be prevailed upon, by the entreaty of his
friends, to try what might be the effects of a long journey. A few
days before he set out, he wrote that account of his own life, which,
together with his other papers, he has left to your care. My account,
therefore, shall begin where his ends.
He set out for London towards the end of April, and at Morpeth met
with Mr John Home and myself, who had both come down from London on
purpose to see him, expecting to have found him at Edinburgh. Mr Home
returned with him, and attended him during the whole of his stay in
England, with that care and attention which might be expected from a
temper so perfectly friendly and affectionate. As I had written to my
mother that she might expect me in Scotland, I was under the necessity
of continuing my journey. His disease seemed to yield to exercise
and change of air, and when he arrived in London, he was apparently
in much better health than when he left Edinburgh. He was advised to
go to Bath to drink the waters, which appeared for some time to have
so good an effect upon him, that even he himself began to entertain,
what he was not apt to do, a better opinion of his own health. His
symptoms, however, soon returned with their usual violence, and from
that moment he gave up all thoughts of recovery, but submitted with the
utmost cheerfulness, and the most perfect complacency and resignation.
Upon his return to Edinburgh, though he found himself much weaker, yet
his cheerfulness never abated, and he continued to divert himself,
as usual, with correcting his own works for a new edition, with
reading books of amusement, with the conversation of his friends; and,
sometimes in the evening, with a party at his favourite game of whist.
His cheerfulness was so great, and his conversation and amusements run
so much in their usual strain, that, notwithstanding all bad symptoms,
many people could not believe he was dying. "I shall tell your friend,
Colonel Edmondstone," said Doctor Dundas to him one day, "that I left
you much better, and in a fair way of recovery." "Doctor," said he, "as
I believe you would not choose to tell any thing but the truth, you
had better tell him, that I am dying as fast as my enemies, if I have
any, could wish, and as easily and cheerfully as my best friends could
desire." Colonel Edmondstone soon afterwards came to see him, and take
leave of him; and on his way home, he could not forbear writing him a
letter bidding him once more an eternal adieu, and applying to him, as
to a dying man, the beautiful French verses in which the Abbé Chaulieu,
in expectation of his own death, laments his approaching separation
from his friend, the Marquis de la Fare. Mr Hume's magnanimity and
firmness were such, that his most affectionate friends knew that they
hazarded nothing in talking or writing to him as to a dying man,
and that so far from being hurt by this frankness, he was rather
pleased and flattered by it. I happened to come into his room while
he was reading this letter, which he had just received, and which he
immediately showed me. I told him, that though I was sensible how very
much he was weakened, and that appearances were in many respects very
bad, yet his cheerfulness was still so great, the spirit of life seemed
still to be so very strong in him, that I could not help entertaining
some faint hopes. He answered, "Your hopes are groundless. An habitual
diarrhoea of more than a year's standing, would be a very bad disease
at any age: at my age it is a mortal one. When I lie down in the
evening, I feel myself weaker than when I rose in the morning; and when
I rise in the morning, weaker than when I lay down in the evening. I
am sensible, besides, that some of my vital parts are affected, so
that I must soon die." "Well," said I, "if it must be so, you have at
least the satisfaction of leaving all your friends, your brother's
family in particular, in great prosperity." He said that he felt that
satisfaction so sensibly, that when he was reading, a few days before,
Lucian's Dialogues of the Dead, among all the excuses which are alleged
to Charon for not entering readily into his boat, he could not find
one that fitted him; he had no house to finish, he had no daughter to
provide for, he had no enemies upon whom he wished to revenge himself.
"I could not well imagine," said he, "what excuse I could make to
Charon in order to obtain a little delay. I have done every thing of
consequence which I ever meant to do; and I could at no time expect
to leave my relations and friends in a better situation than that in
which I am now likely to leave them. I therefore have all reason to die
contented." He then diverted himself with inventing several jocular
excuses, which he supposed he might make to Charon, and with imagining
the very surly answers which it might suit the character of Charon
to return to them. "Upon further consideration," said he, "I thought
I might say to him, Good Charon, I have been correcting my works for
a new edition. Allow me a little time, that I may see how the public
receives the alterations." But Charon would answer, "When you have seen
the effect of these, you will be for making other alterations. There
will be no end of such excuses; so, honest friend, please step into the
boat." But I might still urge, "Have a little patience, good Charon; I
have been endeavouring to open the eyes of the public. If I live a few
years longer, I may have the satisfaction of seeing the downfall of
some of the prevailing systems of superstition." But Charon would then
lose all temper and decency. "You loitering rogue, that will not happen
these many hundred years. Do you fancy I will grant you a lease for so
long a term? Get into the boat this instant, you lazy loitering rogue."
But, though Mr Hume always talked of his approaching dissolution
with great cheerfulness, he never affected to make any parade of his
magnanimity. He never mentioned the subject but when the conversation
naturally led to it, and never dwelt longer upon it than the course of
the conversation happened to require: it was a subject, indeed, which
occurred pretty frequently, in consequence of the inquiries which his
friends, who came to see him, naturally made concerning the state of
his health. The conversation which I mentioned above, and which passed
on Thursday the 8th of August, was the last, except one, that I ever
had with him. He had now become so very weak, that the company of his
most intimate friends fatigued him; for his cheerfulness was still so
great, his complaisance and social disposition were still so entire,
that when any friend was with him, he could not help talking more,
and with greater exertion, than suited the weakness of his body. At
his own desire, therefore, I agreed to leave Edinburgh, where I was
staying partly upon his account, and returned to my mother's house
here, at Kirkaldy, upon condition that he would send for me whenever he
wished to see me; the physician who saw him most frequently, Dr Black,
undertaking, in the mean time, to write me occasionally an account of
the state of his health.
On the 22d of August, the Doctor wrote me the following letter:
"Since my last, Mr Hume has passed his time pretty easily, but is
much weaker. He sits up, goes down stairs once a day, and amuses
himself with reading, but seldom sees anybody. He finds that even the
conversation of his most intimate friends fatigues and oppresses him;
and it is happy that he does not need it, for he is quite free from
anxiety, impatience, or low spirits, and passes his time very well with
the assistance of amusing books."
I received the day after a letter from Mr Hume himself, of which the
following is an extract.
"_Edinburgh_, 23_d August_, 1776.
"MY DEAREST FRIEND,
"I am obliged to make use of my nephew's hand in writing to you, as I
do not rise to-day.
* * * * *
"I go very fast to decline, and last night had a small fever, which I
hoped might put a quicker period to this tedious illness, but unluckily
it has, in a great measure, gone off. I cannot submit to your coming
over here on my account, as it is possible for me to see you so small a
part of the day, but Doctor Black can better inform you concerning the
degree of strength which may from time to time remain with me. Adieu,"
&c.
Three days after I received the following letter from Doctor Black.
"_Edinburgh, Monday_, 26_th August_, 1776.
"DEAR SIR,
"Yesterday about four o'clock afternoon, Mr Hume expired. The near
approach of his death became evident in the night between Thursday
and Friday, when his disease became excessive, and soon weakened him
so much, that he could no longer rise out of his bed. He continued to
the last perfectly sensible, and free from much pain or feelings of
distress. He never dropped the smallest expression of impatience; but
when he had occasion to speak to the people about him, always did it
with affection and tenderness. I thought it improper to write to bring
you over, especially as I heard that he had dictated a letter to you
desiring you not to come. When he became very weak, it cost him an
effort to speak, and he died in such a happy composure of mind, that
nothing could exceed it."
Thus died our most excellent, and never to be forgotten friend;
concerning whose philosophical opinions men will, no doubt, judge
variously, every one approving, or condemning them, according as they
happen to coincide or disagree with his own; but concerning whose
character and conduct there can scarce be a difference of opinion.
His temper, indeed, seemed to be more happily balanced, if I may be
allowed such an expression, than that perhaps of any other man I have
ever known. Even in the lowest state of his fortune, his great and
necessary frugality never hindered him from exercising, upon proper
occasions, acts both of charity and generosity. It was a frugality
founded, not upon avarice, but upon the love of independency. The
extreme gentleness of his nature never weakened either the firmness of
his mind, or the steadiness of his resolutions. His constant pleasantry
was the genuine effusion of good nature and good humour, tempered
with delicacy and modesty, and without even the slightest tincture of
malignity, so frequently the disagreeable source of what is called wit
in other men. It never was the meaning of his raillery to mortify;
and therefore, far from offending, it seldom failed to please and
delight, even those who were the objects of it. To his friends, who
were frequently the objects of it, there was not perhaps any one of all
his great and amiable qualities, which contributed more to endear his
conversation. And that gaiety of temper, so agreeable in society, but
which is so often accompanied with frivolous and superficial qualities,
was in him certainly attended with the most severe application, the
most extensive learning, the greatest depth of thought, and a capacity
in every respect the most comprehensive. Upon the whole, I have
always considered him, both in his lifetime and since his death, as
approaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man,
as perhaps the nature of human frailty will permit.
I ever am, dear Sir,
Most affectionately yours,
ADAM SMITH.
[Illustration: Drawn by A. Nasmyth--Engraved by W. Miller--HUME'S
MONUMENT, CALTON HILL.]
THE LATTER-WILL AND TESTAMENT OF DAVID HUME.
I, David Hume, second lawful son of Joseph Home of Ninewells,
advocate, for the love and affection I bear to John Home of Ninewells,
my brother, and for other causes, DO, by these presents, under the
reservations and burdens after-mentioned, GIVE and DISPOSE to the said
John Home, or, if he die before me, to David Home, his second son,
his heirs and assigns whatsomever, all lands, heritages, debts, and
sums of money, as well heritable as moveable, which shall belong to me
at the time of my decease, as also my whole effects in general, real
and personal, with and under the burden of the following legacies,
viz. to my sister Catherine Home, the sum of twelve hundred pounds
sterling, payable the first term of Whitsunday or Martinmas after my
decease, together with all my English books, and the life-rent of my
house in St James's Court, or in case that house be sold at the time
of my decease, twenty pounds a year during the whole course of her
life: To my friend Adam Ferguson, Professor of Moral Philosophy in
the College of Edinburgh, two hundred pounds sterling: To my friend
M. d'Alembert, member of the French Academy, and of the Academy of
Sciences in Paris, two hundred pounds: To my friend Dr Adam Smith, late
Professor of Moral Philosophy in Glasgow, I leave all my manuscripts
without exception, desiring him to publish my _Dialogues on Natural
Religion_, which are comprehended in this present bequest; but to
publish no other papers which he suspects not to have been written
within these five years, but to destroy them all at his leisure: And
I even leave him full power over all my papers, except the Dialogues
above mentioned; and though I can trust to that intimate and sincere
friendship, which has ever subsisted between us, for his faithful
execution of this part of my will, yet, as a small recompense of his
pains in correcting and publishing this work, I leave him two hundred
pounds, to be paid immediately after the publication of it: I also
leave to Mrs Anne and Mrs Janet Hepburn, daughters of Mr James Hepburn
of Keith, one hundred pounds a piece: To my cousin David Campbell, son
of Mr Campbell, minister of Lillysleaf, one hundred pounds: To the
Infirmary of Edinburgh, fifty pounds: To all the servants who shall be
in my family at the time of my decease, one year's wages; and to my
housekeeper, Margaret Irvine, three year's wages: And I also ordain,
that my brother, or nephew, or executor, whoever he be, shall not pay
up to the said Margaret Irvine, without her own consent, any sum of
money which I shall owe her at the time of my decease, whether by bill,
bond, or for wages, but shall retain in his hand, and pay her the legal
interest upon it, till she demand the principal: And in case my brother
above-mentioned shall survive me, I leave to his son David, the sum of
a thousand pounds to assist him in his education: But in case that by
my brother's death before me, the succession of my estate and effects
shall devolve to the aforesaid David, I hereby burden him, over and
above the payment of the aforesaid legacies, with the payment of the
sums following: To his brothers Joseph and John, a thousand pounds
a piece: To his sisters Catherine and Agnes, five hundred pounds a
piece: all which sums, as well as every sum contained in the present
disposition (except that to Dr Smith), to be payable the first term of
Whitsunday and Martinmas, after my decease; and all of them, without
exception, in sterling money. And I do hereby nominate and appoint
the said John Home, my brother, and failing of him by decease, the
said David Home, to be my sole executor and universal legatee, with
and under the burdens above mentioned; reserving always full power and
liberty to me, at any time of my life, even in deathbed, to alter and
innovate these presents, in whole or in part, and to burden the same
with such other legacies as I shall think fit. And I do hereby declare
these presents to be a good, valid, and sufficient evidence, albeit
found in my custody, or in the custody of any other person at the time
of my death, &c. (_in common style_.) Signed 4 January 1776, before
these witnesses, the Right Honourable the Earl of Home, and Mr John
McGowan, Clerk to the Signet.
DAVID HUME.
I also ORDAIN, that if I shall die any where in Scotland, I shall be
buried in a private manner in the Calton churchyard, the south side
of it, and a monument to be built over my body, at an expense not
exceeding a hundred pounds, with an inscription containing only my
name, with the year of my birth and death, leaving it to posterity to
add the rest.
_At Edinburgh_, 15_th April_, 1776. DAVID HUME.
I also leave for rebuilding the bridge of Churnside the sum of a
hundred pounds; but on condition that the managers of the bridge
shall take none of the stones for building the bridge from the quarry
of Ninewells, except from that part of the quarry which has been
already opened. I leave to my nephew Joseph, the sum of fifty pounds to
enable him to make a good sufficient drain and sewer round the house
of Ninewells, but on condition that, if that drain and sewer be not
made, from whatever cause, within a year after my death, the said fifty
pounds shall be paid to the poor of the parish of Churnside: To my
sister, instead of all my English books, I leave her a hundred volumes
at her choice: To David Waite, servant to my brother, I leave the sum
of ten pounds, payable the first term after my death.
DAVID HUME.
AN
ACCOUNT
OF THE CONTROVERSY
BETWEEN
HUME AND ROUSSEAU.
LONDON. M.D.CC.LXVI.
ADVERTISEMENT OF THE FRENCH EDITORS.
The name and writings of Mr Hume have been long since well known
throughout Europe. At the same time, his personal acquaintance
have remarked, in the candour and simplicity of his manners, that
impartiality and ingenuousness of disposition which distinguishes his
character, and is sufficiently indicated in his writings.
He hath exerted those great talents he received from nature, and the
acquisitions he made by study, in the search of truth, and promoting
the good of mankind; never wasting his time, or sacrificing his repose,
in literary or personal disputes. He hath seen his writings frequently
censured with bitterness, by fanaticism, ignorance, and the spirit of
party, without ever giving an answer to his adversaries.
Even those who have attacked his works with the greatest violence, have
always respected his personal character. His love of peace is so well
known, that the criticisms written against his pieces, have been often
brought him by their respective authors, for him to revise and correct
them. At one time, in particular, a performance of this kind was shown
to him, in which he had been treated in a very rude and even injurious
manner; on remarking which to the author, the latter struck out the
exceptionable passages, blushing and wondering at the force of that
_polemic spirit_ which had carried him imperceptibly away beyond the
founds of truth and decency.
It was with great reluctance that a man, possessed of such pacific
dispositions, could be brought to consent to the publication of the
following piece. He was very sensible that the quarrels among men
of letters are a scandal to philosophy; nor was any person in the
world less formed for giving occasion to a scandal, so consolatory to
blockheads. But the circumstances were such as to draw him into it, in
spite of his inclinations.
All the world knows that Mr Rousseau, proscribed in almost every
country where he resided, determined at length to take refuge in
England; and that Mr Hume, affected by his situation, and his
misfortunes, undertook to bring him over, and to provide for him a
peaceful, safe, and convenient asylum. But very few persons are privy
to the zeal, activity, and even delicacy, with which Mr Hume conferred
this act of benevolence. What an affectionate attachment he had
contracted for this new friend, which humanity had given him! with what
address he endeavoured to anticipate his desires, without offending his
pride! in short, with what address he strove to justify, in the eyes of
others, the singularities of Mr Rousseau, and to defend his character
against those who were not disposed to think so favourably of him as he
did himself.
Even at the time when Mr Hume was employed in doing Mr Rousseau the
most essential service, he received from him the most insolent and
abusive letter. The more such a stroke was unexpected, the more it was
cruel and affecting. Mr Hume wrote an account of this extraordinary
adventure to his friends at Paris, and expressed himself in his letters
with all that indignation which so strange a proceeding must excite.
He thought himself under no obligation to keep terms with a man, who,
after having received from him the most certain and constant marks
of friendship, could reproach him, without any reason, as false,
treacherous, and as the most wicked of mankind.
In the mean time, the dispute between these two celebrated personages
did not fail to make a noise. The complaints of Mr Hume soon came to
the knowledge of the public, which at first hardly believed it possible
that Mr Rousseau could be guilty of that excessive ingratitude
laid to his charge. Even Mr Hume's friends were fearful, lest, in
the first effusions of sensibility, he was not carried too far, and
had not mistaken for wilful crimes of the heart, the vagaries of
the imagination, or the deceptions of the understanding. He judged
it necessary, therefore to explain the affair, by writing a precise
narrative of all that passed between him and Mr Rousseau, from
their first connection to their rupture. This narrative he sent to
his friends, some of whom advised him to print it, alleging, that
as Mr Rousseau's accusations were become public, the proofs of his
justification ought to be so too. Mr Hume did not give into these
arguments, choosing rather to run the risk of being unjustly censured,
than to resolve on making himself a public party in an affair so
contrary to his disposition and character. A new incident, however, at
length overcame his reluctance. Mr Rousseau had addressed a letter to
a bookseller at Paris, in which he directly accuses Mr Hume of having
entered into a league with his enemies to betray and defame him; and
in which he boldly defies Mr Hume to print the papers he had in his
hands. This letter was communicated to several persons in Paris, was
translated into English, and the translation printed in the public
papers in London. An accusation and defiance so very public could not
be suffered to pass without reply, while any long silence on the part
of Mr Hume might have been interpreted little in his favour.
Besides, the news of this dispute had spread itself over Europe, and
the opinions entertained of it were various. It had doubtless been
much happier, if the whole affair had been buried in oblivion, and
remained a profound secret; but as it was impossible to prevent the
public interesting itself in the controversy, it became necessary at
least that the truth of the matter should be known. Mr Hume's friends
unitedly represented to him all these reasons, the force of which he
was at length convinced of; and seeing the necessity, consented, though
with reluctance, to the printing of his memorial.
The narrative, and notes, are translated from the English.[1] The
letters of Mr Rousseau, which serve as authentic proofs of the facts
are exact copies of the originals.[2]
This pamphlet contains many strange instances of singularity, that
will appear extraordinary enough to those who will give themselves
the trouble to peruse it. Those who do not choose to take the trouble,
however, may possibly do better, as its contents are of little
importance, except to those who are immediately interested.
On the whole, Mr Hume, in offering to the public the genuine pieces of
his trial, has authorized us to declare, that he will never take up the
pen again on the subject. Mr Rousseau indeed may return to the charge;
he may produce suppositions, misconstructions, inferences, and new
declamations; he may create and realize new phantoms, and envelop them
in the clouds of his rhetoric, he will meet with no more contradiction.
The facts are all laid before the public;[3] and Mr Hume submits his
cause to the determination of every man of sense and probity.
[1] And are now re-translated, for the most part, from the French,
the French editors having taken some liberties, not without Mr Hume's
consent, with the English original.--_English translator_.
[2] in the present edition Mr Hume's letters are printed _verbatim_;
and to Mr Rousseau's the translator hath endeavoured to do justice,
as well with regard to the sense as the expression. Not that he can
flatter himself with having always succeeded in the latter. He has
taken the liberty also to add a note or two, regarding some particular
circumstances which had come to his knowledge.
[3] The original letters of both parties will be lodged in the British
Museum, on account of the above mentioned defiance of Mr Rousseau, and
his subsequent insinuation, that if they should be published, they
would be falsified.
AN
ACCOUNT OF THE CONTROVERSY
BETWEEN
MR HUME AND MR ROUSSEAU.
_August_ 1, 1766.
My connexion with Mr Rousseau began in 1762, when the Parliament of
Paris had issued an arrêt for apprehending him, on account of his
_Emilius_. I was at that time at Edinburgh. A person of great worth
wrote to me from Paris, that Mr Rousseau intended to seek an asylum
in England, and desired I would do him all the good offices in my
power. As I conceived Mr Rousseau had actually put his design in
execution, I wrote to several of my friends in London, recommending
this celebrated exile to their favour. I wrote also immediately to Mr
Rousseau himself; assuring him of my desire to oblige, and readiness
to serve him. At the same time, I invited him to come to Edinburgh,
if the situation would be agreeable, and offered him a retreat in my
own house, so long as he should please to partake of it. There needed
no other motive to excite me to this act of humanity, than the idea
given me of Mr Rousseau's personal character, by the friend who had
recommended him, his well known genius and abilities, and above all,
his misfortunes; the very cause of which was an additional reason to
interest me in his favour. The following is the answer I received.
MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.
_Motiers-Travers_, _Feb_. 19, 1763.
SIR,
I did not receive till lately, and at this place, the
letter you did me the honour to direct to me at London, the
2d of July last, on the supposition that I was then arrived
at that capital. I should doubtless have made choice of
a retreat in your country, and as near as possible to
yourself, if I had foreseen what a reception I was to meet
with in my own. No other nation could claim a preference to
England. And this prepossession, for which I have dearly
suffered, was at that time too natural not to be very
excusable; but, to my great astonishment, as well as that
of the public, I have met with nothing but affronts and
insults, where I hoped to have found consolation at least,
if not gratitude. How many reasons have I not to regret
the want of that asylum and philosophical hospitality
I should have found with you! My misfortunes, indeed,
have constantly seemed to lead me in a manner that way.
The protection and kindness of my Lord Marshall, your
worthy and illustrious countryman, hath brought Scotland
home to me, if I may so express myself, in the midst of
Switzerland; he hath made you so often bear a part in our
conversation, hath brought me so well acquainted with your
virtues, which I before was only with your talents, that
he inspired me with the most tender friendship for you,
and the most ardent desire of obtaining yours, before I
even knew you were disposed to grant it. Judge then of the
pleasure I feel, at finding this inclination reciprocal.
No, Sir, I should pay your merit but half its due, if
it were the subject only of my admiration. Your great
impartiality, together with your amazing penetration and
genius, would lift you far above the rest of mankind,
if you were less attached to them by the goodness of
your heart. My Lord Marshal, in acquainting me that the
amiableness of your disposition was still greater than the
sublimity of your genius, rendered a correspondence with
you every day more desirable, and cherished in me those
wishes which he inspired, of ending my days near you. Oh,
Sir, that a better state of health, and more convenient
circumstances, would but enable me to take such a journey
in the manner I could like! Could I but hope to see you and
my Lord Marshal one day settled in your own country, which
should for ever after be mine, I should be thankful, in
such a society, for the very misfortunes that led me into
it, and should account the day of its commencement as the
first of my life. Would to Heaven I might live to see that
happy day, though now more to be desired than expected!
With what transports should I not exclaim, on setting foot
in that happy country which gave birth to David Hume and
the Lord Marshal of Scotland!
Salve, facis mihi debita tellus!
Hæc domus, hæc patria est.
J.J.R.
This letter is not published from a motive of vanity; as will be seen
presently, when I give the reader a recantation of all the eulogies it
contains; but only to complete the course of our correspondence, and to
show that I have been long since disposed to Mr Rousseau's service.
From this time our correspondence entirely ceased, till about the
middle of last autumn (1765), when it was renewed by the following
accident. A certain lady of Mr Rousseau's acquaintance, being on a
journey to one of the French provinces, bordering on Switzerland, had
taken that opportunity of paying a visit to our solitary philosopher,
in his retreat at Motiers-Travers. To this lady he complained, that
his situation in Neufchâtel was become extremely disagreeable, as well
on account of the superstition of the people, as the resentment of the
clergy; and that he was afraid he should shortly be under the necessity
of seeking an asylum elsewhere; in which case, England appeared to
him, from the nature of its laws and government, to be the only place
to which he could retire with perfect security; adding, that my Lord
Marshal, his former protector, had advised him to put himself under my
protection, (that was the term he was pleased, to make use of), and
that he would accordingly address himself to me, if he thought it would
not be giving me too much trouble.
I was at that time charged with the affairs of England at the court of
France; but as I had the prospect of soon returning to London, I could
not reject a proposal made to me under such circumstances, by a man
so celebrated for his genius and misfortunes. As soon as I was thus
informed, therefore, of the situation and intentions of Mr Rousseau, I
wrote to him, making him an offer of my services; to which he returned
the following answer.
MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.
_Strasbourg_, _Dec_. 4, 1765.
SIR,
Your goodness affects me as much as it does me honour.
The best reply I can make to your offers is to accept
them, which I do. I shall set out in five or six days to
throw myself into your arms. Such is the advice of my Lord
Marshal, my protector, friend and father; it is the advice
also of Madam * * * [1] whose good sense and benevolence
serve equally for my direction and consolation; in fine,
I may say it is the advice of my own heart, which takes
a pleasure in being indebted to the most illustrious of
my contemporaries, to a man whose goodness surpasses his
glory. I sigh after a solitary and free retirement, wherein
I might finish my days in peace. If this be procured me by
means of your benevolent solicitude, I shall then enjoy at
once the pleasure of the only blessing my heart desires,
and also that of being indebted for it to you. I am, Sir,
with all my heart, &c.
J. J. R.
[1] The person here mentioned desired her name might be suppressed.
_French Editor_.
As the motive to the suppression of the lady's name can hardly be
supposed to extend to this country, the _English translator_ takes the
liberty to mention the name of the Marchioness de Verdelin.
Not that I had deferred till this time my endeavours to be useful to Mr
Rousseau. The following letter was communicated to me by Mr Clairaut,
some weeks before his death.
MR ROUSSEAU TO MR CLAIRAUT.
_Motiers-Travers_, _March_ 3, 1765.
SIR,
The remembrance of your former kindness, induces me to
be again importunate. It is to desire you will be so
good, for the second time, to be the censor of one of
my performances. It is a very paltry rhapsody, which I
compiled many years ago, under the title of _A Musical
Dictionary_, and am now obliged to republish it for
subsistence. Amidst the torrent of misfortunes that
overwhelm me, I am not in a situation to review the work;
which, I know, is full of oversights and mistakes. If any
interest you may take in the lot of the most unfortunate
of mankind, should induce you to bestow a little more
attention on his work than on that of another, I should be
extremely obliged to you, if you would take the trouble to
correct such errors as you may meet with in the perusal.
To point them out, without correcting them, would be doing
nothing, for I am absolutely incapable of paying the
least attention to such a work; so that if you would but
condescend to alter, add, retrench, and, in short, use it
as you would do your own, you would do a great charity, for
which I should be extremely thankful. Accept, Sir, my most
humble excuses and salutations.
J. J. R.
It is with reluctance I say it, but I am compelled to it; I now know of
a certainty that this affectation of extreme poverty and distress was a
mere pretence, a petty kind of imposture which Mr Rousseau successfully
employed to excite the compassion of the public; but I was then very
far from suspecting any such artifice. I must own, I felt on this
occasion an emotion of pity, mixed with indignation, to think a man
of letters of such eminent merit, should be reduced, in spite of the
simplicity of his manner of living, to such extreme indigence; and that
this unhappy state should be rendered more intolerable by sickness,
by the approach of old age, and the implacable rage of persecution.
I knew that many persons imputed the wretchedness of Mr Rousseau to
his excessive pride, which induced him to refuse the assistance of
his friends; but I thought this fault, if it were a fault, was a very
respectable one. Too many men of letters have debased their character
in stooping so low as to solicit the assistance of persons of wealth
or power, unworthy of affording them protection; and I conceived that
a noble pride, even though carried to excess, merited some indulgence
in a man of genius, who, borne up by a sense of his own superiority and
a love of independence, should have braved the storms of fortune and
the insults of mankind. I proposed, therefore, to serve Mr Rousseau
in his own way. I desired Mr Clairaut, accordingly, to give me his
letter, which I showed to several of Mr Rousseau's friends and patrons
in Paris. At the same time I proposed to them a scheme by which he
might be relieved, without suspecting any thing of the matter. This
was to engage the bookseller, who was to publish his _Dictionary_, to
give Mr Rousseau a greater sum for the copy than he had offered, and
to indemnify him by paying him the difference. But this project, which
could not be executed without the assistance of Mr Clairaut, fell to
the ground at the unexpected decease of that learned and respectable
academician.
Retaining, however, still the same idea of Mr Rousseau's excessive
poverty, I constantly retained the same inclination to oblige him;
and when I was informed of his intention to go to England under my
conduct, I formed a scheme much of the same kind with that I could not
execute at Paris. I wrote immediately to my friend, Mr John Stewart of
Buckingham Street, that I had an affair to communicate to him, of so
secret and delicate a nature, that I should not venture even to commit
it to paper, but that he might learn the particulars of Mr Elliot
(now Sir Gilbert Elliot), who would soon return from Paris to London.
The plan was this, and was really communicated by Mr Elliot some time
after to Mr Stewart, who was at the same time enjoined to the greatest
secrecy.
Mr Stewart was to look out for some honest discreet farmer in his
neighbourhood in the country, who might be willing to lodge and board
Mr Rousseau and his gouvernante in a very decent and plentiful manner,
at a pension which Mr Stewart might settle at fifty or sixty pounds a
year; the farmer engaging to keep such agreement a profound secret, and
to receive from Mr Rousseau only twenty or twenty-five pounds a year, I
engaging to supply the difference.
It was not long before Mr Stewart wrote me word he had found a
situation which he conceived might be agreeable; on which I desired he
would get the apartment furnished in a proper and convenient manner at
my expense. But this scheme, in which there could not possibly enter
any motive of vanity on my part, secrecy being a necessary condition of
its execution, did not take place, other designs presenting themselves
more convenient and agreeable. The fact, however, is well known both to
Mr Stewart and Sir Gilbert Elliot.
It will not be improper here to mention another plan concerted with
the same intentions. I had accompanied Mr Rousseau into a very
pleasant part of the county of Surry, where he spent two days at
Colonel Webb's, Mr Rousseau seeming to me highly delighted with the
natural and solitary beauties of the place. Through the means of Mr
Stewart, therefore, I entered into treaty with Colonel Webb for the
purchasing the house, with a little estate adjoining, in order to make
a settlement for Mr Rousseau. If, after what has passed, Mr Rousseau's
testimony be of any validity, I may appeal to himself for the truth of
what I advance. But be this as it will, these facts are well known to
Mr Stewart, to General Clarke, and in part to Colonel Webb.
But to proceed in my narrative. Mr Rousseau came to Paris, provided
with a passport which his friends had obtained for him. I conducted him
to England. For upwards of two months after our arrival, I employed
myself and my friends in looking out for some agreeable situation for
him. We gave way to all his caprices; excused all his singularities;
indulged him in all his humours; in short, neither time nor trouble
was spared to procure him what he desired;[2] and, notwithstanding he
rejected several of the projects which I had laid out for him, yet I
thought myself sufficiently recompensed for my trouble by the gratitude
and even affection with which he appeared to repay my solicitude.
At length his present settlement was proposed and approved. Mr
Davenport, a gentleman of family, fortune and worth, offered him his
house at Wooton, in the county of Derby, where he himself seldom
resides, and at which Mr Rousseau and his housekeeper are boarded at a
very moderate expense.
When Mr Rousseau arrived at Wooton, he wrote me the following letter.
[2] It is probably to this excessive and ill-judged complaisance Mr
Hume may in a great degree impute the disagreeable consequences that
have followed. There is no end in indulging caprice, nor any prudence
in doing it, when it is known to be such. It may be thought humane
to indulge the weak of body or mind, the decrepitude of age, and
imbecility of childhood; but even here it too often proves cruelty to
the very parties indulged. How much more inexcusable, therefore, is it
to cherish the absurdities of whim and singularity in men of genius and
abilities! How is it possible to make a man easy or happy in a world,
to whose customs and maxims he is determined to run retrograde? No.
Capricious men, like forward children, should be left to kick against
the pricks, and vent their spleen unnoticed. To humour, is only to
spoil them.--_English Translator_.
MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.
_Wooton_, _March_ 22, 1766.
You see already, my dear patron, by the date of my letter,
that I am arrived at the place of my destination; but you
cannot see all the charms which I find in it. To do this,
you should be acquainted with the situation, and be able
to read my heart. You ought, however, to read at least
those of my sentiments with respect to you, and which you
have so well deserved. If I live in this agreeable asylum
as happy as I hope to do, one of the greatest pleasures of
my life will be, to reflect that I owe it to you. To make
another happy, is to deserve to be happy one's self. May
you therefore find in yourself the reward of all you have
done for me! Had I been alone, I might perhaps have met
with hospitality; but I should have never relished it so
highly as I now do in owing it to your friendship. Retain
still that friendship for me, my dear patron; love me for
my sake, who am so much indebted to you; love me for your
own, for the good you have done me. I am sensible of the
full value of your sincere friendship: it is the object of
my ardent wishes: I am ready to repay it with all mine,
and feel something in my heart which may one day convince
you that it is not without its value. As, for the reasons
agreed on between us, I shall receive nothing by the post,
you will be pleased, when you have the goodness to write to
me, to send your letters to Mr Davenport. The affair of the
carriage is not yet adjusted, because I know I was imposed
on. It is a trifling fault, however, which may be only the
effect of an obliging vanity, unless it should happen to be
repeated. If you were concerned in it, I would advise you
to give up, once for all, these little impositions, which
cannot proceed from any good motive, when converted into
snares for simplicity. I embrace you, my dear patron, with
the same cordiality which I hope to find in you.
J. J. R.
Some few days after, I received from him another letter, of which the
following is a copy.
MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.
_Wooton_, _March_ 29, 1766.
You will see, my dear patron, by the letter Mr Davenport
will have transmitted you, how agreeably I find myself
situated in this place. I might perhaps be more at my ease
if I were less noticed; but the solicitude of so polite an
host as mine is too obliging to give offence; and as there
is nothing in life without its inconvenience, that of
being too good is one of those which is the most tolerable.
I find a much greater inconvenience in not being able to
make the servants understand me, and particularly in my not
understanding them. Luckily Mrs le Vasseur serves me as
interpreter, and her fingers speak better than my tongue.
There is one advantage, however, attending my ignorance,
which is a kind of compensation; it serves to tire and keep
at a distance impertinent visitors. The minister of the
parish came to see me yesterday, who, finding that I spoke
to him only in French, would not speak to me in English, so
that our interview was almost a silent one. I have taken
a great fancy to this expedient, and shall make use of it
with all my neighbours, if I have any. Nay, should I even
learn to speak English, I would converse with them only in
French, especially if I were so happy as to find they did
not understand a word of that language; an artifice this,
much of the same kind with that which the Negroes pretend
is practised by the monkeys, who, they say, are capable of
speech, but cannot be prevailed upon to talk, lest they
should be set to work.
It is not true in any sense that I agreed to accept of
a model from Mr Gosset as a present. On the contrary, I
asked him the price, which he told me was a guinea and
half, adding that he intended to present me with it; an
offer I did not accept. I desire you therefore to pay him
for it, and Mr Davenport will be so good as repay you the
money. And if Mr Gosset does not consent to be paid for it,
it must be returned to him, and purchased by some other
hand. It is designed for Mr du Peyrou, who desired long
since to have my portrait, and caused one to be painted
in miniature, which is not at all like me. You were more
fortunate in this respect than me; but I am sorry that, by
your assiduity to serve me, you deprived me of the pleasure
of discharging the same friendly obligation with regard to
yourself. Be so good, my dear patron, as to order the model
to be sent to Messrs Guinand and Hankey, Little St Helen's,
Bishopsgate Street, in order to be transmitted to Mr du
Peyrou by the first safe conveyance. It hath been a frost
ever since I have been here; the snow falls daily; and the
wind is cutting and severe; notwithstanding all which, I
had rather lodge in the hollow trunk of an old tree, in
this country, than in the most superb apartment in London.
Good day, my dear patron. I embrace you with all my heart.
J. J. R.
Mr Rousseau and I having agreed not to lay each other under any
restraint by a continued correspondence, the only subject of our future
letters was the obtaining a pension for him from the King of England,
which was then in agitation, and of which affair the following is a
concise and faithful relation.
As we were conversing together one evening at Calais, where we were
detained by contrary winds, I asked Mr Rousseau if he would not accept
of a pension from the King of England, in case his Majesty should be
pleased to grant him one. To this he replied, it was a matter of some
difficulty to resolve on, but that he should be entirely directed
by the advice of my Lord Marshall. Encouraged by this answer, I no
sooner arrived in London than I addressed myself to his Majesty's
Ministers, and particularly to General Conway, Secretary of State, and
General Græme, Secretary and Chamberlain to the Queen. Application was
accordingly made to their Majesties, who, with their usual goodness,
consented, on condition only that the affair should not be made public.
Mr Rousseau and I both wrote to my Lord Marshall; and Mr Rousseau
expressly observed in his letter, that the circumstance of the affair's
being to be kept secret was very agreeable to him. The consent of my
Lord Marshall arrived, as may readily be imagined; soon after which Mr
Rousseau set out for Wooton, while the business remained some time in
suspense, on account of the indisposition of General Conway.
In the mean time, I began to be afraid, from what I had observed of
Mr Rousseau's disposition and character, that his natural restlessness
of mind would prevent the enjoyment of that repose, to which the
hospitality and security he found in England invited him. I saw, with
infinite regret, that he was born for storms and tumults, and that the
disgust which might succeed the peaceful enjoyment of solitude and
tranquillity, would soon render him a burthen to himself and every body
about him.[3] But, as I lived at the distance of an hundred and fifty
miles from the place of his residence, and was constantly employed in
doing him good offices, I did not expect that I myself should be the
victim of this unhappy disposition.
[3] In forming the opinion of Mr Rousseau's disposition, Mr Hume was by
no means singular. The striking features of Mr Rousseau's extraordinary
character having been strongly marked in the criticisms on his several
writings, in the Monthly Review, particularly in the account of his
Letters from the Mountains, in the appendix to the 31st vol. of that
work, where this celebrated genius is described, merely from the
general tenour of his writings and the outlines of his public conduct,
to be exactly such a kind of person as Mr Hume hath discovered him from
intimate and personal acquaintance.--_English translator_.
It is necessary to introduce here a letter, which was written last
winter, at Paris, in the name of the king of Prussia.
MY DEAR JOHN JAMES,
You have renounced Geneva, your native soil. You have been
driven from Switzerland, a country of which you have made
such boast in your writings. In France you are outlawed:
come then to me. I admire your talents, and amuse myself
with your reveries; on which, however, by the way, you
bestow too much time and attention. It is high time to grow
prudent and happy; you have made yourself sufficiently
talked of for singularities little becoming a truly great
man: show your enemies that you have sometimes common
sense: this will vex them without hurting you. My dominions
afford you a peaceable retreat: I am desirous to do you
good, and will do it, if you can but think it such. But
if you are determined to refuse my assistance, you may
expect that I shall say not a word about it to any one.
If you persist in perplexing your brains to find out new
misfortunes, choose such as you like best; I am a king,
and can make you as miserable as you can wish; at the same
time, I will engage to do that which your enemies never
will, I will cease to persecute you, when you are no longer
vain of persecution.
Your sincere friend, FREDERICK.
This letter was written by Mr Horace Walpole, about three weeks before
I left Paris; but though we lodged in the same hotel, and were often
together, Mr Walpole, out of regard to me, carefully concealed this
piece of pleasantry till after my departure. He then showed it to some
friends, who took copies; and those of course presently multiplied; so
that this little piece had been spread with rapidity all over Europe,
and was in every body's hands when I saw it, for the first time, in
London.
I believe every one will allow, who knows any thing of the liberty of
this country, that such a piece of raillery could not, even by the
utmost influence of kings, lords and commons, by all the authority
ecclesiastical, civil and military, be kept from finding its way to the
press. It was accordingly published in the St James's Chronicle, and a
few days after I was very much surprised to find the following piece in
the same paper.
MR ROUSSEAU TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ST JAMES'S CHRONICLE.
_Wooton_, _April_ 7_th_, 1766.
SIR,
You have been wanting in that respect which every private
person owes to crowned heads, in publickly ascribing
to the King of Prussia, a letter full of baseness and
extravagance; by which circumstance alone, you might be
very well assured he could not be the author. You have even
dared to subscribe his name, as if you had seen him write
it with his own hand. I inform you, Sir, that this letter
was fabricated at Paris, and, what rends and afflicts my
heart, that the impostor hath his accomplices in England.
In justice to the King of Prussia, to truth, and to myself,
you ought therefore to print the letter I am now writing,
and to which I set my name, by way of reparation for a
fault, which you would undoubtedly reproach yourself for
if you knew of what atrociousness you have been made the
instrument. Sir, I make you my sincere salutations.
J. J. R.
I was sorry to see Mr Rousseau display such an excess of sensibility,
on account of so simple and unavoidable an incident, as the publication
of this pretended letter from the King of Prussia. But I should have
accused myself of a most black and malevolent disposition, if I had
imagined Mr Rousseau could have suspected me to have been the editor of
it, or that he had intentionally directed his resentment against me.
He now informs me, however, that this was really the case. Just eight
days before, I had received a letter, written in the most amicable
terms imaginable.[4] I am, surely, the last man in the world, who, in
common sense, ought to be suspected; yet, without even the pretence
of the smallest proof or probability, I am, of a sudden, the first
man not only suspected, but certainly concluded to be the publisher;
I am, without further inquiry or explication, intentionally insulted
in a public paper; I am, from the dearest friend, converted into a
treacherous and malignant enemy; and all my present and past services
are at one stroke very artfully cancelled. Were it not ridiculous to
employ reasoning on such a subject, and with such a man, I might ask
Mr Rousseau, "Why I am supposed to have any malignity against him?"
My actions, in a hundred instances, had sufficiently demonstrated
the contrary; and it is not usual for favours conferred to beget ill
will in the person who confers them. But supposing I had secretly
entertained an animosity towards him, would I run the risk of a
discovery, by so silly a vengeance, and by sending this piece to the
press, when I knew, from the usual avidity of the news-writers to find
articles of intelligence, that it must necessarily in a few days be
laid hold of?
[4] That of the 29th of March.
But not imagining that I was the object of so black and ridiculous a
suspicion, I pursued my usual train, by serving my friend in the least
doubtful manner. I renewed my applications to General Conway, as soon
as the state of that gentleman's health permitted it: the General
applies again to his Majesty: his Majesty's consent is renewed: the
Marquis of Rockingham, first Commissioner of the Treasury, is also
applied to: the whole affair is happily finished; and full of joy, I
conveyed the intelligence to my friend. On which Mr Conway soon after
received the following letter.
MR ROUSSEAU TO GENERAL CONWAY.
_May_ 12_th_, 1766.
SIR,
Affected with a most lively sense of the favour his
Majesty hath honoured me with, and with that of your
goodness, which procured it me, it affords me the most
pleasing sensation to reflect, that the best of Kings, and
the Minister most worthy of his confidence, are pleased
to interest themselves in my fortune. This, Sir, is an
advantage of which I am justly tenacious, and which I will
never deserve to lose. But it is necessary I should speak
to you with that frankness you admire. After the many
misfortunes that have befallen me, I thought myself armed
against all possible events. There have happened to me
some, however, which I did not foresee, and which indeed an
ingenuous mind ought not to have foreseen: hence it is that
they affect me by so much the more severely. The trouble
in which they involve me, indeed, deprives me of the ease
and presence of mind necessary to direct my conduct: all
I can reasonably do, under so distressed a situation,
is to suspend my resolutions about every affair of such
importance as is that in agitation. So far from refusing
the beneficence of the King from pride, as is imputed to
me, I am proud of acknowledging it, and am only sorry I
cannot do it more publicly. But when I actually receive
it, I would be able to give up myself entirely to those
sentiments which it would naturally inspire, and to have an
heart replete with gratitude for his Majesty's goodness and
yours. I am not at all afraid this manner of thinking will
make any alteration in yours towards me. Deign, therefore,
Sir, to preserve that goodness for me, till a more happy
opportunity, when you will be satisfied that I defer taking
the advantage of it, only to render myself more worthy of
it. I beg of you, Sir, to accept of my most humble and
respectful salutations.
J. J. R.
This letter appeared both to General Conway and me a plain refusal, as
long as the article of secrecy was insisted on; but as I knew that Mr
Rousseau had been acquainted with that condition from the beginning,
I was the less surprised at his silence towards me. I thought that my
friend, conscious of having treated me ill in this affair, was ashamed
to write to me; and having prevailed on General Conway to keep the
matter still open, I wrote a very friendly letter to Mr Rousseau,
exhorting him to return to his former way of thinking, and to accept of
the pension.
As to the deep distress which he mentions to General Conway, and which,
he says, deprives him even of the use of his reason, I was set very
much at ease on that head, by receiving a letter from Mr Davenport, who
told me, that his guest was at that very time extremely happy, easy,
cheerful, and even sociable. I saw plainly, in this event, the usual
infirmity of my friend, who wishes to interest the world in his favour,
by passing for sickly, and persecuted, and distressed, and unfortunate,
beyond all measure, even while he is the most happy and contented. His
pretences of an extreme sensibility had been too frequently repeated,
to have any effect on a man who was so well acquainted with them.
I waited three weeks in vain for an answer: I thought this a little
strange, and I even wrote so to Mr Davenport; but having to do with
a very odd sort of a man, and still accounting for his silence by
supposing him ashamed to write to me, I was resolved not to be
discouraged, nor to lose the opportunity of doing him an essential
service, on account of a vain ceremonial. I accordingly renewed my
applications to the Ministers, and was so happy as to be enabled to
write the following letter to Mr Rousseau, the only one of so old a
date of which I have a copy.
MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.
_Lisle-street_, _Leicester-fields_, 19_th June_, 1766.
As I have not received any answer from you, I conclude,
that you persevere in the same resolution of refusing all
marks of his Majesty's goodness, as long as they must
remain a secret. I have therefore applied to General Conway
to have this condition removed; and I was so fortunate as
to obtain his promise that he would speak to the King for
that purpose. It will only be requisite, said he, that we
know previously from Mr Rousseau, whether he would accept
of a pension publicly granted him, that his Majesty may
not be exposed to a second refusal. He gave me authority
to write to you on that subject; and I beg to hear your
resolution as soon as possible. If you give your consent,
which I earnestly entreat you to do, I know, that I could
depend on the good offices of the Duke of Richmond, to
second General Conway's application; so that I have no
doubt of success. I am, my Dear Sir, Yours, with great
sincerity,
D. H.
In five days I received the following answer.
MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.
_Wooton_, _June_ 23_d_, 1766.
I imagined, Sir, that my silence, truly interpreted by your
own conscience, had said enough; but since you have some
design in not understanding me, I shall speak. You have
but ill disguised yourself. I know you, and you are not
ignorant of it. Before we had any personal connections,
quarrels, or disputes; while we knew each other only by
literary reputation, you affectionately made me the offer
of the good offices of yourself and friends. Affected by
this generosity, I threw myself into your arms; you brought
me to England, apparently to procure me an asylum, but in
fact to bring me to dishonour. You applied to this noble
work, with a zeal worthy of your heart, and a success
worthy of your abilities. You needed not have taken so much
pains: you live and converse with the world; I with myself
in solitude. The public love to be deceived, and you were
formed to deceive them. I know one man, however, whom you
can not deceive; I mean myself. You know with what horror
my heart rejected the first suspicion of your designs. You
know I embraced you with tears in my eyes, and told you, if
you were not the best of men, you must be the blackest of
mankind. In reflecting on your private conduct, you must
say to yourself sometimes, you are not the best of men:
under which conviction, I doubt much if ever you will be
the happiest.
I leave your friends and you to carry on your schemes as
you please; giving up to you, without regret, my reputation
during life; certain that, sooner or later, justice will be
done to that of both. As to your good offices in matters
of interest, which you have made use of as a mask, I thank
you for them, and shall dispense with profiting by them. I
ought not to hold a correspondence with you any longer, or
to accept of it to my advantage in any affair in which you
are to be the mediator. Adieu, Sir, I wish you the truest
happiness; but as we ought not to have any thing to say to
each other for the future, this is the last letter you will
receive from me.
J. J. R.
To this I immediately sent the following reply.
MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.
_June_ 26_th_, 1766.
As I am conscious of having ever acted towards you the most
friendly part, of having always given the most tender, the
most active proofs of sincere affection; you may judge of
my extreme surprize on perusing your epistle. Such violent
accusations, confined altogether to generals, it is as
impossible to answer, as it is impossible to comprehend
them. But affairs cannot, must not remain on that footing.
I shall charitably suppose, that some infamous calumniator
has belied me to you. But in that case, it is your duty,
and I am persuaded it will be your inclination, to give me
an opportunity of detecting him, and of justifying myself;
which can only be done by your mentioning the particulars
of which I am accused. You say, that I myself know that
I have been false to you; but I say it loudly, and will
say it to the whole world, that I know the contrary, that
I know my friendship towards you has been unbounded and
uninterrupted, and that though instances of it have been
very generally remarked both in France and England, the
smallest part of it only has as yet come to the knowledge
of the public. I demand, that you will produce me the man
who will assert the contrary; and above all, I demand,
that he will mention any one particular in which I have
been wanting to you. You owe this to me; you owe it to
yourself; you owe it to truth, and honour, and justice, and
to every thing that can be deemed sacred among men. As an
innocent man; I will not say, as your friend; I will not
say, as your benefactor; but, I repeat it, as an innocent
man, I claim the privilege of proving my innocence, and of
refuting any scandalous lie which may have been invented
against me. Mr Davenport, to whom I have sent a copy of
your letter, and who will read this before he delivers it,
I am confident, will second my demand, and will tell you,
that nothing possibly can be more equitable. Happily I
have preserved the letter you wrote me after your arrival
at Wooton; and you there express in the strongest terms,
indeed in terms too strong, your satisfaction in my poor
endeavours to serve you: the little epistolary intercourse
which afterwards passed between us, has been all employed
on my side to the most friendly purposes. Tell me, what has
since given you offence. Tell me of what I am accused. Tell
me the man who accuses me. Even after you have fulfilled
all these conditions, to my satisfaction, and to that of Mr
Davenport, you will have great difficulty to justify the
employing such outrageous terms towards a man, with whom
you have been so intimately connected, and whom, on many
accounts, you ought to have treated with some regard and
decency.
Mr Davenport knows the whole transaction about your
pension, because I thought it necessary that the person who
had undertaken your settlement, should be fully acquainted
with your circumstances; lest he should be tempted to
perform towards you concealed acts of generosity, which, if
they accidentally came to your knowledge, might give you
some grounds of offence. I am, Sir,
D. H.
Mr Davenport's authority procured me, in three weeks, the following
enormous letter; which however has this advantage, that it confirms all
the material circumstances of the foregoing narrative. I have subjoined
a few notes relative to some facts which Mr Rousseau hath not truly
represented, and leave my readers to judge which of us deserves the
greatest confidence.
MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.
_Wooton_, _July_ 10, 1766.
SIR,
I am indisposed, and little in a situation to write; but
you require an explanation, and it must be given you: it
was your own fault you had it not long since; but you did
not desire it, and I was therefore silent: at present you
do, and I have sent it. It will be a long one, for which I
am very sorry; but I have much to say, and would put an end
to the subject at once.
As I live retired from the world, I am ignorant of what
passes in it. I have no party, no associates, no intrigues;
I am told nothing, and I know only what I feel. But as care
hath been taken to make me severely feel; that I well know.
The first concern of those who engage in bad designs is to
secure themselves from legal proofs of detection: it would
not be very advisable to seek a remedy against them at law.
The innate conviction of the heart admits of another kind
of proof, which influences the sentiments of honest men.
You well know the basis of mine.
You ask me, with great confidence, to name your accuser.
That accuser, Sir, is the only man in the world whose
testimony I should admit against you; it is yourself. I
shall give myself up, without fear or reserve, to the
natural frankness of my disposition; being an enemy to
every kind of artifice, I shall speak with the same
freedom as if you were an indifferent person, on whom I
placed all that confidence which I no longer have in you.
I will give you a history of the emotions of my heart,
and of what produced them; while speaking of Mr Hume in
the third person, I shall make yourself the judge of what
I ought to think of him. Notwithstanding the length of
my letter, I shall pursue no other order than that of my
ideas, beginning with the premises, and ending with the
demonstration.
I quitted Switzerland, wearied out by the barbarous
treatment I had undergone; but which affected only my
personal security, while my honour was safe. I was going,
as my heart directed me, to join my Lord Marshal; when I
received at Strasburg, a most affectionate invitation from
Mr Hume, to go over with him to England, where he promised
me the most agreeable reception, and more tranquillity
than I have met with. I hesitated some time between my old
friend and my new one; in this I was wrong. I preferred
the latter, and in this was still more so. But the desire
of visiting in person a celebrated nation, of which I had
heard both so much good and so much ill, prevailed. Assured
I could not lose George Keith, I was flattered with the
acquisition of David Hume. His great merit, extraordinary
abilities, and established probity of character, made me
desirous of annexing his friendship to that with which
I was honoured by his illustrious countrymen. Besides,
I gloried not a little in setting an example to men of
letters, in a sincere union between two men so different in
their principles.
Before I had received an invitation from the King of
Prussia, and my Lord Marshal, undetermined about the place
of my retreat, I had desired, and obtained by the interest
of my friends, a passport from the Court of France. I made
use of this, and went to Paris to join Mr Hume. He saw,
and perhaps saw too much of, the favourable reception I
met with from a great Prince, and I will venture to say,
of the public. I yielded, as it was my duty, though with
reluctance, to that eclat; concluding how far it must
excite the envy of my enemies. At the same time, I saw
with pleasure, the regard which the public entertained for
Mr Hume, sensibly increasing throughout Paris, on account
of the good work he had undertaken with respect to me.
Doubtless he was affected too; but I know not if it was in
the same manner as I was.
We set out with one of my friends, who came to England
almost entirely on my account. When we were landed at
Dover, transported with the thoughts of having set foot in
this land of liberty, under the conduct of so celebrated a
person, I threw my arms round his neck, and pressed him to
my heart, without speaking a syllable; bathing his cheeks,
as I kissed them, with tears sufficiently expressive. This
was not the only, nor the most remarkable instance I have
given him of the effusions of a heart full of sensibility.
I know not what he does with the recollection of them, when
that happens; but I have a notion they must be sometimes
troublesome to him.
At our arrival in London, we were mightily caressed and
entertained: all ranks of people eagerly pressing to
give me marks of their benevolence and esteem. Mr Hume
presented me politely to every body; and it was natural
for me to ascribe to him, as I did, the best part of my
good reception. My heart was full of him, I spoke in his
praise to every one, I wrote to the same purpose to all
my friends; my attachment to him gathering every day new
strength, while his appeared the most affectionate to me,
of which he frequently gave me instances that touched me
extremely. That of causing my portrait to be painted,
however, was not of the number. This seemed to me to carry
with it too much the affectation of popularity, and had an
air of ostentation which by no means pleased me. All this,
however, might have been easily excusable, had Mr Hume
been a man apt to throw away his money, or had a gallery
of pictures with the portraits of his friends. After all,
I freely confess, that, on this head, I may be in the
wrong.[5]
But what appears to me an act of friendship and generosity
the most undoubted and estimable, in a word, the most
worthy of Mr Hume, was the care he took to solicit for me,
of his own accord, a pension from the King, to which most
assuredly I had no right to aspire. As I was a witness
to the zeal he exerted in that affair, I was greatly
affected with it. Nothing could flatter me more than a
piece of service of that nature; not merely for the sake
of interest; for, too much attached, perhaps, to what I
actually possess, I am not capable of desiring what I have
not, and, as I am able to subsist on my labour, and the
assistance of my friends, I covet nothing more. But the
honour of receiving testimonies of the goodness, I will not
say of so great a monarch, but of so good a father, so good
a husband, so good a master, so good a friend, and, above
all, so worthy a man, was sensibly affecting: and when I
considered farther, that the minister who had obtained
for me this favour, was a living instance of that probity
which of all others is the most important to mankind, and
at the same time hardly ever met with in the only character
wherein it can be useful, I could not check the emotions of
my pride, at having for my benefactors three men, who of
all the world I could most desire to have my friends. Thus,
so far from refusing the pension offered me, I only made
one condition necessary for my acceptance; this was the
consent of a person, whom I could not, without neglecting
my duty, fail to consult.
Being honoured with the civilities of all the world, I
endeavoured to make a proper return. In the mean time,
my bad state of health, and being accustomed to live in
the country, made my residence in town very disagreeable.
Immediately country houses presented themselves in plenty;
I had my choice of all the counties of England. Mr Hume
took the trouble to receive these proposals, and to
represent them to me; accompanying me to two or three in
the neighbouring counties. I hesitated a good while in my
choice, and he increased the difficulty of determination.
At length I fixed on this place, and immediately Mr Hume
settled the affair; all difficulties vanished, and I
departed; arriving presently at this solitary, convenient,
and agreeable habitation, where the owner of the house
provides every thing, and nothing is wanting. I became
tranquil, independent; and this seemed to be the wished-for
moment when all my misfortunes should have an end. On the
contrary, it was now they began; misfortunes more cruel
than any I had yet experienced.
Hitherto I have spoken in the fulness of my heart, and to
do justice, with the greatest pleasure, to the good offices
of Mr Hume. Would to Heaven that what remains for me to say
were of the same nature! It would never give me pain to
speak what would redound to his honour; nor is it proper to
set a value on benefits till one is accused of ingratitude,
which is the case at present. I will venture to make one
observation, therefore, which renders it necessary. In
estimating the services of Mr Hume, by the time and the
pains they took him up, they were of an infinite value,
and that still more from the good will displayed in their
performance; but for the actual service they were of to
me, it was much more in appearance than reality. I did
not come over to beg my bread in England; I brought the
means of subsistence with me. I came merely to seek an
asylum in a country which is open to every stranger without
distinction. I was, besides, not so totally unknown as
that, if I had arrived alone, I should have wanted either
assistance or service. If some persons have sought my
acquaintance for the sake of Mr Hume, others have sought
it for my own. Thus, when Mr Davenport, for example, was
so kind as to offer my present retreat, it was not for the
sake of Mr Hume, whom he did not know, and whom he saw only
in order to desire him to make me his obliging proposal;
so that, when Mr Hume endeavours to alienate from me this
worthy man, he takes that from me which he did not give
me.[6] All the good that hath been done me, would have been
done me nearly the same without him, and perhaps better;
but the evil would not have been done me at all; for why
should I have enemies in England? Why are those enemies all
the friends of Mr Hume? Who could have excited their enmity
against me? It certainly was not I, who knew nothing of
them, nor ever saw them in my life. I should not have had a
single enemy had I come to England alone.[7]
I have hitherto dwelt upon public and notorious facts,
which, from their own nature, and my acknowledgment, have
made the greatest eclat. Those which are to follow are
particular and secret, at least in their cause; and all
possible measures have been taken to keep the knowledge of
them from the public; but as they are well known to the
person interested, they will not have the less influence
toward his own conviction.
A very short time after our arrival in London, I observed
an absurd change in the minds of the people regarding
me, which soon became very apparent. Before I arrived in
England, there was not a nation in Europe in which I
had a greater reputation, I will venture to say, or was
held in greater estimation. The public papers were full
of encomiums on me, and a general outcry prevailed on my
persecutors.[8] This was the case at my arrival, which
was published in the newspapers with triumph; England
prided itself in affording me refuge, and justly gloried
on that occasion in its laws and government; when all of a
sudden, without the least assignable cause, the tone was
changed, and that so speedily and totally, that, of all
the caprices of the public, never was known any thing more
surprising. The signal was given in a certain _Magazine_,
equally full of follies and falsehoods, in which the
author, being well informed, or pretending to be so, gives
me out for the son of a musician. From this time[9] I was
constantly spoken of in print in a very equivocal or
slighting manner.[10] Every thing that had been published
concerning my misfortunes was misrepresented, altered, or
placed in a wrong light, and always as much as possible to
my disadvantage. So far was any body from speaking of the
reception I met with at Paris, and which had made but too
much noise, it was not generally supposed that I durst have
appeared in that city, even one of Mr Hume's friends being
very much surprised when I told him I came through it.
Accustomed as I had been too much to the inconstancy of
the public, to be affected by this instance of it, I could
not help being astonished, however, at a change, so very
sudden and general, that not one of those who had so much
praised me in my absence, appeared, now I was present, to
think even of my existence. I thought it something very
odd that, immediately after the return of Mr Hume, who had
so much credit in London, with so much influence over the
booksellers and men of letters, and such great connections
with them, his presence should produce an effect so
contrary to what might have been expected; that among so
many writers of every kind, not one of his friends should
show himself to be mine; while it was easy to be seen,
that those who spoke of him were not his enemies, since,
in noticing his public character, they reported that I had
come through France under his protection, and by favour of
a passport which he had obtained of the court; nay, they
almost went so far as to insinuate, that I came over in
his retinue, and at his expense. All this was of little
signification, and was only singular; but what was much
more so, was, that his friends changed their tone with me
as much as the public. I shall always take a pleasure in
saying that they were still equally solicitous to serve
me, and that they exerted themselves greatly in my favour;
but so far were they from showing me the same respect,
particularly the gentleman at whose house we alighted on
our arrival, that he accompanied all his actions with
discourse so rude, and sometimes so insulting, that one
would have thought he had taken an occasion to oblige
me, merely to have a right to express his contempt.[11]
His brother, who was at first very polite and obliging,
altered his behaviour with so little reserve, that he
would hardly deign to speak a single word to me, even in
their own house, in return to a civil salutation, or to
pay any of those civilities which are usually paid in like
circumstances to strangers. Nothing new had happened,
however, except the arrival of J. J. Rousseau and David
Hume: and certainly the cause of these alterations did
not come from me, unless, indeed, too great a portion
of simplicity, discretion, and modesty, be the cause of
offence in England. As to Mr Hume, he was so far from
assuming such a disgusting tone, that he gave into the
other extreme. I have always looked upon flatterers with
an eye of suspicion: and he was so full of all kinds[12]
of flattery, that he even obliged me, when I could bear
it no longer,[13] to tell him my sentiments on that head.
His behaviour was such as to render few words necessary,
yet I could have wished he had substituted, in the room of
such gross encomiums, sometimes the language of a friend;
but I never found any thing in his, which savoured of true
friendship, not even in his manner of speaking of me to
others in my presence. One would have thought that, in
endeavouring to procure me patrons, he strove to deprive
me of their good will; that he sought rather to have me
assisted than loved; and I have been sometimes surprised at
the rude turn he hath given to my behaviour before people
who might not unreasonably have taken offence at it. I
shall give an example of what I mean. Mr Pennick of the
Museum, a friend of my Lord Marshal's, and minister of a
parish where I was solicited to reside, came to see me. Mr
Hume made my excuses, while I myself was present, for not
having paid him a visit. Doctor Matty, said he, invited us
on Thursday to the Museum, where Mr Rousseau should have
seen you; but he chose rather to go with Mrs Garrick to
the play: we could not do both the same day.[14] You will
confess, Sir, this was a strange method of recommending me
to Mr Pennick.
I know not what Mr Hume might say in private of me to his
acquaintance, but nothing was more extraordinary than
their behaviour to me, even by his own confession, and
even often through his own means. Although my purse was
not empty, and I needed not that of any other person,
which he very well knew, yet any one would have thought
I was come over to subsist on the charity of the public,
and that nothing more was to be done than to give me alms
in such a manner as to save me a little confusion.[15] I
must own, this constant and insolent piece of affectation
was one of those things which made me averse to reside in
London. This certainly was not the footing on which any
man should have been introduced in England, had there been
a design of procuring him ever so little respect. This
display of charity, however, may admit of a more favourable
interpretation, and I consent it should. To proceed.
At Paris was published a fictitious letter from the King
of Prussia, addressed to me, and replete with the most
cruel malignity. I learned with surprise that it was one
Mr Walpole, a a friend of Mr Hume's who was the editor; I
asked him if it were true; in answer to which question,
he only asked me, of whom I had the information. A moment
before he had given me a card for this same Mr Walpole,
written to engage him to bring over such papers as related
to me from Paris, and which I wanted to have by a safe hand.
I was informed that the son of that quack[16] Tronchin,
my most mortal enemy, was not only the friend of Mr Hume,
and under his protection, but that they both lodged in the
same house together; and when Mr Hume found that I knew
it, he imparted it in confidence; assuring me at the same
time that the son was by no means like the father. I lodged
a few nights myself, together with my governante, in the
same house; and by the air and manner with which we were
received by the landladies, who are his friends, I judged
in what manner either Mr Hume, or that man, who, as he
said, was by no means like his father, must have spoken to
them both of her and me.[17]
All these facts put together, added to a certain appearance
of things on the whole, insensibly gave me an uneasiness
which I rejected with horror. In the mean time, I found
the letters I wrote did not come to hand; those I received
had often been opened; and all went through the hands of
Mr Hume.[18] If at any time any one escaped him, he could
not conceal his eagerness to see it. One evening, in
particular, I remember a very remarkable circumstance of
this kind that greatly struck me.[19]
As we were sitting one evening, after supper, silent by
the fire-side, I caught his eyes intently fixed on mine,
as indeed happened very often; and that in a manner of
which it is very difficult to give an idea. At that time
he gave me a stedfast, piercing look, mixed with a sneer,
which greatly disturbed me. To get rid of the embarrassment
I lay under, I endeavoured to look full at him in my
turn; but, in fixing my eyes against his, I felt the most
inexpressible terror, and was obliged soon to turn them
away. The speech and physiognomy of the good David is that
of an honest man; but where, great God! did this good man
borrow those eyes he fixes so sternly and unaccountably on
those of his friends?
The impression of this look remained with me, and gave me
much uneasiness. My trouble increased even to a degree of
fainting; and if I had not been relieved by an effusion
of tears, I had been suffocated. Presently after this I
was seized with the most violent remorse; I even despised
myself; till at length, in a transport which I still
remember with delight, I sprang on his neck, embraced him
eagerly; while almost choked with sobbing, and bathed in
tears, I cried out, in broken accents, _No, no, David
Hume cannot be treacherous. If he be not the best of men,
he must be the basest of mankind_. David Hume politely
returned my embraces, and, gently, tapping me on the back,
repeated several times, in a good-natured and easy tone,
_Why, what, my dear Sir! Nay, my dear Sir! Oh, my dear
Sir!_ He said nothing more. I felt my heart yearn within
me. We went to bed; and I set out the next day for the
country.
Arrived at this agreeable asylum, to which I have travelled
so far in search of repose, I ought to find it in a
retired, convenient, and pleasant habitation; the master
of which, a man of understanding and worth, spares for
nothing to render it agreeable to me. But what repose can
be tasted in life, when the heart is agitated? Afflicted
with the most cruel uncertainty, and ignorant what to think
of a man whom I ought to love and esteem, I endeavoured to
get rid of that fatal doubt, in placing confidence in my
benefactor. For, wherefore, from what unaccountable caprice
should he display so much apparent zeal for my happiness,
and at the same time entertain secret designs against my
honour. Among the several observations that disturbed me,
each fact was in itself of no great moment; it was their
concurrence that was surprising; yet I thought, perhaps,
that Mr Hume, informed of other facts, of which I was
ignorant, could have given me a satisfactory solution of
them, had we come to an explanation. The only thing that
was inexplicable, was, that he refused to come to such
an explanation; which both his honour and his friendship
rendered equally necessary. I saw very well there was
something in the affair which I did not comprehend, and
which I earnestly wished to know. Before I came to an
absolute determination, therefore, with regard to him,
I was desirous of making another effort, and to try to
recover him, if he had permitted himself to be seduced by
my enemies, or, in short, to prevail on him to explain
himself one way or other. Accordingly I wrote him a letter,
which he ought to have found very natural,[20] if he were
guilty; but very extraordinary, if he were innocent.
For what could be more extraordinary than a letter full
of gratitude for his services, and at the same time, of
distrust of his sentiments; and in which, placing in a
manner his actions on one side, and his sentiments on the
other, instead of speaking of the proofs of friendship
he had given me, I desired him to love me, for the good
he had done me![21] I did not take the precaution to
preserve a copy of this letter; but as he hath done it,
let him produce it: and whoever shall read it, and see
therein a man labouring under a secret trouble, which he is
desirous of expressing, and is afraid to do it, will, I am
persuaded, be curious to know what kind of éclaircissement
it produced, especially after the preceding scene. None.
Absolutely none at all. Mr Hume contented himself, in his
answer, with only speaking of the obliging offices Mr
Davenport proposed to do for me. As for the rest, he said
not a word of the principal subject of my letter, nor of
the situation of my heart, of whose distress he could not
be ignorant. I was more struck with this silence, than I
had been with his phlegm during our last conversation. In
this I was wrong; this silence was very natural after the
other, and was no more than I ought to have expected. For
when one hath ventured to declare to a man's face, _I am
tempted to believe you a traitor_, and he hath not the
curiosity to ask you _for what_,[22] it may be depended
on he will never have any such curiosity as long as he
lives; and it is easy to judge of him from these slight
indications.
After the receipt of his letter, which was long delayed, I
determined at length to write to him no more. Soon after,
every thing served to confirm me in the resolution to
break off all farther correspondence with him. Curious to
the last degree concerning the minutest circumstance of
my affairs, he was not content to learn them of me, in
our frequent conversations; but, as I learned, never let
slip an opportunity of being alone with my governante,[23]
to interrogate her even importunately concerning my
occupations, my resources, my friends, acquaintances, their
names, situations, place of abode, and all this after
setting out with telling her he was well acquainted with
the whole of my connections; nay, with the most jesuitical
address, he would ask the same questions of us separately.
One ought undoubtedly to interest one's self in the affairs
of a friend; but one ought to be satisfied with what he
thinks proper to let us know of them, particularly when
people are so frank and ingenuous as I am. Indeed all this
petty inquisitiveness is very little becoming a philosopher.
About the same time I received two other letters which had
been opened. The one from Mr Boswell, the seal of which
was so loose and disfigured, that Mr Davenport, when he
received it, remarked the same to Mr Hume's servant. The
other was from Mr d'Ivernois, in Mr Hume's packet, and
which had been sealed up again by means of a hot iron,
which, awkwardly applied, had burnt the paper round the
impression. On this I wrote to Mr Davenport to desire him
to take charge of all the letters which might be sent for
me, and to trust none of them in any body's hands, under
any pretext whatever. I know not whether Mr Davenport, who
certainly was far from thinking that precaution was to be
observed with regard to Mr Hume, showed him my letter or
not; but this I know, that the latter had all the reason
in the world to think he had forfeited my confidence, and
that he proceeded nevertheless in his usual manner, without
troubling himself about the recovery of it.
But what was to become of me, when I saw, in the public
papers, the pretended letter of the King of Prussia which
I had never before seen, that fictitious letter, printed
in French and English, given for genuine, even with the
signature of the King, and in which I knew the pen of Mr
d'Alembert as certainly as if I had seen him write it?[24]
In a moment a ray of light discovered to me the secret
cause of that touching and sudden change, which I had
observed in the public respecting me; and I saw the plot
which was put in execution at London, had been laid in
Paris.
Mr d'Alembert, another intimate friend of Mr Hume's, had
been long since my secret enemy, and lay in watch for
opportunities to injure me without exposing himself. He
was the only person, among the men of letters, of my old
acquaintance, who did not come to see me,[25] or send their
civilities during my last passage through Paris. I knew his
secret disposition, but I gave myself very little trouble
about it, contenting myself with advising my friends of it
occasionally. I remember that being asked about him one day
by Mr Hume, who afterwards asked my governante the same
question, I told him that Mr d'Alembert was a cunning,
artful man. He contradicted me with a warmth that surprised
me; not then knowing they stood so well with each other,
and that it was his own cause he defended.
The perusal of the letter above mentioned alarmed me a
good deal, when, perceiving that I had been brought over
to England in consequence of a project which began to be
put in execution, but of the end of which I was ignorant,
I felt the danger without knowing what to guard against,
or on whom to rely. I then recollected four terrifying
words Mr Hume had made use of, and of which I shall speak
hereafter. What could be thought of a paper in which my
misfortunes were imputed to me as a crime, which tended, in
the midst of my distress, to deprive me of all compassion,
and, to render its effects still more cruel, pretended
to have been written by a Prince who had afforded me
protection? What could I divine would be the consequence
of such a beginning? The people in England read the public
papers, and are in no wise prepossessed in favour of
foreigners. Even a coat, cut in a different fashion from
their own, is sufficient to excite a prejudice against
them. What then had not a poor stranger to expect in his
rural walks, the only pleasures of his life, when the good
people in the neighbourhood were once thoroughly persuaded
he was fond of being persecuted and pelted? Doubtless
they would be ready enough to contribute to his favourite
amusement. But my concern, my profound and cruel concern,
the bitterest indeed I ever felt, did not arise from the
danger to which I was personally exposed. I have braved
too many others to be much moved with that. The treachery
of a false friend,[26] to which I had fallen a prey, was
the circumstance that filled my too susceptible heart with
deadly sorrow. In the impetuosity of its first emotions, of
which I never yet was master, and of which my enemies have
artfully taken the advantage, I wrote several letters full
of disorder, in which I did not disguise either my anxiety
or indignation.
I have, Sir, so many things to mention, that I forget half
of them by the way. For instance, a certain narrative
in form of a letter, concerning my manner of living at
Montmorency, was given by the booksellers to Mr Hume, who
showed it me. I agreed to its being printed, and Mr Hume
undertook the care of its edition; but it never appeared.
Again, I had brought over with me a copy of the letters
of Mr du Peyron, containing a relation of the treatment I
had met with at Neufchâtel. I gave them into the hands of
the same bookseller to have them translated and reprinted.
Mr Hume charged himself with the care of them; but they
never appeared.[27] The supposititious letter of the King
of Prussia, and its translation, had no sooner made their
appearance, than I immediately apprehended why the other
pieces had been suppressed,[28] and I wrote as much to
the booksellers.[29] I wrote several other letters also,
which probably were handed about London; till at length
I employed the credit of a man of quality and merit, to
insert a declaration of the imposture in the public papers.
In this declaration, I concealed no part of my extreme
concern, nor did I in the least disguise the cause.
Hitherto Mr Hume seems to have walked in darkness. You will
soon see him appear in open day, and act without disguise.
Nothing more is necessary, in our behaviour towards cunning
people, than to act ingenuously; sooner or later they will
infallibly betray themselves.
When this pretended letter from the Ring of Prussia was
first published in London, Mr Hume, who certainly knew that
it was fictitious, as I had told him so, yet said nothing
of the matter, did not write to me, but was totally silent;
and did not even think of making any declaration of the
truth, in favour of his absent friend.[30] It answered his
purpose better to let the report take its course, as he did.
Mr Hume having been my conductor into England, he was of
course in a manner my patron and protector. If it were but
natural in him to undertake my defence, it was no less
so that, when I had a public protestation to make, I
should have addressed myself to him. Having already ceased
writing to him,[31] however, I had no mind to renew our
correspondence. I addressed myself therefore to another
person. The first slap on the face I gave my patron. He
felt nothing of it.
In saying the letter was fabricated at Paris, it was of
very little consequence to me whether it was understood
particularly of Mr d'Alembert, or of Mr Walpole, whose
name he borrowed on the occasion. But in adding that, what
afflicted and tore my heart was, the impostor had got his
accomplices in England; I expressed myself very clearly
to their friend, who was in London, and was desirous of
passing for mine. For certainly he was the only person in
England, whose hatred could afflict and rend my heart. This
was the second slap of the face I gave my patron. He did
not feel, however, yet.
On the contrary, he maliciously pretended that my
affliction arose solely from the publication of the
above letter, in order to make me pass for a man who was
excessively affected by satire. Whether I am vain or not,
certain it is I was mortally afflicted; he knew it, and
yet wrote me not a word. This affectionate friend, who had
so much at heart the filling of my purse, gave himself no
trouble to think my heart was bleeding with sorrow.
Another piece appeared soon after, in the same papers,
by the author of the former, and still if possible more
cruel, in which the writer could not disguise his rage
at the reception I met with at Paris.[32] This however
did not affect me; it told me nothing new. Mere libels
may take their course without giving me any emotion;
and the inconstant public may amuse themselves as long
as they please with the subject. It is not an affair of
conspirators, who, bent on the destruction of my honest
fame, are determined by some means or other to effect it.
It was necessary to change the battery.
The affair of the pension was not determined. It was
not difficult, however, for Mr Hume to obtain, from the
humanity of the minister, and the generosity of the King,
the favour of its determination. He was required to inform
me of it, which he did. This, I must confess, was one of
the critical moments of my life. How much did it cost me
to do my duty! My preceding engagements, the necessity
of showing a due respect for the goodness of the King,
and for that of his minister, together with the desire of
displaying how far I was sensible of both; add to these the
advantage of being made a little more easy in circumstances
in the decline of life, surrounded as I was by enemies
and evils; in fine, the embarrassment I was under to find
a decent excuse for not accepting a benefit already half
accepted; all these together made the necessity of that
refusal very difficult and cruel: for necessary it was, or
I should have been one of the meanest and basest of mankind
to have voluntarily laid myself under an obligation to a
man who had betrayed me.
I did my duty, though not without reluctance. I wrote
immediately to General Conway, and in the most civil and
respectful manner possible, without giving an absolute
refusal, excusing myself from accepting the pension for the
present.
Now, Mr Hume had been the only negociator of this affair,
nay the only person who had spoke of it. Yet I not only
did not give him any answer, though it was he who wrote to
me on the subject, but did not even so much as mention him
in my letter to General Conway. This was the third slap of
the face I gave my patron, which if he does not feel, it is
certainly his own fault, he can feel nothing.
My letter was not clear, nor could it be so to General
Conway, who did not know the motives of my refusal; but
it was very plain to Mr Hume, who knew them but too well.
He pretended nevertheless to be deceived as well with
regard to the cause of my discontent, as to that of my
declining the pension; and, in a letter he wrote me on the
occasion, gave me to understand that the King's goodness
might be continued towards me, if I should reconsider the
affair of the pension. In a word, he seemed determined,
at all events, to remain still my patron, in spite of my
teeth. You will imagine, Sir, he did not expect my answer;
and he had none. Much about this time, for I do not know
exactly the date, nor is such precision necessary, appeared
a letter, from Mr de Voltaire to me, with an English
translation, which still improved on the original. The
noble object of this ingenious performance, was to draw
on me the hatred and contempt of the people, among whom
I was come to reside. I made not the least doubt that my
dear patron was one of the instruments of its publication;
particularly when I saw that the writer, in endeavouring
to alienate from me those who might render my life
agreeable, had omitted the name of him who brought me over.
He doubtless knew that it was superfluous, and that with
regard to him, nothing more was necessary to be said. The
omission of his name, so impoliticly forgot in this letter,
recalled to my mind what Tacitus says of the picture of
Brutus, omitted in a funeral solemnity, viz. that every
body took notice of it, particularly because it was not
there.
Mr Hume was not mentioned; but he lives and converses
with people that are mentioned. It is well known his
friends are all my enemies; there are abroad such people
as Tronchin, d'Alembert, and Voltaire;[33] but it is much
worse in London; for here I have no enemies but what are
his friends. For why, indeed, should I have any other?
Why should I have even them?[34] What have I done to Lord
Littleton,[35] whom I don't even know? What have I done to
Mr Walpole, whom I know full as little? What do they know
of me, except that I am unhappy, and a friend to their
friend Hume? What can he have said to them, for it is only
through him they know any thing of me? I can very well
imagine, that, considering the part he has to play, he does
not unmask himself to every body; for then he would be
disguised to nobody. I can very well imagine that he does
not speak of me to General Conway and the Duke of Richmond
as he does in his private conversations with Mr Walpole,
and his secret correspondence with Mr d'Alembert. But let
any one discover the clue that hath been unravelled since
my arrival in London, and it will easily be seen whether Mr
Hume does not hold the principal thread.
At length the moment arrived in which it was thought proper
to strike the great blow, the effect of which was prepared
for by a fresh satirical piece put in the papers.[36] Had
there remained in me the least doubt, it would have been
impossible to have harboured it after perusing this piece,
as it contained facts unknown to any body but Mr Hume;
exaggerated, it is true, in order to render them odious to
the public.
It is said in this paper that my door was opened to the
rich, and shut to the poor. Pray, who knows when my door
was open or shut, except Mr Hume, with whom I lived, and by
whom every body was introduced that I saw? I will except
one great personage, whom I gladly received without knowing
him, and whom I should still have more gladly received if
I had known him. It was Mr Hume who told me his name when
he was gone; on which information, I was really chagrined,
that, as he deigned to mount up two pair of stairs, he was
not received in the first floor. As to the poor, I have
nothing to say about the matter. I was constantly desirous
of seeing less company; but as I was unwilling to displease
any one, I suffered myself to be directed in this affair
altogether by Mr Hume, and endeavoured to receive every
body he introduced as well as I could, without distinction,
whether rich or poor. It is said in the same piece that I
received my relations very coldly, _not to say any thing
worse_. This general charge relates to my having once
received, with some indifference, the only relation I have,
out of Geneva, and that in the presence of Mr Hume.[37] It
must necessarily be either Mr Hume or this relation who
furnished that piece of intelligence. Now, my cousin, whom
I have always known for a friendly relation and a worthy
man, is incapable of furnishing materials for public
satires against me. Add to this, that his situation in life
confining him to the conversation of persons in trade, he
has no connection with men of letters or paragraph writers,
and still less with satirists and libellers; so that the
article could not come from him. At the worst, can I help
imagining that Mr Hume must have endeavoured to take
advantage of what he said, and construed it in favour of
his own purpose? It is not improper to add, that, after my
rupture with Mr Hume, I wrote an account of it to my cousin.
In fine, it is said in the same paper that I am apt to
change my friends. No great subtlety is necessary to
comprehend what this reflection is preparative to.
But let us distinguish facts. I have preserved some very
valuable and solid friends for twenty-five to thirty years.
I have others whose friendship is of a later date, but no
less valuable, and which, if I live, I may preserve still
longer. I have not found, indeed, the same security in
general among those friendships I have made with men of
letters. I have for this reason sometimes changed them, and
shall always change them when they appear suspicious; for I
am determined never to have friends by way of ceremony; I
have them only with a view to show them my affection.
If ever I was fully and clearly convinced of any thing, I
am so convinced that Mr Hume furnished the materials for
the above paper.
But what is still more, I have not only that absolute
conviction, but it is very clear to me that Mr Hume
intended I should: For how can it be supposed that a man of
his subtlety should be so imprudent as to expose himself
thus, if he had not intended it? What was his design in
it? Nothing is more clear than this. It was to raise my
resentment to the highest pitch, that he might strike the
blow he was preparing to give me with greater eclat. He
knew he had nothing more to do than put me in a passion,
and I should be guilty of a number of absurdities. We are
now arrived at the critical moment which is to show whether
he reasoned well or ill.
It is necessary to have all the presence of mind, all
the phlegm and resolution of Mr Hume, to be able to
take the part he hath taken, after all that has passed
between us. In the embarrassment I was under in writing
to General Conway, I could make use only of obscure
expressions, to which Mr Hume, in quality of my friend,
gave what interpretation he pleased. Supposing, therefore,
for he knew very well to the contrary, that it was the
circumstance of secrecy which gave me uneasiness, he
obtained the promise of the General to endeavour to remove
it; but before any thing was done, it was previously
necessary to know whether I would accept of the pension
without that condition, in order not to expose his Majesty
to a second refusal.
This was the decisive moment, the end and object of all
his labours. An answer was required: he would have it. To
prevent effectually indeed my neglect of it, he sent to Mr
Davenport a duplicate of his letter to me; and, not content
with this precaution, wrote me word, in another billet,
that he could not possibly stay any longer in London to
serve me. I was giddy with amazement on reading this note.
Never in my life did I meet with any thing so unaccountable.
At length he obtained from me the so much desired answer,
and began presently to triumph. In writing to Mr Davenport,
he treated me as a monster of brutality and ingratitude.
But he wanted to do still more. He thinks his measures
well taken; no proof can be made to appear against him. He
demands an explanation: he shall have it, and here it is.
That last stroke was a masterpiece. He himself proves every
thing, and that beyond reply.
I will suppose, though by way of impossibility, that my
complaints against Mr Hume never reached his ears; that he
knew nothing of them; but was as perfectly ignorant as if
he had held no cabal with those who are acquainted with
them, but had resided all the while in China.[38] Yet the
behaviour passing directly between us; the last striking
words which I said to him in London; the letter which
followed replete with fears and anxiety; my persevering
silence still more expressive than words; my public
and bitter complaints with regard to the letter of Mr
d'Alembert; my letter to the Secretary of State, who did
not write to me, in answer to that which Mr Hume wrote to
me himself, and in which I did not mention him; and in fine
my refusal, without deigning to address myself to him, to
acquiesce in an affair which he had managed in my favour,
with my own privity, and without any opposition on my part;
all this must have spoken in a very forcible manner, I will
not say to any person of the least sensibility, but to
every man of common sense.
Strange that, after I had ceased to correspond with him for
three months, when I had made no answer to any one of his
letters, however important the subject of it, surrounded
with both public and private marks of that affliction
which his infidelity gave me; a man of so enlightened an
understanding, of so penetrating a genius by nature, and
so dull by design, should see nothing, hear nothing, feel
nothing, be moved at nothing; but, without one word of
complaint, justification, or explanation, continue to give
me the most pressing marks of his good will to serve me,
in spite of myself? He wrote to me affectionately, that he
could not stay any longer in London to do me service, as if
we had agreed that he should stay there for that purpose!
This blindness, this insensibility, this perseverance, are
not in nature; they must be accounted for, therefore, from
other motives. Let us set this behaviour in a still clearer
light; for this is the decisive point.
Mr Hume must necessarily have acted in this affair, either
as one of the first or last of mankind. There is no medium.
It remains to determine which of the two it hath been.
Could Mr Hume, after so many instances of disdain on my
part, have still the astonishing generosity as to persevere
sincerely to serve me? He knew it was impossible for me to
accept his good offices, so long as I entertained for him
such sentiments as I had conceived. He had himself avoided
an explanation. So that to serve me without justifying
himself, would have been to render his services useless;
this therefore was no generosity. If he supposed that in
such circumstances I should have accepted his services, he
must have supposed me to have been an infamous scoundrel.
It was then in behalf of a man whom he supposed to be a
scoundrel, that he so warmly solicited a pension from his
Majesty. Can any thing be supposed more extravagant?
But let it be supposed that Mr Hume, constantly pursuing
his plan, should only have said to himself, This is the
moment for its execution; for, by pressing Rousseau to
accept the pension, he will be reduced either to accept or
refuse it. If he accepts it, with the proofs I have in hand
against him, I shall be able completely to disgrace him:
if he refuses, after having accepted it, he will have no
pretext, but must give a reason for such refusal. This is
what I expect; if he accuses me, he is ruined.
If, I say, Mr Hume reasoned with himself in this manner,
he did what was consistent with his plan, and in that
case very natural; indeed this is the only way in which
his conduct in this affair can be explained, for upon
any other supposition it is inexplicable: if this be not
demonstrable, nothing ever was so. The critical situation
to which he had now reduced me, re-recalled strongly to my
mind the four words I mentioned above; and which I heard
him say and repeat, at a time when I did not comprehend
their full force. It was the first night after our
departure from Paris. We slept in the same chamber, when,
during the night, I heard him several times cry out with
great vehemence, in the French language, _Je tiens J. J.
Rousseau._ 'I have you, Rousseau.' I know not whether he
was awake or asleep.[39]
The expression was remarkable, coming from a man who is too
well acquainted with the French language, to be mistaken
with regard to the force or choice of words. I took these
words, however, and I could not then take them otherwise
than in a favourable sense: notwithstanding the tone of
voice in which they were spoken, was still less favourable
than the expression. It is indeed impossible for me to
give any idea of it; but it corresponds exactly with those
terrible looks I have before mentioned. At every repetition
of them I was seized with a shuddering, a kind of horror I
could not resist, though a moment's recollection restored
me, and made me smile at my terror. The next day all this
was so perfectly obliterated, that I did not even think of
it during my stay in London, and its neighbourhood. It was
not till my arrival in this place, that so many things have
contributed to recall these words to my mind; and indeed
recall them every moment.
These words, the tone of which dwells on my heart, as if
I had but just heard them; those long and fatal looks so
frequently cast on me; the patting me on the back, with the
repetition of _O, my dear Sir_, in answer to my suspicions
of his being a traitor: all this affects me to such a
degree, after what preceded, that this recollection, had I
no other, would be sufficient to prevent any reconciliation
or return of confidence between us; not a night indeed
passes over my head, but I think I hear, _Rousseau, I have
you_, ring in my ears as if he had just pronounced them.
Yes, Mr Hume, I know you _have me_; but that only by
mere externals: you have me in the public opinion and
judgment of mankind. You have my reputation, and perhaps my
security, to do with as you will. The general prepossession
is in your favour; it will be very easy for you to make me
pass for the monster you have begun to represent me; and
I already see the barbarous exultation of my implacable
enemies. The public will no longer spare me. Without any
farther examination, every body is on the side of those who
have conferred favours; because each is desirous to attract
the same good offices, by displaying a sensibility of the
obligation. I foresee readily the consequences of all this,
particularly in the country to which you have conducted me;
and where, being without friends, and an utter stranger
to every body, I lie almost entirely at your mercy. The
sensible part of mankind, however, will comprehend that I
must be so far from seeking this affair, that nothing more
disagreeable or terrible could possibly have happened to me
in my present situation. They will perceive that nothing
but my invincible aversion to all kind of falsehood, and
the possibility of my professing a regard for a person who
had forfeited it, could have prevented my dissimulation,
at a time when it was on so many accounts my interest. But
the sensible part of mankind are few, nor do they make the
greatest noise in the world.
Yes, Mr Hume, you _have me_ by all the ties of this life;
but you have no power over my probity or my fortitude,
which, being independent either of you or of mankind, I
will preserve in spite of you. Think not to frighten me
with the fortune that awaits me. I know the opinions of
mankind; I am accustomed to their injustice, and have
learned to care little about it. If you have taken your
resolution, as I have reason to believe you have, be
assured mine is taken also. I am feeble indeed in body, but
never possessed greater strength of mind.
Mankind may say and do what they will, it is of little
consequence to me. What is of consequence, however, is,
that I should end as I have begun; that I should continue
to preserve my ingenuousness and integrity to the end,
whatever may happen; and that I should have no cause to
reproach myself either with meanness in adversity, or
insolence in prosperity. Whatever disgrace attends, or
misfortune threatens me, I am ready to meet them. Though I
am to be pitied, I am much less so than you, and all the
revenge I shall take on you is, to leave you the tormenting
consciousness of being obliged, in spite of yourself,
to have a respect for the unfortunate person you have
oppressed.
In closing this letter, I am surprised at my having been
able to write it. If it were possible to die with grief,
every line was sufficient to kill me with sorrow. Every
circumstance of the affair is equally incomprehensible.
Such conduct as yours hath been, is not in nature: it is
contradictory to itself, and yet it is demonstrable to me
that it has been such as I conceive. On each side of me
there is a bottomless abyss! and I am lost in one or the
other.
If you are guilty, I am the most unfortunate of mankind;
if you are innocent, I am the most culpable.[40] You even
make me desire to be that contemptible object. Yes, the
situation to which you see me reduced, prostrate at your
feet, crying out for mercy, and doing every thing to obtain
it; publishing aloud my own unworthiness, and paying the
most explicit homage to your virtues, would be a state of
joy and cordial effusion, after the grievous state of
restraint and mortification into which you have plunged me.
I have but a word more to say. If you are guilty, write
to me no more; it would be superfluous, for certainly
you could not deceive me. If you are innocent, justify
yourself. I know my duty; I love, and shall always love
it, however difficult and severe. There is no state of
abjection that a heart, not formed for it, may not recover
from. Once again, I say, if you are innocent, deign to
justify yourself; if you are not, adieu for ever.
J. J. R.
[5] The fact was this. My friend, Mr Ramsay, a painter of eminence,
and a man of merit, proposed to draw Mr Rousseau's picture; and when
he had begun it, told me he intended to make me a present of it. Thus
the design of having Mr Rousseau's picture drawn did not come from
me, nor did it cost me any thing. Mr Rousseau, therefore, is equally
contemptible in paying me a compliment for this pretended gallantry,
in his letter of the 29th March, and in converting it into ridicule
here.--Mr HUME.
[6] Mr Rousseau forms a wrong judgment of me, and ought to know me
better. I have written to Mr Davenport, even since our rupture, to
engage him to continue his kindness to his unhappy guest.--Mr HUME.
[7] How strange are the effects of a disordered imagination! Mr
Rousseau tells us he is ignorant of what passes in the world, and yet
talks of the enemies he has in England. How does he know this? Where
did he see them? He hath received nothing but marks of beneficence and
hospitality. Mr Walpole is the only person who hath thrown out a little
piece of raillery against him; but is not therefore his enemy. If Mr
Rousseau could have seen things exactly as they are, he would have seen
that he had no other friend in England but me, and no other enemy but
himself.--Mr HUME.
[8] That a general outcry should prevail against Mr Rousseau's
persecutors in England, is no wonder. Such an outcry would have
prevailed from sentiments of humanity, had he been a person of much
less note; so that this is no proof of his being esteemed. And as to
the encomiums on him inserted in the public newspapers, the value of
such kind of puffs is well known in England. I have already observed,
that the authors of more respectable works were at no loss what to
think of Mr Rousseau, but had formed a proper judgment of him long
before his arrival in England. The genius which displayed itself in his
writings did by no means blind the eyes of the more sensible part of
mankind to the absurdity and inconsistency of his opinions and conduct.
In exclaiming against Mr Rousseau's fanatical persecutors, they did
not think him the more possessed of the true spirit of martyrdom. The
general opinion indeed was, that he had too much philosophy to be very
devout, and had too much devotion to have much philosophy.--_English
Translator_.
[9] Mr Rousseau knows very little of the public judgment in England,
if he thinks it is to be influenced by any story told in a certain
Magazine. But, as I have before said, it was not from this time that Mr
Rousseau was slightingly spoke of, but long before, and that in a more
consequential manner. Perhaps, indeed, Mr Rousseau ought in justice
to impute great part of those civilities he met with on his arrival,
rather to vanity and curiosity than to respect and esteem.--_English
Translator_.
[10] So then I find I am to answer for every article of every Magazine
and newspaper printed in England. I assure Mr Rousseau I would rather
answer for every robbery committed on the highway; and I am entirely as
innocent of the one as the other.--Mr HUME.
[11] This relates to my friend Mr John Stewart, who entertained Mr
Rousseau at his house, and did him all the good offices in his power.
Mr Rousseau, in complaining of this gentleman's behaviour, forgets that
he wrote Mr Stewart a letter from Wooton, full of acknowledgments, and
just expressions of gratitude. What Mr Rousseau adds, regarding the
brother of Mr Stewart, is neither civil nor true--Mr HUME.
[12] I shall mention only one, that made me smile; this was, his
attention to have, every time I came to see him, a volume of _Eloisa_
upon his table; as if I did not know enough of Mr Hume's taste for
reading, as to be well assured, that of all books in the world, Eloisa
must be one of the most tiresome to him.--Mr ROUSSEAU.
[13] The reader may judge from the two first letters of Mr Rousseau,
which I published with that view, on which side the flatteries
commenced. As for the rest, I loved and esteemed Mr Rousseau, and
took a pleasure in giving him to understand so. I might perhaps be
too lavish in my praises; but I can assure the reader he never once
complained of it.--Mr HUME.
[14] I don't recollect a single circumstance of this history; but what
makes me give very little credit to it, is, that I remember very well
we had settled two different days for the purposes mentioned, that is,
one to go to the Museum, and another to the play.--Mr HUME.
[15] I conceive Mr Rousseau hints here at two or three dinners, that
were sent him from the house of Mr Stewart, when he chose to dine at
his own lodgings; this was not done, however, to save him the expense
of a meal, but because there was no convenient tavern or chop-house in
the neighbourhood. I beg the reader's pardon for descending to such
trivial particulars.--Mr HUME.
[16] We have not been authorized to suppress this affronting term; but
it is too gross and groundless to do any injury to the celebrated and
respectable physician to whose name it is annexed.--_French Editors_.
[17] Thus am I accused of treachery, because I am a friend of Mr
Walpole, who hath thrown out a little raillery on Mr Rousseau, and
because the son of a man whom Mr Rousseau does not like lodges
by accident in the same house; because my landladies, who do not
understand a syllable of French, received Mr Rousseau coldly. As to the
rest, all that I said to Mr Rousseau about the young Tronchin was, that
he had not the same prejudices against him as his father.--Mr HUME.
[18] The story of Mr Rousseau's letters is as follows. He had often
been complaining to me, and with reason, that he was ruined by postage
at Neufchâtel, which commonly cost him about 25 or 26 louis d'ors a
year, and all for letters which were of no significance, being wrote,
some of them by people who took that opportunity of abusing him, and
most of them by persons unknown to him. He was therefore resolved, he
said, in England to receive no letters which came by the post; and
the same resolution he reiterates in his letter to me dated the 22d
of March. When he went to Chiswick, near London, the postman brought
his letters to me. I carried him out a cargo of them. He exclaimed,
desired me to return the letters, and recover the price of postage. I
told him, that, in that case, the clerks of the Post Office were entire
masters of his letters. He said he was indifferent: they might do with
them what they pleased. I added, that he would by that means be cut
off from all correspondence with all his friends. He replied, that he
would give a particular direction to such as he desired to correspond
with. But till his instructions for that purpose could arrive, what
could I do more friendly than to save, at my own expense, his letters
from the curiosity and indiscretion of the clerks of the Post Office?
I am indeed ashamed to find myself obliged to discover such petty
circumstances.---Mr HUME.
[19] It is necessary to explain this circumstance. I had been writing
on Mr Hume's table, during his absence, an answer to a letter I had
just received. He came in, very anxious to know what I had been
writing, and hardly able to contain himself from desiring to read it.
I closed my letter, however, without showing it him; when, as I was
putting it into my pocket, he asked me for it eagerly, saying he would
send it away on the morrow, being post-day. The letter lay on the
table. Lord Newnham came in. Mr Hume went out of the room for a moment,
on which I took the letter up again, saying I should find time to send
it the next day. Lord Newnham offered to get it inclosed in the French
ambassador's packet, which I accepted. Mr Hume re-entered the moment
his Lordship had inclosed it, and was pulling out his seal. Mr Hume
officiously offered his own seal, and that with so much earnestness,
that it could not well be refused. The bell was rung, and Lord Newnham
gave the letter to Mr Hume's servant, to give it to his own, who waited
below with the chariot, in order to have it sent to the ambassador.
Mr Hume's servant was hardly got out of the room, but I said to
myself, I'll lay a wager the master follows. He did not fail to do as
I expected. Not knowing how to leave Lord Newnham alone, I staid some
time before I followed Mr Hume. I said nothing; but he must perceive
that I was uneasy. Thus, although I have received no answer to my
letter, I doubt not of its going to hand; but I confess, I cannot help
suspecting it was read first.--Mr ROUSSEAU.
[20] It appears from what he wrote to me afterwards, that he was
very well satisfied with this letter, and that he thought of it very
well.--Mr ROUSSEAU.
[21] My answer to this is contained in Mr Rousseau's own letter of the
22d of March; wherein he expresses himself with the utmost cordiality,
without any reserve, and without the least appearance of suspicion.--Mr
HUME.
[22] All this hangs upon the fable he had so artfully worked up, as I
before observed.--Mr HUME.
[23] I had only one such opportunity with his governante, which was
on their arrival in London. I must own it never entered into my
head to talk to her upon any other subject than the concerns of Mr
Rousseau.--Mr HUME.
[24] See Mr d'Alembert's declaration on this head, annexed to this
narrative.
[25] Mr Rousseau declares himself to have been fatigued with the visits
he received; ought he therefore to complain that Mr d'Alembert, whom he
did not like, did not importune him with his?--Mr HUME.
[26] This _false friend_ is, undoubtedly, myself. But what is the
treachery? What harm have I done, or could I do to Mr Rousseau? On
the supposition of my entering into a project to ruin him, how could
I think to bring it about by the services I did him? If Mr Rousseau
should gain credit, I must be thought still more weak than wicked.--Mr
HUME.
[27] The booksellers have lately informed me that the edition is
finished, and will shortly be published. This may be; but it is too
late, and what is still worse, it is too opportune for the purpose
intended to be served.--Mr ROUSSEAU.
[28] It is about four months since Mr Becket, the bookseller, told Mr
Rousseau that the publication of these pieces was delayed on account
of the indisposition of the translator. As for any thing else, I never
promised to take any charge at all of the edition, as Mr Becket can
testify.--Mr HUME.
[29] As to Mr Rousseau's suspicions of the cause of the _suppression_,
as he calls it, of the Narrative and Letters above mentioned, the
translator thinks it incumbent on him to affirm, that they were
entirely groundless. It is true, as Mr Becket told Mr Hume, that the
translator of the letters was indisposed about that time. But the
principal cause of the delay was, that he was of his own mere motion,
no less indisposed to those pieces making their appearance in English
at all;(*) and this not out of ill will to Mr Rousseau, or good will to
Mr Hume, neither of which he ever saw, or spoke to, in his life; but
really out of regard to the character and reputation of a man, whose
genius he admired, and whose works he had translated: well knowing
the publication of such squabbles could do Mr Rousseau no good in
the opinion of the more judicious and sensible part of mankind. With
regard to the translation of the narrative of his manner of living
at Montmorency, I never saw it till it was actually printed, when Mr
Becket put it into my hands, and I frankly told him that I thought it
a very unseasonable, puerile affair, and could by no means serve to
advance Mr Rousseau's estimation in the eyes of the public. It was
certainly of great importance to the good people of England, to know
how Mr Rousseau amused himself seven or eight years ago at Montmorency,
that he cooked his own broth, and did not leave it to the management
of his nurse, for fear she should have a better dinner than himself!
Yet this is one of the most remarkable circumstances contained in
that narrative, except indeed that we are told, Mr Rousseau is a
most passionate admirer of virtue, and that his eyes always sparkle
at the bare mention of that word.--O Virtue! how greatly is thy name
prostituted! And how fair, from the teeth outward, are thy nominal
votaries!--_English Translator_.
(*) For, so far were the booksellers from intending to _suppress_ these
pieces, that they actually reprinted the French edition of Peyrou's
Letters, and published it in London.
[30] No body could possibly be mistaken with regard to the letter's
being fictitious; besides it was well known that Mr Walpole was the
author of it--Mr HUME.
[31] Mr Rousseau forgets himself here. It was but a week before that
he wrote me a very friendly letter. See his letter of the 29th of
March.--Mr HUME.
[32] I know nothing of this pretended libel.--Mr HUME.
[33] I have never been so happy as to meet with Mr de Voltaire; he only
did me the honour to write me a letter about three years ago. As to Mr
Tronchin, I never saw him in my life, nor ever had any correspondence
with him. Of Mr d'Alembert's friendship, indeed, I am proud to make a
boast.--Mr HUME.
[34] Why indeed? except that sensible people in England are averse to
affectation and quackery. Those who see and despise these most in Mr
Rousseau, are not, however, his _enemies_; perhaps, if he could be
brought to think so, they are his best and truest friends.--_English
Translator_.
[35] Mr Rousseau, seeing the letter addressed to him in the name of
Voltaire advertised in the public papers, wrote to Mr Davenport,
who was then in London, to desire he would bring it him. I told Mr
Davenport that the printed copy was very faulty, but that I would
ask of Lord Littleton a manuscript copy, which was correct. This is
sufficient to make Mr Rousseau conclude that Lord Littleton is his
mortal enemy, and my intimate friend; and that we are in a conspiracy
against him. He ought rather to have concluded, that the printed copy
could not come from me,--Mr HUME.
The piece above mentioned was shown to the _Translator_ before its
publication, and many absurd liberties taken with the original pointed
out and censured. At which time there did not appear, from the parties
concerned in it, that Mr Hume could have the least hand in, or could
have known any thing of the edition.--_English Translator_.
[36] I have never seen this piece, neither before nor after its
publication; nor has it come to the knowledge of any body to whom I
have spoken of it--Mr HUME.
The _translator_, who has been attentive to every thing that has come
out from, or about Mr Rousseau, knows also nothing of this piece. Why
did not Mr Rousseau mention particularly in what paper, and when it
appeared?--_English Translator_.
[37] I was not present when Mr Rousseau received his cousin. I only
just saw them afterwards together for about a minute on the terrace in
Buckingham Street.--Mr HUME.
[38] How was it possible for me to guess at such chimerical
suspicions? Mr Davenport, the only person of my acquaintance who then
saw Mr Rousseau, assures me that he was perfectly ignorant of them
himself.--Mr HUME.
[39] I cannot answer for every thing I may say in my sleep, and much
less am I conscious whether or not I dream in French. But pray, as Mr
Rousseau did not know whether I was asleep or awake when I pronounced
those terrible words, with such a terrible voice, how is he certain
that he himself was well awake when he heard them?--Mr HUME.
[40] And does it depend on an _if_, after all Mr R's positive
conviction, and absolute demonstrations?--_English Translator_.
I hesitated some time whether I should make any reply to this strange
memorial. At length I determined to write Mr Rousseau the following
letter.
MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.
_Lisle-street, Leicester-fields, July_ 22_d_, 1766.
SIR,
I shall only answer one article of your long letter: it
is that which regards the conversation between us the
evening before your departure. Mr Davenport had imagined a
good natured artifice, to make you believe that a retour
chaise had offered for Wooton; and I believe he made an
advertisement be put in the papers, in order the better to
deceive you. His purpose was only to save you some expenses
in the journey, which I thought a laudable project; though
I had no hand either in contriving or conducting it. You
entertained, how ever, suspicions of his design, while we
were sitting alone by my fire-side; and you reproached me
with concurring in it. I endeavoured to pacify you, and to
divert the discourse; but to no purpose. You sat sullen,
and was either silent, or made me very peevish answers. At
last you rose up, and took a turn or two about the room;
when all of a sudden, and to my great surprise, you clapped
yourself on my knee, threw your arms about my neck, kissed
me with seeming ardour, and bedewed my face with tears.
You exclaimed, 'My dear friend, can you ever pardon this
folly! After all the pains you have taken to serve me,
after the numberless instances of friendship you have given
me, here I reward you with this ill humour and sullenness.
But your forgiveness of me will be a new instance of your
friendship; and I hope you will find at bottom, that my
heart is not unworthy of it.'
I was very much affected, I own; and I believe, there
passed a very tender scene between us. You added, by
way of compliment, that though I had many better titles
to recommend me to posterity, yet perhaps my uncommon
attachment and friendship to a poor unhappy persecuted
man, would not altogether be overlooked.
This incident, Sir, was somewhat remarkable; and it is
impossible that either you or I could so soon have forgot
it. But you have had the assurance to tell me the story
twice in a manner so different, or rather so opposite, that
when I persist, as I do, in this account, it necessarily
follows, that either you or I am a liar. You imagine,
perhaps, that because the incident passed privately without
a witness, the question will lie between the credibility
of your assertion and of mine. But you shall not have this
advantage or disadvantage, whichever you are pleased to
term it. I shall produce against you other proofs, which
will put the matter beyond controversy.
First, You are not aware, that I have a letter under your
hand, which is totally irreconcilable with your account,
and confirms mine.[41]
Secondly, I told the story the next day, or the day after,
to Mr Davenport, with a friendly view of preventing any
such good natured artifices for the future. He surely
remembers it.
Thirdly, As I thought the story much to your honour, I
told it to several of my friends here. I even wrote it to
Mde. de Boufflers at Paris. I believe no one will imagine,
that I was preparing beforehand an apology, in case of a
rupture with you; which, of all human events, I should then
have thought the most incredible, especially as we were
separated almost for ever, and I still continued to render
you the most essential services.
Fourthly, The story, as I tell it, is consistent and
rational: there is not common sense in your account. What!
because sometimes, when absent in thought, I have a fixed
look or stare, you suspect me to be a traitor, and you
have the assurance to tell me of such black and ridiculous
suspicions! Are not most studious men (and many of them
more than I) subject to such reveries or fits of absence,
without being exposed to such suspicions? You do not even
pretend that, before you left London, you had any other
solid grounds of suspicion against me.
I shall enter into no detail with regard to your letter:
the other articles of it are as much without foundation as
you yourself know this to be. I shall only add, in general,
that I enjoyed about a month ago an uncommon pleasure, when
I reflected, that through many difficulties, and by most
assiduous care and pains, I had, beyond my most sanguine
expectations, provided for your repose, honour and fortune.
But I soon felt a very sensible uneasiness when I found
that you had wantonly and voluntarily thrown away all these
advantages, and was become the declared enemy of your
repose, fortune, and honour: I cannot be surprised after
this that you are my enemy. Adieu, and for ever. I am, Sir,
yours,
D. H.
[41] That of the 22d of March, which is entirely cordial; and proves
that Mr Rousseau had never, till that moment, entertained, or at least
discovered the smallest suspicion against me. There is also in the same
letter, a peevish passage about the hire of a chaise.--Mr HUME.
To all these papers, I need only subjoin the following letter of Mr
Walpole to me, which proves how ignorant and innocent I am of the whole
matter of the King of Prussia's letter.
MR WALPOLE TO MR HUME.
_Arlington Street, July_ 26_th_, 1766.
I cannot be precise as to the time of my writing the King
of Prussia's letter, but I do assure you, with the utmost
truth, that it was several days before you left Paris,
and before Rousseau's arrival there, of which I can give
you a strong proof; for I not only suppressed the letter
while you staid there, out of delicacy to you, but it was
the reason why, out of delicacy to myself, I did not go to
see him, as you often proposed to me; thinking it wrong to
go and make a cordial visit to a man, with a letter in my
pocket to laugh at him. You are at full liberty, dear Sir,
to make use of what I say in your justification, either
to Rousseau or any body else. I should be very sorry to
have you blamed on my account: I have a hearty contempt of
Rousseau, and am perfectly indifferent what any body thinks
of the matter. If there is any fault, which I am far from
thinking, let it lie on me. No parts can hinder my laughing
at their possessor, if he is a mountebank. If he has a bad
and most ungrateful heart, as Rousseau has shown in your
case, into the bargain, he will have my scorn likewise, as
he will of all good and sensible men. You may trust your
sentence to such, who are as respectable judges as any that
have pored over ten thousand more volumes.
Yours most sincerely,
H. W.
Thus I have given a narrative, as concise as possible, of this
extraordinary affair, which I am told has very much attracted the
attention of the public, and which contains more unexpected incidents
than any other in which I was ever engaged. The persons to whom I have
shown the original papers which authenticate the whole, have differed
very much in their opinion, as well of the use I ought to make of them
as of Mr Rousseau's present sentiments and state of mind. Some of them
have maintained that he is altogether insincere in his quarrel with
me, and his opinion of my guilt, and that the whole proceeds from that
excessive pride which forms the basis of his character, and which
leads him both to seek the eclat of refusing the King of England's
bounty, and to shake off the intolerable burthen of an obligation to
me, by every sacrifice of honour, truth, and friendship, as well as of
interest. They found their sentiments on the absurdity of that first
supposition on which he grounds his anger, viz. that Mr Walpole's
letter, which he knew had been every where dispersed both in Paris
and London, was given to the press by me; and as this supposition is
contrary to common sense on the one hand, and not supported even by the
pretence of the slightest probability on the other, they conclude, that
it never had any weight even with the person himself who lays hold of
it. They confirm their sentiments by the number of fictions and lies
which he employs to justify his anger; fictions with regard to points
in which it is impossible for him to be mistaken. They also remark his
real cheerfulness and gaiety, amidst the deep melancholy with which
he pretended to be oppressed; not to mention the absurd reasoning
which runs through the whole, and on which it is impossible for any
man to rest his conviction. And though a very important interest is
here abandoned, yet money is not universally the chief object with
mankind: vanity weighs farther with some men, particularly with this
philosopher; and the very ostentation of refusing a pension from the
King of England--an ostentation which, with regard to other Princes,
he has often sought--might be of itself a sufficient motive for his
present conduct.
There are others of my friends who regard this whole affair in a more
compassionate light, and consider Mr Rousseau as an object rather
of pity than of anger. They suppose the same domineering pride and
ingratitude to be the basis of his character; but they are also willing
to believe that his brain has received a sensible shock, and that his
judgment, set afloat, is carried to every side, as it is pushed by the
current of his humours and of his passions. The absurdity of his belief
is no proof of its insincerity. He imagines himself the sole important
being in the universe: he fancies all mankind to be in a combination
against him: his greatest benefactor, as hurting him most, is the chief
object of his animosity: and though he supports all his whimsies by
lies and fictions, this is so frequent a case with wicked men, who are
in that middle state between sober reason and total frenzy, that it
needs give no surprise to any body.
I own that I am much inclined to this latter opinion; though, at
the same time, I question whether, in any period of his life, Mr
Rousseau was ever more in his senses than he is at present. The former
brilliancy of his genius, and his great talents for writing, are no
proof of the contrary. It is an old remark, that great wits are near
allied to madness; and even in those frantic letters which he has wrote
to me, there are evidently strong traces of his wonted genius and
eloquence. He has frequently told me that he was composing his memoirs,
in which justice should be done to his own character, to that of his
friends, and to that of his enemies; and as Mr Davenport informs me,
that, since his retreat into the country, he has been much employed in
writing, I have reason to conclude that he is at present finishing that
undertaking. Nothing could be more unexpected to me than my passing
so suddenly from the class of his friend to that of his enemies; but
this transition being made, I must expect to be treated accordingly;
and I own that this reflection gave me some anxiety.[42] A work of
this nature, both from the celebrity of the person, and the strokes
of eloquence interspersed, would certainly attract the attention of
the world; and it might be published either after my death, or after
that of the author. In the former case, there would be nobody who
could tell the story, or justify my memory. In the latter, my apology,
wrote in opposition to a dead person, would lose a great deal of its
authenticity. For this reason, I have at present collected the whole
story into one Narrative, that I may show it to my friends, and at any
time have it in my power to make whatever use of it they and I should
think proper. I am, and always have been, such a lover of peace, that
nothing but necessity, or very forcible reasons, could have obliged me
to give it to the public.
_'Perdidi beneficium. Numquid quæ consecravimus perdidisse nos dicimus?
Inter consecrata beneficium est; etiam si male respondit, bene
collatum. Non est ille qualem speravimus; simus nos quales fuimus, ei
dissimiles.'_
SENECA DE BENEFICIIS, LIB. VII. CAP. 29.
[42] In his letter of the 22d of March, he flatters me indirectly with
the figure I am to make in his Memoirs. In that of the 23d of June, he
threatens me. These are proofs how much he is in earnest.
DECLARATION OF MR D'ALEMBERT, RELATING TO MR WALPOLE'S LETTER.
(_Addressed to the French Editors_.)
It is with the greatest surprise I learn, from Mr Hume, that Mr
Rousseau accuses me of being the author of the ironical letter
addressed to him, in the public papers, under the name of the King of
Prussia. Every body knows, both at Paris and London, that such letter
was written by Mr Walpole; nor does he disown it. He acknowledges only
that he was a little assisted, in regard to the style, by a person he
does not name, and whom perhaps he ought to name. As to my part, on
whom the public suspicions have fallen in this affair, I am not at
all acquainted with Mr Walpole. I don't even believe I ever spoke to
him; having only happened to meet once occasionally on a visit. I have
not only had not the least to do, either directly or indirectly, with
the letter in question, but could mention above a hundred persons,
among the friends as well as enemies of Mr Rousseau, who have heard me
greatly disapprove of it; because, as I said, we ought not to ridicule
the unfortunate, especially when they do us no harm. Besides, my
respect for the King of Prussia, and the acknowledgments I owe him,
might, I should have thought, have persuaded Mr Rousseau that I should
not have taken such a liberty with the name of that Prince, though in
pleasantry.
To this I shall add, that I never was an enemy to Mr Rousseau, either
open or secret, as he pretends; and I defy him to produce the least
proof of my having endeavoured to injure him in any shape whatever. I
can prove to the contrary, by the most respectable witnesses, that I
have always endeavoured to oblige him, whenever it lay in my power.
As to my pretended _secret correspondence_ with Mr Hume, it is very
certain that we did not begin to write to each other till about five
or six months after his departure, on occasion of the quarrel arisen
between him and Mr Rousseau, and into which the latter thought proper
unnecessarily to introduce me.
I thought this declaration necessary for my own sake, as well as for
the sake of truth, and in regard to the situation of Mr Rousseau. I
sincerely lament his having so little confidence in the probity of
mankind, and particularly in that of Mr Hume.
D'ALEMBERT.
SCOTTICISMS.
_Will_, in the first person, as _I will walk_, _we will walk_,
expresses the intention or resolution of the person, along with the
future event: In the second and third person, as, _you will_, _he
will_, _they will_, it expresses the future action or event, without
comprehending or excluding the volition.
_Shall_, in the first person, whether singular or plural, expresses
the future action or event, without excluding or comprehending the
intention or resolution: But in the _second_ or _third_ person, it
marks a necessity, and commonly a necessity proceeding from the person
who speaks; as, _he shall walk_, _you shall repent it_.
These variations seem to have proceeded from a politeness in the
_English_, who, in speaking to others, or of others, made use of the
term _will_, which implies volition, even where the event may be the
subject of necessity and constraint. And in speaking of themselves,
made use of the term _shall_, which implies constraint, even though the
event may be the object of choice.
_Wou'd_ and _shou'd_ are conjunctive moods, subject to the same rule;
only, we may observe, that in a sentence, where there is a condition
exprest, and a consequence of that condition, the former always
requires _shou'd_, and the latter _wou'd_, in the second and third
persons; as, _if he shou'd fall, he wou'd break his leg_, &c.
_These_ is the plural of _this_; _those of that_. The former,
therefore, expresses what is near: the latter, what is more remote. As,
in these lines of the Duke of Buckingham,
"Philosophers and poets vainly strove,
In every age, the lumpish mass to move.
But THOSE were pedants if compared with THESE,
Who knew not only to instruct, but please."
Where a relative is to follow, and the subject has not been mentioned
immediately before, _those_ is always required. _Those observations
which he made_. _Those kingdoms which Alexander conquered_.
In the verbs, which end in _t_, or _te_, we frequently omit _ed_ in
the preterperfect and in the participle; as, _he operate_, _it was
cultivate_. _Milton_ says, _in thought more elevate_; but he is the
only author who uses that expression.
_Notice_ shou'd not be used as a verb. The proper phrase is _take
notice_. Yet I find Lord Shaftesbury uses _notic'd_, the participle:
And _unnotic'd_ is very common.
_Hinder to do_, is _Scotch_. The _English_ phrase is, _hinder from
doing_. Yet _Milton_ says, _Hindered not Satan to pervert the mind_.
Book IX.
SCOTCH. ENGLISH.
Conform to Conformable to
Friends and acquaintances Friends and Acquitance
Maltreat Abuse
Advert to Attend to
Proven, improven, approven Prov'd, improv'd, approv'd
Pled Pleaded
Incarcerate Imprison
Tear to pieces Tear in pieces
Drunk, run Drank, ran
Fresh weather Open weather
Tender Sickly
In the long run At long run
Notwithstanding of that Notwithstanding that
Contented himself to do Contented himself with doing
'Tis a question if 'Tis a question whether
Discretion Civility
With child to a man With child by a man
Out of hand Presently
Simply impossible Absolutely impossible
A park An enclosure
In time coming In time to come
Nothing else No other thing
Mind it Remember it
Denuded Divested
Severals Several
Some better Something better
Anent With regard to
Allenarly Solely
Alongst. Yet the _English_
say both amid, amidst, among, Along
and amongst
Evenly Even
As I shall answer I protest or declare
Cause him do it. Yet 'tis
good _English_ to say, make Cause him to do it
him do it
Marry upon Marry to
Learn Teach
There, where Thither, whither
Effectuate. This word in _English_ Effect
means to effect with
pains and difficulty.
A wright. Yet 'tis good _English_ A Carpenter
to say, a wheelwright
Defunct Deceast
Evite Avoid
Part with child Miscarry
Notour Notorious
To want it To be without a thing, even
though it be not desirable
To be difficulted To be puzzled
Rebuted Discouraged by repulses
For ordinary Usually
Think shame Asham'd
In favours of In favour of
Dubiety Doubtfulness
Prejudge Hurt
Compete Enter into competition
Heritable Hereditary
To remeed To remedy
Bankier Banker
Adduce a proof Produce a proof
Superplus Surplus
Forfaulture Forfeiture
In no event In no case
Common soldiers Private men
Big with a man Great with a man
Bygone Past
Debitor Debtor
Exeemed Exempted
Yesternight Last night
Big coat Great coat
A chimney A grate
Annualrent Interest
Tenible argument Good argument
Amissing Missing
To condescend upon To specify
To discharge To forbid
To extinguish an obligation To cancel an obligation
To depone To depose
A compliment A present
To inquire at a man To inquire of a man
To be angry at a man To be angry with a man
To send an errand To send off an errand
To furnish goods to him To furnish him with goods
To open up To open, or lay open
_Thucydide, Herodot, Sueton,_ _Thucydides, Herodotus, Suetonius_
Butter and bread Bread and Butter
Pepper and vinegar Vinegar and pepper
Paper, pen and ink Pen, ink and paper
Readily Probably
On a sudden Of a sudden
As ever I saw As I ever saw
For my share For my part
Misgive Fail
Rather chuse to buy as sell Rather chuse to buy than sell
Deduce Deduct
Look't over the window Look't out at the window
A pretty enough girl A pretty girl enough
'Tis a week since he left this 'Tis a week since he left this
place
Come in to the fire Come near the fire
To take off a new coat To make up a new suit
Alwise Always
Cut out his hair Cut off his hair
Cry him Call him
To crave To dun, to ask payment
To get a stomach To get an appetite
Vacance Vacation
A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.
BEING AN ATTEMPT TO INTRODUCE THE
EXPERIMENTAL METHOD OF
REASONING INTO
MORAL SUBJECTS.
RARA TEMPORUM FELICITAS, UBI SENTIRE, QUÆ VELIS;
ET QUÆ SENTIAS, DICERE LICET.
TACITUS.
BOOK I.
OF THE UNDERSTANDING.
_ADVERTISEMENT._
_My design in the present Work is sufficiently explained in the
Introduction. The reader must only observe, that all the subjects I
have there planned out to myself are not treated in these two volumes.
The subjects of the Understanding and Passions make a complete chain
of reasoning by themselves; and I was willing to take advantage of
this natural division, in order to try the taste of the Public. If I
have the good fortune to meet with success, I shall proceed to the
examination of Morals, Politics, and Criticism, which will complete
this Treatise of Human Nature. The approbation of the Public I consider
as the greatest reward of my labours; but am determined to regard its
judgment, whatever it be, as my best instruction._
INTRODUCTION.
Nothing is more usual and more natural for those, who pretend to
discover any thing new to the world in philosophy and the sciences,
than to insinuate the praises of their own systems, by decrying all
those which have been advanced before them. And indeed were they
content with lamenting that ignorance, which we still lie under in the
most important questions that can come before the tribunal of human
reason, there are few, who have an acquaintance with the sciences, that
would not readily agree with them. 'Tis easy for one of judgment and
learning, to perceive the weak foundation even of those systems, which
have obtained the greatest credit, and have carried their pretensions
highest to accurate and profound reasoning. Principles taken upon
trust, consequences lamely deduced from them, want of coherence in the
parts, and of evidence in the whole, these are every where to be met
with in the systems of the most eminent philosophers, and seem to have
drawn disgrace upon philosophy itself.
Nor is there required such profound knowledge to discover the present
imperfect condition of the sciences, but even the rabble without doors
may judge from the noise and clamour which they hear, that all goes
not well within. There is nothing which is not the subject of debate,
and in which men of learning are not of contrary opinions. The most
trivial question escapes not our controversy, and in the most momentous
we are not able to give any certain decision. Disputes are multiplied,
as if every thing was uncertain. Amidst all this bustle, 'tis not
reason which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man needs ever
despair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, who
has art enough to represent it in any favourable colours. The victory
is not gained by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the sword,
but by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army.
From hence, in my opinion, arises that common prejudice against
metaphysical reasonings of all kinds, even amongst those who profess
themselves scholars, and have a just value for every other part of
literature. By metaphysical reasonings, they do not understand those
on any particular branch of science, but every kind of argument which
is any way abstruse, and requires some attention to be comprehended.
We have so often lost our labour in such researches, that we commonly
reject them without hesitation, and resolve, if we must for ever be
a prey to errors and delusions, that they shall at least be natural
and entertaining. And, indeed, nothing but the most determined
scepticism, along with a great degree of indolence, can justify this
aversion to metaphysics. For, if truth be at all within the reach
of human capacity, 'tis certain it must lie very deep and abstruse;
and to hope we shall arrive at it without pains, while the greatest
geniuses have failed with the utmost pains, must certainly be esteemed
sufficiently vain and presumptuous. I pretend to no such advantage
in the philosophy I am going to unfold, and would esteem it a strong
presumption against it, were it so very easy and obvious.
'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 dependant on the science of MAN; since they lie under the
cognizance of men, and are judged of by their powers and faculties.
'Tis impossible to tell what changes and improvements we; might make in
these sciences were we thoroughly acquainted with the extent and force
of human understanding, and could explain the nature of the ideas we
employ, and of the operations we perform in our reasonings. And these
improvements are the more to be hoped for in natural religion, as it
is not content with instructing us in the nature of superior powers,
but carries its views farther, to their disposition towards us, and our
duties towards them; and consequently, we ourselves are not only the
beings that reason, but also one of the objects concerning which we
reason.
If, therefore, the sciences of mathematics, natural philosophy, and
natural religion, have such a dependence on the knowledge of man, what
may be expected in the other sciences, whose connexion with human
nature is more close and intimate? The sole end of logic is to explain
the principles and operations of our reasoning faculty, and the nature
of our ideas; morals and criticism regard our tastes and sentiments;
and politics consider men as united in society, and dependent on each
other. In these four sciences of _Logic_, _Morals_, _Criticism_, and
_Politics_, is comprehended almost every thing which it can any way
import us to be acquainted with, or which can tend either to the
improvement or ornament of the human mind.
Here then is the only expedient, from which we can hope for success in
our philosophical researches, to leave the tedious lingering method,
which we have hitherto followed, and, instead of taking now and then a
castle or village on the frontier, to march up directly to the capital
or 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 decision is not comprised
in the science of man; and there is none, which can be decided with
any certainty, before we become acquainted with that science. In
pretending, therefore, to explain the principles of human nature, we in
effect propose a complete system of the sciences, built on a foundation
almost entirely new, and the only one upon which they can stand with
any security.
And, as the science of man is the only solid foundation for the other
sciences, so, the only solid foundation we can give to this science
itself must be laid on experience and observation. 'Tis no astonishing
reflection to consider, that the application of experimental philosophy
to moral subjects should come after that to natural, at the distance
of above a whole century; since we find in fact, that there was about
the same interval betwixt the origins of these sciences; and that,
reckoning from Thales to Socrates, the space of time is nearly equal to
that betwixt my Lord Bacon and some late philosophers[1] in England,
who have begun to put the science of man on a new footing, and have
engaged the attention, and excited the curiosity of the public. So true
it is, that however other nations may rival us in poetry, and excel us
in some other agreeable arts, the improvements in reason and philosophy
can only be owing to a land of toleration and of liberty.
Nor ought we to think, that this latter improvement in the science
of man will do less honour to our native country than the former in
natural philosophy, but ought rather to esteem it a greater glory,
upon account of the greater importance of that science, as well as
the necessity it lay under of such a reformation. For to me it seems
evident, that the essence of the mind being equally unknown to us with
that of external bodies, it must be equally impossible to form any
notion of its powers and qualities otherwise than from careful and
exact experiments, and the observation of those particular effects,
which result from its different circumstances and situations. And
though we must endeavour to render all our principles as universal as
possible, by tracing up our experiments to the utmost, and explaining
all effects from the simplest and fewest causes, 'tis still certain
we cannot go beyond experience; and any hypothesis, that pretends to
discover the ultimate original qualities of human nature, ought at
first to be rejected as presumptuous and chimerical.
I do not think a philosopher, who would apply himself so earnestly to
the explaining the ultimate principles of the soul, would show himself
a great master in that very science of human nature, which he pretends
to explain, or very knowing in what is naturally satisfactory to the
mind of man. For nothing is more certain, than that despair has almost
the same effect upon us with enjoyment, and that we are no sooner
acquainted with the impossibility of satisfying any desire, than the
desire itself vanishes. When we see, that we have arrived at the utmost
extent of human reason, we sit down contented; though we be perfectly
satisfied in the main of our ignorance, and perceive that we can give
no reason for our most general and most refined principles, beside our
experience of their reality; which is the reason of the mere vulgar,
and what it required no study at first to have discovered for the most
particular and most extraordinary phenomenon. And as this impossibility
of making any farther progress is enough to satisfy the reader, so
the writer may derive a more delicate satisfaction from the free
confession of his ignorance, and from his prudence in avoiding that
error, into which so many have fallen, of imposing their conjectures
and hypotheses on the world for the most certain principles. When this
mutual contentment and satisfaction can be obtained betwixt the master
and scholar, I know not what more we can require of our philosophy.
But if this impossibility of explaining ultimate principles should be
esteemed a defect in the science of man, I will venture to affirm,
that it is a defect common to it with all the sciences, and all the
arts, in which we can employ ourselves, whether they be such as are
cultivated in the schools of the philosophers, or practised in the
shops of the meanest artisans. None of them can go beyond experience,
or establish any principles which are not founded on that authority.
Moral philosophy has, indeed, this peculiar disadvantage, which is
not found in natural, that in collecting its experiments, it cannot
make them purposely, with premeditation, and after such a manner as to
satisfy itself concerning every particular difficulty which may arise.
When I am at a loss to know the effects of one body upon another in
any situation, I need only put them in that situation, and observe
what results from it. But should I endeavour to clear up after the
same manner any doubt in moral philosophy, by placing myself in the
same case with that which I consider, 'tis evident this reflection and
premeditation would so disturb the operation of my natural principles,
as must render it impossible to form any just conclusion from the
phenomenon. We must, therefore, glean up our experiments in this
science from a cautious observation of human life, and take them as
they appear in the common course of the world, by men's behaviour in
company, in affairs, and in their pleasures. Where experiments of this
kind are judiciously collected and compared, we may hope to establish
on them a science which will not be inferior in certainty, and will be
much superior in utility, to any other of human comprehension.
[1] Mr Locke, my Lord Shaftsbury, Dr Mandeville, Mr Hutchinson, Dr
Butler, &c.
BOOK I.
OF THE UNDERSTANDING.
PART I.
OF IDEAS, THEIR ORIGIN, COMPOSITION, CONNEXION,
AND ABSTRACTION.
SECTION I.
OF THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS.
All the perceptions of the human mind resolve themselves into two
distinct kinds, which I shall call _impressions_ and _ideas_. The
difference betwixt these consists in the degrees of force and
liveliness, with which they strike upon the mind, and make their way
into our thought or consciousness. Those perceptions which enter with
most force and violence, we may name _impressions_; and, under this
name, I comprehend all our sensations, passions, and emotions, as they
make their first appearance in the soul. By _ideas_, I mean the faint
images of these in thinking and reasoning; such as, for instance, are
all the perceptions excited by the present discourse, excepting only
those which arise from the sight and touch, and excepting the immediate
pleasure or uneasiness it may occasion. I believe it will not be very
necessary to employ many Words, in explaining this distinction. Every
one of himself will readily perceive the difference betwixt feeling
and thinking. The common degrees of these are easily distinguished;
though it is not impossible but, in particular instances, they may very
nearly approach to each other. Thus, in sleep, in a fever, in madness,
or in any very violent emotions of soul, our ideas may approach to
our impressions: as, on the other hand, it sometimes happens, that
our impressions are so faint and low, that we cannot distinguish them
from our ideas. But, notwithstanding this near resemblance in a few
instances, they are in general so very different, that no one can make
a scruple to rank them under distinct heads, and assign to each a
peculiar name to mark the difference.[1]
There is another division of our perceptions, which it will be
convenient to observe, and which extends itself both to our impressions
and ideas. This division is into _simple_ and _complex_. Simple
perceptions, or impressions and ideas, are such as admit of no
distinction nor separation. The complex are the contrary to these, and
may be distinguished into parts. Though a particular colour, taste and
smell, are qualities all united together in this apple, 'tis easy to
perceive they are not the same, but are at least distinguishable from
each other.
Having, by these divisions, given an order and arrangement to our
objects, we may now apply ourselves to consider, with the more
accuracy, their qualities and relations. The first circumstance that
strikes my eye, is the great resemblance betwixt our impressions and
ideas in every other particular, except their degree of force and
vivacity. The one seem to be, in a manner, the reflection of the other;
so that all the perceptions of the mind are double, and appear both as
impressions and ideas. When I shut my eyes, and think of my chamber,
the ideas I form are exact representations of the impressions I felt;
nor is there any circumstance of the one, which is not to be found in
the other. In running over my other perceptions, I find still the same
resemblance and representation. Ideas and impressions appear always to
correspond to each other. This circumstance seems to me remarkable, and
engages my attention for a moment.
Upon a more accurate survey I find I have been carried away too far
by the first appearance, and that I must make use of the distinction
of perceptions into _simple_ and _complex_, to limit this general
decision, _that all our ideas and impressions are resembling_. I
observe that many of our complex ideas never had impressions that
corresponded to them, and that many of our complex impressions never
are exactly copied in ideas. I can imagine to myself such a city as the
New Jerusalem, whose pavement is gold, and walls are rubies, though I
never saw any such. I have seen Paris; but shall I affirm I can form
such an idea of that city, as will perfectly represent all its streets
and houses in their real and just proportions?
I perceive, therefore, that though there is, in general, a great
resemblance betwixt our _complex_ impressions and ideas, yet the rule
is not universally true, that they are exact copies of each other. We
may next consider, how the case stands with our _simple_ perceptions.
After the most accurate examination of which I am capable, I venture to
affirm, that the rule here holds without any exception, and that every
simple idea has a simple impression, which resembles it, and every
simple impression a correspondent idea. That idea of red, which we form
in the dark, and that impression, which strikes our eyes in sunshine,
differ only in degree, not in nature. That the case is the same with
all our simple impressions and ideas, 'tis impossible to prove by a
particular enumeration of them. Every one may satisfy himself in this
point by running over as many as he pleases. But if any one should deny
this universal resemblance, I know no way of convincing him, but by
desiring him to show a simple impression that has not a correspondent
idea, or a simple idea that has not a correspondent impression. If he
does not answer this challenge, as 'tis certain he cannot, we may, from
his silence and our own observation, establish our conclusion.
Thus we find, that all simple ideas and impressions resemble each
other; and, as the complex are formed from them, we may affirm
in general, that these two species of perception are exactly
correspondent. Having discovered this relation, which requires
no farther examination, I am curious to find some other of their
qualities. Let us consider, how they stand with regard to their
existence, and which of the impressions and ideas are causes, and which
effects.
The full examination of this question is the subject of the present
treatise; and, therefore, we shall here content ourselves with
establishing one general proposition, _That all our simple ideas in
their first appearance, are derived from simple impressions, which are
correspondent to them, and which they exactly represent_.
In seeking for phenomena to prove this proposition, I find only those
of two kinds; but, in each kind the phenomena are obvious, numerous,
and conclusive. I first make myself certain, by a new review, of what
I have already asserted, that every simple impression is attended
with a correspondent idea, and every simple idea with a correspondent
impression. From this constant conjunction of resembling perceptions
I immediately conclude, that there is a great connexion betwixt
our correspondent impressions and ideas, and that the existence of
the one has a considerable influence upon that of the other. Such
a constant conjunction, in such an infinite number of instances,
can never arise from chance; but clearly proves a dependence of the
impressions on the ideas, or of the ideas on the impressions. That I
may know on which side this dependence lies, I consider the order of
their _first appearance_; and find, by constant experience, that the
simple impressions always take the precedence of their correspondent
ideas, but never appear in the contrary order. To give a child an
idea of scarlet or orange, of sweet or bitter, I present the objects,
or, in other words, convey to him these impressions; but proceed not
so absurdly, as to endeavour to produce the impressions by exciting
the ideas. Our ideas, upon their appearance, produce not their
correspondent impressions, nor do we perceive any colour, or feel any
sensation merely upon thinking of them. On the other hand we find, that
any impression, either of the mind or body, is constantly followed
by an idea, which resembles it, and is only different in the degrees
of force and liveliness. The constant conjunction of our resembling
perceptions, is a convincing proof, that the one are the causes of
the other; and this priority of the impressions is an equal proof,
that our impressions are the causes of our ideas, not our ideas of our
impressions.
To confirm this, I consider another plain and convincing phenomenon;
which is, that wherever, by any accident, the faculties which give
rise to any impressions are obstructed in their operations, as when
one is born blind or deaf, not only the impressions are lost, but also
their correspondent ideas; so that there never appear in the mind the
least traces of either of them. Nor is this only true, where the organs
of sensation are entirely destroyed, but likewise where they have never
been put in action to produce a particular impression. We cannot form
to ourselves a just idea of the taste of a pine-apple, without having
actually tasted it.
There is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which may prove,
that 'tis not absolutely impossible for ideas to go before their
correspondent impressions. I believe it will readily be allowed,
that the several distinct ideas of colours, which enter by the eyes,
or those of sounds, which are conveyed by the hearing, are really
different from each other, though, at the same time, resembling. Now,
if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the
different shades of the same colour, that each of them produces a
distinct idea, independent of the rest. For if this should be denied,
'tis possible, by the continual gradation of shades, to run a colour
insensibly into what is most remote from it; and, if you will not
allow any of the means to be different, you cannot, without absurdity,
deny the extremes to be the same. Suppose, therefore, a person to have
enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly well
acquainted with colours of all kinds, excepting one particular shade of
blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with.
Let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one,
be placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the
lightest; 'tis plain, that he will perceive a blank, where that shade
is wanting, and will be sensible that there is a greater distance in
that place, betwixt the contiguous colours, than in any other. Now I
ask, whether 'tis possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply
this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular
shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? I
believe there are few but will be of opinion that he can; and this may
serve as a proof, that the simple ideas are not always derived from
the correspondent impressions; though the instance is so particular
and singular, that 'tis scarce worth our observing, and does not merit
that, for it alone, we should alter our general maxim.
But, besides this exception, it may not be amiss to remark, on this
head, that the principle of the priority of impressions to ideas, must
be understood with another limitation, viz. that as our ideas are
images of our impressions, so we can form secondary ideas, which are
images of the primary, as appears from this very reasoning concerning
them. This is not, properly speaking, an exception to the rule so
much as an explanation of it. Ideas produce the images of themselves
in new ideas; but as the first ideas are supposed to be derived from
impressions, it still remains true, that all our simple ideas proceed,
either mediately or immediately, from their correspondent impressions.
This, then, is the first principle I establish in the science of human
nature; nor ought we to despise it because of the simplicity of its
appearance. For 'tis remarkable, that the present question concerning
the precedency of our impressions or ideas, is the same with what has
made so much noise in other terms, when it has been disputed whether
there be any _innate ideas_, or whether all ideas be derived from
sensation and reflection. We may observe, that in order to prove
the ideas of extension and colour not to be innate, philosophers do
nothing but show, that they are conveyed by our senses. To prove the
ideas of passion and desire not to be innate, they observe, that we
have a preceding experience of these emotions in ourselves. Now, if
we carefully examine these arguments, we shall find that they prove
nothing but that ideas are preceded by other more lively perceptions,
from which they are derived, and which they represent. I hope this
clear stating of the question will remove all disputes concerning it,
and will render this principle of more use in our reasonings, than it
seems hitherto to have been.
[1] I here make use of these terms, _impression_ and _idea_, in a sense
different from what is usual, and I hope this liberty will be allowed
me. Perhaps I rather restore the word idea to its original sense,
from which Mr Locke had perverted it, in making it stand for all our
perceptions. By the term of impression, I would not be understood to
express the manner in which our lively perceptions are produced in the
soul, but merely the perceptions themselves; for which there is no
particular name, either in the English or any other language that I
know of.
SECTION II.
DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.
Since it appears, that our simple impressions are prior to their
correspondent ideas, and that the exceptions are very rare, method
seems to require we should examine our impressions before we consider
our ideas. Impressions may be divided into two kinds, those of
_sensation_, and those of _reflection_. The first kind arises in the
soul originally, from unknown causes. The second is derived, in a
great measure, from our ideas, and that in the following order. An
impression first strikes upon the senses, and makes us perceive heat
or cold, thirst or hunger, pleasure or pain, of some kind or other. Of
this impression there is a copy taken by the mind, which remains after
the impression ceases; and this we call an idea. This idea of pleasure
or pain, when it returns upon the soul, produces the new impressions
of desire and aversion, hope and fear, which may properly be called
impressions of reflection, because derived from it. These again are
copied by the memory and imagination, and become ideas; which, perhaps,
in their turn, give rise to other impressions and ideas: so that the
impressions of reflection are only antecedent to their correspondent
ideas, but posterior to those of sensation, and derived from them. The
examination of our sensations belongs more to anatomists and natural
philosophers than to moral; and, therefore, shall not at present be
entered upon. And, as the impressions of reflection, viz. passions,
desires, and emotions, which principally deserve our attention, arise
mostly from ideas, 'twill be necessary to reverse that method, which
at first sight seems most natural; and, in order to explain the nature
and principles of the human mind, give a particular account of ideas,
before we proceed to impressions. For this reason, I have here chosen
to begin with ideas.
SECTION III.
OF THE IDEAS OF THE MEMORY AND IMAGINATION.
We find, by experience, that when any impression has been present with
the mind, it again makes its appearance there as an idea; and this it
may do after two different ways: either when, in its new appearance,
it retains a considerable degree of its first vivacity, and is somewhat
intermediate betwixt an impression and an idea; or when it entirely
loses that vivacity, and is a perfect idea. The faculty by which we
repeat our impressions in the first manner, is called the _memory_, and
the other the _imagination_. 'Tis evident, at first sight, that the
ideas of the memory are much more lively and strong than those of the
imagination, and that the former faculty paints its objects in more
distinct colours, than any which are employed by the latter. When we
remember any past event, the idea of it flows in upon the mind in a
forcible manner; whereas, in the imagination, the perception is faint
and languid, and cannot, without difficulty, be preserved by the mind
steady and uniform for any considerable time. Here, then, is a sensible
difference betwixt one species of ideas and another. But of this more
fully hereafter.[2]
There is another difference betwixt these two kinds of ideas, which is
no less evident, namely, that though neither the ideas of the memory
nor imagination, neither the lively nor faint ideas, can make their
appearance in the mind, unless their correspondent impressions have
gone before to prepare the way for them, yet the imagination is not
restrained to the same order and form with the original impressions;
while the memory is in a manner tied down in that respect, without any
power of variation.
'Tis evident, that the memory preserves the original form, in which
its objects were presented, and that wherever we depart from it in
recollecting any thing, it proceeds from some defect or imperfection
in that faculty. An historian may, perhaps, for the more convenient
carrying on of his narration, relate an event before another to which
it was in fact posterior; but then, he takes notice of this disorder,
if he be exact; and, by that means, replaces the idea in its due
position. 'Tis the same case in our recollection of those places and
persons, with which we were formerly acquainted. The chief exercise of
the memory is not to preserve the simple ideas, but their order and
position. In short, this principle is supported by such a number of
common and vulgar phenomena, that we may spare ourselves the trouble of
insisting on it any farther.
The same evidence follows us in our second principle, _of the liberty
of the imagination to transpose and change its ideas_. The fables we
meet with in poems and romances put this entirely out of question.
Nature there is totally confounded, and nothing mentioned but winged
horses, fiery dragons, and monstrous giants. Nor will this liberty of
the fancy appear strange, when we consider, that all our ideas are
copied from our impressions, and that there are not any two impressions
which are perfectly inseparable. Not to mention, that this is an
evident consequence of the division of ideas into simple and complex.
Wherever the imagination perceives a difference among ideas, it can
easily produce a separation.
[2] Part III. Sect. 5.
SECTION IV.
OF THE CONNEXION OR ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.
As all simple ideas may be separated by the imagination, and may
be united again in what form it pleases, nothing would be more
unaccountable than the operations of that faculty, were it not guided
by some universal principles, which render it, in some measure, uniform
with itself in all times and places. Were ideas entirely loose and
unconnected, chance alone would join them; and 'tis impossible the same
simple ideas should fall regularly into complex ones (as they commonly
do), without some bond of union among them, some associating quality,
by which one idea naturally introduces another. This uniting principle
among ideas is not to be considered as an inseparable connexion; for
that has been already excluded from the imagination: nor yet are we to
conclude, that without it the mind cannot join two ideas; for nothing
is more free than that faculty: but we are only to regard it as a
gentle force, which commonly prevails, and is the cause why, among
other things, languages so nearly correspond to each other; Nature,
in a manner, pointing out to every one those simple ideas, which are
most proper to be united into a complex one. The qualities, from which
this association arises, and by which the mind is, after this manner,
conveyed from one idea to another, are three, viz. _resemblance,
contiguity_ in time or place, and _cause_ and _effect_.
I believe it will not be very necessary to prove, that these qualities
produce an association among ideas, and, upon the appearance of one
idea, naturally introduce another. 'Tis plain, that, in the course
of our thinking, and in the constant revolution of our ideas, our
imagination runs easily from one idea to any other that _resembles_
it, and that this quality alone is to the fancy a sufficient bond and
association. 'Tis likewise evident, that as the senses, in changing
their objects, are necessitated to change them regularly, and take them
as they lie _contiguous_ to each other, the imagination must, by long
custom, acquire the same method of thinking, and run along the parts
of space and time in conceiving its objects. As to the connexion that
is made by the relation of _cause and effect_, we shall have occasion
afterwards to examine it to the bottom, and therefore shall not at
present insist upon it. 'Tis sufficient to observe, that there is no
relation, which produces a stronger connexion in the fancy, and makes
one idea more readily recal another, than the relation of cause and
effect betwixt their objects.
That we may understand the full extent of these relations, we must
consider, that two objects are connected together in the imagination,
not only when the one is immediately resembling, contiguous to, or the
cause of the other, but also when there is interposed betwixt them a
third object, which bears to both of them any of these relations. This
may be carried on to a great length; though, at the same time we may
observe, that each remove considerably weakens the relation. Cousins
in the fourth degree are connected by _causation_, if I may be allowed
to use that term; but not so closely as brothers, much less as child
and parent. In general, we may observe, that all the relations of
blood depend upon cause and effect, and are esteemed near or remote,
according to the number of connecting causes interposed betwixt the
persons.
Of the three relations above mentioned this of causation is the most
extensive. Two objects may be considered as placed in this relation,
as well when one is the cause of any of the actions or motions of
the other, as when the former is the cause of the existence of the
latter. For as that action or motion is nothing but the object
itself, considered in a certain light, and as the object continues
the same in all its different situations, 'tis easy to imagine how
such an influence of objects upon one another may connect them in the
imagination.
We may carry this farther, and remark, not only that two objects are
connected by the relation of cause and effect, when the one produces
a motion or any action in the other, but also when it has a power of
producing it. And this we may observe to be the source of all the
relations of interest and duty, by which men influence each other in
society, and are placed in the ties of government and subordination.
A master is such a one as, by his situation, arising either from
force or agreement, has a power of directing in certain particulars
the actions of another, whom we call servant. A judge is one, who, in
all disputed cases, can fix by his opinion the possession or property
of any thing betwixt any members of the society. When a person is
possessed of any power, there is no more required to convert it into
action, but the exertion of the will; and _that_ in every case is
considered as possible, and in many as probable; especially in the case
of authority, where the obedience of the subject is a pleasure and
advantage to the superior.
These are, therefore, the principles of union or cohesion among
our simple ideas, and in the imagination supply the place of that
inseparable connexion, by which they are united in our memory. Here
is a kind of _attraction_, which in the mental world will be found to
have as extraordinary effects as in the natural, and to show itself in
as many and as various forms. Its effects are every where conspicuous;
but, as to its causes, they are mostly unknown, and must be resolved
into _original_ qualities of human nature, which I pretend not to
explain. Nothing is more requisite for a true philosopher, than to
restrain the intemperate desire of searching into causes; and, having
established any doctrine upon a sufficient number of experiments, rest
contented with that, when he sees a farther examination would lead him
into obscure and uncertain speculations. In that case his inquiry would
be much better employed in examining the effects than the causes of his
principle.
Amongst the effects of this union or association of ideas, there are
none more remarkable than those complex ideas, which are the common
subjects of our thoughts and reasoning, and generally arise from some
principle of union among our simple ideas. These complex ideas may be
divided into _relations, modes,_ and _substances_. We shall briefly
examine each of these in order, and shall subjoin some considerations
concerning our _general_ and _particular_ ideas, before we leave the
present subject, which may be considered as the elements of this
philosophy.
SECTION V.
OF RELATIONS.
The word _relation_ is commonly used in two senses considerably
different from each other. Either for that quality, by which two ideas
are connected together in the imagination, and the one naturally
introduces the other, after the manner above explained; or for that
particular circumstance, in which, even upon the arbitrary union of
two ideas in the fancy, we may think proper to compare them. In common
language, the former is always the sense in which we use the word
relation; and 'tis only in philosophy that we extend it to mean any
particular subject of comparison, without a connecting principle. Thus,
distance will be allowed by philosophers to be a true relation, because
we acquire an idea of it by the comparing of objects: but in a common
way we say, _that nothing can be more distant than such or such things
from each other, nothing can have less relation_; as if distance and
relation were incompatible.
It may, perhaps, be esteemed an endless task to enumerate all those
qualities, which make objects admit of comparison, and by which the
ideas of _philosophical_ relation are produced. But if we diligently
consider them we shall find, that without difficulty they may be
comprised under seven general heads, which may be considered as the
sources of all philosophical relation.
1. The first is _resemblance_: and this is a relation, without which
no philosophical relation can exist, since no objects will admit of
comparison, but what have some degree of resemblance. But though
resemblance be necessary to all philosophical relation, it does not
follow that it always produces a connexion or association of ideas.
When a quality becomes very general, and is common to a great many
individuals, it leads not the mind directly to any one of them; but,
by presenting at once too great a choice, does thereby prevent the
imagination from fixing on any single object.
2. _Identity_ may be esteemed a second species of relation. This
relation I here consider as applied in its strictest sense to constant
and unchangeable objects; without examining the nature and foundation
of personal identity, which shall find its place afterwards. Of all
relations the most universal is that of identity, being common to every
being, whose existence has any duration.
3. After identity the most universal and comprehensive relations are
those of _space_ and _time_, which are the sources of an infinite
number of comparisons, such as _distant, contiguous, above, below,
before, after, &c_.
4. All those objects, which admit of _quantity_ or _number_, may be
compared in that particular, which is another very fertile source of
relation.
5. When any two objects possess the same _quality_ in common, the
_degrees_ in which they possess it form a fifth species of relation.
Thus, of two objects which are both heavy, the one may be either of
greater or less weight than the other. Two colours, that are of the
same kind, may yet be of different shades, and in that respect admit of
comparison.
6. The relation of _contrariety_ may at first sight be regarded as
an exception to the rule, _that no relation of any kind can subsist
without some degree of resemblance_. But let us consider, that no
two ideas are in themselves contrary, except those of existence and
non-existence, which are plainly resembling, as implying both of them
an idea of the object; though the latter excludes the object from all
times and places, in which it is supposed not to exist.
7. All other objects, such as fire and water, heat and cold, are only
found to be contrary from experience, and from the contrariety of their
_causes_ or _effects_; which relation of cause and effect is a seventh
philosophical relation, as well as a natural one. The resemblance
implied in this relation shall be explained afterwards.
It might naturally be expected that I should join _difference_ to the
other relations; but that I consider rather as a negation of relation
than as any thing real or positive. Difference is of two kinds, as
opposed either to identity or resemblance. The first is called a
difference of _number_; the other of _kind_.
SECTION VI.
OF MODES AND SUBSTANCES.
I would fain ask those philosophers, who found so much of their
reasonings on the distinction of substance and accident, and imagine we
have clear ideas of each, whether the idea of _substance_ be derived
from the impressions of sensation or reflection? If it be conveyed
to us by our senses, I ask, which of them, and after what manner? If
it be perceived by the eyes, it must be a colour; if by the ears, a
sound; if by the palate, a taste; and so of the other senses. But I
believe none will assert, that substance is either a colour, or sound,
or a taste. The idea of substance must therefore be derived from an
impression of reflection, if it really exist. But the impressions of
reflection resolve themselves into our passions and emotions; none
of which can possibly represent a substance. We have, therefore, no
idea of substance, distinct from that of a collection of particular
qualities, nor have we any other meaning when we either talk or reason
concerning it.
The idea of a substance as well as that of a mode, is nothing but
a collection of simple ideas, that are united by the imagination,
and have a particular name assigned them, by which we are able to
recal, either to ourselves or others, that collection. But the
difference betwixt these ideas consists in this, that the particular
qualities, which form a substance, are commonly referred to an unknown
_something_, in which they are supposed to inhere; or granting this
fiction should not take place, are at least supposed to be closely and
inseparably connected by the relations of contiguity and causation.
The effect of this is, that whatever new simple quality we discover to
have the same connexion with the rest, we immediately comprehend it
among them, even though it did not enter into the first conception of
the substance. Thus our idea of gold may at first be a yellow colour,
weight, malleableness, fusibility; but upon the discovery of its
dissolubility in _aqua regia_, we join that to the other qualities, and
suppose it to belong to the substance as much as if its idea had from
the beginning made a part of the compound one. The principle of union
being regarded as the chief part of the complex idea, gives entrance to
whatever quality afterwards occurs, and is equally comprehended by it,
as are the others, which first presented themselves.
That this cannot take place in modes, is evident from considering their
nature. The simple ideas of which modes are formed, either represent
qualities, which are not united by contiguity and causation, but are
dispersed in different subjects; or if they be all united together,
the uniting principle is not regarded as the foundation of the complex
idea. The idea of a dance is an instance of the first kind of modes;
that of beauty of the second. The reason is obvious, why such complex
ideas cannot receive any new idea, without changing the name, which
distinguishes the mode.
SECTION VII.
OF ABSTRACT IDEAS.
A very material question has been started concerning _abstract_ or
_general_ ideas, _whether they be general or particular in the mind's
conception of them_. A great philosopher[3] has disputed the received
opinion in this particular, and has asserted, that all general ideas
are nothing but particular ones annexed to a certain term, which gives
them a more extensive signification, and makes them recal upon occasion
other individuals, which are similar to them. As I look upon this to be
one of the greatest and most valuable discoveries that has been made
of late years in the republic of letters, I shall here endeavour to
confirm it by some arguments, which I hope will put it beyond all doubt
and controversy.
'Tis evident, that, in forming most of our general ideas, if not all
of them, we abstract from every particular degree of quantity and
quality, and that an object ceases not to be of any particular species
on account of every small alteration in its extension, duration, and
other properties. It may therefore be thought, that here is a plain
dilemma, that decides concerning the nature of those abstract ideas,
which have afforded so much speculation to philosophers. The abstract
idea of a man represents men of all sizes and all qualities, which 'tis
concluded it cannot do, but either by representing at once all possible
sizes and all possible qualities, or by representing no particular
one at all. Now, it having been esteemed absurd to defend the former
proposition, as implying an infinite capacity in the mind, it has been
commonly inferred in favour of the latter; and our abstract ideas have
been supposed to represent no particular degree either of quantity
or quality. But that this inference is erroneous, I shall endeavour
to make appear, _first_, by proving, that 'tis utterly impossible to
conceive any quantity or quality, without forming a precise notion of
its degrees; and, _secondly_, by showing, that though the capacity
of the mind be not infinite, yet we can at once form a notion of all
possible degrees of quantity and quality, in such a manner at least,
as, however imperfect, may serve all the purposes of reflection and
conversation.
To begin with the first proposition, _that the mind cannot form any
notion of quantity or quality without forming a precise notion of
degrees of each_, we may prove this by the three following arguments.
First, we have observed, that whatever objects are different are
distinguishable, and that whatever objects are distinguishable are
separable by the thought and imagination. And we may here add, that
these propositions are equally true in the _inverse_, and that whatever
objects are separable are also distinguishable, and that whatever
objects are distinguishable are also different. For how is it possible
we can separate what is not distinguishable, or distinguish what is
not different? In order therefore to know whether abstraction implies
a separation, we need only consider it in this view, and examine,
whether all the circumstances, which we abstract from in our general
ideas, be such as are distinguishable and different from those, which
we retain as essential parts of them. But 'tis evident at first sight,
that the precise length of a line is not different nor distinguishable
from the line itself; nor the precise degree of any quality from the
quality. These ideas, therefore, admit no more of separation than they
do of distinction and difference. They are, consequently, conjoined
with each other in the conception; and the general idea of a line,
notwithstanding all our abstractions and refinements, has, in its
appearance in the mind, a precise degree of quantity and quality;
however it may be made to represent others which have different degrees
of both.
Secondly, 'tis confessed, that no object can appear to the senses; or
in other words, that no impression can become present to the mind,
without being determined in its degrees both of quantity and quality.
The confusion, in which impressions are sometimes involved, proceeds
only from their faintness and unsteadiness, not from any capacity in
the mind to receive any impression, which in its real existence has
no particular degree nor proportion. That is a contradiction in terms;
and even implies the flattest of all contradictions, viz. that 'tis
possible for the same thing both to be and not to be.
Now, since all ideas are derived from impressions, and are nothing but
copies and representations of them, whatever is true of the one must be
acknowledged concerning the other. Impressions and ideas differ only in
their strength and vivacity. The foregoing conclusion is not founded on
any particular degree of vivacity. It cannot, therefore, be affected by
any variation in that particular. An idea is a weaker impression; and,
as a strong impression must necessarily have a determinate quantity and
quality, the case must be the same with its copy or representative.
Thirdly, 'tis a principle generally received in philosophy, that every
thing in nature is individual, and that 'tis utterly absurd to suppose
a triangle really existent, which has no precise proportion of sides
and angles. If this, therefore, be absurd in _fact and reality_, it
must also be absurd _in idea_; since nothing of which we can form a
clear and distinct idea is absurd and impossible. But to form the
idea of an object, and to form an idea simply, is the same thing; the
reference of the idea to an object being an extraneous denomination, of
which in itself it bears no mark or character. Now, as 'tis impossible
to form an idea of an object that is possessed of quantity and quality,
and yet is possessed of no precise degree of either, it follows, that
there is an equal impossibility of forming an idea, that is not limited
and confined in both these particulars. Abstract ideas are, therefore,
in themselves individual, however they may become general in their
representation. The image in the mind is only that of a particular
object, though the application of it in our reasoning be the same as if
it were universal.
This application of ideas, beyond their nature, proceeds from our
collecting all their possible degrees of quantity and quality in
such an imperfect manner as may serve the purposes of life, which is
the second proposition I proposed to explain. When we have found a
resemblance[4] among several objects, that often occur to us, we apply
the same name to all of them, whatever differences we may observe
in the degrees of their quantity and quality, and whatever other
differences may appear among them. After we have acquired a custom of
this kind, the hearing of that name revives the idea of one of these
objects, and makes the imagination conceive it with all its particular
circumstances and proportions. But as the same word is supposed to have
been frequently applied to other individuals, that are different in
many respects from that idea, which is immediately present to the mind;
the word not being able to revive the idea of all these individuals,
only touches the soul, if I may be allowed so to speak, and revives
that custom, which we have acquired by surveying them. They are not
really and in fact present to the mind, but only in power; nor do we
draw them all out distinctly in the imagination, but keep ourselves in
a readiness to survey any of them, as we may be prompted by a present
design or necessity. The word raises up an individual idea, along
with a certain custom, and that custom produces any other individual
one, for which we may have occasion. But as the production of all the
ideas, to which the name may be applied, is in most cases impossible,
we abridge that work by a more partial consideration, and find but few
inconveniences to arise in our reasoning from that abridgment.
For this is one of the most extraordinary circumstances in the present
affair, that after the mind has produced an individual idea, upon
which we reason, the attendant custom, revived by the general or
abstract term, readily suggests any other individual, if by chance we
form any reasoning that agrees not with it. Thus, should we mention
the word triangle, and form the idea of a particular equilateral
one to correspond to it, and should we afterwards assert, _that
the three angles of a triangle are equal to each other_, the other
individuals of a scalenum and isosceles, which we overlooked at first,
immediately crowd in upon us, and make us perceive the falsehood of
this proposition, though it be true with relation to that idea which
we had formed. If the mind suggests not always these ideas upon
occasion, it proceeds from some imperfection in its faculties; and
such a one as is often the source of false reasoning and sophistry.
But this is principally the case with those ideas which are abstruse
and compounded. On other occasions the custom is more entire, and 'tis
seldom we run into such errors.
Nay so entire is the custom, that the very same idea may be annexed to
several different words, and may be employed in different reasonings,
without any danger of mistake. Thus the idea of an equilateral triangle
of an inch perpendicular may serve us in talking of a figure, of a
rectilineal figure, of a regular figure, of a triangle, and of an
equilateral triangle. All these terms, therefore, are in this case
attended with the same idea; but as they are wont to be applied in a
greater or lesser compass, they excite their particular habits, and
thereby keep the mind in a readiness to observe, that no conclusion be
formed contrary to any ideas, which are usually comprised under them.
Before those habits have become entirely perfect, perhaps the mind may
not be content with forming the idea of only one individual, but may
run over several, in order to make itself comprehend its own meaning,
and the compass of that collection, which it intends to express by the
general term. That we may fix the meaning of the word, figure, we may
revolve in our mind the ideas of circles, squares, parallelograms,
triangles of different sizes and proportions, and may not rest on one
image or idea. However this may be, 'tis certain _that_ we form the
idea of individuals whenever we use any general term; _that_ we seldom
or never can exhaust these individuals; and _that_ those which remain,
are only represented by means of that habit by which we recal them,
whenever any present occasion requires it. This then is the nature of
our abstract ideas and general terms; and 'tis after this manner we
account for the foregoing paradox, _that some ideas are particular
in their nature, but general in their representation_. A particular
idea becomes general by being annexed to a general term; that is, to a
term which, from a customary conjunction, has a relation to many other
particular ideas, and readily recals them in the imagination.
The only difficulty that can remain on this subject, must be with
regard to that custom, which so readily recals every particular idea
for which we may have occasion, and is excited by any word or sound
to which we commonly annex it. The most proper method, in my opinion,
of giving a satisfactory explication of this act of the mind, is
by producing other instances which are analogous to it, and other
principles which facilitate its operation. To explain the ultimate
causes of our mental actions is impossible. 'Tis sufficient if we can
give any satisfactory account of them from experience and analogy.
First, then, I observe, that when we mention any great number, such as
a thousand, the mind has generally no adequate idea of it, but only a
power of producing such an idea, by its adequate idea of the decimals
under which the number is comprehended. This imperfection, however,
in our ideas, is never felt in our reasonings, which seems to be an
instance parallel to the present one of universal ideas.
Secondly, we have several instances of habits which may be revived by
one single word; as when a person who has, by rote, any periods of
a discourse, or any number of verses, will be put in remembrance of
the whole, which he is at a loss to recollect, by that single word or
expression with which they begin.
Thirdly, I believe every one who examines the situation of his mind
in reasoning, will agree with me, that we do not annex distinct and
complete ideas to every term we make use of, and that in talking
of _government, church, negociation, conquest_, we seldom spread
out in our minds all the simple ideas of which these complex ones
are composed. 'Tis however observable, that notwithstanding this
imperfection, we may avoid talking nonsense on these subjects, and may
perceive any repugnance among the ideas as well as if we had a full
comprehension of them. Thus, if instead of saying, _that in war the
weaker have always recourse to negociation_, we should say, _that they
have always recourse to conquest_, the custom which we have acquired of
attributing certain relations to ideas, still follows the words, and
makes us immediately perceive the absurdity of that proposition; in the
same manner as one particular idea may serve us in reasoning concerning
other ideas, however different from it in several circumstances.
Fourthly, as the individuals are collected together, and placed under
a general term with a view to that resemblance which they bear to each
other, this relation must facilitate their entrance in the imagination,
and make them be suggested more readily upon occasion. And, indeed, if
we consider the common progress of the thought, either in reflection
or conversation, we shall find great reason to be satisfied in this
particular. Nothing is more admirable than the readiness with which the
imagination suggests its ideas, and presents them at the very instant
in which they become necessary or useful. The fancy runs from one end
of the universe to the other, in collecting those ideas which belong to
any subject. One would think the whole intellectual world of ideas was
at once subjected to our view, and that we did nothing but pick out
such as were most proper for our purpose. There may not, however, be
any present, beside those very ideas, that are thus collected by a kind
of magical faculty in the soul, which, though it be always most perfect
in the greatest geniuses, and is properly what we call a genius, is
however inexplicable by the utmost efforts of human understanding.
Perhaps these four reflections may help to remove all difficulties to
the hypothesis I have proposed concerning abstract ideas, so contrary
to that which has hitherto prevailed in philosophy. But to tell the
truth, I place my chief confidence in what I have already proved
concerning the impossibility of general ideas, according to the common
method of explaining them. We must certainly seek some new system on
this head, and there plainly is none beside what I have proposed. If
ideas be particular in their nature, and at the same time finite in
their number, 'tis only by custom they can become general in their
representation, and contain an infinite number of other ideas under
them.
Before I leave this subject, I shall employ the same principles to
explain that _distinction of reason_, which is so much talked of, and
is so little understood in the schools. Of this kind is the distinction
betwixt figure and the body figured; motion and the body moved. The
difficulty of explaining this distinction arises from the principle
above explained, _that all ideas which are different are separable_.
For it follows from thence, that if the figure be different from
the body, their ideas must be separable as well as distinguishable;
if they be not different, their ideas can neither be separable nor
distinguishable. What then is meant by a distinction of reason, since
it implies neither a difference nor separation?
To remove this difficulty, we must have recourse to the foregoing
explication of abstract ideas. 'Tis certain that the mind would never
have dreamed of distinguishing a figure from the body figured, as being
in reality neither distinguishable, nor different, nor separable, did
it not observe, that even in this simplicity there might be contained
many different resemblances and relations. Thus, when a globe of white
marble is presented, we receive only the impression of a white colour
disposed in a certain form, nor are we able to separate and distinguish
the colour from the form. But observing afterwards a globe of black
marble and a cube of white, and comparing them with our former object,
we find two separate resemblances, in what formerly seemed, and really
is, perfectly inseparable. After a little more practice of this kind,
we begin to distinguish the figure from the colour by a _distinction
of reason_; that is, we consider the figure and colour together, since
they are, in effect, the same and undistinguishable; but still view
them in different aspects, according to the resemblances of which they
are susceptible. When we would consider only the figure of the globe of
white marble, we form in reality an idea both of the figure and colour,
but tacitly carry our eye to its resemblance with the globe of black
marble: and in the same manner, when we would consider its colour only,
we turn our view to its resemblance with the cube of white marble. By
this means we accompany our ideas with a kind of reflection, of which
custom renders us, in a great measure, insensible. A person who desires
us to consider the figure of a globe of white marble without thinking
on its colour, desires an impossibility; but his meaning is, that we
should consider the colour and figure together, but still keep in our
eye the resemblance to the globe of black marble, or that to any other
globe of whatever colour or substance.
[3] Dr Berkeley.
[4] 'Tis evident, that even different simple ideas may have a
similarity or resemblance to each other; nor is it necessary, that the
point or circumstance of resemblance should be distinct or separable
from that in which they differ. _Blue_ and _green_ are different simple
ideas, but are more resembling than _blue_ and _scarlet_; though
their perfect simplicity excludes all possibility of separation or
distinction. 'Tis the same case with particular sounds, and tastes,
and smells. These admit of infinite resemblances upon the general
appearance and comparison, without having any common circumstance
the same. And of this we may be certain, even from the very abstract
terms _simple idea_. They comprehend all simple ideas under them.
These resemble each other in their simplicity. And yet from their very
nature, which excludes all composition, this circumstance, in which
they resemble, is not distinguishable or separable from the rest.
'Tis the same case with all the degrees in any quality. They are all
resembling, and yet the quality, in any individual, is not distinct
from the degree.
PART II.
OF THE IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.
SECTION I.
OF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF OUR IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.
Whatever has the air of a paradox, and is contrary to the first and
most unprejudiced notions of mankind, is often greedily embraced by
philosophers, as showing the superiority of their science, which could
discover opinions so remote from vulgar conception. On the other hand,
any thing proposed to us, which causes surprise and admiration, gives
such a satisfaction to the mind, that it indulges itself in those
agreeable emotions, and will never be persuaded that its pleasure is
entirely without foundation. From these dispositions in philosophers
and their disciples, arises that mutual complaisance betwixt them;
while the former furnish such plenty of strange and unaccountable
opinions, and the latter so readily believe them. Of this mutual
complaisance I cannot give a more evident instance than in the doctrine
of infinite divisibility, with the examination of which I shall begin
this subject of the ideas of space and time.
'Tis universally allowed, that the capacity of the mind is limited, and
can never attain a full and adequate conception of infinity: and though
it were not allowed, 'twould be sufficiently evident from the plainest
observation and experience. 'Tis also obvious, that whatever is capable
of being divided _in infinitum_, must consist of an infinite number
of parts, and that 'tis impossible to set any bounds to the number
of parts without setting bounds at the same time to the division. It
requires scarce any induction to conclude from hence, that the _idea_,
which we form of any finite quality, is not infinitely divisible, but
that by proper distinctions and separations we may run up this idea
to inferior ones, which will be perfectly simple and indivisible. In
rejecting the infinite capacity of the mind, we suppose it may arrive
at an end in the division of its ideas; nor are there any possible
means of evading the evidence of this conclusion.
'Tis therefore certain, that the imagination reaches a _minimum_,
and may raise up to itself an idea, of which it cannot conceive
any subdivision, and which cannot be diminished without a total
annihilation. When you tell me of the thousandth and ten thousandth
part of a grain of sand, I have a distinct idea of these numbers and
of their different proportions; but the images which I form in my mind
to represent the things themselves, are nothing different from each
other, nor inferior to that image, by which I represent the grain of
sand itself, which is supposed so vastly to exceed them. What consists
of parts is distinguishable into them, and what is distinguishable is
separable. But, whatever we may imagine of the thing, the idea of a
grain of sand is not distinguishable nor separable into twenty, much
less into a thousand, ten thousand, or an infinite number of different
ideas.
'Tis the same case with the impressions of the senses as with the ideas
of the imagination. Put a spot of ink upon paper, fix your eye upon
that spot, and retire to such a distance that at last you lose sight
of it; 'tis plain, that the moment before it vanished, the image, or
impression, was perfectly indivisible. 'Tis not for want of rays of
light striking on our eyes, that the minute parts of distant bodies
convey not any sensible impression; but because they are removed
beyond that distance, at which their impressions were reduced to a
_minimum_, and were incapable of any farther diminution. A microscope
or telescope, which renders them visible, produces not any new rays of
light, but only spreads those which always flowed from them; and, by
that means, both gives parts to impressions, which to the naked eye
appear simple and uncompounded, and advances to a _minimum_ what was
formerly imperceptible.
We may hence discover the error of the common opinion, that the
capacity of the mind is limited on both sides, and that 'tis impossible
for the imagination to form an adequate idea of what goes beyond a
certain degree of minuteness as well as of greatness. Nothing can be
more minute than some ideas which we form in the fancy, and images
which appear to the senses; since there are ideas and images perfectly
simple and indivisible. The only defect of our senses is, that they
give us disproportioned images of things, and represent as minute and
uncompounded what is really great and composed of a vast number of
parts. This mistake we are not sensible of; but, taking the impressions
of those minute objects, which appear to the senses to be equal,
or nearly equal to the objects, and finding, by reason, that there
are other objects vastly more minute, we too hastily conclude, that
these are inferior to any idea of our imagination or impression of
our senses. This, however, is certain, that we can form ideas, which
shall be no greater than the smallest atom of the animal spirits of
an insect a thousand times less than a mite: and we ought rather to
conclude, that the difficulty lies in enlarging our conceptions so much
as to form a just notion of a mite, or even of an insect a thousand
times less than a mite. For, in order to form a just notion of these
animals, we must have a distinct idea representing every part of them;
which, according to the system of infinite divisibility, is utterly
impossible, and according to that of indivisible parts or atoms, is
extremely difficult, by reason of the vast number and multiplicity of
these parts.
SECTION II.
OF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF SPACE AND TIME.
Wherever ideas are adequate representations of objects, the relations,
contradictions, and agreements of the ideas are all applicable to the
objects; and this we may, in general, observe to be the foundation of
all human knowledge. But our ideas are adequate representations of
the most minute parts of extension; and, through whatever divisions
and subdivisions we may suppose these parts to be arrived at, they
can never become inferior to some ideas which we form. The plain
consequence is, that whatever _appears_ impossible and contradictory
upon the comparison of these ideas, must be _really_ impossible and
contradictory, without any farther excuse or evasion.
Every thing capable of being infinitely divided contains an infinite
number of parts; otherwise the division would be stopped short by
the indivisible parts, which we should immediately arrive at. If
therefore any finite extension be infinitely divisible, it can be no
contradiction to suppose, that a finite extension contains an infinite
number of parts: and _vice versa_, if it be a contradiction to suppose,
that a finite extension contains an infinite number of parts, no finite
extension can be infinitely divisible. But that this latter supposition
is absurd, I easily convince myself by the consideration of my clear
ideas. I first take the least idea I can form of a part of extension,
and being certain that there is nothing more minute than this idea, I
conclude, that whatever I discover by its means, must be a real quality
of extension. I then repeat this idea once, twice, thrice, &c. and find
the compound idea of extension, arising from its repetition, always
to augment, and become double, triple, quadruple, &c. till at last it
swells up to a considerable bulk, greater or smaller, in proportion as
I repeat more or less the same idea. When I stop in the addition of
parts, the idea of extension ceases to augment; and were I to carry
on the addition _in infinitum_, I clearly perceive, that the idea of
extension must also become infinite. Upon the whole, I conclude, that
the idea of an infinite number of parts is individually the same idea
with that of an infinite extension; that no finite extension is capable
of containing an infinite number of parts; and, consequently, that no
finite extension is infinitely divisible.[1]
I may subjoin another argument proposed by a noted author,[2] which
seems to me very strong and beautiful. 'Tis evident, that existence
in itself belongs only to unity, and is never applicable to number,
but on account of the unites of which the number is composed. Twenty
men may be said to exist; but 'tis only because one, two, three, four,
&c. are existent; and if you deny the existence of the latter, that of
the former falls of course. 'Tis therefore utterly absurd to suppose
any number to exist, and yet deny the existence of unites; and as
extension is always a number, according to the common sentiment of
metaphysicians, and never resolves itself into any unite or indivisible
quantity, it follows that extension can never at all exist. 'Tis in
vain to reply, that any determinate quantity of extension is an unite;
but such a one as admits of an infinite number of fractions, and is
inexhaustible in its subdivisions. For by the same rule, these twenty
men _may be considered as an unite_. The whole globe of the earth, nay,
the whole universe _may be considered as an unite_. That term of unity
is merely a fictitious denomination, which the mind may apply to any
quantity of objects it collects together; nor can such an unity any
more exist alone than number can, as being in reality a true number.
But the unity, which can exist alone, and whose existence is necessary
to that of all number, is of another kind, and must be perfectly
indivisible, and incapable of being resolved into any lesser unity.
All this reasoning takes place with regard to time; along with an
additional argument, which it may be proper to take notice of. 'Tis
a property inseparable from time, and which in a manner constitutes
its essence, that each of its parts succeeds another, and that none
of them, however contiguous, can ever be co-existent. For the same
reason that the year 1737 cannot concur with the present year 1738,
every moment must be distinct from, and posterior or antecedent to
another. 'Tis certain then, that time, as it exists, must be composed
of indivisible moments. For if in time we could never arrive at an
end of division, and if each moment, as it succeeds another, were not
perfectly single and indivisible, there would be an infinite number of
co-existent moments, or parts of time; which I believe will be allowed
to be an arrant contradiction.
The infinite divisibility of space implies that of time, as is evident
from the nature of motion. If the latter, therefore, be impossible, the
former must be equally so.
I doubt not but it will readily be allowed by the most obstinate
defender of the doctrine of infinite divisibility, that these arguments
are difficulties, and that 'tis impossible to give any answer to
them which will be perfectly clear and satisfactory. But here we may
observe, that nothing can be more absurd than this custom of calling a
_difficulty_ what pretends to be a _demonstration_, and endeavouring by
that means to elude its force and evidence. 'Tis not in demonstrations,
as in probabilities, that difficulties can take place, and one argument
counterbalance another, and diminish its authority. A demonstration,
if just, admits of no opposite difficulty; and if not just, 'tis
a mere sophism, and consequently can never be a difficulty. 'Tis
either irresistible, or has no manner of force. To talk therefore of
objections and replies, and balancing of arguments in such a question
as this, is to confess, either that human reason is nothing but a
play of words, or that the person himself, who talks so, has not a
capacity equal to such subjects. Demonstrations may be difficult to be
comprehended, because of the abstractedness of the subject; but can
never have any such difficulties as will weaken their authority, when
once they are comprehended.
'Tis true, mathematicians are wont to say, that there are here
equally strong arguments on the other side of the question, and that
the doctrine of indivisible points is also liable to unanswerable
objections. Before I examine these arguments and objections in detail,
I will here take them in a body, and endeavour, by a short and decisive
reason, to prove, at once, that 'tis utterly impossible they can have
any just foundation.
'Tis an established maxim in metaphysics, _That whatever the mind
clearly conceives includes the idea of possible existence_, or, in
other words, _that nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible_. We
can form the idea of a golden mountain, and from thence conclude, that
such a mountain may actually exist. We can form no idea of a mountain
without a valley, and therefore regard it as impossible.
Now 'tis certain we have an idea of extension; for otherwise, why
do we talk and reason concerning it? 'Tis likewise certain, that
this idea, as conceived by the imagination, though divisible into
parts or inferior ideas, is not infinitely divisible, nor consists
of an infinite number of parts: for that exceeds the comprehension
of our limited capacities. Here then is an idea of extension, which
consists of parts or inferior ideas, that are perfectly indivisible:
consequently this idea implies no contradiction: consequently 'tis
possible for extension really to exist conformable to it: and
consequently, all the arguments employed against the possibility of
mathematical points are mere scholastic quibbles, and unworthy of our
attention.
These consequences we may carry one step farther, and conclude that all
the pretended demonstrations for the infinite divisibility of extension
are equally sophistical; since 'tis certain these demonstrations cannot
be just without proving the impossibility of mathematical points; which
'tis an evident absurdity to pretend to.
[1] It has been objected to me, that infinite divisibility supposes
only an infinite number of _proportional_ not of _aliquot_ parts, and
that an infinite number of proportional parts does not form an infinite
extension. But this distinction is entirely frivolous. Whether these
parts be called _aliquot_ or _proportional_, they cannot be inferior
to those minute parts we conceive; and therefore, cannot form a less
extension by their conjunction.
[2] Mons. Malezieu.
SECTION III.
OF THE OTHER QUALITIES OF OUR IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.
No discovery could have been made more happily for deciding all
controversies concerning ideas, than that above mentioned, that
impressions always take the precedency of them, and that every idea,
with which the imagination is furnished, first makes its appearance in
a correspondent impression. These latter perceptions are all so clear
and evident, that they admit of no controversy; though many of our
ideas are so obscure, that 'tis almost impossible even for the mind,
which forms them, to tell exactly their nature and composition. Let us
apply this principle, in order to discover farther the nature of our
ideas of space and time.
Upon opening my eyes and turning them to the surrounding objects,
I perceive many visible bodies; and upon shutting them again, and
considering the distance betwixt these bodies, I acquire the idea
of extension. As every idea is derived from some impression which
is exactly similar to it, the impressions similar to this idea of
extension, must either be some sensations derived from the sight, or
some internal impressions arising from these sensations.
Our internal impressions are our passions, emotions, desires, and
aversions; none of which, I believe, will ever be asserted to be
the model from which the idea of space is derived. There remains,
therefore, nothing but the senses which can convey to us this original
impression. Now, what impression do our senses here convey to us? This
is the principal question, and decides without appeal concerning the
nature of the idea.
The table before me is alone sufficient by its view to give me the
idea of extension. This idea, then, is borrowed from, and represents
some impression which this moment appears to the senses. But my senses
convey to me only the impressions of coloured points, disposed in a
certain manner. If the eye is sensible of any thing farther, I desire
it may be pointed out to me. But, if it be impossible to shew any thing
farther, we may conclude with certainty, that the idea of extension is
nothing but a copy of these coloured points, and of the manner of their
appearance.
Suppose that, in the extended object, or composition of coloured
points, from which we first received the idea of extension, the points
were of a purple colour; it follows, that in every repetition of that
idea we would not only place the points in the same order with respect
to each other, but also bestow on them that precise colour with which
alone we are acquainted. But afterwards, having experience of the other
colours of violet, green, red, white, black, and of all the different
compositions of these, and finding a resemblance in the disposition of
coloured points, of which they are composed, we omit the peculiarities
of colour, as far as possible, and found an abstract idea merely on
that disposition of points, or manner of appearance, in which they
agree. Nay, even when the resemblance is carried beyond the objects
of one sense, and the impressions of touch are found to be similar
to those of sight in the disposition of their parts; this does not
hinder the abstract idea from representing both, upon account of their
resemblance. All abstract ideas are really nothing but particular ones,
considered in a certain light; but being annexed to general terms, they
are able to represent a vast variety, and to comprehend objects, which,
as they are alike in some particulars, are in others vastly wide of
each other.
The idea of time, being derived from the succession of our perceptions
of every kind, ideas as well as impressions, and impressions of
reflection as well as of sensation, will afford us an instance of an
abstract idea, which comprehends a still greater variety than that
of space, and yet is represented in the fancy by some particular
individual idea of a determined quantity and quality.
As 'tis from the disposition of visible and tangible objects we receive
the idea of space, so, from the succession of ideas and impressions we
form the idea of time; nor is it possible for time alone ever to make
its appearance, or be taken notice of by the mind. A man in a sound
sleep, or strongly occupied with one thought, is insensible of time;
and according as his perceptions succeed each other with greater or
less rapidity, the same duration appears longer or shorter to his
imagination. It has been remarked by a great philosopher,[3] that our
perceptions have certain bounds in this particular, which are fixed by
the original nature and constitution of the mind, and beyond which no
influence of external objects on the senses is ever able to hasten or
retard our thought. If you wheel about a burning coal with rapidity,
it will present to the senses an image of a circle of fire; nor will
there seem to be any interval of time betwixt its revolutions; merely
because 'tis impossible for our perceptions to succeed each other,
with the same rapidity that motion may be communicated to external
objects. Wherever we have no successive perceptions, we have no notion
of time, even though there be a real succession in the objects. From
these phenomena, as well as from many others, we may conclude, that
time cannot make its appearance to the mind, either alone or attended
with a steady unchangeable object, but is always discovered by some
_perceivable_ succession of changeable objects.
To confirm this we may add the following argument, which to me seems
perfectly decisive and convincing. 'Tis evident, that time or duration
consists of different parts: for otherwise, we could not conceive a
longer or shorter duration. 'Tis also evident, that these parts are
not co-existent: for that quality of the coexistence of parts belongs
to extension, and is what distinguishes it from duration. Now as time
is composed of parts that are not co-existent, an unchangeable object,
since it produces none but co-existent impressions, produces none that
can give us the idea of time; and, consequently, that idea must be
derived from a succession of changeable objects, and time in its first
appearance can never be severed from such a succession.
Having therefore found, that time in its first appearance to the mind
is always conjoined with a succession of changeable objects, and that
otherwise it can never fall under our notice, we must now examine,
whether it can be _conceived_ without our conceiving any succession
of objects, and whether it can alone form a distinct idea in the
imagination.
In order to know whether any objects, which are joined in impression,
be separable in idea, we need only consider if they be different from
each other; in which case, 'tis plain they may be conceived apart.
Every thing that is different is distinguishable, and every thing
that is distinguishable may be separated, according to the maxims
above explained. If, on the contrary, they be not different, they are
not distinguishable; and if they be not distinguishable, they cannot
be separated. But this is precisely the case with respect to time,
compared with our successive perceptions. The idea of time is not
derived from a particular impression mixed up with others, and plainly
distinguishable from them, but arises altogether from the manner in
which impressions appear to the mind, without making one of the number.
Five notes played on a flute give us the impression and idea of time,
though time be not a sixth impression which presents itself to the
hearing or any other of the senses. Nor is it a sixth impression which
the mind by reflection finds in itself. These five sounds making their
appearance in this particular manner, excite no emotion in the mind,
nor produce an affection of any kind, which being observed by it can
give rise to a new idea. For _that_ is necessary to produce a new idea
of reflection; nor can the mind, by revolving over a thousand times
all its ideas of sensation, ever extract from them any new original
idea, unless nature has so framed its faculties, that it feels some
new original impression arise from such a contemplation. But here it
only takes notice of the our the _manner_ in which the different sounds
make their appearance, and that it may afterwards consider without
considering these particular sounds, but may conjoin it with any other
objects. The ideas of some objects it certainly must have, nor is it
possible for it without these ideas ever to arrive at any conception of
time; which, since it appears not as any primary distinct impression,
can plainly be nothing but different ideas, or impressions, or objects
disposed in a certain manner, that is, succeeding each other.
I know there are some who pretend that the idea of duration is
applicable in a proper sense to objects which are perfectly
unchangeable; and this I take to be the common opinion of philosophers
as well as of the vulgar. But to be convinced of its falsehood, we need
but reflect on the foregoing conclusion, that the idea of duration is
always derived from a succession of changeable objects, and can never
be conveyed to the mind by any thing stedfast and unchangeable. For
it inevitably follows from thence, that since the idea of duration
cannot be derived from such an object, it can never in any propriety or
exactness be applied to it, nor can any thing unchangeable be ever said
to have duration. Ideas always represent the objects or impressions,
from which they are derived, and can never, without a fiction,
represent or be applied to any other. By what fiction we apply the idea
of time, even to what is unchangeable, and suppose, as is common that
duration is a measure of rest as well as of motion, we shall consider
afterwards.[4]
There is another very decisive argument, which establishes the present
doctrine concerning our ideas of space and time, and is founded only on
that simple principle, _that our ideas of them are compounded of parts,
which are indivisible_. This argument may be worth the examining.
Every idea that is distinguishable being also separable, let us
take one of those simple indivisible ideas, of which the compound
one of _extension_ is formed, and separating it from all others,
and considering it apart, let us form a judgment of its nature and
qualities.
'Tis plain it is not the idea of extension: for the idea of extension
consists of parts; and this idea, according to the supposition, is
perfectly simple and indivisible. Is it therefore nothing? That is
absolutely impossible. For as the compound idea of extension, which
is real, is composed of such ideas, were these so many nonentities
there would be a real existence composed of nonentities, which is
absurd. Here, therefore, I must ask, _What is our idea of a simple and
indivisible point_? No wonder if my answer appear somewhat new, since
the question itself has scarce ever yet been thought of. We are wont
to dispute concerning the nature of mathematical points, but seldom
concerning the nature of their ideas.
The idea of space is conveyed to the mind by two senses, the
sight and touch; nor does any thing ever appear extended, that is
not either visible or tangible. That compound impression, which
represents extension, consists of several lesser impressions, that
are indivisible to the eye or feeling, and may be called impressions
of atoms or corpuscles endowed with colour and solidity. But this
is not all. 'Tis not only requisite that these atoms should be
coloured or tangible, in order to discover themselves to our senses,
'tis also necessary we should preserve the idea of their colour or
tangibility, in order to comprehend them by our imagination. There is
nothing but the idea of their colour or tangibility which can render
them conceivable by the mind. Upon the removal of the ideas of these
sensible qualities they are utterly annihilated to the thought or
imagination.
Now, such as the parts are, such is the whole. If a point be not
considered as coloured or tangible, it can convey to us no idea; and
consequently the idea of extension, which is composed of the ideas of
these points, can never possibly exist: but if the idea of extension
really can exist, as we are conscious it does, its parts must also
exist; and in order to that, must be considered as coloured or
tangible. We have therefore no idea of space or extension, but when we
regard it as an object either of our sight or feeling.
The same reasoning will prove, that the indivisible moments of time
must be filled with some real object or existence, whose succession
forms the duration, and makes it be conceivable by the mind.
[3] Mr Locke.
[4] Sect. 5.
SECTION IV.
OBJECTIONS ANSWERED.
Our system concerning space and time consists of two parts, which
are intimately connected together. The first depends on this chain
of reasoning. The capacity of the mind is not infinite, consequently
no idea of extension or duration consists of an infinite number of
parts or inferior ideas, but of a finite number, and these simple
and indivisible: 'tis therefore possible for space and time to exist
conformable to this idea: and if it be possible, 'tis certain they
actually do exist conformable to it, since their infinite divisibility
is utterly impossible and contradictory.
The other part of our system is a consequence of this. The parts, into
which the ideas of space and time resolve themselves, become at last
indivisible; and these indivisible parts, being nothing in themselves,
are inconceivable when not filled with something real and existent. The
ideas of space and time are therefore no separate or distinct ideas,
but merely those of the manner or order in which objects exist; or, in
other words, 'tis impossible to conceive either a vacuum and extension
without matter, or a time when there was no succession or change in
any real existence. The intimate connexion betwixt these parts of our
system is the reason why we shall examine together the objections which
have been urged against both of them, beginning with those against the
finite divisibility of extension.
I. The first of these objections which I shall take notice of, is more
proper to prove this connexion and dependence of the one part upon the
other than to destroy either of them. It has often been maintained in
the schools, that extension must be divisible, _in infinitum_, because
the system of mathematical points is absurd; and that system is absurd,
because a mathematical point is a nonentity, and consequently can
never, by its conjunction with others, form a real existence. This
would be perfectly decisive, were there no medium betwixt the infinite
divisibility of matter, and the nonentity of mathematical points. But
there is evidently a medium, viz. the bestowing a colour or solidity on
these points; and the absurdity of both the extremes is a demonstration
of the truth and reality of this medium. The system of _physical_
points, which is another medium, is too absurd to need a refutation. A
real extension, such as a physical point is supposed to be, can never
exist without parts different from each other; and wherever objects are
different, they are distinguishable and separable by the imagination.
II. The second objection is derived from the necessity there would
be of _penetration_, if extension consisted of mathematical points.
A simple and indivisible atom that touches another must necessarily
penetrate it; for 'tis impossible it can touch it by its external
parts, from the very supposition of its perfect simplicity, which
excludes all parts. It must therefore touch it intimately, and in its
whole essence, _secundum se, tota, et totaliter_; which is the very
definition of penetration. But penetration is impossible: mathematical
points are of consequence equally impossible.
I answer this objection by substituting a juster idea of penetration.
Suppose two bodies, containing no void within their circumference, to
approach each other, and to unite in such a manner that the body, which
results from their union, is no more extended than either of them; 'tis
this we must mean when we talk of penetration. But 'tis evident this
penetration is nothing but the annihilation of one of these bodies, and
the preservation of the other, without our being able to distinguish
particularly which is preserved and which annihilated. Before the
approach we have the idea of two bodies; after it we have the idea
only of one. 'Tis impossible for the mind to preserve any notion of
difference betwixt two bodies of the same nature existing in the same
place at the same time.
Taking then penetration in this sense, for the annihilation of one body
upon its approach to another, I ask any one if he sees a necessity that
a coloured or tangible point should be annihilated upon the approach
of another coloured or tangible point? On the contrary, does he not
evidently perceive, that, from the union of these points, there results
an object which is compounded and divisible, and may be distinguished
into two parts, of which each preserves its existence, distinct and
separate, notwithstanding its contiguity to the other? Let him aid his
fancy by conceiving these points to be of different colours, the better
to prevent their coalition and confusion. A blue and a red point may
surely lie contiguous without any penetration or annihilation. For if
they cannot, what possibly can become of them? Whether shall the red or
the blue be annihilated? Or if these colours unite into one, what new
colour will they produce by their union?
What chiefly gives rise to these objections, and at the same time
renders it so difficult to give a satisfactory answer to them, is
the natural infirmity and unsteadiness both of our imagination and
senses when employed on such minute objects. Put a spot of ink upon
paper, and retire to such a distance that the spot becomes altogether
invisible, you will find, that, upon your return and nearer approach,
the spot first becomes visible by short intervals, and afterwards
becomes always visible; and afterwards acquires only a new force in
its colouring, without augmenting its bulk; and afterwards, when it
has increased to such a degree as to be really extended, 'tis still
difficult for the imagination to break it into its component parts,
because of the uneasiness it finds in the conception of such a minute
object as a single point. This infirmity affects most of our reasonings
on the present subject, and makes it almost impossible to answer in an
intelligible manner, and in proper expressions, many questions which
may arise concerning it.
III. There have been many objections drawn from the _mathematics_
against the indivisibility of the parts of extension, though at first
sight that science seems rather favourable to the present doctrine; and
if it be contrary in its _demonstrations_,'tis perfectly conformable
in its _definitions_. My present business then must be, to defend the
definitions and refute the demonstrations.
A surface is _defined_ to be length and breadth without depth; a line
to be length without breadth or depth; a point to be what has neither
length, breadth, nor depth. 'Tis evident that all this is perfectly
unintelligible upon any other supposition than that of the composition
of extension by indivisible points or atoms. How else could any thing
exist without length, without breadth, or without depth?
Two different answers, I find, have been made to this argument,
neither of which is, in my opinion, satisfactory. The first is, that
the objects of geometry, those surfaces, lines, and points, whose
proportions and positions it examines, are mere ideas in the mind;
and not only never did, but never can exist in nature. They never
did exist; for no one will pretend to draw a line or make a surface
entirely conformable to the definition: they never can exist; for we
may produce demonstrations from these very ideas to prove that they are
impossible.
But can any thing be imagined more absurd and contradictory than this
reasoning? Whatever can be conceived by a clear and distinct idea,
necessarily implies the possibility of existence; and he who pretends
to prove the impossibility of its existence by any argument derived
from the clear idea, in reality asserts that we have no clear idea
of it, because we have a clear idea. 'Tis in vain to search for a
contradiction in any thing that is distinctly conceived by the mind.
Did it imply any contradiction, 'tis impossible it could ever be
conceived.
There is therefore no medium betwixt allowing at least the possibility
of indivisible points, and denying their idea; and 'tis on this latter
principle that the second answer to the foregoing argument is founded.
It has been pretended,[5] that though it be impossible to conceive a
length without any breadth, yet by an abstraction without a separation
we can consider the one without regarding the other; in the same manner
as we may think of the length of the way betwixt two towns and overlook
its breadth. The length is inseparable from the breadth both in nature
and in our minds; but this excludes not a partial consideration, and a
_distinction of reason_, after the manner above explained.
In refuting this answer I shall not insist on the argument, which I
have already sufficiently explained, that if it be impossible for
the mind to arrive at a _minimum_ in its ideas, its capacity must be
infinite in order to comprehend the infinite number of parts, of which
its idea of any extension would be composed. I shall here endeavour to
find some new absurdities in this reasoning.
A surface terminates a solid; a line terminates a surface; a point
terminates a line; but I assert, that if the _ideas_ of a point, line,
or surface, were not indivisible, 'tis impossible we should ever
conceive these terminations. For let these ideas be supposed infinitely
divisible, and then let the fancy endeavour to fix itself on the idea
of the last surface, line, or point, it immediately finds this idea
to break into parts; and upon its seizing the last of these parts it
loses its hold by a new division, and so on _in infinitum_, without
any possibility of its arriving at a concluding idea. The number of
fractions bring it no nearer the last division than the first idea
it formed. Every particle eludes the grasp by a new fraction, like
quicksilver, when we endeavour to seize it. But as in fact there must
be something which terminates the idea of every finite quantity, and as
this terminating idea cannot itself consist of parts or inferior ideas,
otherwise it would be the last of its parts, which finished the idea,
and so on; this is a clear proof, that the ideas of surfaces, lines,
and points, admit not of any division; those of surfaces in depth, of
lines in breadth and depth, and of points in any dimension.
The _schoolmen_ were so sensible of the force of this argument, that
some of them maintained that nature has mixed among those particles of
matter, which are divisible _in infinitum_, a number of mathematical
points in order to give a termination to bodies; and others eluded
the force of this reasoning by a heap of unintelligible cavils and
distinctions. Both these adversaries equally yield the victory. A man
who hides himself confesses as evidently the superiority of his enemy,
as another, who fairly delivers his arms.
Thus it appears, that the definitions of mathematics destroy the
pretended demonstrations; and that if we have the idea of indivisible
points, lines, and surfaces, conformable to the definition, their
existence is certainly possible; but if we have no such idea, 'tis
impossible we can ever conceive the termination of any figure, without
which conception there can be no geometrical demonstration.
But I go farther, and maintain, that none of these demonstrations
can have sufficient weight to establish such a principle as this of
infinite divisibility; and that because with regard to such minute
objects, they are not properly demonstrations, being built on ideas
which are not exact, and maxims which are not precisely true. When
geometry decides any thing concerning the proportions of quantity, we
ought not to look for the utmost _precision_ and exactness. None of
its proofs extend so far: it takes the dimensions and proportions of
figures justly; but roughly, and with some liberty. Its errors are
never considerable, nor would it err at all, did it not aspire to such
an absolute perfection.
I first ask mathematicians what they mean when they say one line or
surface is _equal_ to, or _greater_, or _less_ than another? Let any
of them give an answer, to whatever sect he belongs, and whether he
maintains the composition of extension by indivisible points, or by
quantities divisible _in infinitum_. This question will embarrass both
of them.
There are few or no mathematicians who defend the hypothesis of
indivisible points, and yet these have the readiest and justest answer
to the present question. They need only reply, that lines or surfaces
are equal, when the numbers of points in each are equal; and that as
the proportion of the numbers varies, the proportion of the lines and
surfaces is also varied. But though this answer be _just_ as well as
obvious, yet I may affirm, that this standard of equality is entirely
_useless_, and that it never is from such a comparison we determine
objects to be equal or unequal with respect to each other. For as the
points which enter into the composition of any line or surface, whether
perceived by the sight or touch, are so minute and so confounded with
each other that 'tis utterly impossible for the mind to compute their
number, such a computation will never afford us a standard, by which we
may judge of proportions. No one will ever be able to determine by an
exact enumeration, that an inch has fewer points than a foot, or a foot
fewer than an ell, or any greater measure; for which reason, we seldom
or never consider this as the standard of equality or inequality.
As to those who imagine that extension is divisible _in infinitum_,
'tis impossible they can make use of this answer, or fix the equality
of any line or surface by a numeration of its component parts. For
since, according to their hypothesis, the least as well as greatest
figures contain an infinite number of parts, and since infinite
numbers, properly speaking, can neither be equal _nor_ unequal with
respect to each other, the equality or inequality of any portions
of space can never depend on any proportion in the number of their
parts. 'Tis true, it may be said, that the inequality of an ell and a
yard consists in the different numbers of the feet of which they are
composed, and that of a foot and a yard in the number of inches. But
as that quantity we call an inch in the one is supposed equal to what
we call an inch in the other, and as 'tis impossible for the mind to
find this equality by proceeding _in infinitum_ with these references
to inferior quantities, 'tis evident that at last we must fix some
standard of equality different from an enumeration of the parts.
There are some who pretend,[6] that equality is best defined by
_congruity_, and that any two figures are equal, when upon the placing
of one upon the other, all their parts correspond to and touch each
other. In order to judge of this definition let us consider, that since
equality is a relation, it is not, strictly speaking, a property in the
figures themselves, but arises merely from the comparison which the
mind makes betwixt them. If it consists therefore in this imaginary
application and mutual contact of parts, we must at least have a
distinct notion of these parts, and must conceive their contact. Now
'tis plain, that in this conception, we would run up these parts to the
greatest minuteness which can possibly be conceived, since the contact
of large parts would never render the figures equal. But the minutest
parts we can conceive are mathematical points, and consequently this
standard of equality is the same with that derived from the equality of
the number of points, which we have already determined to be a just
but an useless standard. We must therefore look to some other quarter
for a solution of the present difficulty.
There are many philosophers, who refuse to assign any standard of
_equality_, but assert, that 'tis sufficient to present two objects,
that are equal, in order to give us a just notion of this proportion.
All definitions, say they, are fruitless without the perception of such
objects; and where we perceive such objects we no longer stand in need
of any definition. To this reasoning I entirely agree; and assert, that
the only useful notion of equality, or inequality, is derived from the
whole united appearance and the comparison of particular objects.
'Tis evident that the eye, or rather the mind, is often able at one
view to determine the proportions of bodies, and pronounce them equal
to, or greater or less than each other, without examining or comparing
the number of their minute parts. Such judgments are not only common,
but in many cases certain and infallible. When the measure of a yard
and that of a foot are presented, the mind can no more question,
that the first is longer than the second, than it can doubt of those
principles which are the most clear and self-evident.
There are therefore three proportions, which the mind distinguishes
in the general appearance of its objects, and calls by the names of
_greater, less_, and _equal_. But though its decisions concerning
these proportions be sometimes infallible, they are not always so;
nor are our judgments of this kind more exempt from doubt and error
than those on any other subject. We frequently correct our first
opinion by a review and reflection; and pronounce those objects to
be equal, which at first we esteemed unequal; and regard an object
as less, though before it appeared greater than another. Nor is this
the only correction which these judgments of our senses undergo; but
we often discover our error by a juxta-position of the objects; or,
where that is impracticable, by the use of some common and invariable
measure, which, being successively applied to each, informs us of their
different proportions. And even this correction is susceptible of a new
correction, and of different degrees of exactness, according to the
nature of the instrument by which we measure the bodies, and the care
which we employ in the comparison.
When therefore the mind is accustomed to these judgments and their
corrections, and finds that the same proportion which makes two figures
have in the eye that appearance, which we call _equality_, makes them
also correspond to each other, and to any common measure with which
they are compared, we form a mixed notion of equality derived both from
the looser and stricter methods of comparison. But we are not content
with this. For as sound reason convinces us that there are bodies
_vastly_ more minute than those which appear to the senses; and as a
false reason would persuade us, that there are bodies _infinitely_ more
minute, we clearly perceive that we are not possessed of any instrument
or art of measuring which can secure us from all error and uncertainty.
We are sensible that the addition or removal of one of these minute
parts is not discernible either in the appearance or measuring; and as
we imagine that two figures, which were equal before, cannot be equal
after this removal or addition, we therefore suppose some imaginary
standard of equality, by which the appearances and measuring are
exactly corrected, and the figures reduced entirely to that proportion.
This standard is plainly imaginary. For as the very idea of equality
is that of such a particular appearance, corrected by juxta-position
or a common measure, the notion of any correction beyond what we
have instruments and art to make, is a mere fiction of the mind, and
useless as well as incomprehensible. But though this standard be only
imaginary, the fiction however is very natural; nor is any thing more
usual, than for the mind to proceed after this manner with any action,
even after the reason has ceased, which first determined it to begin.
This appears very conspicuously with regard to time; where, though
'tis evident we have no exact method of determining the proportions of
parts, not even so exact as in extension, yet the various corrections
of our measures, and their different degrees of exactness, have given
us an obscure and implicit notion of a perfect and entire equality. The
case is the same in many other subjects. A musician, finding his ear
become every day more delicate, and correcting himself by reflection
and attention, proceeds with the same act of the mind even when the
subject fails him, and entertains a notion of a complete _tierce_ or
_octave_, without being able to tell whence he derives his standard. A
painter forms the same fiction with regard to colours; a mechanic with
regard to motion. To the one _light_ and _shade_, to the other _swift_
and _slow_, are imagined to be capable of an exact comparison and
equality beyond the judgments of the senses.
We may apply the same reasoning to _curve_ and _right_ lines. Nothing
is more apparent to the senses than the distinction betwixt a curve
and a right line; nor are there any ideas we more easily form than
the ideas of these objects. But however easily we may form these
ideas, 'tis impossible to produce any definition of them, which will
fix the precise boundaries betwixt them. When we draw lines upon
paper or any continued surface, there is a certain order by which
the lines run along from one point to another, that they may produce
the entire impression of a curve or right line; but this order is
perfectly unknown, and nothing is observed but the united appearance.
Thus, even upon the system of indivisible points, we can only form a
distant notion of some unknown standard to these objects. Upon that of
infinite divisibility we cannot go even this length, but are reduced
merely to the general appearance, as the rule by which we determine
lines to be either curve or right ones. But though we can give no
perfect definition of these lines, nor produce any very exact method
of distinguishing the one from the other, yet this hinders us not from
correcting the first appearance by a more accurate consideration, and
by a comparison with some rule, of whose rectitude, from repeated
trials, we have a greater assurance. And 'tis from these corrections,
and by carrying on the same action of the mind, even when its reason
fails us, that we form the loose idea of a perfect standard to these
figures, without being able to explain or comprehend it.
'Tis true, mathematicians pretend they give an exact definition of
a right line when they say, _it is the shortest way betwixt two
points_. But in the first place I observe, that this is more properly
the discovery of one of the properties of a right line, than a just
definition of it. For I ask any one, if, upon mention of a right line,
he thinks not immediately on such a particular appearance, and if 'tis
not by accident only that he considers this property? A right line can
be comprehended alone; but this definition is unintelligible without a
comparison with other lines, which we conceive to be more extended. In
common life 'tis established as a maxim, that the straightest way is
always the shortest; which would be as absurd as to say, the shortest
way is always the shortest, if our idea of a right line was not
different from that of the shortest way betwixt two points.
Secondly, I repeat, what I have already established, that we have no
precise idea of equality and inequality, shorter and longer, more than
of a right line or a curve; and consequently that the one can never
afford us a perfect standard for the other. An exact idea can never be
built on such as are loose and undeterminate.
The idea of a _plain surface_ is as little susceptible of a precise
standard as that of a right line; nor have we any other means of
distinguishing such a surface, than its general appearance. 'Tis in
vain that mathematicians represent a plain surface as produced by the
flowing of a right line. 'Twill immediately be objected, that our idea
of a surface is as independent of this method of forming a surface, as
our idea of an ellipse is of that of a cone; that the idea of a right
line is no more precise than that of a plain surface; that a right line
may flow irregularly, and by that means form a figure quite different
from a plane; and that therefore we must suppose it to flow along two
right lines, parallel to each other, and on the same plane; which is a
description that explains a thing by itself, and returns in a circle.
It appears then, that the ideas which are most essential to geometry,
viz. those of equality and inequality, of a right line and a plain
surface, are far from being exact and determinate, according to our
common method of conceiving them. Not only we are incapable of telling
if the case be in any degree doubtful, when such particular figures are
equal; when such a line is a right one, and such a surface a plain one;
but we can form no idea of that proportion, or of these figures, which
is firm and invariable. Our appeal is still to the weak and fallible
judgment, which we make from the appearance of the objects, and correct
by a compass, or common measure; and if we join the supposition of
any farther correction, 'tis of such a one as is either useless or
imaginary. In vain should we have recourse to the common topic, and
employ the supposition of a Deity, whose omnipotence may enable him to
form a perfect geometrical figure, and describe a right line without
any curve or inflection. As the ultimate standard of these figures is
derived from nothing but the senses and imagination, 'tis absurd to
talk of any perfection beyond what these faculties can judge of; since
the true perfection of any thing consists in its conformity to its
standard.
Now, since these ideas are so loose and uncertain, I would fain ask
any mathematician, what infallible assurance he has, not only of
the more intricate and obscure propositions of his science, but of
the most vulgar and obvious principles? How can he prove to me, for
instance, that two right lines cannot have one common segment? Or
that 'tis impossible to draw more than one right line betwixt any two
points? Should he tell me, that these opinions are obviously absurd,
and repugnant to our clear ideas; I would answer, that I do not
deny, where two right lines incline upon each other with a sensible
angle, but 'tis absurd to imagine them to have a common segment. But
supposing these two lines to approach at the rate of an inch in twenty
leagues, I perceive no absurdity in asserting, that upon their contact
they become one. For, I beseech you, by what rule or standard do you
judge, when you assert that the line, in which I have supposed them to
concur, cannot make the same right line with those two, that form so
small an angle betwixt them? You must surely have some idea of a right
line, to which this line does not agree. Do you therefore mean, that
it takes not the points in the same order and by the same rule, as is
peculiar and essential to a right line? If so, I must inform you, that
besides that, in judging after this manner, you allow that extension
is composed of indivisible points (which, perhaps, is more than you
intend), besides this, I say, I must inform you, that neither is this
the standard from which we form the idea of a right line; nor, if it
were, is there any such firmness in our senses or imagination, as to
determine when such an order is violated or preserved. The original
standard of a right line is in reality nothing but a certain general
appearance; and 'tis evident right lines may be made to concur with
each other, and yet correspond to this standard, though corrected by
all the means either practicable or imaginable.
To whatever side mathematicians turn, this dilemma still meets them.
If they judge of equality, or any other proportion, by the accurate
and exact standard, viz. the enumeration of the minute indivisible
parts, they both employ a standard, which is useless in practice,
and actually establish the indivisibility of extension, which they
endeavour to explode. Or if they employ, as is usual, the inaccurate
standard, derived from a comparison of objects, upon their general
appearance, corrected by measuring and juxtaposition; their first
principles, though certain and infallible, are too coarse to afford
any such subtile inferences as they commonly draw from them. The first
principles are founded on the imagination and senses; the conclusion
therefore can never go beyond, much less contradict, these faculties.
This may open our eyes a little, and let us see, that no geometrical
demonstration for the infinite divisibility of extension can have so
much force as what we naturally attribute to every argument, which
is supported by such magnificent pretensions. At the same time we
may learn the reason, why geometry fails of evidence in this single
point, while all its other reasonings command our fullest assent and
approbation. And indeed it seems more requisite to give the reason
of this exception, than to show that we really must make such an
exception, and regard all the mathematical arguments for infinite
divisibility as utterly sophistical. For 'tis evident, that as no idea
of quantity is infinitely divisible, there cannot be imagined a more
glaring absurdity, than to endeavour to prove, that quantity itself
admits of such a division; and to prove this by means of ideas, which
are directly opposite in that particular. And as this absurdity is
very glaring in itself, so there is no argument founded on it, which
is not attended with a new absurdity, and involves not an evident
contradiction.
I might give as instances those arguments for infinite divisibility,
which are derived from the _point of contact_. I know there is no
mathematician, who will not refuse to be judged by the diagrams he
describes upon paper, these being loose draughts, as he will tell us,
and serving only to convey with greater facility certain ideas, which
are the true foundation of all our reasoning. This I am satisfied with,
and am willing to rest the controversy merely upon these ideas. I
desire therefore our mathematician to form, as accurately as possible,
the ideas of a circle and a right line; and I then ask, if upon the
conception of their contact he can conceive them as touching in a
mathematical point, or if he must necessarily imagine them to concur
for some space. Whichever side he chooses, he runs himself into equal
difficulties. If he affirms, that in tracing these figures in his
imagination, he can imagine them to touch only in a point, he allows
the possibility of that idea, and consequently of the thing. If he
says, that in his conception of the contact of those lines he must
make them concur, he thereby acknowledges the fallacy of geometrical
demonstrations, when carried beyond a certain degree of minuteness;
since, 'tis certain he has such demonstrations against the concurrence
of a circle and a right line; that is, in other words, he can prove an
idea, viz. that of concurrence, to be _incompatible_ with two other
ideas, viz. those of a circle and right line; though at the same time
he acknowledges these ideas to be _inseparable_.
[5] L'Art de penser.
[6] See Dr Barrow's Mathematical Lectures.
SECTION V.
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.
If the second part of my system be true, _that the idea of space
or extension is nothing but the idea of visible or tangible points
distributed in a certain order_, it follows, that we can form no idea
of a vacuum, or space, where there is nothing visible or tangible. This
gives rise to three objections, which I shall examine together, because
the answer I shall give to one is a consequence of that which I shall
make use of for the others.
First, it may be said, that men have disputed for many ages concerning
a vacuum and a plenum, without being able to bring the affair to a
final decision: and philosophers, even at this day, think themselves
at liberty to take party on either side, as their fancy leads them.
But whatever foundation there may be for a controversy concerning
the things themselves, it may be pretended that the very dispute is
decisive concerning the idea, and that 'tis impossible men could so
long reason about a vacuum, and either refute or defend it, without
having a notion of what they refuted or defended.
Secondly, if this argument should be contested, the reality, or at
least possibility, of the _idea_ of a vacuum, may be proved by the
following reasoning. Every idea is possible which is a necessary and
infallible consequence of such as are possible. Now, though we allow
the world to be at present a plenum, we may easily conceive it to be
deprived of motion; and this idea will certainly be allowed possible.
It must also be allowed possible, to conceive the annihilation of
any part of matter by the omnipotence of the Deity, while the other
parts remain at rest. For as every idea that is distinguishable is
separable by the imagination, and as every idea that is separable
by the imagination may be conceived to be separately existent, 'tis
evident, that the existence of one particle of matter no more implies
the existence of another, than a square figure in one body implies
a square figure in every one. This being granted, I now demand what
results from the concurrence of these two possible ideas of _rest_
and _annihilation_, and what must we conceive to follow upon the
annihilation of all the air and subtile matter in the chamber,
supposing the walls to remain the same, without any motion or
alteration? There are some metaphysicians who answer, that since matter
and extension are the same, the annihilation of the one necessarily
implies that of the other; and there being now no distance betwixt the
walls of the chamber, they touch each other; in the same manner as my
hand touches the paper which is immediately before me. But though this
answer be very common, I defy these metaphysicians to conceive the
matter according to their hypothesis, or imagine the floor and roof,
with all the opposite sides of the chamber, to touch each other, while
they continue in rest, and preserve the same position. For how can
the two walls, that run from south to north, touch each other, while
they touch the opposite ends of two walls that run from east to west?
And how can the floor and roof ever meet, while they are separated by
the four walls that lie in a contrary position? If you change their
position, you suppose a motion. If you conceive any thing betwixt them,
you suppose a new creation. But keeping strictly to the two ideas of
_rest_ and _annihilation_, 'tis evident, that the idea which results
from them is not that of a contact of parts, but something else, which
is concluded to be the idea of a vacuum.
The third objection carries the matter still farther, and not only
asserts, that the idea of a vacuum is real and possible, but also
necessary and unavoidable. This assertion is founded on the motion we
observe in bodies, which, 'tis maintained, would be impossible and
inconceivable without a vacuum, into which one body must move in order
to make way for another. I shall not enlarge upon this objection,
because it principally belongs to natural philosophy, which lies
without our present sphere.
In order to answer these objections, we must take the matter pretty
deep, and consider the nature and origin of several ideas, lest we
dispute without understanding perfectly the subject of the controversy.
'Tis evident the idea of darkness is no positive idea, but merely the
negation of light, or, more properly speaking, of coloured and visible
objects. A man who enjoys his sight, receives no other perception from
turning his eyes on every side, when entirely deprived of light, than
what is common to him with one born blind; and 'tis certain such a one
has no idea either of light or darkness. The consequence of this is,
that 'tis not from the mere removal of visible objects we receive the
impression of extension without matter; and that the idea of utter
darkness can never be the same with that of vacuum.
Suppose again a man to be supported in the air, and to be softly
conveyed along by some invisible power; 'tis evident he is sensible
of nothing, and never receives the idea of extension, nor indeed any
idea, from this invariable motion. Even supposing he moves his limbs to
and fro, this cannot convey to him that idea. He feels in that case a
certain sensation or impression, the parts of which are successive to
each other, and may give him the idea of time, but certainly are not
disposed in such a manner as is necessary to convey the idea of space
or extension.
Since, then, it appears that darkness and motion, with the utter
removal of every thing visible and tangible, can never give us the idea
of extension without matter, or of a vacuum; the next question is,
whether they can convey this idea, when mixed with something visible
and tangible?
'Tis commonly allowed by philosophers, that all bodies which discover
themselves to the eye, appear as if painted on a plain surface,
and that their different degrees of remoteness from ourselves are
discovered more by reason than by the senses. When I hold up my hand
before me, and spread my fingers, they are separated as perfectly by
the blue colour of the firmament, as they could be by any visible
object which I could place betwixt them. In order, therefore, to know
whether the sight can convey the impression and idea of a vacuum, we
must suppose, that amidst an entire darkness, there are luminous bodies
presented to us, whose light discovers only these bodies themselves,
without giving us any impression of the surrounding objects.
We must form a parallel supposition concerning the objects of our
feeling. 'Tis not proper to suppose a perfect removal of all tangible
objects: we must allow something to be perceived by the feeling; and
after an interval and motion of the hand or other organ of sensation,
another object of the touch to be met with; and upon leaving that,
another; and so on, as often as we please. The question is, whether
these intervals do not afford us the idea of extension without body.
To begin with the first case; 'tis evident, that when only two luminous
bodies appear to the eye, we can perceive whether they be conjoined or
separate; whether they be separated by a great or small distance; and
if this distance varies, we can perceive its increase or diminution,
with the motion of the bodies. But as the distance is not in this case
any thing coloured or visible, it may be thought that there is here
a vacuum or pure extension, not only intelligible to the mind, but
obvious to the very senses.
This is our natural and most familiar way of thinking, but which we
shall learn to correct by a little reflection. We may observe, that
when two bodies present themselves, where there was formerly an entire
darkness, the only change that is discoverable is in the appearance of
these two objects, and that all the rest continues to be as before, a
perfect negation of light, and of every coloured or visible object.
This is not only true of what may be said to be remote from these
bodies, but also of the very distance which is interposed betwixt them;
_that_ being nothing but darkness, or the negation of light; without
parts, without composition, invariable and indivisible. Now, since
this distance causes no perception different from what a blind man
receives from his eyes, or what is conveyed to us in the darkest night,
it must partake of the same properties; and as blindness and darkness
afford us no ideas of extension, 'tis impossible that the dark and
undistinguishable distance betwixt two bodies can ever produce that
idea.
The sole difference betwixt an absolute darkness and the appearance
of two or more visible luminous objects consists, as I said, in the
objects themselves, and in the manner they affect our senses. The
angles, which the rays of light flowing from them form with each other;
the motion that is required in the eye, in its passage from one to
the other; and the different parts of the organs which are affected
by them; these produce the only perceptions from which we can judge
of the distance. But as these perceptions are each of them simple and
indivisible, they can never give us the idea of extension.
We may illustrate this by considering the sense of feeling, and the
imaginary distance or interval interposed betwixt tangible or solid
objects. I suppose two cases, viz. that of a man supported in the air,
and moving his limbs to and fro, without meeting any thing tangible;
and that of a man, who, feeling something tangible, leaves it, and,
after a motion of which he is sensible, perceives another tangible
object; and I then ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt these
two cases? No one will make any scruple to affirm, that it consists
merely in the perceiving those objects, and that the sensation,
which arises from the motion, is in both cases the same; and as that
sensation is not capable of conveying to us an idea of extension, when
unaccompanied with some other perception, it can no more give us that
idea, when mixed with the impressions of tangible objects, since that
mixture produces no alteration upon it.
But though motion and darkness, either alone or attended with tangible
and visible objects, convey no idea of a vacuum or extension without
matter, yet they are the causes why we falsely imagine we can form
such an idea. For there is a close relation betwixt that motion and
darkness, and a real extension, or composition of visible and tangible
objects.
First, we may observe, that two visible objects, appearing in the midst
of utter darkness, affect the senses in the same manner, and form the
same angle by the rays which flow from them, and meet in the eye, as if
the distance betwixt them were filled with visible objects, that give
us a true idea of extension. The sensation of motion is likewise the
same, when there is nothing tangible interposed betwixt two bodies, as
when we feel a compounded body, whose different parts are placed beyond
each other.
Secondly, we find by experience, that two bodies, which are so placed
as to affect the senses in the same manner with two others, that have
a certain extent of visible objects interposed betwixt them, are
capable of receiving the same extent, without any sensible impulse or
penetration, and without any change on that angle, under which they
appear to the senses. In like manner, where there is one object, which
we cannot feel after another without an interval, and the perceiving
of that sensation we call motion in our hand or organ of sensation;
experience shews us, that 'tis possible the same object may be felt
with the same sensation of motion, along with the interposed impression
of solid and tangible objects, attending the sensation. That is, in
other words, an invisible and intangible distance may be converted into
a visible and tangible one, without any change on the distant objects.
Thirdly, we may observe, as another relation betwixt these two
kinds of distance, that they have nearly the same effects on every
natural phenomenon. For as all qualities, such as heat, cold, light,
attraction, &c. diminish in proportion to the distance; there is but
little difference observed, whether this distance be marked out by
compounded and sensible objects, or be known only by the manner in
which the distant objects affect the senses.
Here then are three relations betwixt that distance, which conveys
the idea of extension, and that other, which is not filled with any
coloured or solid object. The distant objects affect the senses in the
same manner, whether separated by the one distance or the other; the
second species of distance is found capable of receiving the first; and
they both equally diminish the force of every quality.
These relations betwixt the two kinds of distance, will afford us an
easy reason why the one has so often been taken for the other, and
why we imagine we have an idea of extension without the idea of any
object either of the sight or feeling. For we may establish it as a
general maxim in this science of human nature, that wherever there is
a close relation betwixt two ideas, the mind is very apt to mistake
them, and in all its discourses and reasonings to use the one for the
other. This phenomenon occurs on so many occasions, and is of such
consequence, that I cannot forbear stopping a moment to examine its
causes. I shall only premise, that we must distinguish exactly betwixt
the phenomenon itself, and the causes which I shall assign for it; and
must not imagine, from any uncertainty in the latter, that the former
is also uncertain. The phenomenon may be real, though my explication be
chimerical. The falsehood of the one is no consequence of that of the
other; though at the same time we may observe, that 'tis very natural
for us to draw such a consequence; which is an evident instance of that
very principle, which I endeavour to explain.
When I received the relations of _resemblance, contiguity_, and
_causation_, as principles of union among ideas, without examining
into their causes, 'twas more in prosecution of my first maxim, that
we must in the end rest contented with experience, than for want of
something specious and plausible, which I might have displayed on that
subject. 'Twould have been easy to have made an imaginary dissection
of the brain, and have shown, why, upon our conception of any idea,
the animal spirits run into all the contiguous traces, and rouze up
the other ideas that are related to it. But though I have neglected
any advantage, which I might have drawn from this topic in explaining
the relations of ideas, I am afraid I must here have recourse to it,
in order to account for the mistakes that arise from these relations.
I shall therefore observe, that as the mind is endowed with a power of
exciting any idea it pleases; whenever it despatches the spirits into
that region of the brain, in which the idea is placed; these spirits
always excite the idea, when they run precisely into the proper traces,
and rummage that cell, which belongs to the idea. But as their motion
is seldom direct, and naturally turns a little to the one side or the
other; for this reason the animal spirits, falling into the contiguous
traces, present other related ideas, in lieu of that which the mind
desired at first to survey. This change we are not always sensible of;
but continuing still the same train of thought, make use of the related
idea, which is presented to us, and employ it in our reasoning, as
if it were the same with what we demanded. This is the cause of many
mistakes and sophisms in philosophy; as will naturally be imagined,
and as it would be easy to show, if there was occasion.
Of the three relations above-mentioned that of resemblance is the
most fertile source of error; and indeed there are few mistakes in
reasoning, which do not borrow largely from that origin. Resembling
ideas are not only related together, but the actions of the mind,
which we employ in considering them, are so little different, that we
are not able to distinguish them. This last circumstance is of great
consequence; and we may in general observe, that wherever the actions
of the mind in forming any two ideas are the same or resembling, we
are very apt to confound these ideas, and take the one for the other.
Of this we shall see many instances in the progress of this treatise.
But though resemblance be the relation, which most readily produces a
mistake in ideas, yet the others of causation and contiguity may also
concur in the same influence. We might produce the figures of poets
and orators, as sufficient proofs of this, were it as usual as it
is reasonable, in metaphysical subjects, to draw our arguments from
that quarter. But lest metaphysicians should esteem this below their
dignity, I shall borrow a proof from an observation, which may be made
on most of their own discourses, viz. that 'tis usual for men to use
words for ideas, and to talk instead of thinking in their reasonings.
We use words for ideas, because they are commonly so closely connected,
that the mind easily mistakes them. And this likewise is the reason,
why we substitute the idea of a distance, which is not considered
either as visible or tangible, in the room of extension, which is
nothing but a composition of visible or tangible points disposed in a
certain order. In causing this mistake there concur both the relations
of _causation_ and _resemblance_. As the first species of distance is
found to be convertible into the second, 'tis in this respect a kind of
cause; and the similarity of their manner of affecting the senses, and
diminishing every quality, forms the relation of resemblance.
After this chain of reasoning and explication of my principles, I am
now prepared to answer all the objections that have been offered,
whether derived from _metaphysics_ or _mechanics_. The frequent
disputes concerning a vacuum, or extension without matter, prove not
the reality of the idea, upon which the dispute turns; there being
nothing more common, than to see men deceive themselves in this
particular; especially when, by means of any close relation, there is
another idea presented, which may be the occasion of their mistake.
We may make almost the same answer to the second objection, derived
from the conjunction of the ideas of rest and annihilation. When every
thing is annihilated in the chamber, and the walls continue immovable,
the chamber must be conceived much in the same manner as at present,
when the air that fills it is not an object of the senses. This
annihilation leaves to the _eye_ that fictitious distance, which is
discovered by the different parts of the organ that are affected, and
by the degrees of light and shade; and to the _feeling_, that which
consists in a sensation of motion in the hand, or other member of the
body. In vain should we search any farther. On whichever side we turn
this subject, we shall find that these are the only impressions such an
object can produce after the supposed annihilation; and it has already
been remarked, that impressions can give rise to no ideas, but to such
as resemble them.
Since a body interposed betwixt two others may be supposed to be
annihilated, without producing any change upon such as lie on each
hand of it, 'tis easily conceived, how it may be created anew, and
yet produce as little alteration. Now the motion of a body has much
the same effect as its creation. The distant bodies are no more
affected in the one case, than in the other. This suffices to satisfy
the imagination, and proves there is no repugnance in such a motion.
Afterwards experience comes in play to persuade us that two bodies,
situated in the manner above described, have really such a capacity
of receiving body betwixt them, and that there is no obstacle to the
conversion of the invisible and intangible distance into one that is
visible and tangible. However natural that conversion may seem, we
cannot be sure it is practicable, before we have had experience of it.
Thus I seem to have answered the three objections above mentioned;
though at the same time I am sensible, that few will be satisfied
with these answers, but will immediately propose new objections and
difficulties. 'Twill probably be said, that my reasoning makes nothing
to the matter in hand, and that I explain only the manner in which
objects affect the senses, without endeavouring to account for their
real nature and operations. Though there be nothing visible or tangible
interposed betwixt two bodies, yet we find _by experience_, that the
bodies may be placed in the same manner, with regard to the eye, and
require the same motion of the hand in passing from one to the other,
as if divided by something visible and tangible. This invisible and
intangible distance is also found _by experience_ to contain a capacity
of receiving body, or of becoming visible and tangible. Here is the
whole of my system; and in no part of it have I endeavoured to explain
the cause, which separates bodies after this manner, and gives them
a capacity of receiving others betwixt them, without any impulse or
penetration.
I answer this objection, by pleading guilty, and by confessing that
my intention never was to penetrate into the nature of bodies, or
explain the secret causes of their operations. For, besides that this
belongs not to my present purpose, I am afraid, that such an enterprise
is beyond the reach of human understanding, and that we can never
pretend to know body otherwise than by those external properties,
which discover themselves to the senses. As to those who attempt any
thing farther, I cannot approve of their ambition, till I see, in
some one instance at least, that they have met with success. But at
present I content myself with knowing perfectly the manner in which
objects affect my senses, and their connexions with each other, as far
as experience informs me of them. This suffices for the conduct of
life; and this also suffices for my philosophy, which pretends only to
explain the nature and causes of our perceptions, or impressions and
ideas.[7]
I shall conclude this subject of extension with a paradox, which will
easily be explained from the foregoing reasoning. This paradox is, that
if you are pleased to give to the invisible and intangible distance,
or in other words, to the capacity of becoming a visible and tangible
distance, the name of a vacuum, extension and matter are the same,
and yet there is a vacuum. If you will not give it that name, motion
is possible in a plenum, without any impulse _in infinitum_, without
returning in a circle, and without penetration. But however we may
express ourselves, we must always confess, that we have no idea of any
real extension without filling it with sensible objects, and conceiving
its parts as visible or tangible.
As to the doctrine, that time is nothing but the manner in which some
real objects exist; we may observe, that 'tis liable to the same
objections as the similar doctrine with regard to extension. If it
be a sufficient proof, that we have the idea of a vacuum, because we
dispute and reason concerning it; we must for the same reason have
the idea of time without any changeable existence; since there is no
subject of dispute more frequent and common. But that we really have
no such idea, is certain. For whence should it be derived? Does it
arise from an impression of sensation or of reflection? Point it out
distinctly to us, that we may know its nature and qualities. But if
you cannot point out _any such impression_, you may be certain you are
mistaken, when you imagine you have _any such idea_.
But though it be impossible to show the impression, from which the idea
of time without a changeable existence is derived, yet we can easily
point out those appearances, which make us fancy we have that idea. For
we may observe, that there is a continual succession of perceptions in
our mind; so that the idea of time being for ever present with us, when
we consider a stedfast object at five o'clock, and regard the same at
six, we are apt to apply to it that idea in the same manner as if every
moment were distinguished by a different position, or an alteration
of the object. The first and second appearances of the object, being
compared with the succession of our perceptions, seem equally removed
as if the object had really changed. To which we may add, what
experience shows us, that the object was susceptible of such a number
of changes betwixt these appearances; as also that the unchangeable
or rather fictitious duration has the same effect upon every quality,
by increasing or diminishing it, as that succession which is obvious
to the senses. From these three relations we are apt to confound our
ideas, and imagine we can form the idea of a time and duration,
without any change or succession.
[7] As long as we confine our speculations to _the appearances_ of
objects to our senses, without entering into disquisitions concerning
their real nature and operations, we are safe from all difficulties,
and can never be embarrassed by any question. Thus, if it be asked, if
the invisible and intangible distance, interposed betwixt two objects,
be something or nothing: 'tis easy to answer, that it is _something_,
viz. a property of the objects, which affect the _senses_ after such
a particular manner. If it be asked, whether two objects, having such
a distance betwixt them, touch or not: it may be answered, that this
depends upon the definition of the word _touch_. If objects be said to
touch, when there is nothing _sensible_ interposed betwixt them, these
objects touch: If objects be said to touch, when their _images_ strike
contiguous parts of the eye, and when the hand _feels_ both objects
successively, without any interposed motion, these objects do not
touch. The appearances of objects to our senses are all consistent; and
no difficulties can ever arise, but from the obscurity of the terms we
make use of.
If we carry our inquiry beyond the appearances of objects to the
senses, I am afraid, that most of our conclusions will be full of
scepticism and uncertainty. Thus, if it be asked, whether or not the
invisible and intangible distance be always full of _body_, or of
something that by an improvement of our organs might become visible or
tangible, I must acknowledge, that I find no very decisive arguments
on either side: though I am inclined to the contrary opinion, as
being more suitable to vulgar and popular notions. If _the Newtonian_
philosophy be rightly understood, it will be found to mean no more.
A vacuum is asserted; that is, bodies are said to be placed after
such a manner as to receive bodies betwixt them, without impulsion or
penetration. The real nature of this position of bodies is unknown.
We are only acquainted with its effects on the senses, and its power
of receiving body. Nothing is more suitable to that philosophy, than
a modest scepticism to a certain degree, and a fair confession of
ignorance in subjects that exceed all human capacity.
SECTION VI.
OF THE IDEA OF EXISTENCE, AND OF EXTERNAL EXISTENCE.
It may not be amiss, before we leave this subject, to explain the
ideas of _existence_ and of _external existence_; which have their
difficulties, as well as the ideas of space and time. By this means
we shall be the better prepared for the examination of knowledge and
probability, when we understand perfectly all those particular ideas,
which may enter into our reasoning.
There is no impression nor idea of any kind, of which we have any
consciousness or memory, that is not conceived as existent; and 'tis
evident that, from this consciousness, the most perfect idea and
assurance of _being_ is derived. From hence we may form a dilemma, the
most clear and conclusive that can be imagined, viz. that since we
never remember any idea or impression without attributing existence
to it, the idea of existence must either be derived from a distinct
impression, conjoined with every perception or object of our thought,
or must be the very same with the idea of the perception or object.
As this dilemma is an evident consequence of the principle, that every
idea arises from a similar impression, so our decision betwixt the
propositions of the dilemma is no more doubtful. So far from there
being any distinct impression attending every impression and every
idea, that I do not think there are any two distinct impressions which
are inseparably conjoined. Though certain sensations may at one time
be united, we quickly find they admit of a separation, and may be
presented apart. And thus, though every impression and idea we remember
be considered as existent, the idea of existence is not derived from
any particular impression.
The idea of existence, then, is the very same with the idea of what we
conceive to be existent. To reflect on any thing simply, and to reflect
on it as existent, are nothing different from each other. That idea,
when conjoined with the idea of any object, makes no addition to it.
Whatever we conceive, we conceive to be existent. Any idea we please
to form is the idea of a being; and the idea of a being is any idea we
please to form.
Whoever opposes this, must necessarily point out that distinct
impression, from which the idea of entity is derived, and must prove,
that this impression is inseparable from every perception we believe to
be existent. This we may without hesitation conclude to be impossible.
Our foregoing reasoning[8] concerning the _distinction_ of ideas
without any real _difference_ will not here serve us in any stead. That
kind of distinction is founded on the different resemblances, which the
same simple idea may have to several different ideas. But no object can
be presented resembling some object with respect to its existence, and
different from others in the same particular; since every object that
is presented, must necessarily be existent.
A like reasoning will account for the idea of _external existence_.
We may observe, that 'tis universally allowed by philosophers, and is
besides pretty obvious of itself, that nothing is ever really present
with the mind but its perceptions or impressions and ideas, and that
external objects become known to us only by those perceptions they
occasion. To hate, to love, to think, to feel, to see; all this is
nothing but to perceive.
Now, since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions, and
since all ideas are derived from something antecedently present to
the mind; it follows, that 'tis impossible for us so much as to
conceive or form an idea of any thing specifically different from
ideas and impressions. Let us fix our attention out of ourselves as
much as possible; let us chase our imagination to the heavens, or to
the utmost limits of the universe; we never really advance a step
beyond ourselves, nor can conceive any kind of existence, but those
perceptions, which have appeared in that narrow compass. This is the
universe of the imagination, nor have we any idea but what is there
produced.
The farthest we can go towards a conception of external objects, when
supposed _specifically_ different from our perceptions, is to form a
relative idea of them, without pretending to comprehend the related
objects. Generally speaking, we do not suppose them specifically
different; but only attribute to them different relations, connexions,
and durations. But of this more fully hereafter.[9]
[8] Part I. Sect. 7.
[9] Part VI. Sect. 2.
PART III.
OF KNOWLEDGE AND PROBABILITY.
SECTION I.
OF KNOWLEDGE.
There are seven different kinds of philosophical relation,[1] viz.
_resemblance, identity, relations of time and place, proportion
in quantity or number, degrees in any quality, contrariety, and
causation_. These relations may be divided into two classes; into
such as depend entirely on the ideas, which we compare together, and
such as may be changed without any change in the ideas. 'Tis from
the idea of a triangle, that we discover the relation of equality,
which its three angles bear to two right ones; and this relation is
invariable, as long as our idea remains the same. On the contrary, the
relations of _contiguity_ and _distance_ betwixt two objects may be
changed merely by an alteration of their place, without any change on
the objects themselves or on their ideas; and the place depends on a
hundred different accidents, which cannot be foreseen by the mind.
'Tis the same case with _identity_ and _causation_. Two objects, though
perfectly resembling each other, and even appearing in the same place
at different times, may be numerically different: and as the power, by
which one object produces another, is never discoverable merely from
their idea, 'tis evident _cause_ and _effect_ are relations, of which
we receive information from experience, and not from any abstract
reasoning or reflection. There is no single phenomenon, even the most
simple, which can be accounted for from the qualities of the objects,
as they appear to us; or which we could foresee without the help of our
memory and experience.
It appears therefore that of these seven philosophical relations, there
remain only four, which depending solely upon ideas, can be the objects
of knowledge and certainty. These four are _resemblance, contrariety,
degrees in quality, and proportions in quantity or number_. Three
of these relations are discoverable at first sight, and fall more
properly under the province of intuition than demonstration. When any
objects _resemble_ each other, the resemblance will at first strike
the eye, or rather the mind; and seldom requires a second examination.
The case is the same with _contrariety_, and with the _degrees_ of
any _quality_. No one can once doubt but existence and non-existence
destroy each other, and are perfectly incompatible and contrary. And
though it be impossible to judge exactly of the degrees of any quality,
such as colour, taste, heat, cold, when the difference betwixt them is
very small; yet 'tis easy to decide, that any of them is superior or
inferior to another, when their difference is considerable. And this
decision we always pronounce at first sight, without any inquiry or
reasoning.
We might proceed, after the same manner, in fixing the _proportions_
of _quantity_ or _number_, and might at one view observe a superiority
or inferiority betwixt any numbers, or figures; especially where the
difference is very great and remarkable. As to equality or any exact
proportion, we can only guess at it from a single consideration; except
in very short numbers, or very limited portions of extension; which are
comprehended in an instant, and where we perceive an impossibility of
falling into any considerable error. In all other cases we must settle
the proportions with some liberty, or proceed in a more _artificial_
manner.
I have already observed, that geometry, or the _art_ by which we fix
the proportions of figures; though it much excels both in universality
and exactness, the loose judgments of the senses and imagination; yet
never attains a perfect precision and exactness. Its first principles
are still drawn from the general appearance of the objects; and that
appearance can never afford us any security, when we examine the
prodigious minuteness of which nature is susceptible. Our ideas seem
to give a perfect assurance, that no two right lines can have a common
segment; but if we consider these ideas, we shall find, that they
always suppose a sensible inclination of the two lines, and that where
the angle they form is extremely small, we have no standard of a right
line so precise as to assure us of the truth of this proposition. 'Tis
the same case with most of the primary decisions of the mathematics.
There remain therefore algebra and arithmetic as the only sciences, in
which we can carry on a chain of reasoning to any degree of intricacy,
and yet preserve a perfect exactness and certainty. We are possessed
of a precise standard, by which we can judge of the equality and
proportion of numbers; and according as they correspond or not to that
standard, we determine their relations, without any possibility of
error. When two numbers are so combined, as that the one has always an
unite answering to every unite of the other, we pronounce them equal;
and 'tis for want of such a standard of equality in extension, that
geometry can scarce be esteemed a perfect and infallible science.
But here it may not be amiss to obviate a difficulty, which may
arise from my asserting, that though geometry falls short of that
perfect precision and certainty, which are peculiar to arithmetic
and algebra, yet it excels the imperfect judgments of our senses and
imagination. The reason why I impute any defect to geometry, is,
because its original and fundamental principles are derived merely from
appearances; and it may perhaps be imagined, that this defect must
always attend it, and keep it from ever reaching a greater exactness in
the comparison of objects or ideas, than what our eye or imagination
alone is able to attain. I own that this defect so far attends it, as
to keep it from ever aspiring to a full certainty: but since these
fundamental principles depend on the easiest and least deceitful
appearances, they bestow on their consequences a degree of exactness,
of which these consequences are singly incapable. 'Tis impossible for
the eye to determine the angles of a chiliagon to be equal to 1996
right angles, or make any conjecture, that approaches this proportion;
but when it determines, that right lines cannot concur; that we cannot
draw more than one right line between two given points; its mistakes
can never be of any consequence. And this is the nature and use of
geometry, to run us up to such appearances, as, by reason of their
simplicity, cannot lead us into any considerable error.
I shall here take occasion to propose a second observation concerning
our demonstrative reasonings, which is suggested by the same subject
of the mathematics. 'Tis usual with mathematicians to pretend, that
those ideas, which are their objects, are of so refined and spiritual a
nature, that they fall not under the conception of the fancy, but must
be comprehended by a pure and intellectual view, of which the superior
faculties of the soul are alone capable. The same notion runs through
most parts of philosophy, and is principally made use of to explain
our abstract ideas, and to show how we can form an idea of a triangle,
for instance, which shall neither be an isosceles nor scalenum, nor be
confined to any particular length and proportion of sides. 'Tis easy
to see why philosophers are so fond of this notion of some spiritual
and refined perceptions; since by that means they cover many of their
absurdities, and may refuse to submit to the decisions of clear ideas,
by appealing to such as are obscure and uncertain. But to destroy this
artifice, we need but reflect on that principle so oft insisted on,
_that all our ideas are copied from out impressions_. For from thence
we may immediately conclude, that since all impressions are clear and
precise, the ideas, which are copied from them, must be of the same
nature, and can never, but from our fault, contain any thing so dark
and intricate. An idea is by its very nature weaker and fainter than
an impression; but being in every other respect the same, cannot imply
any very great mystery. If its weakness render it obscure, 'tis our
business to remedy that defect, as much as possible, by keeping the
idea steady and precise; and till we have done so, 'tis in vain to
pretend to reasoning and philosophy.
[1] Part I. Sect. 5.