SECTION XVI.

OF THE REASON OF ANIMALS.

Next to the ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking

much pains to defend it; and no truth appears to me more evident, than

that the beasts are endowed with thought and reason as well as men. The

arguments are in this case so obvious, that they never escape the most

stupid and ignorant.

We are conscious, that we ourselves, in adapting means to ends, are

guided by reason and design, and that 'tis not ignorantly nor casually

we perform those actions which tend to self-preservation, to the

obtaining pleasure, and avoiding pain. When, therefore, we see other

creatures, in millions of instances, perform like actions, and direct

them to like ends, all our principles of reason and probability carry

us with an invincible force to believe the existence of a like cause.

'Tis needless, in my opinion, to illustrate this argument by the

enumeration of particulars. The smallest attention will supply us with

more than are requisite. The resemblance betwixt the actions of animals

and those of men is so entire, in this respect, that the very first

action of the first animal we shall please to pitch on, will afford us

an incontestable argument for the present doctrine.

This doctrine is as useful as it is obvious, and furnishes us with a

kind of touchstone, by which we may try every system in this species

of philosophy. 'Tis from the resemblance of the external actions of

animals to those we ourselves perform, that we judge their internal

likewise to resemble ours; and the same principle of reasoning, carried

one step farther, will make us conclude, that, since our internal

actions resemble each other, the causes, from which they are derived,

must also be resembling. When any hypothesis, therefore, is advanced to

explain a mental operation, which is common to men and beasts, we must

apply the same hypothesis to both; and as every true hypothesis will

abide this trial, so I may venture to affirm, that no false one will

ever be able to endure it. The common defect of those systems, which

philosophers have employed to account for the actions of the mind, is,

that they suppose such a subtility and refinement of thought, as not

only exceeds the capacity of mere animals, but even of children and the

common people in our own species; who are, notwithstanding, susceptible

of the same emotions and affections as persons of the most accomplished

genius and understanding. Such a subtility is a clear proof of the

falsehood, as the contrary simplicity of the truth, of any system.

Let us, therefore, put our present system, concerning the nature of the

understanding, to this decisive trial, and see whether it will equally

account for the reasonings of beasts as for those of the human species.

Here we must make a distinction betwixt those actions of animals, which

are of a vulgar nature, and seem to be on a level with their common

capacities, and those more extraordinary instances of sagacity, which

they sometimes discover for their own preservation, and the propagation

of their species. A dog that avoids fire and precipices, that shuns

strangers, and caresses his master, affords us an instance of the

first kind. A bird, that chuses with such care and nicety the place

and materials of her nest, and sits upon her eggs for a due time, and

in a suitable season, with all the precaution that a chemist is capable

of in the most delicate projection, furnishes us with a lively instance

of the second.

As to the former actions, I assert they proceed from a reasoning, that

is not in itself different, nor founded on different principles, from

that which appears in human nature. 'Tis necessary, in the first place,

that there be some impression immediately present to their memory or

senses, in order to be the foundation of their judgment. From the

tone of voice the dog infers his master's anger, and foresees his own

punishment. From a certain sensation affecting his smell, he judges his

game not to be far distant from him.

Secondly, the inference he draws from the present impression is built

on experience, and on his observation of the conjunction of objects in

past instances. As you vary this experience, he varies his reasoning.

Make a beating follow upon one sign or motion for some time, and

afterwards upon another; and he will successively draw different

conclusions, according to his most recent experience.

Now, let any philosopher make a trial, and endeavour to explain that

act of the mind which we call _belief_, and give an account of the

principles from which it is derived, independent of the influence of

custom on the imagination, and let his hypothesis be equally applicable

to beasts as to the human species; and, after he has done this, I

promise to embrace his opinion. But, at the same time I demand as an

equitable condition, that if my system be the only one, which can

answer to all these terms, it may be received as entirely satisfactory

and convincing. And that 'tis the only one, is evident almost without

any reasoning. Beasts certainly never perceive any real connexion among

objects. 'Tis therefore by experience they infer one from another.

They can never by any arguments form a general conclusion, that those

objects of which they have had no experience, resemble those of which

they have. 'Tis therefore by means of custom alone that experience

operates upon them. All this was sufficiently evident with respect to

man. But with respect to beasts there cannot be the least suspicion of

mistake; which must be owned to be a strong confirmation, or rather an

invincible proof of my system.

Nothing shows more the force of habit in reconciling us to any

phenomenon, than this, that men are not astonished at the operations

of their own reason, at the same time that they admire the _instinct_

of animals, and find a difficulty in explaining it, merely because it

cannot be reduced to the very same principles. To consider the matter

aright, reason is nothing but a wonderful and unintelligible instinct

in our souls, which carries us along a certain train of ideas, and

endows them with particular qualities, according to their particular

situations and relations. This instinct, 'tis true, arises from past

observation and experience; but can any one give the ultimate reason,

why past experience and observation produces such an effect, any more

than why nature alone should produce it? Nature may certainly produce

whatever can arise from habit: nay, habit is nothing but one of the

principles of nature, and derives all its force from that origin.

PART IV.

OF THE SCEPTICAL AND OTHER SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY.

SECTION I.

OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO REASON.

In all demonstrative sciences the rules are certain and infallible;

but when we apply them, our fallible and uncertain faculties are very

apt to depart from them, and fall into error. We must therefore in

every reasoning form a new judgment, as a check or control on our

first judgment or belief; and must enlarge our view to comprehend a

kind of history of all the instances, wherein our understanding has

deceived us, compared with those wherein its testimony was just and

true. Our reason must be considered as a kind of cause, of which truth

is the natural effect; but such a one as, by the irruption of other

causes, and by the inconstancy of our mental powers, may frequently be

prevented. By this means all knowledge degenerates into probability;

and this probability is greater or less, according to our experience of

the veracity or deceitfulness of our understanding, and according to

the simplicity or intricacy of the question.

There is no algebraist nor mathematician so expert in his science, as

to place entire confidence in any truth immediately upon his discovery

of it, or regard it as any thing but a mere probability. Every time

he runs over his proofs, his confidence increases; but still more by

the approbation of his friends; and is raised to its utmost perfection

by the universal assent and applauses of the learned world. Now, 'tis

evident that this gradual increase of assurance is nothing but the

addition of new probabilities, and is derived from the constant union

of causes and effects, according to past experience and observation.

In accounts of any length or importance, merchants seldom trust to

the infallible certainty of numbers for their security; but by the

artificial structure of the accounts, produce a probability beyond

what is derived from the skill and experience of the accountant. For

that is plainly of itself some degree of probability; though uncertain

and variable, according to the degrees of his experience and length

of the account. Now as none will maintain, that our assurance in a

long numeration exceeds probability, I may safely affirm, that there

scarce is any proposition concerning numbers, of which we can have a

fuller security. For 'tis easily possible, by gradually diminishing

the numbers, to reduce the longest series of addition to the most

simple question which can be formed, to an addition of two single

numbers; and upon this supposition we shall find it impracticable to

show the precise limits of knowledge and of probability, or discover

that particular number at which the one ends and the other begins. But

knowledge and probability are of such contrary and disagreeing natures,

that they cannot well run insensibly into each other, and that because

they will not divide, but must be either entirely present, or entirely

absent. Besides, if any single addition were certain, every one would

be so, and consequently the whole or total sum; unless the whole can be

different from all its parts. I had almost said, that this was certain;

but I reflect that it must reduce _itself_, as well as every other

reasoning, and from knowledge degenerate into probability.

Since, therefore, all knowledge resolves itself into probability, and

becomes at last of the same nature with that evidence which we employ

in common life, we must now examine this latter species of reasoning,

and see on what foundation it stands.

In every judgment which we can form concerning probability, as well as

concerning knowledge, we ought always to correct the first judgment,

derived from the nature of the object, by another judgment, derived

from the nature of the understanding. 'Tis certain a man of solid sense

and long experience ought to have, and usually has, a greater assurance

in his opinions, than one that is foolish and ignorant, and that our

sentiments have different degrees of authority, even with ourselves,

in proportion to the degrees of our reason and experience. In the man

of the best sense and longest experience, this authority is never

entire; since even such a one must be conscious of many errors in the

past, and must still dread the like for the future. Here then arises a

new species of probability to correct and regulate the first, and fix

its just standard and proportion. As demonstration is subject to the

control of probability, so is probability liable to a new correction by

a reflex act of the mind, wherein the nature of our understanding, and

our reasoning from the first probability, become our objects.

Having thus found in every probability, beside the original uncertainty

inherent in the subject, a new uncertainty, derived from the

weakness of that faculty which judges, and having adjusted these two

together, we are obliged by our reason to add a new doubt, derived

from the possibility of error in the estimation we make of the truth

and fidelity of our faculties. This is a doubt which immediately

occurs to us, and of which, if we would closely pursue our reason,

we cannot avoid giving a decision. But this decision, though it

should be favourable to our preceding judgment, being founded only

on probability, must weaken still further our first evidence, and

must itself be weakened by a fourth doubt of the same kind, and so

on _in infinitum_; till at last there remain nothing of the original

probability, however great we may suppose it to have been, and however

small the diminution by every new uncertainty. No finite object can

subsist under a decrease repeated _in infinitum_; and even the vastest

quantity, which can enter into human imagination, must in this manner

be reduced to nothing. Let our first belief be never so strong, it must

infallibly perish, by passing through so many new examinations, of

which each diminishes somewhat of its force and vigour. When I reflect

on the natural fallibility of my judgment, I have less confidence in

my opinions, than when I only consider the objects concerning which I

reason; and when I proceed still farther, to turn the scrutiny against

every successive estimation I make of my faculties, all the rules of

logic require a continual diminution, and at last a total extinction of

belief and evidence.

Should it here be asked me, whether I sincerely assent to this

argument, which I seem to take such pains to inculcate, and whether I

be really one of those sceptics, who hold that all is uncertain, and

that our judgment is not in _any_ thing possessed of _any_ measures of

truth and falsehood; I should reply, that this question is entirely

superfluous, and that neither I, nor any other person, was ever

sincerely and constantly of that opinion. Nature, by an absolute and

uncontrollable necessity, has determined us to judge as well as to

breathe and feel; nor can we any more forbear viewing certain objects

in a stronger and fuller light, upon account of their customary

connexion with a present impression, than we can hinder ourselves from

thinking, as long as we are awake, or seeing the surrounding bodies,

when we turn our eyes towards them in broad sunshine. Whoever has

taken the pains to refute the cavils of this _total_ scepticism, has

really disputed without an antagonist, and endeavoured by arguments to

establish a faculty, which nature has antecedently implanted in the

mind, and rendered unavoidable.

My intention then in displaying so carefully the arguments of that

fantastic sect, is only to make the reader sensible of the truth of my

hypothesis, _that all our reasonings concerning causes and effects,

are derived from nothing but custom; and that belief is more properly

an act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative part of our natures_.

I have here proved, that the very same principles, which make us

form a decision upon any subject, and correct that decision by the

consideration of our genius and capacity, and of the situation of our

mind, when we examined that subject; I say, I have proved, that these

same principles, when carried farther, and applied to every new reflex

judgment, must, by continually diminishing the original evidence, at

last reduce it to nothing, and utterly subvert all belief and opinion.

If belief, therefore, were a simple act of the thought, without any

peculiar manner of conception, or the addition or a force and vivacity,

it must infallibly destroy itself, and in every case terminate in

a total suspense of judgment. But as experience will sufficiently

convince any one, who thinks it worth while to try, that though he

can find no error in the foregoing arguments, yet he still continues

to believe, and think, and reason, as usual, he may safely conclude,

that his reasoning and belief is some sensation or peculiar manner of

conception, which 'tis impossible for mere ideas and reflections to

destroy.

But here, perhaps, it may be demanded, how it happens, even upon my

hypothesis, that these arguments above explained produce not a total

suspense of judgment, and after what manner the mind ever retains a

degree of assurance in any subject? For as these new probabilities,

which, by their repetition, perpetually diminish the original

evidence, are founded on the very same principles, whether of thought

or sensation, as the primary judgment, it may seem unavoidable, that

in either case they must equally subvert it, and by the opposition,

either of contrary thoughts or sensations, reduce the mind to a total

uncertainty. I suppose there is some question proposed to me, and

that, after revolving over the impressions of my memory and senses,

and carrying my thoughts from them to such objects as are commonly

conjoined with them, I feel a stronger and more forcible conception

on the one side than on the other. This strong conception forms my

first decision. I suppose, that afterwards I examine my judgment

itself, and observing, from experience, that 'tis sometimes just and

sometimes erroneous, I consider it as regulated by contrary principles

or causes, of which some lead to truth, and some to error; and in

balancing these contrary causes, I diminish, by a new probability,

the assurance of my first decision. This new probability is liable to

the same diminution as the foregoing, and so on, _in infinitum_. 'Tis

therefore demanded, _how it happens, that, even after all, we retain

a degree of belief, which is sufficient for our purpose, either in

philosophy or common life?_

I answer, that after the first and second decision, as the action of

the mind becomes forced and unnatural, and the ideas faint and obscure,

though the principles of judgment, and the balancing of opposite causes

be the same as at the very beginning, yet their influence on the

imagination, and the vigour they add to, or diminish from, the thought,

is by no means equal. Where the mind reaches not its objects with

easiness and facility, the same principles have not the same effect as

in a more natural conception of the ideas; nor does the imagination

feel a sensation, which holds any proportion with that which arises

from its common judgments and opinions. The attention is on the

stretch; the posture of the mind is uneasy; and the spirits being

diverted from their natural course, are not governed in their movements

by the same laws, at least not to the same degree, as when they flow in

their usual channel.

If we desire similar instances, 'twill not be very difficult to find

them. The present subject of metaphysics will supply us abundantly. The

same argument, which would have been esteemed convincing in a reasoning

concerning history or politics, has little or no influence in these

abstruser subjects, even though it be perfectly comprehended; and that

because there is required a study and an effort of thought, in order

to its being comprehended: and this effort of thought disturbs the

operation of our sentiments, on which the belief depends. The case is

the same in other subjects. The straining of the imagination always

hinders the regular flowing of the passions and sentiments. A tragic

poet, that would represent his heroes as very ingenious and witty in

their misfortunes, would never touch the passions. As the emotions of

the soul prevent any subtile reasoning and reflection, so these latter

actions of the mind are equally prejudicial to the former. The mind,

as well as the body, seems to be endowed with a certain precise degree

of force and activity, which it never employs in one action, but at

the expense of all the rest. This is more evidently true, where the

actions are of quite different natures; since in that case the force

of the mind is not only diverted, but even the disposition changed, so

as to render us incapable of a sudden transition from one action to

the other, and still more of performing both at once. No wonder, then,

the conviction, which arises from a subtile reasoning, diminishes in

proportion to the efforts which the imagination makes to enter into the

reasoning, and to conceive it in all its parts. Belief, being a lively

conception, can never be entire, where it is not founded on something

natural and easy.

This I take to be the true state of the question, and cannot approve

of that expeditious way, which some take with the sceptics, to reject

at once all their arguments without inquiry or examination. If the

sceptical reasonings be strong, say they, 'tis a proof that reason may

have some force and authority: if weak, they can never be sufficient

to invalidate all the conclusions of our understanding. This argument

is not just; because the sceptical reasonings, were it possible for

them to exist, and were they not destroyed by their subtilty, would

be successively both strong and weak, according to the successive

dispositions of the mind. Reason first appears in possession of the

throne, prescribing laws, and imposing maxims, with an absolute sway

and authority. Her enemy, therefore, is obliged to take shelter under

her protection, and by making use of rational arguments to prove the

fallaciousness and imbecility of reason, produces, in a manner, a

patent under her hand and seal. This patent has at first an authority,

proportioned to the present and immediate authority of reason, from

which it is derived. But as it is supposed to be contradictory to

reason, it gradually diminishes the force of that governing power and

its own at the same time; till at last they both vanish away into

nothing, by a regular and just diminution. The sceptical and dogmatical

reasons are of the same kind, though contrary in their operation and

tendency; so that where the latter is strong, it has an enemy of equal

force in the former to encounter; and as their forces were at first

equal, they still continue so, as long as either of them subsists; nor

does one of them lose any force in the contest, without taking as much

from its antagonist. 'Tis happy, therefore, that nature breaks the

force of all sceptical arguments in time, and keeps them from having

any considerable influence on the understanding. Were we to trust

entirely to their self-destruction, that can never take place, 'till

they have first subverted all conviction, and have totally destroyed

human reason.

SECTION II.

OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO THE SENSES.

Thus the sceptic still continues to reason and believe, even though he

asserts that he cannot defend his reason by reason; and by the same

rule he must assent to the principle concerning the existence of body,

though he cannot pretend, by any arguments of philosophy, to maintain

its veracity. Nature has not left this to his choice, and has doubtless

esteemed it an affair of too great importance, to be trusted to our

uncertain reasonings and speculations. We may well ask, _What causes

induce us to believe in the existence of body_? but 'tis in vain to

ask, _Whether there be body or not_? That is a point, which we must

take for granted in all our reasonings.

The subject, then, of our present inquiry, is concerning the _causes_

which induce us to believe in the existence of body: and my reasonings

on this head I shall begin with a distinction, which at first sight

may seem superfluous, but which will contribute very much to the

perfect understanding of what follows. We ought to examine apart those

two questions, which are commonly confounded together, viz. Why we

attribute a _continued_ existence to objects, even when they are not

present to the senses; and why we suppose them to have an existence

_distinct_ from the mind and perception? Under this last head I

comprehend their situation as well as relations, their _external_

position as well as the _independence_ of their existence and

operation. These two questions concerning the continued and distinct

existence of body are intimately connected together. For if the objects

of our senses continue to exist, even when they are not perceived,

their existence is of course independent of and distinct from the

perception; and _vice versa_, if their existence be independent of

the perception, and distinct from it, they must continue to exist,

even though they be not perceived. But though the decision of the one

question decides the other; yet that we may the more easily discover

the principles of human nature, from whence the decision arises, we

shall carry along with us this distinction, and shall consider, whether

it be the _senses, reason_, or the _imagination_, that produces the

opinion of a _continued_ or of a _distinct_ existence. These are the

only questions that are intelligible on the present subject. For as to

the notion of external existence, when taken for something specifically

different from our perceptions, we have already shown its absurdity.[1]

To begin with the _senses_,'tis evident these faculties are incapable

of giving rise to the notion of the _continued_ existence of their

objects, after they no longer appear to the senses. For that is a

contradiction in terms, and supposes that the senses continue to

operate, even after they have ceased all manner of operation. These

faculties, therefore, if they have any influence in the present case,

must produce the opinion of a distinct, not of a continued existence;

and in order to that, must present their impressions either as images

and representations, or as these very distinct and external existences.

That our senses offer not their impressions as the images of something

_distinct_, or _independent_, and _external_, is evident; because

they convey to us nothing but a single perception, and never give us

the least intimation of any thing beyond. A single perception can

never produce the idea of a double existence, but by some inference

either of the reason or imagination. When the mind looks farther than

what immediately appears to it, its conclusions can never be put to

the account of the senses; and it certainly looks farther, when from

a single perception it infers a double existence, and supposes the

relations of resemblance and causation betwixt them.

If our senses, therefore, suggest any idea of distinct existences,

they must convey the impressions as those very existences, by a kind

of fallacy and illusion. Upon this head we may observe, that all

sensations are felt by the mind, such as they really are, and that,

when we doubt whether they present themselves as distinct objects, or

as mere impressions, the difficulty is not concerning their nature, but

concerning their relations and situation. Now, if the senses presented

our impressions as external to, and independent of ourselves, both the

objects and ourselves must be obvious to our senses, otherwise they

could not be compared by these faculties. The difficulty then, is, how

far we are _ourselves_ the objects of our senses.

'Tis certain there is no question in philosophy more abstruse than that

concerning identity, and the nature of the uniting principle, which

constitutes a person. So far from being able by our senses merely to

determine this question, we must have recourse to the most profound

metaphysics to give a satisfactory answer to it; and in common life

'tis evident these ideas of self and person are never very fixed nor

determinate. 'Tis absurd therefore to imagine the senses can ever

distinguish betwixt ourselves and external objects.

Add to this, that every impression, external and internal, passions,

affections, sensations, pains and pleasures, are originally on the

same footing; and that whatever other differences we may observe among

them, they appear, all of them, in their true colours, as impressions

or perceptions. And indeed, if we consider the matter aright, 'tis

scarce possible it should be otherwise; nor is it conceivable that

our senses should be more capable of deceiving us in the situation

and relations, than in the nature of our impressions. For since all

actions and sensations of the mind are known to us by consciousness,

they must necessarily appear in every particular what they are, and be

what they appear. Every thing that enters the mind, being in _reality_

as the perception, 'tis impossible any thing should to _feeling_ appear

different. This were to suppose, that even where we are most intimately

conscious, we might be mistaken.

But not to lose time in examining, whether 'tis possible for our

senses to deceive us, and represent our perceptions as distinct from

ourselves, that is, as _external_ to and _independent_ of us; let us

consider whether they really do so, and whether this error proceeds

from an immediate sensation, or from some other causes.

To begin with the question concerning _external_ existence, it may

perhaps be said, that setting aside the metaphysical question of the

identity of a thinking substance, our own body evidently belongs

to us; and as several impressions appear exterior to the body, we

suppose them also exterior to ourselves. The paper, on which I write

at present, is beyond my hand. The table is beyond the paper. The

walls of the chamber beyond the table. And in casting my eye towards

the window, I perceive a great extent of fields and buildings beyond

my chamber. From all this it may be inferred, that no other faculty is

required, beside the senses, to convince us of the external existence

of body. But to prevent this inference, we need only weigh the three

following considerations. _First_, that, properly speaking, 'tis not

our body we perceive, when we regard our limbs and members, but certain

impressions, which enter by the senses; so that the ascribing a real

and corporeal existence to these impressions, or to their objects, is

an act of the mind as difficult to explain as that which we examine at

present. _Secondly_, sounds, and tastes, and smells, though commonly

regarded by the mind as continued independent qualities, appear not to

have any existence in extension, and consequently cannot appear to the

senses as situated externally to the body. The reason why we ascribe a

place to them, shall be considered afterwards.[2] _Thirdly_, even our

sight informs us not of distance or outness (so to speak) immediately

and without a certain reasoning and experience, as is acknowledged by

the most rational philosophers.

As to the _independency_ of our perceptions on ourselves, this can

never be an object of the senses; but any opinion we form concerning

it, must be derived from experience and observation: and we shall see

afterwards, that our conclusions from experience are far from being

favourable to the doctrine of the independency of our perceptions.

Meanwhile we may observe, that when we talk of real distinct

existences, we have commonly more in our eye their independency than

external situation in place, and think an object has a sufficient

reality, when its being is uninterrupted, and independent of the

incessant revolutions, which we are conscious of in ourselves.

Thus to resume what I have said concerning the senses; they give us

no notion of continued existence, because they cannot operate beyond

the extent, in which they really operate. They as little produce the

opinion of a distinct existence, because they neither can offer it to

the mind as represented, nor as original. To offer it as represented,

they must present both an object and an image. To make it appear as

original, they must convey a falsehood; and this falsehood must lie in

the relations and situation: in order to which, they must be able to

compare the object with ourselves; and even in that case they do not,

nor is it possible they should deceive us. We may therefore conclude

with certainty, that the opinion of a continued and of a distinct

existence never arises from the senses.

To confirm this, we may observe, that there are three different kinds

of impressions conveyed by the senses. The first are those of the

figure, bulk, motion, and solidity of bodies. The second, those of

colours, tastes, smells, sounds, heat and cold. The third are the

pains and pleasures that arise from the application of objects to our

bodies, as by the cutting of our flesh with steel, and such like.

Both philosophers and the vulgar suppose the first of these to have

a distinct continued existence. The vulgar only regard the second as

on the same footing. Both philosophers and the vulgar, again, esteem

the third to be merely perceptions; and, consequently, interrupted and

dependent beings.

Now, 'tis evident, that, whatever may be our philosophical opinion,

colour, sounds, heat and cold, as far as appears to the senses,

exist after the same manner with motion and solidity; and that the

difference we make betwixt them, in this respect, arises not from the

mere perception. So strong is the prejudice for the distinct continued

existence of the former qualities, that when the contrary opinion is

advanced by modern philosophers, people imagine they can almost refute

it from their feeling and experience, and that their very senses

contradict this philosophy. 'Tis also evident, that colours, sounds,

&c. are originally on the same footing with the pain that arises from

steel, and pleasure that proceeds from a fire; and that the difference

betwixt them is founded neither on perception nor reason, but on the

imagination. For as they are confessed to be, both of them, nothing

but perceptions arising from the particular configurations and motions

of the parts of body, wherein possibly can their difference consist?

Upon the whole, then, we may conclude, that, as far as the senses are

judges, all perceptions are the same in the manner of their existence.

We may also observe, in this instance of sounds and colours, that we

can attribute a distinct continued existence to objects without ever

consulting _reason_, or weighing our opinions by any philosophical

principles. And, indeed, whatever convincing arguments philosophers may

fancy they can produce to establish the belief of objects independent

of the mind, 'tis obvious these arguments are known but to very few;

and that 'tis not by them that children, peasants, and the greatest

part of mankind, are induced to attribute objects to some impressions,

and deny them to others. Accordingly, we find, that all the conclusions

which the vulgar form on this head, are directly contrary to those

which are confirmed by philosophy. For philosophy informs us, that

every thing which appears to the mind, is nothing but a perception,

and is interrupted and dependent on the mind; whereas the vulgar

confound perceptions and objects, and attribute a distinct continued

existence to the very things they feel or see. This sentiment, then,

as it is entirely unreasonable, must proceed from some other faculty

than the understanding. To which we may add, that, as long as we take

our perceptions and objects to be the same, we can never infer the

existence of the one from that of the other, nor form any argument

from the relation of cause and effect; which is the only one that can

assure us of matter of fact. Even after we distinguish our perceptions

from our objects, 'twill appear presently that we are still incapable

of reasoning from the existence of one to that of the other: so that,

upon the whole, our reason neither does, nor is it possible it ever

should, upon any supposition, give us an assurance of the continued and

distinct existence of body. That opinion must be entirely owing to the

_imagination_: which must now be the subject of our inquiry.

Since all impressions are internal and perishing existences, and

appear as such, the notion of their distinct and continued existence

must arise from a concurrence of some of their qualities with the

qualities of the imagination; and since this notion does not extend

to all of them, it must arise from certain qualities peculiar to some

impressions. 'Twill, therefore, be easy for us to discover these

qualities by a comparison of the impressions, to which we attribute

a distinct and continued existence, with those which we regard as

internal and perishing.

We may observe, then, that 'tis neither upon account of the

involuntariness of certain impressions, as is commonly supposed, nor of

their superior force and violence, that we attribute to them a reality

and continued existence, which we refuse to others that are voluntary

or feeble. For 'tis evident, our pains and pleasures, our passions and

affections, which we never suppose to have any existence beyond our

perception, operate with greater violence, and are equally involuntary,

as the impressions of figure and extension, colour and sound, which we

suppose to be permanent beings. The heat of a fire, when moderate, is

supposed to exist in the fire; but the pain which it causes upon a near

approach is not taken to have any being except in the perception.

These vulgar opinions, then, being rejected, we must search for some

other hypothesis, by which we may discover those peculiar qualities

in our impressions, which makes us attribute to them a distinct and

continued existence.

After a little examination, we shall find, that all those objects, to

which we attribute a continued existence, have a peculiar _constancy_,

which distinguishes them from the impressions whose existence depends

upon our perception. Those mountains, and houses, and trees, which lie

at present under my eye, have always appeared to me in the same order;

and when I lose sight of them by shutting my eyes or turning my head,

I soon after find them return upon me without the least alteration.

My bed and table, my books and papers, present themselves in the same

uniform manner, and change not upon account of any interruption in my

seeing or perceiving them. This is the case with all the impressions,

whose objects are supposed to have an external existence; and is the

case with no other impressions, whether gentle or violent, voluntary or

involuntary.

This constancy, however, is not so perfect as not to admit of very

considerable exceptions. Bodies often change their position and

qualities, and, after a little absence or interruption, may become

hardly knowable. But here 'tis observable, that even in these changes

they preserve a _coherence_, and have a regular dependence on each

other; which is the foundation of a kind of reasoning from causation,

and produces the opinion of their continued existence. When I return

to my chamber after an hour's absence, I find not my fire in the same

situation in which I left it; but then I am accustomed, in other

instances, to see a like alteration produced in a like time, whether

I am present or absent, near or remote. This coherence, therefore, in

their changes, is one of the characteristics of external objects, as

well as their constancy.

Having found that the opinion of the continued existence of body

depends on the _coherence_ and _constancy_ of certain impressions, I

now proceed to examine after what manner these qualities give rise

to so extraordinary an opinion. To begin with the coherence; we may

observe, that though those internal impressions, which we regard as

fleeting and perishing, have also a certain coherence or regularity

in their appearances, yet 'tis of somewhat a different nature from

that which we discover in bodies. Our passions are found by experience

to have a mutual connexion with, and dependence on each other; but

on no occasion is it necessary to suppose that they have existed and

operated, when they were not perceived, in order to preserve the same

dependence and connexion, of which we have had experience. The case

is not the same with relation to external objects. Those require

a continued existence, or otherwise lose, in a great measure, the

regularity of their operation. I am here seated in my chamber, with

my face to the fire; and all the objects that strike my senses are

contained in a few yards around me. My memory, indeed, informs me of

the existence of many objects; but, then, this information extends not

beyond their past existence, nor do either my senses or memory give any

testimony to the continuance of their being. When, therefore, I am thus

seated, and revolve over these thoughts, I hear on a sudden a noise as

of a door turning upon its hinges; and a little after see a porter, who

advances towards me. This gives occasion to many new reflections and

reasonings. First, I never have observed that this noise could proceed

from any thing but the motion of a door; and therefore conclude, that

the present phenomenon is a contradiction to all past experience,

unless the door, which I remember on t'other side the chamber, be still

in being. Again, I have always found, that a human body was possessed

of a quality which I call gravity, and which hinders it from mounting

in the air, as this porter must have done to arrive at my chamber,

unless the stairs I remember be not annihilated by my absence. But this

is not all. I receive a letter, which, upon opening it, I perceive by

the handwriting and subscription to have come from a friend, who says

he is two hundred leagues distant. 'Tis evident I can never account

for this phenomenon, conformable to my experience in other instances,

without spreading out in my mind the whole sea and continent between

us, and supposing the effects and continued existence of posts and

ferries, according to my memory and observation. To consider these

phenomena of the porter and letter in a certain light, they are

contradictions to common experience, and may be regarded as objections

to those maxims which we form concerning the connexions of causes and

effects. I am accustomed to hear such a sound, and see such an object

in motion at the same time. I have not received, in this particular

instance, both these perceptions. These observations are contrary,

unless I suppose that the door still remains, and that it was opened

without my perceiving it: and this supposition, which was at first

entirely arbitrary and hypothetical, acquires a force and evidence by

its being the only one upon which I can reconcile these contradictions.

There is scarce a moment of my life, wherein there is not a similar

instance presented to me, and I have not occasion to suppose the

continued existence of objects, in order to connect their past and

present appearances, and give them such an union with each other, as I

have found, by experience, to be suitable to their particular natures

and circumstances. Here, then, I am naturally led to regard the world

as something real and durable, and as preserving its existence, even

when it is no longer present to my perception.

But, though this conclusion, from the coherence of appearances, may

seem to be of the same nature with our reasonings concerning causes

and effects, as being derived from custom, and regulated by past

experience, we shall find, upon examination, that they are at the

bottom considerably different from each other, and that this inference

arises from the understanding and from custom, in an indirect and

oblique manner. For 'twill readily be allowed, that since nothing is

ever really present to the mind, besides its own perceptions, 'tis

not only impossible that any habit should ever be acquired otherwise

than by the regular succession of these perceptions, but also that

any habit should ever exceed that degree of regularity. Any degree,

therefore, of regularity in our perceptions, can never be a foundation

for us to infer a greater degree of regularity in some objects which

are not perceived, since this supposes a contradiction, viz. a habit

acquired by what was never present to the mind. But, 'tis evident that,

whenever we infer the continued existence of the objects of sense from

their coherence, and the frequency of their union, 'tis in order to

bestow on the objects a greater regularity than what is observed in our

mere perceptions. We remark a connexion betwixt two kinds of objects

in their past appearance to the senses, but are not able to observe

this connexion to be perfectly constant, since the turning about of our

head, or the shutting of our eyes, is able to break it. What, then, do

we suppose in this case, but that these objects still continue their

usual connexion, notwithstanding their apparent interruption, and that

the irregular appearances are joined by something of which we are

insensible? But as all reasoning concerning matters of fact arises only

from custom, and custom can only be the effect of repeated perceptions,

the extending of custom and reasoning beyond the perceptions can

never be the direct and natural effect of the constant repetition and

connexion, but must arise from the cooperation of some other principles.

I have already observed,[3] in examining the foundation of mathematics,

that the imagination, when set into any train of thinking, is apt to

continue even when its object fails it, and, like a galley put in

motion by the oars, carries on its course without any new impulse. This

I have assigned for the reason, why, after considering several loose

standards of equality, and correcting them by each other, we proceed

to imagine so correct and exact a standard of that relation as is

not liable to the least error or variation. The same principle makes

us easily entertain this opinion of the continued existence of body.

Objects have a certain coherence even as they appear to our senses;

but this coherence is much greater and more uniform if we suppose the

objects to have a continued existence; and as the mind is once in the

train of observing an uniformity among objects, it naturally continues

till it renders the uniformity as complete as possible. The simple

supposition of their continued existence suffices for this purpose, and

gives us a notion of a much greater regularity among objects, than what

they have when we look no farther than our senses.

But whatever force we may ascribe to this principle, I am afraid

'tis too weak to support alone so vast an edifice as is that of the

continued existence of all external bodies; and that we must join the

_constancy_ of their appearance to the _coherence_, in order to give

a satisfactory account of that opinion. As the explication of this

will lead me into a considerable compass of very profound reasoning, I

think it proper, in order to avoid confusion, to give a short sketch or

abridgment of my system, and afterwards draw out all its parts in their

full compass. This inference from the constancy of our perceptions,

like the precedent from their coherence, gives rise to the opinion

of the _continued_ existence of body, which is prior to that of its

_distinct_ existence, and produces that latter principle.

When we have been accustomed to observe a constancy in certain

impressions, and have found that the perception of the sun or ocean,

for instance, returns upon us, after an absence or annihilation, with

like parts and in a like order as at its first appearance, we are not

apt to regard these interrupted perceptions as different (which they

really are), but on the contrary consider them as individually the

same, upon account of their resemblance. But as this interruption of

their existence is contrary to their perfect identity, and makes us

regard the first impression as annihilated, and the second as newly

created, we find ourselves somewhat at a loss, and are involved in a

kind of contradiction. In order to free ourselves from this difficulty,

we disguise, as much as possible, the interruption, or rather remove it

entirely, by supposing that these interrupted perceptions are connected

by a real existence, of which we are insensible. This supposition, or

idea of continued existence, acquires a force and vivacity from the

memory of these broken impressions, and from that propensity which

they give us to suppose them the same; and according to the precedent

reasoning, the very essence of belief consists in the force and

vivacity of the conception.

In order to justify this system, there are four things requisite.

_First_, to explain the _principium individuations_, or principle of

identity. _Secondly_, give a reason why the resemblance of our broken

and interrupted perceptions induces us to attribute an identity to

them. _Thirdly_, account for that propensity, which this allusion

gives, to unite these broken appearances by a continued existence.

_Fourthly_, and lastly, explain that force and vivacity of conception

which arises from the propensity.

First, as to the principle of individuation, we may observe, that

the view of any one object is not sufficient to convey the idea of

identity. For in that proposition, _an object is the same with itself_,

if the idea expressed by the word _object_ were no ways distinguished

from that meant by _itself_; we really should mean nothing, nor would

the proposition contain a predicate and a subject, which, however, are

implied in this affirmation. One single object conveys the idea of

unity, not that of identity.

On the other hand, a multiplicity of objects can never convey this

idea, however resembling they may be supposed. The mind always

pronounces the one not to be the other, and considers them as forming

two, three, or any determinate number of objects, whose existences are

entirely distinct and independent.

Since then both number and unity are incompatible with the relation

of identity, it must lie in something that is neither of them. But to

tell the truth, at first sight this seems utterly impossible. Betwixt

unity and number there can be no medium; no more than betwixt existence

and non-existence. After one object is supposed to exist, we must

either suppose another also to exist; in which case we have the idea

of number: or we must suppose it not to exist; in which case the first

object remains at unity.

To remove this difficulty, let us have recourse to the idea of time

or duration. I have already observed,[4] that time, in a strict

sense, implies succession, and that, when we apply its idea to any

unchangeable object, 'tis only by a fiction of the imagination by

which the unchangeable object is supposed to participate of the

changes of the co-existent objects, and in particular of that of our

perceptions. This fiction of the imagination almost universally takes

place; and 'tis by means of it that a single object, placed before

us, and surveyed for any time without our discovering in it any

interruption or variation, is able to give us a notion of identity.

For when we consider any two points of this time, we may place them in

different lights: we may either survey them at the very same instant;

in which case they give us the idea of number, both by themselves and

by the object; which must be multiplied in order to be conceived at

once, as existent in these two different points of time: or, on the

other hand, we may trace the succession of time by a like succession

of ideas, and conceiving first one moment, along with the object

then existent, imagine afterwards a change in the time without any

_variation_ or _interruption_ in the object; in which case it gives

us the idea of unity. Here then is an idea, which is a medium betwixt

unity and number; or, more properly speaking, is either of them,

according to the view in which we take it: and this idea we call that

of identity. We cannot, in any propriety of speech, say that an object

is the same with itself, unless we mean that the object existent at

one time is the same with itself existent at another. By this means we

make a difference betwixt the idea meant by the word _object_, and that

meant by _itself_, without going the length of number, and at the same

time without restraining ourselves to a strict and absolute unity.

Thus the principle of individuation is nothing but the _invariableness_

and _uninterruptedness_ of any object, through a supposed variation of

time, by which the mind can trace it in the different periods of its

existence, without any break of the view, and without being obliged to

form the idea of multiplicity or number.

I now proceed to explain the _second_ part of my system, and show why

the constancy of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect

numerical identity, though there be very long intervals betwixt their

appearance, and they have only one of the essential qualities of

identity, viz. _invariableness_. That I may avoid all ambiguity and

confusion on this head, I shall observe, that I here account for the

opinions and belief of the vulgar with regard to the existence of

body; and therefore must entirely conform myself to their manner of

thinking and of expressing themselves. Now, we have already observed,

that however philosophers may distinguish betwixt the objects and

perceptions of the senses; which they suppose co-existent and

resembling; yet this is a distinction which is not comprehended by

the generality of mankind, who, as they perceive only one being, can

never assent to the opinion of a double existence and representation.

Those very sensations which enter by the eye or ear are with them the

true objects, nor can they readily conceive that this pen or paper,

which is immediately perceived, represents another which is different

from, but resembling it. In order, therefore, to accommodate myself to

their notions, I shall at first suppose that there is only a single

existence, which I shall call indifferently _object_ or _perception_,

according as it shall seem best to suit my purpose, understanding by

both of them what any common man means by a hat, or shoe, or stone, or

any other impression conveyed to him by his senses. I shall be sure to

give warning when I return to a more philosophical way of speaking and

thinking.

To enter therefore upon the question concerning the source of the

error and deception with regard to identity, when we attribute it

to our resembling perceptions, notwithstanding their interruption,

I must here recal an observation which I have already proved and

explained.[5] Nothing is more apt to make us mistake one idea for

another, than any relation betwixt them, which associates them together

in the imagination, and makes it pass with facility from one to the

other. Of all relations, that of resemblance is in this respect the

most efficacious; and that because it not only causes an association

of ideas, but also of dispositions, and makes us conceive the one

idea by an act or operation of the mind, similar to that by which we

conceive the other. This circumstance I have observed to be of great

moment; and we may establish it for a general rule, that whatever ideas

place the mind in the same disposition or in similar ones, are very

apt to be confounded. The mind readily passes from one to the other,

and perceives not the change without a strict attention, of which,

generally speaking, 'tis wholly incapable.

In order to apply this general maxim, we must first examine the

disposition of the mind in viewing any object which preserves a

perfect identity, and then find some other object that is confounded

with it, by causing a similar disposition. When we fix our thought

on any object, and suppose it to continue the same for some time,

'tis evident we suppose the change to lie only in the time, and never

exert ourselves to produce any new image or idea of the object. The

faculties of the mind repose themselves in a manner, and take no

more exercise than what is necessary to continue that idea of which

we were formerly possessed, and which subsists without variation or

interruption. The passage from one moment to another is scarce felt,

and distinguishes not itself by a different perception or idea, which

may require a different direction of the spirits, in order to its

conception.

Now, what other objects, beside identical ones, are capable of placing

the mind in the same disposition, when it considers them, and of

causing the same uninterrupted passage of the imagination from one idea

to another? This question is of the last importance. For if we can

find any such objects, we may certainly conclude, from the foregoing

principle, that they are very naturally confounded with identical

ones, and are taken for them in most of our reasonings. But though

this question be very important, 'tis not very difficult nor doubtful.

For I immediately reply, that a succession of related objects places

the mind in this disposition, and is considered with the same smooth

and uninterrupted progress of the imagination, as attends the view of

the same invariable object. The very nature and essence of relation is

to connect our ideas with each other, and upon the appearance of one,

to facilitate the transition to its correlative. The passage betwixt

related ideas, is therefore so smooth and easy, that it produces little

alteration on the mind, and seems like the continuation of the same

action; and as the continuation of the same action is an effect of the

continued view of the same object, 'tis for this reason we attribute

sameness to every succession of related objects. The thought slides

along the succession with equal facility, as if it considered only one

object; and therefore confounds the succession with the identity.

We shall afterwards see many instances of this tendency of relation

to make us ascribe an _identity_ to _different_ objects; but shall

here confine ourselves to the present subject. We find by experience,

that there is such a _constancy_ in almost all the impressions of the

senses, that their interruption produces no alteration on them, and

hinders them not from returning the same in appearance and in situation

as at their first existence. I survey the furniture of my chamber; I

shut my eyes, and afterwards open them; and find the new perceptions

to resemble perfectly those which formerly struck my senses. This

resemblance is observed in a thousand instances, and naturally connects

together our ideas of these interrupted perceptions by the strongest

relation, and conveys the mind with an easy transition from one to

another. An easy transition or passage of the imagination, along the

ideas of these different and interrupted perceptions, is almost the

same disposition of mind with that in which we consider one constant

and uninterrupted perception. 'Tis therefore very natural for us to

mistake the one for the other.[6]

The persons who entertain this opinion concerning the identity of

our resembling perceptions, are in general all the unthinking and

unphilosophical part of mankind, (that is, all of us at one time or

other), and, consequently, such as suppose their perceptions to be

their only objects, and never think of a double existence internal and

external, representing and represented. The very image which is present

to the senses is with us the real body; and 'tis to these interrupted

images we ascribe a perfect identity. But as the interruption of the

appearance seems contrary to the identity, and naturally leads us to

regard these resembling perceptions as different from each other,

we here find ourselves at a loss how to reconcile such opposite

opinions. The smooth passage of the imagination along the ideas of the

resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect identity. The

interrupted manner of their appearance makes us consider them as so

many resembling, but still distinct beings, which appear after certain

intervals. The perplexity arising from this contradiction produces

a propension to unite these broken appearances by the fiction of a

continued existence, which is the _third_ part of that hypothesis I

proposed to explain.

Nothing is more certain from experience than that any contradiction

either to the sentiments or passions gives a sensible uneasiness,

whether it proceeds from without or from within; from the opposition

of external objects, or from the combat of internal principles. On

the contrary, whatever strikes in with the natural propensities, and

either externally forwards their satisfaction, or internally concurs

with their movements, is sure to give a sensible pleasure. Now, there

being here an opposition betwixt the notion of the identity of

resembling perceptions, and the interruption of their appearance, the

mind must be uneasy in that situation, and will naturally seek relief

from the uneasiness. Since the uneasiness arises from the opposition

of two contrary principles, it must look for relief by sacrificing

the one to the other. But as the smooth passage of our thought along

our resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them an identity,

we can never, without reluctance, yield up that opinion. We must

therefore turn to the other side, and suppose that our perceptions

are no longer interrupted, but preserve a continued as well as an

invariable existence, and are by that means entirely the same. But

here the interruptions in the appearance of these perceptions are so

long and frequent, that 'tis impossible to overlook them; and as the

_appearance_ of a perception in the mind and its _existence_ seem

at first sight entirely the same, it may be doubted whether we can

ever assent to so palpable a contradiction, and suppose a perception

to exist without being present to the mind. In order to clear up

this matter, and learn how the interruption in the appearance of a

perception implies not necessarily an interruption in its existence,

'twill be proper to touch upon some principles which we shall have

occasion to explain more fully afterwards.[7]

We may begin with observing, that the difficulty in the present case

is not concerning the matter of fact, or whether the mind forms such

a conclusion concerning the continued existence of its perceptions,

but only concerning the manner in which the conclusion is formed, and

principles from which it is derived. 'Tis certain that almost all

mankind, and even philosophers themselves, for the greatest part of

their lives, take their perceptions to be their only objects, and

suppose that the very being which is intimately present to the mind,

is the real body or material existence. 'Tis also certain that this

very perception or object is supposed to have a continued uninterrupted

being, and neither to be annihilated by our absence, nor to be brought

into existence by our presence. When we are absent from it, we say it

still exists, but that we do not feel, we do not see it. When we are

present, we say we feel or see it. Here then may arise two questions;

_first_, how we can satisfy ourselves in supposing a perception to be

absent from the mind without being annihilated. _Secondly_, after what

manner we conceive an object to become present to the mind, without

some new creation of a perception or image; and what we mean by this

_seeing_, and _feeling_, and _perceiving_.

As to the first question, we may observe, that what we call a _mind_,

is nothing but a heap or collection of different perceptions, united

together by certain relations, and supposed, though falsely, to

be endowed with a perfect simplicity and identity. Now, as every

perception is distinguishable from another, and may be considered as

separately existent; it evidently follows, that there is no absurdity

in separating any particular perception from the mind; that is, in

breaking off all its relations with that connected mass of perceptions

which constitute a thinking being.

The same reasoning affords us an answer to the second question. If the

name of _perception_ renders not this separation from a mind absurd

and contradictory, the name of _object_, standing for the same thing,

can never render their conjunction impossible. External objects are

seen and felt, and become present to the mind; that is, they acquire

such a relation to a connected heap of perceptions as to influence them

very considerably in augmenting their number by present reflections

and passions, and in storing the memory with ideas. The same continued

and uninterrupted being may, therefore, be sometimes present to the

mind and sometimes absent from it without any real or essential change

in the being itself. An interrupted appearance to the senses implies

not necessarily an interruption in the existence. The supposition of

the continued existence of sensible objects or perceptions involves

no contradiction. We may easily indulge our inclination to that

supposition. When the exact resemblance of our perceptions makes us

ascribe to them an identity, we may remove the seeming interruption

by feigning a continued being, which may fill those intervals, and

preserve a perfect and entire identity to our perceptions.

But as we here not only _feign_ but _believe_ this continued existence,

the question is, _from whence arises such a belief_? and this question

leads us to the _fourth_ member of this system. It has been proved

already, that belief, in general, consists in nothing but the vivacity

of an idea; and that an idea may acquire this vivacity by its relation

to some present impression. Impressions are naturally the most vivid

perceptions of the mind; and this quality is in part conveyed by the

relation to every connected idea. The relation causes a smooth passage

from the impression to the idea, and even gives a propensity to that

passage. The mind falls so easily from the one perception to the other,

that it scarce perceives the change, but retains in the second a

considerable share of the vivacity of the first. It is excited by the

lively impression, and this vivacity is conveyed to the related idea,

without any great diminution in the passage, by reason of the smooth

transition and the propensity of the imagination.

But suppose that this propensity arises from some other principle,

besides that of relation; 'tis evident, it must still have the same

effect, and convey the vivacity from the impression to the idea. Now,

this is exactly the present case. Our memory presents us with a vast

number of instances of perceptions perfectly resembling each other,

that return at different distances of time, and after considerable

interruptions. This resemblance gives us a propension to consider these

interrupted perceptions as the same; and also a propension to connect

them by a continued existence, in order to justify this identity, and

avoid the contradiction in which the interrupted appearance of these

perceptions seems necessarily to involve us. Here then we have a

propensity to feign the continued existence of all sensible objects;

and as this propensity arises from some lively impressions of the

memory, it bestows a vivacity on that fiction; or, in other words,

makes us believe the continued existence of body. If, sometimes we

ascribe a continued existence to objects, which are perfectly new to

us, and of whose constancy and coherence we have no experience, 'tis

because the manner, in which they present themselves to our senses,

resembles that of constant and coherent objects; and this resemblance

is a source of reasoning and analogy, and leads us to attribute the

same qualities to the similar objects.

I believe an intelligent reader will find less difficulty to assent

to this system, than to comprehend it fully and distinctly, and will

allow, after a little reflection, that every part carries its own proof

along with it. 'Tis indeed evident, that as the vulgar _suppose_ their

perceptions to be their only objects, and at the same time _believe_

the continued existence of matter, we must account for the origin of

the belief upon that supposition. Now, upon that supposition, 'tis a

false opinion that any of our objects, or perceptions, are identically

the same after an interruption; and consequently the opinion of

their identity can never arise from reason, but must arise from the

imagination. The imagination is seduced into such an opinion only by

means of the resemblance of certain perceptions; since we find they are

only our resembling perceptions, which we have a propension to suppose

the same. This propension to bestow an identity on our resembling

perceptions, produces the fiction of a continued existence; since that

fiction, as well as the identity, is really false, as is acknowledged

by all philosophers, and has no other effect than to remedy the

interruption of our perceptions, which is the only circumstance that

is contrary to their identity. In the last place, this propension

causes belief by means of the present impressions of the memory; since,

without the remembrance of former sensations, 'tis plain we never

should have any belief of the continued existence of body. Thus, in

examining all these parts, we find that each of them is supported by

the strongest proofs; and that all of them together form a consistent

system, which is perfectly convincing. A strong propensity or

inclination alone, without any present impression, will sometimes cause

a belief or opinion. How much more when aided by that circumstance!

But though we are led after this manner, by the natural propensity of

the imagination, to ascribe a continued existence to those sensible

objects or perceptions, which we find to resemble each other in their

interrupted appearance; yet a very little reflection and philosophy

is sufficient to make us perceive the fallacy of that opinion. I have

already observed, that there is an intimate connexion betwixt those

two principles, of a _continued_ and of a _distinct_ or _independent_

existence, and that we no sooner establish the one than the other

follows, as a necessary consequence. 'Tis the opinion of a continued

existence, which first takes place, and without much study or

reflection draws the other along with it, wherever the mind follows

its first and most natural tendency. But when we compare experiments,

and reason a little upon them, we quickly perceive, that the doctrine

of the independent existence of our sensible perceptions is contrary

to the plainest experience. This leads us backward upon our footsteps

to perceive our error in attributing a continued existence to our

perceptions, and is the origin of many very curious opinions, which we

shall here endeavour to account for.

'Twill first be proper to observe a few of those experiments, which

convince us, that our perceptions are not possessed of any independent

existence. When we press one eye with a finger, we immediately perceive

all the objects to become double, and one half of them to be removed

from their common and natural position. But as we do not attribute a

continued existence to both these perceptions, and as they are both

of the same nature, we clearly perceive, that all our perceptions

are dependent on our organs, and the disposition of our nerves and

animal spirits. This opinion is confirmed by the seeming increase and

diminution of objects according to their distance; by the apparent

alterations in their figure; by the changes in their colour and

other qualities, from our sickness and distempers, and by an infinite

number of other experiments of the same kind; from all which we learn,

that our sensible perceptions are not possessed of any distinct or

independent existence.

The natural consequence of this reasoning should be, that our

perceptions have no more a continued than an independent existence;

and, indeed, philosophers have so far run into this opinion, that they

change their system, and distinguish (as we shall do for the future)

betwixt perceptions and objects, of which the former are supposed to be

interrupted and perishing, and different at every different return; the

latter to be uninterrupted, and to preserve a continued existence and

identity. But however philosophical this new system may be esteemed,

I assert that 'tis only a palliative remedy, and that it contains

all the difficulties of the vulgar system, with some others that are

peculiar to itself. There are no principles either of the understanding

or fancy, which lead us directly to embrace this opinion of the double

existence of perceptions and objects, nor can we arrive at it but by

passing through the common hypothesis of the identity and continuance

of our interrupted perceptions. Were we not first persuaded that our

perceptions are our only objects, and continue to exist even when they

no longer make their appearance to the senses, we should never be led

to think that our perceptions and objects are different, and that our

objects alone preserve a continued existence. "The latter hypothesis

has no primary recommendation either to reason or the imagination, but

acquires all its influence on the imagination from the former." This

proposition contains two parts, which we shall endeavour to prove as

distinctly and clearly as such abstruse subjects will permit.

As to the first part of the proposition, _that this philosophical

hypothesis has no primary recommendation, either to reason or the

imagination_, we may soon satisfy ourselves with regard to _reason_,

by the following reflections. The only existences, of which we are

certain, are perceptions, which, being immediately present to us

by consciousness, command our strongest assent, and are the first

foundation of all our conclusions. The only conclusion we can draw

from the existence of one thing to that of another, is by means of the

relation of cause and effect, which shows, that there is a connexion

betwixt them, and that the existence of one is dependent on that of

the other. The idea of this relation is derived from past experience,

by which we find, that two beings are constantly conjoined together,

and are always present at once to the mind. But as no beings are ever

present to the mind but perceptions, it follows, that we may observe

a conjunction or a relation of cause and effect between different

perceptions, but can never observe it between perceptions and objects.

'Tis impossible, therefore, that from the existence or any of the

qualities of the former, we can ever form any conclusion concerning the

existence of the latter, or ever satisfy our reason in this particular.

'Tis no less certain, that this philosophical system has no primary

recommendation to the _imagination_, and that that faculty would never,

of itself, and by its original tendency, have fallen upon such a

principle. I confess it will be somewhat difficult to prove this to the

full satisfaction of the reader; because it implies a negative, which

in many cases will not admit of any positive proof. If any one would

take the pains to examine this question, and would invent a system, to

account for the direct origin of this opinion from the imagination,

we should be able, by the examination of that system, to pronounce a

certain judgment in the present subject. Let it be taken for granted,

that our perceptions are broken and interrupted, and, however like,

are still different from each other; and let any one, upon this

supposition, show why the fancy, directly and immediately, proceeds

to the belief of another existence, resembling these perceptions in

their nature, but yet continued, and uninterrupted, and identical; and

after he has done this to my satisfaction, I promise to renounce my

present opinion. Meanwhile I cannot forbear concluding, from the very

abstractedness and difficulty of the first supposition, that 'tis an

improper subject for the fancy to work upon. Whoever would explain the

origin of the _common_ opinion concerning the continued and distinct

existence of body, must take the mind in its _common_ situation, and

must proceed upon the supposition, that our perceptions are our only

objects, and continue to exist even when they are not perceived. Though

this opinion be false, 'tis the most natural of any, and has alone any

primary recommendation to the fancy.

As to the second part of the proposition, _that the philosophical

system acquires all its influence on the imagination from the

vulgar one_; we may observe, that this is a natural and unavoidable

consequence of the foregoing conclusion, _that it has no primary

recommendation to reason or the imagination_. For as the philosophical

system is found by experience to take hold of many minds, and, in

particular, of all those who reflect ever so little on this subject, it

must derive all its authority from the vulgar system, since it has no

original authority of its own. The manner in which these two systems,

though directly contrary, are connected together, may be explained as

follows.

The imagination naturally runs on in this train of thinking. Our

perceptions are our only objects: resembling perceptions are the

same, however broken or uninterrupted in their appearance: this

appearing interruption is contrary to the identity: the interruption

consequently extends not beyond the appearance, and the perception

or object really continues to exist, even when absent from us: our

sensible perceptions have, therefore, a continued and uninterrupted

existence. But as a little reflection destroys this conclusion, that

our perceptions have a continued existence, by showing that they have a

dependent one, 'twould naturally be expected, that we must altogether

reject the opinion, that there is such a thing in nature as a continued

existence, which is preserved even when it no longer appears to the

senses. The case, however, is otherwise. Philosophers are so far from

rejecting the opinion of a continued existence upon rejecting that of

the independence and continuance of our sensible perceptions, that

though all sects agree in the latter sentiment, the former, which is

in a manner its necessary consequence, has been peculiar to a few

extravagant sceptics; who, after all, maintained that opinion in words

only, and were never able to bring themselves sincerely to believe it.

There is a great difference betwixt such opinions as we form after

a calm and profound reflection, and such as we embrace by a kind of

instinct or natural impulse, on account of their suitableness and

conformity to the mind. If these opinions become contrary, 'tis not

difficult to foresee which of them will have the advantage. As long as

our attention is bent upon the subject, the philosophical and studied

principle may prevail; but the moment we relax our thoughts, nature

will display herself, and draw us back to our former opinion. Nay she

has sometimes such an influence, that she can stop our progress, even

in the midst of our most profound reflections, and keep us from running

on with all the consequences of any philosophical opinion. Thus, though

we clearly perceive the dependence and interruption of our perceptions,

we stop short in our career, and never upon that account reject the

notion of an independent and continued existence. That opinion has

taken such deep root in the imagination, that 'tis impossible ever to

eradicate it, nor will any strained metaphysical conviction of the

dependence of our perceptions be sufficient for that purpose.

But though our natural and obvious principles here prevail above our

studied reflections, 'tis certain there must be some struggle and

opposition in the case; at least so long as these reflections retain

any force or vivacity. In order to set ourselves at ease in this

particular, we contrive a new hypothesis, which seems to comprehend

both these principles of reason and imagination. This hypothesis is the

philosophical one of the double existence of perceptions and objects;

which pleases our reason, in allowing that our dependent perceptions

are interrupted and different, and at the same time is agreeable to

the imagination, in attributing a continued existence to something

else, which we call _objects_. This philosophical system, therefore,

is the monstrous offspring of two principles, which are contrary to

each other, which are both at once embraced by the mind, and which

are unable mutually to destroy each other. The imagination tells us,

that our resembling perceptions have a continued and uninterrupted

existence, and are not annihilated by their absence. Reflection tells

us, that even our resembling perceptions are interrupted in their

existence, and different from each other. The contradiction betwixt

these opinions we elude by a new fiction, which is conformable to the

hypotheses both of reflection and fancy, by ascribing these contrary

qualities to different existences; the _interruption_ to perceptions,

and the _continuance_ to objects. Nature is obstinate, and will not

quit the field, however strongly attacked by reason; and at the same

time reason is so clear in the point, that there is no possibility

of disguising her. Not being able to reconcile these two enemies, we

endeavour to set ourselves at ease as much as possible, by successively

granting to each whatever it demands, and by feigning a double

existence, where each may find something that has all the conditions it

desires. Were we fully convinced that our resembling perceptions are

continued, and identical, and independent, we should never run into

this opinion of a double existence; since we should find satisfaction

in our first supposition, and would not look beyond. Again, were we

fully convinced that our perceptions are dependent, and interrupted,

and different, we should be as little inclined to embrace the opinion

of a double existence; since in that case we should clearly perceive

the error of our first supposition of a continued existence, and would

never regard it any farther. 'Tis therefore from the intermediate

situation of the mind that this opinion arises, and from such an

adherence to these two contrary principles, as makes us seek some

pretext to justify our receiving both; which happily at last is found

in the system of a double existence.

Another advantage of this philosophical system is its similarity to

the vulgar one, by which means we can humour our reason for a moment,

when it becomes troublesome and solicitous; and yet upon its least

negligence or inattention, can easily return to our vulgar and natural

notions. Accordingly we find, that philosophers neglect not this

advantage, but, immediately upon leaving their closets, mingle with the

rest of mankind in those exploded opinions, that our perceptions are

our only objects, and continue identically and uninterruptedly the same

in all their interrupted appearances.

There are other particulars of this system, wherein we may remark its

dependence on the fancy, in a very conspicuous manner. Of these, I

shall observe the two following. _First_, we suppose external objects

to resemble internal perceptions. I have already shown, that the

relation of cause and effect can never afford us any just conclusion

from the existence or qualities of our perceptions to the existence of

external continued objects: and I shall farther add, that even though

they could afford such a conclusion, we should never have any reason

to infer that our objects resemble our perceptions. That opinion,

therefore, is derived from nothing but the quality of the fancy

above explained, _that it borrows all its ideas from some precedent

perception_. We never can conceive any thing but perceptions, and

therefore must make every thing resemble them.

Secondly, as we suppose our objects in general to resemble our

perceptions, so we take it for granted, that every particular object

resembles that perception which it causes. The relation of cause and

effect determines us to join the other of resemblance; and the ideas

of these existences being already united together in the fancy by the

former relation, we naturally add the latter to complete the union.

We have a strong propensity to complete every union by joining new

relations to those which we have before observed betwixt any ideas, as

we shall have occasion to observe presently.[8]

Having thus given an account of all the systems, both popular and

philosophical, with regard to external existences, I cannot forbear

giving vent to a certain sentiment which arises upon reviewing those

systems. I begun this subject with premising, that we ought to have an

implicit faith in our senses, and that this would be the conclusion I

should draw from the whole of my reasoning. But to be ingenuous, I feel

myself _at present_ of a quite contrary sentiment, and am more inclined

to repose no faith at all in my senses, or rather imagination, than to

place in it such an implicit confidence. I cannot conceive how such

trivial qualities of the fancy, conducted by such false suppositions,

can ever lead to any solid and rational system. They are the coherence

and constancy of our perceptions, which produce the opinion of their

continued existence; though these qualities of perceptions have no

perceivable connexion with such an existence. The constancy of our

perceptions has the most considerable effect, and yet is attended with

the greatest difficulties. 'Tis a gross illusion to suppose, that

our resembling perceptions are numerically the same; and 'tis this

illusion which leads us into the opinion, that these perceptions are

uninterrupted, and are still existent, even when they are not present

to the senses. This is the case with our popular system. And as to

our philosophical one, 'tis liable to the same difficulties; and is,

over and above, loaded with this absurdity, that it at once denies and

establishes the vulgar supposition. Philosophers deny our resembling

perceptions to be identically the same, and uninterrupted; and yet

have so great a propensity to believe them such, that they arbitrarily

invent a new set of perceptions, to which they attribute these

qualities. I say, a new set of perceptions: for we may well suppose in

general, but 'tis impossible for us distinctly to conceive, objects to

be in their nature any thing but exactly the same with perceptions.

What then can we look for from this confusion of groundless and

extraordinary opinions but error and falsehood? And how can we justify

to ourselves any belief we repose in them?

This sceptical doubt, both with respect to reason and the senses, is

a malady which can never be radically cured, but must return upon us

every moment, however we may chase it away, and sometimes may seem

entirely free from it. 'Tis impossible, upon any system, to defend

either our understanding or senses; and we but expose them farther

when we endeavour to justify them in that manner. As the sceptical

doubt arises naturally from a profound and intense reflection on those

subjects, it always increases the farther we carry our reflections,

whether in opposition or conformity to it. Carelessness and inattention

alone can afford us any remedy. For this reason I rely entirely upon

them; and take it for granted, whatever may be the reader's opinion at

this present moment, that an hour hence he will be persuaded there is

both an external and internal world; and, going upon that supposition,

I intend to examine some general systems, both ancient and modern,

which have been proposed of both, before I proceed to a more particular

inquiry concerning our impressions. This will not, perhaps, in the end,

be found foreign to our present purpose.

[1] Part II. Sect. 6.

[2] Sect. 5.

[3] Part II. Sect. 4.

[4] Part II. Sect. 5.

[5] Part. II. Sect. 5.

[6] This reasoning, it must be confessed, is somewhat abstruse, and

difficult to be comprehended; but it is remarkable, that this very

difficulty may be converted into a proof of the reasoning. We may

observe, that there are two relations, and both of them resemblances,

which contribute to our mistaking the succession of our interrupted

perceptions for an identical object. The first is, the resemblance of

the perceptions: the second is, the resemblance which the act of the

mind in surveying a succession of resembling objects, bears to that in

surveying an identical object. Now these resemblances we are apt to

confound with each other; and 'tis natural we should, according to this

very reasoning. But let us keep them distinct, and we shall find no

difficulty in conceiving the precedent argument.

[7] Sect. 6.

[8] Sect. 5.

SECTION III.

OF THE ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY.

Several moralists have recommended it as an excellent method of

becoming acquainted with our own hearts, and knowing our progress in

virtue, to recollect our dreams in a morning, and examine them with the

same rigour that we would our most serious and most deliberate actions.

Our character is the same throughout, say they, and appears best

where artifice, fear and policy, have no place, and men can neither

be hypocrites with themselves nor others. The generosity or baseness

of our temper, our meekness or cruelty, our courage or pusillanimity,

influence the fictions of the imagination with the most unbounded

liberty, and discover themselves in the most glaring colours. In like

manner, I am persuaded, there might be several useful discoveries made

from a criticism of the fictions of the ancient philosophy concerning

_substances, and substantial forms, and accidents, and occult

qualities_, which, however unreasonable and capricious, have a very

intimate connexion with the principles of human nature.

'Tis confessed by the most judicious philosophers, that our ideas of

bodies are nothing but collections formed by the mind of the ideas of

the several distinct sensible qualities, of which objects are composed,

and which we find to have a constant union with each other. But however

these qualities may in themselves be entirely distinct, 'tis certain

we commonly regard the compound, which they form, as _one_ thing,

and as continuing the _same_ under very considerable alterations.

The acknowledged composition is evidently contrary to this supposed

_simplicity_, and the variation to the _identity_. It may therefore be

worth while to consider the _causes_, which make us almost universally

fall into such evident contradictions, as well as the _means_ by which

we endeavour to conceal them.

'Tis evident, that as the ideas of the several distinct _successive_

qualities of objects are united together by a very close relation, the

mind, in looking along the succession, must be carried from one part

of it to another by an easy transition, and will no more perceive the

change, than if it contemplated the same unchangeable object. This easy

transition is the effect, or rather essence of relation; and as the

imagination readily takes one idea for another, where their influence

on the mind is similar; hence it proceeds, that any such succession

of related qualities is readily considered as one continued object,

existing without any variation. The smooth and uninterrupted progress

of the thought, being alike in both cases, readily deceives the mind,

and makes us ascribe an identity to the changeable succession of

connected qualities.

But when we alter our method of considering the succession, and,

instead of tracing it gradually through the successive points of time,

survey at once any two distinct periods of its duration, and compare

the different conditions of the successive qualities; in that case

the variations, which were insensible when they arose gradually, do

now appear of consequence, and seem entirely to destroy the identity.

By this means there arises a kind of contrariety in our method of

thinking, from the different points of view, in which we survey the

object, and from the nearness or remoteness of those instants of time,

which we compare together. When we gradually follow an object in its

successive changes, the smooth progress of the thought makes us ascribe

an identity to the succession; because 'tis by a similar act of the

mind we consider an unchangeable object. When we compare its situation

after a considerable change the progress of the thought is broke; and

consequently we are presented with the idea of diversity; in order

to reconcile which contradictions the imagination is apt to feign

something unknown and invisible, which it supposes to continue the same

under all these variations; and this unintelligible something it calls

a _substance, or original and first matter_.

We entertain a like notion with regard to the _simplicity_ of

substances, and from like causes. Suppose an object perfectly simple

and indivisible to be presented, along with another object, whose

_co-existent_ parts are connected together by a strong relation, 'tis

evident the actions of the mind, in considering these two objects, are

not very different. The imagination conceives the simple object at

once, with facility, by a single effort of thought, without change or

variation. The connexion of parts in the compound object has almost the

same effect, and so unites the object within itself, that the fancy

feels not the transition in passing from one part to another. Hence the

colour, taste, figure, solidity, and other qualities, combined in a

peach or melon, are conceived to form _one thing_; and that on account

of their close relation, which makes them affect the thought in the

same manner, as if perfectly uncompounded. But the mind rests not here.

Whenever it views the object in another light, it finds that all these

qualities are different, and distinguishable, and separable from each

other; which view of things being destructive of its primary and more

natural notions, obliges the imagination to feign an unknown something,

or _original_ substance and matter, as a principle of union or cohesion

among these qualities, and as what may give the compound object a title

to be called one thing, notwithstanding its diversity and composition.

The Peripatetic philosophy asserts the _original_ matter to be

perfectly homogeneous in all bodies, and considers fire, water, earth,

and air, as of the very same substance, on account of their gradual

revolutions and changes into each other. At the same time it assigns to

each of these species of objects a distinct _substantial form_, which

it supposes to be the source of all those different qualities they

possess, and to be a new foundation of simplicity and identity to each

particular species. All depends on our manner of viewing the objects.

When we look along the insensible changes of bodies, we suppose all of

them to be of the same substance or essence. When we consider their

sensible differences, we attribute to each of them a substantial and

essential difference. And in order to indulge ourselves in both these

ways of considering our objects, we suppose all bodies to have at once

a substance and a substantial form.

The notion of _accidents_ is an unavoidable consequence of this method

of thinking with regard to substances and substantial forms; nor can

we forbear looking upon colours, sounds, tastes, figures, and other

properties of bodies, as existences, which cannot subsist apart,

but require a subject of inhesion to sustain and support them. For

having never discovered any of these sensible qualities, where, for

the reasons above mentioned, we did not likewise fancy a substance

to exist; the same habit, which makes us infer a connexion betwixt

cause and effect, makes us here infer a dependence of every quality on

the unknown substance. The custom of imagining a dependence has the

same effect as the custom of observing it would have. This conceit,

however, is no more reasonable than any of the foregoing. Every quality

being a distinct thing from another, may be conceived to exist apart,

and may exist apart not only from every other quality, but from that

unintelligible chimera of a substance.

But these philosophers carry their fictions still farther in their

sentiments concerning _occult qualities_, and both suppose a substance

supporting, which they do not understand, and an accident supported,

of which they have as imperfect an idea. The whole system, therefore,

is entirely incomprehensible, and yet is derived from principles as

natural as any of these above explained.

In considering this subject, we may observe a gradation of three

opinions that rise above each other, according as the persons who

form them acquire new degrees of reason and knowledge. These opinions

are that of the vulgar, that of a false philosophy, and that of the

true; where we shall find upon inquiry, that the true philosophy

approaches nearer to the sentiments of the vulgar than to those of a

mistaken knowledge. 'Tis natural for men, in their common and careless

way of thinking, to imagine they perceive a connexion betwixt such

objects as they have constantly found united together; and because

custom has rendered it difficult to separate the ideas, they are apt

to fancy such a separation to be in itself impossible and absurd. But

philosophers, who abstract from the effects of custom, and compare

the ideas of objects, immediately perceive the falsehood of these

vulgar sentiments, and discover that there is no known connexion among

objects. Every different object appears to them entirely distinct and

separate; and they perceive that 'tis not from a view of the nature

and qualities of objects we infer one from another, but only when in

several instances we observe them to have been constantly conjoined.

But these philosophers, instead of drawing a just inference from this

observation, and concluding, that we have no idea of power or agency,

separate from the mind and belonging to causes; I say, instead of

drawing this conclusion, they frequently search for the qualities

in which this agency consists, and are displeased with every system

which their reason suggests to them, in order to explain it. They

have sufficient force of genius to free them from the vulgar error,

that there is a natural and perceivable connexion betwixt the several

sensible qualities and actions of matter, but not sufficient to keep

them from ever seeking for this connexion in matter or causes. Had

they fallen upon the just conclusion, they would have returned back

to the situation of the vulgar, and would have regarded all these

disquisitions with indolence and indifference. At present they seem to

be in a very lamentable condition, and such as the poets have given

us but a faint notion of in their descriptions of the punishment of

Sisyphus and Tantalus. For what can be imagined more tormenting than

to seek with eagerness what for ever flies us, and seek for it in a

place where 'tis impossible it can ever exist?

But as Nature seems to have observed a kind of justice and compensation

in every thing, she has not neglected philosophers more than the rest

of the creation, but has reserved them a consolation amid all their

disappointments and afflictions. This consolation principally consists

in their invention of the words _faculty_ and _occult quality_. For

it being usual, after the frequent use of terms, which are really

significant and intelligible, to omit the idea which we would express

by them, and preserve only the custom by which we recal the idea at

pleasure; so it naturally happens, that after the frequent use of

terms which are wholly insignificant and unintelligible, we fancy them

to be on the same footing with the precedent, and to have a secret

meaning which we might discover by reflection. The resemblance of their

appearance deceives the mind, as is usual, and makes us imagine a

thorough resemblance and conformity. By this means these philosophers

set themselves at ease, and arrive at last, by an illusion, at the

same indifference which the people attain by their stupidity, and true

philosophers by their moderate scepticism. They need only say, that

any phenomenon which puzzles them arises from a faculty or an occult

quality, and there is an end of all dispute and inquiry upon the matter.

But among all the instances wherein the Peripatetics have shown they

were guided by every trivial propensity of the imagination, no one is

more remarkable than their _sympathies, antipathies, and horrors of

a vacuum_. There is a very remarkable inclination in human nature to

bestow on external objects the same emotions which it observes in

itself, and to find every where those ideas which are most present to

it. This inclination, 'tis true, is suppressed by a little reflection,

and only takes place in children, poets, and the ancient philosophers.

It appears in children, by their desire of beating the stones which

hurt them: in poets by their readiness to personify every thing; and in

the ancient philosophers, by these fictions of sympathy and antipathy.

We must pardon children, because of their age; poets, because they

profess to follow implicitly the suggestions of their fancy; but

what excuse shall we find to justify our philosophers in so signal a

weakness?

SECTION IV.

OF THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY.