But here it may be objected, that the im_Philosophical Works, v. 1 (of 4) Including All the Essays, and Exhibiting the More Important Alterations and Corrections in the Successive Editions Published by the Author

confession, being the ultimate judge of all systems of philosophy, I

am unjust in blaming the ancient philosophers for making use of that

faculty, and allowing themselves to be entirely guided by it in their

reasonings. In order to justify myself, I must distinguish in the

imagination betwixt the principles which are permanent, irresistible,

and universal; such as the customary transition from causes to effects,

and from effects to causes: and the principles, which are changeable,

weak and irregular; such as those I have just now taken notice of. The

former are the foundation of all our thoughts and actions, so that

upon their removal, human nature must immediately perish and go to

ruin. The latter are neither unavoidable to mankind, nor necessary, or

so much as useful in the conduct of life; but, on the contrary, are

observed only to take place in weak minds, and being opposite to the

other principles of custom and reasoning, may easily be subverted by a

due contrast and opposition. For this reason, the former are received

by philosophy, and the latter rejected. One who concludes somebody to

be near him, when he hears an articulate voice in the dark, reasons

justly and naturally; though that conclusion be derived from nothing

but custom, which infixes and enlivens the idea of a human creature, on

account of his usual conjunction with the present impression. But one,

who is tormented he knows not why, with the apprehension of spectres

in the dark, may perhaps be said to reason, and to reason naturally

too: but then it must be in the same sense that a malady is said to

be natural; as arising from natural causes, though it be contrary to

health, the most agreeable and most natural situation of man.

The opinions of the ancient philosophers, their fictions of substance

and accident, and their reasonings concerning substantial forms and

occult qualities, are like the spectres in the dark, and are derived

from principles, which, however common, are neither universal nor

unavoidable in human nature. The _modern philosophy_ pretends to be

entirely free from this defect, and to arise only from the solid,

permanent, and consistent principles of the imagination. Upon what

grounds this pretension is founded, must now be the subject of our

inquiry.

The fundamental principle of that philosophy is the opinion concerning

colours, sounds, tastes, smells, heat and cold; which it asserts to

be nothing but impressions in the mind, derived from the operation

of external objects, and without any resemblance to the qualities of

the objects. Upon examination, I find only one of the reasons commonly

produced for this opinion to be satisfactory; viz. that derived from

the variations of those impressions, even while the external object,

to all appearance, continues the same. These variations depend upon

several circumstances. Upon the different situations of our health:

a man in a malady feels a disagreeable taste in meats, which before

pleased him the most. Upon the different complexions and constitutions

of men: that seems bitter to one, which is sweet to another. Upon the

difference of their external situation and position: colours reflected

from the clouds change according to the distance of the clouds, and

according to the angle they make with the eye and luminous body. Fire

also communicates the sensation of pleasure at one distance, and that

of pain at another. Instances of this kind are very numerous and

frequent.

The conclusion drawn from them, is likewise as satisfactory as can

possibly be imagined. 'Tis certain, that when different impressions of

the same sense arise from any object, every one of these impressions

has not a resembling quality existent in the object. For as the same

object cannot, at the same time, be endowed with different qualities

of the same sense, and as the same quality cannot resemble impressions

entirely different; it evidently follows, that many of our impressions

have no external model or archetype. Now, from like effects we

presume like causes. Many of the impressions of colour, sound, &c.,

are confessed to be nothing but internal existences, and to arise

from causes, which no ways resemble them. These impressions are in

appearance nothing different from the other impressions of colour,

sound, &c. We conclude, therefore, that they are, all of them, derived

from a like origin.

This principle being once admitted, all the other doctrines of that

philosophy seem to follow by an easy consequence. For, upon the removal

of sounds, colours, heat, cold, and other sensible qualities, from the

rank of continued independent existences, we are reduced merely to

what are called primary qualities, as the only _real_ ones, of which

we have any adequate notion. These primary qualities are extension and

solidity, with their different mixtures and modifications; figure,

motion, gravity and cohesion. The generation, increase, decay and

corruption of animals and vegetables, are nothing but changes of figure

and motion; as also the operations of all bodies on each other; of

fire, of light, water, air, earth, and of all the elements and powers

of nature. One figure and motion produces another figure and motion;

nor does there remain in the material universe any other principle,

either active or passive, of which we can form the most distant idea.

I believe many objections might be made to this system; but at present

I shall confine myself to one, which is, in my opinion, very decisive.

I assert, that instead of explaining the operations of external objects

by its means, we utterly annihilate all these objects, and reduce

ourselves to the opinions of the most extravagant scepticism concerning

them. If colours, sounds, tastes and smells be merely perceptions,

nothing, we can conceive, is possessed of a real, continued, and

independent existence; not even motion, extension and solidity, which

are the primary qualities chiefly insisted on.

To begin with the examination of motion; 'tis evident this is a quality

altogether inconceivable alone, and without a reference to some other

object. The idea of motion necessarily supposes that of a body moving.

Now, what is our idea of the moving body, without which motion is

incomprehensible? It must resolve itself into the idea of extension or

of solidity; and consequently the reality of motion depends upon that

of these other qualities.

This opinion, which is universally acknowledged concerning motion, I

have proved to be true with regard to extension; and have shown that

'tis impossible to conceive extension but as composed of parts, endowed

with colour or solidity. The idea of extension is a compound idea; but

as it is not compounded of an infinite number of parts or inferior

ideas, it must at last resolve itself into such as are perfectly simple

and indivisible. These simple and indivisible parts not being ideas of

extension, must be nonentities, unless conceived as coloured or solid.

Colour is excluded from any real existence. The reality therefore of

our idea of extension depends upon the reality of that of solidity; nor

can the former be just while the latter is chimerical. Let us then lend

our attention to the examination of the idea of solidity.

The idea of solidity is that of two objects, which, being impelled

by the utmost force, cannot penetrate each other, but still maintain

a separate and distinct existence. Solidity therefore is perfectly

incomprehensible alone, and without the conception of some bodies which

are solid, and maintain this separate and distinct existence. Now,

what idea have we of these bodies? The ideas of colours, sounds, and

other secondary qualities, are excluded. The idea of motion depends on

that of extension, and the idea of extension on that of solidity. 'Tis

impossible, therefore, that the idea of solidity can depend on either

of them. For that would be to run in a circle, and make one idea depend

on another, while, at the same time, the latter depends on the former.

Our modern philosophy, therefore, leaves us no just nor satisfactory

idea of solidity, nor consequently of matter.

This argument will appear entirely conclusive to every one that

comprehends it; but because it may seem abstruse and intricate to

the generality of readers, I hope to be excused if I endeavour to

render it more obvious by some variation of the expression. In order

to form an idea of solidity, we must conceive two bodies pressing on

each other without any penetration; and 'tis impossible to arrive at

this idea, when we confine ourselves to one object, much more without

conceiving any. Two nonentities cannot exclude each other from their

places, because they never possess any place, nor can be endowed with

any quality. Now I ask, what idea do we form of these bodies or objects

to which we suppose solidity to belong? To say that we conceive them

merely as solid, is, to run on _in infinitum_. To affirm that we paint

them out to ourselves as extended, either resolves all into a false

idea, or returns in a circle. Extension must necessarily be considered

either as coloured, which is a false idea, or as solid, which brings us

back to the first question. We may make the same observation concerning

mobility and figure; and, upon the whole, must conclude, that after the

exclusion of colours, sounds, heat and cold, from the rank of external

existences, there remains nothing which can afford us a just and

consistent idea of body.

Add to this, that, properly speaking, solidity or impenetrability is

nothing but an impossibility of annihilation, as has been already

observed:[8] for which reason 'tis the more necessary for us to form

some distinct idea of that object whose annihilation we suppose

impossible. An impossibility of being annihilated cannot exist, and can

never be conceived to exist, by itself, but necessarily requires some

object or real existence to which it may belong. Now, the difficulty

still remains how to form an idea of this object or existence, without

having recourse to the secondary and sensible qualities.

Nor must we omit, on this occasion, our accustomed method of examining

ideas by considering those impressions from which they are derived.

The impressions which enter by the sight and hearing, the smell and

taste, are affirmed by modern philosophy to be without any resembling

objects; and consequently the idea of solidity, which is supposed to

be real, can never be derived from any of these senses. There remains,

therefore, the feeling as the only sense that can convey the impression

which is original to the idea of solidity; and, indeed, we naturally

imagine that we feel the solidity of bodies, and need but touch any

object in order to perceive this quality. But this method of thinking

is more popular than philosophical, as will appear from the following

reflections.

First, 'tis easy to observe, that though bodies are felt by means

of their solidity, yet the feeling is a quite different thing from

the solidity, and that they have not the least resemblance to each

other. A man who has the palsy in one hand has as perfect an idea of

impenetrability, when he observes that hand to be supported by the

table, as when he feels the same table with the other hand. An object

that presses upon any of our members meets with resistance; and that,

resistance, by the motion it gives to the nerves and animal spirits,

conveys a certain sensation to the mind; but it does not follow that

the sensation, motion and resistance, are any ways resembling.

Secondly, the impressions of touch are simple impressions, except when

considered with regard to their extension; which makes nothing to the

present purpose: and from this simplicity I infer, that they neither

represent solidity, nor any real object. For let us put two cases, viz.

that of a man who presses a stone or any solid body with his hand, and

that of two stones which press each other; 'twill readily be allowed

that these two cases are not in every respect alike, but that in the

former there is conjoined with the solidity a feeling or sensation of

which there is no appearance in the latter. In order, therefore, to

make these two cases alike, 'tis necessary to remove some part of the

impression which the man feels by his hand, or organ of sensation; and

that being impossible in a simple impression, obliges us to remove the

whole, and proves that this whole impression has no archetype or model

in external objects; to which we may add, that solidity necessarily

supposes two bodies, along with contiguity and impulse; which being a

compound object, can never be represented by a simple impression. Not

to mention, that, though solidity continues always invariably the same,

the impressions of touch change every moment upon us, which is a clear

proof that the latter are not representations of the former.

Thus there is a direct and total opposition betwixt our reason and our

senses; or, more properly speaking, betwixt those conclusions we form

from cause and effect, and those that persuade us of the continued and

independent existence of body. When we reason from cause and effect, we

conclude, that neither colour, sound, taste nor smell, have a continued

and independent existence. When we exclude these sensible qualities,

there remains nothing in the universe which has such an existence.

[8] Part II. Sect. 4.

SECTION V.

OF THE IMMATERIALITY OF THE SOUL.

Having found such contradictions and difficulties in every system

concerning external objects, and in the idea of matter, which we fancy

so clear and determinate, we shall naturally expect still greater

difficulties and contradictions in every hypothesis concerning our

internal perceptions, and the nature of the mind, which we are apt

to imagine so much more obscure and uncertain. But in this we should

deceive ourselves. The intellectual world, though involved in infinite

obscurities, is not perplexed with any such contradictions as those we

have discovered in the natural. What is known concerning it, agrees

with itself; and what is unknown, we must be contented to leave so.

'Tis true, would we hearken to certain philosophers, they promise to

diminish our ignorance; but I am afraid 'tis at the hazard of running

us into contradictions, from which the subject is of itself exempted.

These philosophers are the curious reasoners concerning the material

or immaterial substances, in which they suppose our perceptions to

inhere. In order to put a stop to these endless cavils on both sides,

I know no better method, than to ask these philosophers in a few

words, _What they mean by substance and inhesion?_ And after they have

answered this question, 'twill then be reasonable, and not till then,

to enter seriously into the dispute.

This question we have found impossible to be answered with regard to

matter and body; but besides that in the case of the mind it labours

under all the same difficulties, 'tis burthened with some additional

ones, which are peculiar to that subject. As every idea is derived from

a precedent impression, had we any idea of the substance of our minds,

we must also have an impression of it, which is very difficult, if not

impossible, to be conceived. For how can an impression represent a

substance, otherwise than by resembling it? And how can an impression

resemble a substance, since, according to this philosophy, it is not a

substance, and has none of the peculiar qualities or characteristics of

a substance?

But leaving the question of _what may or may not be_, for that other

_what actually is_, I desire those philosophers, who pretend that we

have an idea of the substance of our minds, to point out the impression

that produces it, and tell distinctly after what manner that impression

operates, and from what object it is derived. Is it an impression of

sensation or reflection? Is it pleasant, or painful, or indifferent?

Does it attend us at all times, or does it only return at intervals?

If at intervals, at what times principally does it return, and by what

causes is it produced?

If, instead of answering these questions, any one should evade

the difficulty, by saying, that the definition of a substance is

_something which may exist by itself_, and that this definition ought

to satisfy us: should this be said, I should observe, that this

definition agrees to every thing that can possibly be conceived;

and never will serve to distinguish substance from accident, or the

soul from its perceptions. For thus I reason. Whatever is clearly

conceived, may exist; and whatever is clearly conceived, after any

manner, may exist after the same manner. This is one principle which

has been already acknowledged. Again, every thing which is different is

distinguishable, and every thing which is distinguishable is separable

by the imagination. This is another principle. My conclusion from both

is, that since all our perceptions are different from each other,

and from every thing else in the universe, they are also distinct

and separable, and may be considered as separately existent, and may

exist separately, and have no need of any thing else to support their

existence. They are therefore substances, as far as this definition

explains a substance.

Thus, neither by considering the first origin of ideas, nor by means

of a definition, are we able to arrive at any satisfactory notion

of substance, which seems to me a sufficient reason for abandoning

utterly that dispute concerning the materiality and immateriality of

the soul, and makes me absolutely condemn even the question itself. We

have no perfect idea of any thing but of a perception. A substance is

entirely different from a perception. We have therefore no idea of a

substance. Inhesion in something is supposed to be requisite to support

the existence of our perceptions. Nothing appears requisite to support

the existence of a perception. We have therefore no idea of inhesion.

What possibility then of answering that question, _Whether perceptions

inhere in a material or immaterial substance_, when we do not so much

as understand the meaning of the question?

There is one argument commonly employed for the immateriality of the

soul, which seems to me remarkable. Whatever is extended consists

of parts; and whatever consists of parts is divisible, if not in

reality, at least in the imagination. But 'tis impossible any thing

divisible can be _conjoined_ to a thought or perception, which is a

being altogether inseparable and indivisible. For, supposing such a

conjunction, would the indivisible thought exist on the left or on

the right hand of this extended divisible body? On the surface or in

the middle? On the back or fore-side of it? If it be conjoined with

the extension, it must exist somewhere within its dimensions. If it

exist within its dimensions, it must either exist in one particular

part; and then that particular part is indivisible, and the perception

is conjoined only with it, not with the extension: or if the thought

exists in every part, it must also be extended, and separable,

and divisible, as well as the body, which is utterly absurd and

contradictory. For can any one conceive a passion of a yard in length,

a foot in breadth, and an inch in thickness? Thought therefore and

extension are qualities wholly incompatible, and never can incorporate

together into one subject.

This argument affects not the question concerning the _substance_ of

the soul, but only that concerning its _local conjunction_ with matter;

and therefore it may not be improper to consider in general what

objects are, or are not susceptible of a local conjunction. This is a

curious question, and may lead us to some discoveries of considerable

moment.

The first notion of space and extension is derived solely from the

senses of sight and feeling; nor is there anything, but what is

coloured or tangible, that has parts disposed after such a manner

as to convey that idea. When we diminish or increase a relish, 'tis

not after the same manner that we diminish or increase any visible

object; and when several sounds strike our hearing at once, custom and

reflection alone make us form an idea of the degrees of the distance

and contiguity of those bodies from which they are derived. Whatever

marks the place of its existence, either must be extended, or must be a

mathematical point, without parts or composition. What is extended must

have a particular figure, as square, round, triangular; none of which

will agree to a desire, or indeed to any impression or idea, except

of these two senses above-mentioned. Neither ought a desire, though

indivisible, to be considered as a mathematical point. For in that case

'twould be possible, by the addition of others, to make two, three,

four desires; and these disposed and situated in such a manner, as to

have a determinate length, breadth, and thickness; which is evidently

absurd.

'Twill not be surprising after this, if I deliver a maxim, which is

condemned by several metaphysicians, and is esteemed contrary to the

most certain principles of human reason. This maxim is, _that an object

may exist, and yet be no where_: and I assert, that this is not only

possible, but that the greatest part of beings do and must exist after

this manner. An object may be said to be no where, when its parts are

not so situated with respect to each other, as to form any figure or

quantity; nor the whole with respect to other bodies so as to answer

to our notions of contiguity or distance. Now, this is evidently the

case with all our perceptions and objects, except those of the sight

and feeling. A moral reflection cannot be placed on the right or on

the left hand of a passion; nor can a smell or sound be either of a

circular or a square figure.

These objects and perceptions, so far from requiring any particular

place, are absolutely incompatible with it, and even the imagination

cannot attribute it to them. And as to the absurdity of supposing them

to be no where, we may consider, that if the passions and sentiments

appear to the perception to have any particular place, the idea of

extension might be derived from them, as well as from the sight and

touch; contrary to what we have already established. If they _appear_

not to have any particular place, they may possibly _exist_ in the same

manner; since whatever we conceive is possible.

'Twill not now be necessary to prove, that those perceptions, which

are simple, and exist no where, are incapable of any conjunction in

place with matter or body, which is extended and divisible; since 'tis

impossible to found a relation but on some common quality.[9] It may

be better worth our while to remark, that this question of the local

conjunction of objects, does not only occur in metaphysical disputes

concerning the nature of the soul, but that even in common life we have

every moment occasion to examine it. Thus, supposing we consider a

fig at one end of the table, and an olive at the other, 'tis evident,

that, in forming the complex ideas of these substances, one of the most

obvious is that of their different relishes; and 'tis as evident, that

we incorporate and conjoin these qualities with such as are coloured

and tangible. The bitter taste of the one, and sweet of the other, are

supposed to lie in the very visible body, and to be separated from

each other by the whole length of the table. This is so notable and so

natural an illusion, that it may be proper to consider the principles

from which it is derived.

Though an extended object be incapable of a conjunction in place

with another that exists without any place or extension, yet are

they susceptible of many other relations. Thus the taste and smell

of any fruit are inseparable from its other qualities of colour and

tangibility; and whichever of them be the cause or effect, 'tis certain

they are always co-existent. Nor are they only co-existent in general,

but also cotemporary in their appearance in the mind; and 'tis upon

the application of the extended body to our senses we perceive its

particular taste and smell. These relations, then, of _causation, and

contiguity in the time of their appearance_, betwixt the extended

object and the quality, which exists without any particular place,

must have such an effect on the mind, that, upon the appearance of

one, it will immediately turn its thought to the conception of the

other. Nor is this all. We not only turn our thought from one to the

other upon account of their relation, but likewise endeavour to give

them a new relation, viz. that of _a conjunction in place_, that we

may render the transition more easy and natural. For 'tis a quality,

which I shall often have occasion to remark in human nature, and shall

explain more fully in its proper place, that, when objects are united

by any relation, we have a strong propensity to add some new relation

to them, in order to complete the union. In our arrangement of bodies,

we never fail to place such as are resembling in contiguity to each

other, or, at least, in correspondent points of view: why? but because

we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that

of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities.

The effects of this propensity have been already observed[10] in that

resemblance, which we so readily suppose betwixt particular impressions

and their external causes. But we shall not find a more evident effect

of it than in the present instance, where, from the relations of

causation and contiguity in time betwixt two objects, we feign likewise

that of a conjunction in place, in order to strengthen the connexion.

But whatever confused notions we may form of an union in place betwixt

an extended body, as a fig, and its particular taste, 'tis certain

that, upon reflection, we must observe in this union something

altogether unintelligible and contradictory. For, should we ask

ourselves one obvious question, viz. if the taste, which we conceive to

be contained in the circumference of the body, is in every part of it,

or in one only, we must quickly find ourselves at a loss, and perceive

the impossibility of ever giving a satisfactory answer. We cannot reply

that 'tis only in one part: for experience convinces us that every part

has the same relish. We can as little reply that it exists in every

part: for then we must suppose it figured and extended; which is absurd

and incomprehensible. Here, then, we are influenced by two principles,

directly contrary to each other, viz. that _inclination_ of our fancy

by which we are determined to incorporate the taste with the extended

object, and our _reason_, which shows us the impossibility of such an

union. Being divided betwixt these opposite principles, we renounce

neither one nor the other, but involve the subject in such confusion

and obscurity, that we no longer perceive the opposition. We suppose

that the taste exists within the circumference of the body, but in

such a manner, that it fills the whole without extension, and exists

entire in every part without separation. In short, we use, in our most

familiar way of thinking, that scholastic principle which, when crudely

proposed, appears so shocking, of _totum in toto, et totum in qualibet

parte_; which is much the same as if we should say, that a thing is in

a certain place, and yet is not there.

All this absurdity proceeds from our endeavouring to bestow a place on

what is utterly incapable of it; and that endeavour again arises from

our inclination to complete an union which is founded on causation and

a contiguity of time, by attributing to the objects a conjunction in

place. But if ever reason be of sufficient force to overcome prejudice,

'tis certain that, in the present case, it must prevail. For we have

only this choice left, either to suppose that some beings exist without

any place, or that they are figured and extended; or that when they

are incorporated with extended objects, the whole is in the whole, and

the whole in every part. The absurdity of the two last suppositions

proves sufficiently the veracity of the first. Nor is there any fourth

opinion: For as to the supposition of their existence in the manner of

mathematical points, it resolves itself into the second opinion, and

supposes, that several passions may be placed in a circular figure,

and that a certain number of smells, conjoined with a certain number

of sounds, may make a body of twelve cubic inches; which appears

ridiculous upon the bare mentioning of it.

But though in this view of things we cannot refuse to condemn, the

materialists, who conjoin all thought with extension; yet a little

reflection will show us equal reason for blaming their antagonists,

who conjoin all thought with a simple and indivisible substance. The

most vulgar philosophy informs us, that no external object can make

itself known to the mind immediately, and without the interposition of

an image or perception. That table, which just now appears to me, is

only a perception, and all its qualities are qualities of a perception.

Now, the most obvious of all its qualities is extension. The perception

consists of parts. These parts are so situated as to afford us the

notion of distance and contiguity, of length, breadth and thickness.

The termination of these three dimensions is what we call figure. This

figure is moveable, separable, and divisible. Mobility and separability

are the distinguishing properties of extended objects. And to cut short

all disputes, the very idea of extension is copied from nothing but an

impression, and consequently must perfectly agree to it. To say the

idea of extension agrees to any thing, is to say it is extended.

The freethinker may now triumph in his turn; and having found there are

impressions and ideas really extended, may ask his antagonists, how

they can incorporate a simple and indivisible subject with an extended

perception? All the arguments of theologians may here be retorted

upon them. Is the indivisible subject or immaterial substance, if you

will, on the left or on the right hand of the perception? Is it in

this particular part, or in that other? Is it in every part without

being extended? Or is it entire in any one part without deserting the

rest? 'Tis impossible to give any answer to these questions but what

will both be absurd in itself, and will account for the union of our

indivisible perceptions with an extended substance.

This gives me an occasion to take anew into consideration the question

concerning the substance of the soul; and though I have condemned that

question as utterly unintelligible, yet I cannot forbear proposing some

farther reflections concerning it. I assert, that the doctrine of the

immateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a thinking substance

is a true atheism, and will serve to justify all those sentiments for

which Spinoza is so universally infamous. From this topic I hope at

least to reap one advantage, that my adversaries will not have any

pretext to render the present doctrine odious by their declamations

when they see that they can be so easily retorted on them.

The fundamental principle of the atheism of Spinoza is the doctrine

of the simplicity of the universe, and the unity of that substance

in which he supposes both thought and matter to inhere. There is

only one substance, says he, in the world, and that substance is

perfectly simple and indivisible, and exists every where without

any local presence. Whatever we discover externally by sensation,

whatever we feel internally by reflection, all these are nothing but

modifications of that one simple and necessarily existent being, and

are not possessed of any separate or distinct existence. Every passion

of the soul, every configuration of matter however different and

various, inhere in the same substance, and preserve in themselves their

characters of distinction, without communicating them to that subject

in which they inhere. The same _substratum_, if I may so speak,

supports the most different modifications without any difference in

itself, and varies them without any variation. Neither time, nor place,

nor all the diversity of nature are able to produce any composition or

change in its perfect simplicity and identity.

I believe this brief exposition of the principles of that famous

atheist will be sufficient for the present purpose, and that without

entering farther into these gloomy and obscure regions, I shall be able

to show, that this hideous hypothesis is almost the same with that of

the immateriality of the soul, which has become so popular. To make

this evident, let us remember,[11] that as every idea is derived from

a preceding perception, 'tis impossible our idea of a perception, and

that of an object or external existence, can ever represent what are

specifically different from each other. Whatever difference we may

suppose betwixt them, 'tis still incomprehensible to us; and we are

obliged, either to conceive an external object merely as a relation

without a relative, or to make it the very same with a perception or

impression.

The consequence I shall draw from this may, at first sight, appear a

mere sophism; but upon the least examination will be found solid and

satisfactory. I say then, that since we may suppose, but never can

conceive, a specific difference betwixt an object and impression,

any conclusion we form concerning the connexion and repugnance of

impressions, will not be known certainly to be applicable to objects;

but that, on the other hand, whatever conclusions of this kind we form

concerning objects, will most certainly be applicable to impressions.

The reason is not difficult. As an object is supposed to be different

from an impression, we cannot be sure, that the circumstance, upon

which we found our reasoning, is common to both, supposing we form the

reasoning upon the impression. 'Tis still possible, that the object may

differ from it in that particular. But when we first form our reasoning

concerning the object, 'tis beyond doubt, that the same reasoning

must extend to the impression: and that because the quality of the

object, upon which the argument is founded, must at least be conceived

by the mind, and could not be conceived, unless it were common to an

impression; since we have no idea but what is derived from that origin.

Thus we may establish it as a certain maxim, that we can never, by any

principle, but by an irregular kind of reasoning from experience,[12]

discover a connexion or repugnance betwixt objects, which extends not

to impressions; though the inverse proposition may not be equally

true, that all the discoverable relations of impressions are common to

objects.

To apply this to the present case; there are two different systems

of beings presented, to which I suppose myself under a necessity of

assigning some substance, or ground of inhesion. I observe first the

universe of objects or of body: the sun, moon, and stars; the earth,

seas, plants, animals, men, ships, houses, and other productions either

of art or nature. Here Spinoza appears, and tells me, that these

are only modifications and that the subject in which they inhere is

simple, uncompounded, and indivisible. After this I consider the other

system of beings, viz. the universe of thought, or my impressions and

ideas. There I observe another sun, moon, and stars; an earth, and

seas, covered and inhabited by plants and animals; towns, houses,

mountains, rivers; and in short every thing I can discover or conceive

in the first system. Upon my inquiring concerning these, theologians

present themselves, and tell me, that these also are modifications, and

modifications of one simple, uncompounded, and indivisible substance.

Immediately upon which I am deafened with the noise of a hundred

voices, that treat the first hypothesis with detestation and scorn, and

the second with applause and veneration. I turn my attention to these

hypotheses to see what may be the reason of so great a partiality;

and find that they have the same fault of being unintelligible, and

that, as far as we can understand them, they are so much alike, that

'tis impossible to discover any absurdity in one, which is not common

to both of them. We have no idea of any quality in an object, which

does not agree to, and may not represent a quality in an impression;

and that because all our ideas are derived from our impressions. We

can never therefore find any repugnance betwixt an extended object as

a modification, and a simple uncompounded essence, as its substance;

unless that repugnance takes place equally betwixt the perception or

impression of that extended object, and the same uncompounded essence.

Every idea of a quality in an object passes through an impression;

and therefore every _perceivable_ relation, whether of connexion or

repugnance, must be common both to objects and impressions.

But though this argument, considered in general, seems evident beyond

all doubt and contradiction, yet to make it more clear and sensible,

let us survey it in detail; and see whether all the absurdities,

which have been found in the system of Spinoza, may not likewise be

discovered in that of theologians.[13]

First, it has been said against Spinoza, according to the scholastic

way of talking, rather than thinking, that a mode, not being any

distinct or separate existence, must be the very same with its

substance, and consequently the extension of the universe must be in

a manner identified with that simple, uncompounded essence in which

the universe is supposed to inhere. But this, it may be pretended, is

utterly impossible and inconceivable unless the indivisible substance

expand itself, so as to correspond to the extension, or the extension

contract itself, so as to answer to the indivisible substance. This

argument seems just, as far as we can understand it; and 'tis plain

nothing is required, but a change in the terms, to apply the same

argument to our extended perceptions, and the simple essence of the

soul; the ideas of objects and perceptions being in every respect the

same, only attended with the supposition of a difference, that is

unknown and incomprehensible.

Secondly, it has been said, that we have no idea of substance, which

is not applicable to matter; nor any idea of a distinct substance,

which is not applicable to every distinct portion of matter. Matter

therefore is not a mode but a substance, and each part of matter is

not a distinct mode, but a distinct substance. I have already proved,

that we have no perfect idea of substance; but that taking it for

_something that can exist by itself_, 'tis evident every perception

is a substance, and every distinct part of a perception a distinct

substance: and consequently the one hypothesis labours under the same

difficulties in this respect with the other.

Thirdly, it has been objected to the system of one simple substance in

the universe, that this substance, being the support or _substratum_

of every thing, must at the very same instant be modified into forms,

which are contrary and incompatible. The round and square figures

are incompatible in the same substance at the same time. How then is

it possible, that the same substance can at once be modified into

that square table, and into this round one? I ask the same question

concerning the impressions of these tables; and find that the answer is

no more satisfactory in one case than in the other.

It appears, then, that to whatever side we turn, the same difficulties

the simplicity and immateriality of the soul, without preparing the

way for a dangerous and irrecoverable atheism. 'Tis the same case,

if, instead of calling thought a modification of the soul, we should

give it the more ancient, and yet more modish name of an _action_.

By an action we mean much the same thing as what is commonly called

an abstract mode; that is, something which, properly speaking, is

neither distinguishable, nor separable from its substance, and is only

conceived by a distinction of reason, or an abstraction. But nothing is

gained by this change of the term of modification for that of action;

nor do we free ourselves from one single difficulty by its means, as

will appear from the two following reflections:

First, I observe, that the word _action_, according to this explication

of it, can never justly be applied to any perception, as derived from a

mind or thinking substance. Our perceptions are all really different,

and separable, and distinguishable from each other, and from every

thing else which we can imagine; and therefore, 'tis impossible to

conceive how they can be the action or abstract mode of any substance.

The instance of motion, which is commonly made use of to show after

what manner perception depends as an action upon its substance, rather

confounds than instructs us. Motion, to all appearance, induces no real

nor essential change on the body, but only varies its relation to other

objects. But, betwixt a person in the morning walking in a garden,

with company agreeable to him; and a person in the afternoon enclosed

in a dungeon, and full of terror, despair and resentment, there seems

to be a radical difference, and of quite another kind, than what is

produced on a body by the change of its situation. As we conclude from

the distinction and separability of their ideas, that external objects

have a separate existence from each other; so, when we make these ideas

themselves our objects, we must draw the same conclusion concerning

_them_, according to the precedent reasoning. At least, it must be

confessed, that having no idea of the substance of the soul, 'tis

impossible for us to tell how it can admit of such differences, and

even contrarieties of perception, without any fundamental change; and,

consequently, can never tell in what sense perceptions are actions of

that substance. The use, therefore, of the word _action_, unaccompanied

with any meaning, instead of that of modification, makes no addition

to our knowledge, nor is of any advantage to the doctrine of the

immateriality of the soul.

I add, in the second place, that if it brings any advantage to that

cause, it must bring an equal to the cause of atheism. For, do our

theologians pretend to make a monopoly of the word _action_, and may

not the atheists likewise take possession of it, and affirm that

other plants, animals, men, &c., are nothing but particular actions

of one simple universal substance, which exerts itself from a blind

and absolute necessity? This you'll say, is utterly absurd. I own

'tis unintelligible; but, at the same time assert, according to the

principles above explained, that 'tis impossible to discover any

absurdity in the supposition, that all the various objects in nature

are actions of one simple substance, which absurdity will not be

applicable to a like supposition concerning impressions and ideas.

From these hypotheses concerning the _substance_ and _local

conjunction_ of our perceptions, we may pass to another, which is more

intelligible than the former, and more important than the latter, viz.

concerning the _cause_ of our perceptions. Matter and motion, 'tis

commonly said in the schools, however varied, are still matter and

motion, and produce only a difference in the position and situation of

objects. Divide a body as often as you please, 'tis still body. Place

it in any figure, nothing ever results but figure, or the relation

of parts. Move it in any manner, you still find motion or a change

of relation. 'Tis absurd to imagine, that motion in a circle, for

instance, should be nothing but merely motion in a circle; while motion

in another direction, as in an ellipse, should also be a passion or

moral reflection: that the shocking of two globular particles should

become a sensation of pain, and that the meeting of two triangular ones

should afford a pleasure. Now as these different shocks and variations

and mixtures are the only changes of which matter is susceptible, and

as these never afford us any idea of thought or perception, 'tis

concluded to be impossible, that thought can ever be caused by matter.

Few have been able to withstand the seeming evidence of this argument;

and yet nothing in the world is more easy than to refute it. We need

only reflect on what has been proved at large, that we are never

sensible of any connexion betwixt causes and effects, and that 'tis

only by our experience of their constant conjunction, we can arrive

at any knowledge of this relation. Now, as all objects, which are not

contrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real

objects are contrary; I have inferred from these principles,[14] that

to consider the matter _a priori_, any thing may produce any thing,

and that we shall never discover a reason, why any object may or may

not be the cause of any other, however great, or however little the

resemblance may be betwixt them. This evidently destroys the precedent

reasoning concerning the cause of thought or perception. For though

there appear no manner of connexion betwixt motion or thought, the

case is the same with all other causes and effects. Place one body

of a pound weight on one end of a lever, and another body of the

same weight on another end; you will never find in these bodies any

principle of motion dependent on their distances from the centre, more

than of thought and perception. If you pretend, therefore, to prove,

_a priori_, that such a position of bodies can never cause thought;

because, turn it which way you will, 'tis nothing but a position of

bodies; you must, by the same course of reasoning conclude, that it

can never produce motion; since there is no more apparent connexion

in the one case than in the other. But as this latter conclusion is

contrary to evident experience, and as 'tis possible we may have a like

experience in the operations of the mind, and may perceive a constant

conjunction of thought and motion; you reason too hastily, when, from

the mere consideration of the ideas, you conclude that 'tis impossible

motion can ever produce thought, or a different position of parts give

rise to a different passion or reflection. Nay, 'tis not only possible

we may have such an experience, but 'tis certain we have it; since

every one may perceive, that the different dispositions of his body

change his thoughts and sentiments. And should it be said, that this

depends on the union of soul and body, I would answer, that we must

separate the question concerning the substance of the mind from that

concerning the cause of its thought; and that, confining ourselves

to the latter question, we find, by the comparing their ideas, that

thought and motion are different from each other, and by experience,

that they are constantly united; which being all the circumstances that

enter into the idea of cause and effect, when applied to the operations

of matter, we may certainly conclude, that motion may be, and actually

is, the cause of thought and perception.

There seems only this dilemma left us in the present case; either to

assert, that nothing can be the cause of another, but where the mind

can perceive the connexion in its idea of the objects: or to maintain,

that all objects which we find constantly conjoined, are upon that

account to be regarded as causes and effects. If we choose the first

part of the dilemma, these are the consequences. _First_, we in reality

affirm, that there is no such thing in the universe as a cause or

productive principle, not even the Deity himself; since our idea of

that Supreme Being is derived from particular impressions, none of

which contain any efficacy, nor seem to have _any_ connexion with _any_

other existence. As to what may be said, that the connexion betwixt the

idea of an infinitely powerful Being and that of any effect, which he

wills, is necessary and unavoidable; I answer, that we have no idea of

a Being endowed with any power, much less of one endowed with infinite

power. But if we will change expressions, we can only define power by

connexion; and then in saying, that the idea of an infinitely powerful

Being is connected with that of every effect which he wills, we really

do no more than assert, that a Being, whose volition is connected with

every effect, is connected with every effect; which is an identical

proposition, and gives us no insight into the nature of this power or

connexion. But, _secondly_, supposing that the Deity were the great and

efficacious principle which supplies the deficiency of all causes, this

leads us into the grossest impieties and absurdities. For upon the same

account that we have recourse to him in natural operations, and assert

that matter cannot of itself communicate motion, or produce thought,

viz. because there is no apparent connexion betwixt these objects; I

say, upon the very same account, we must acknowledge that the Deity

is the author of all our volitions and perceptions; since they have

no more apparent connexion either with one another, or with the

supposed but unknown substance of the soul. This agency of the Supreme

Being we know to have been asserted by several philosophers[15] with

relation to all the actions of the mind, except volition, or rather

an inconsiderable part of volition; though 'tis easy to perceive, that

this exception is a mere pretext, to avoid the dangerous consequences

of that doctrine. If nothing be active but what has an apparent

power, thought is in no case any more active than matter; and if this

inactivity must make us have recourse to a Deity, the Supreme Being is

the real cause of all our actions, bad as well as good, vicious as well

as virtuous.

Thus we are necessarily reduced to the other side of the dilemma,

viz. that all objects, which are found to be constantly conjoined,

are upon that account only to be regarded as causes and effects. Now,

as all objects which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant

conjunction, and as no real objects are contrary; it follows, that, for

ought we can determine by the mere ideas, any thing may be the cause

or effect of any thing; which evidently gives the advantage to the

materialists above their antagonists.

To pronounce, then, the final decision upon the whole: the question

concerning the substance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible:

all our perceptions are not susceptible of a local union, either with

what is extended or unextended; there being some of them of the one

kind, and some of the other: and as the constant conjunction of objects

constitutes the very essence of cause and effect, matter and motion

may often be regarded as the causes of thought, as far as we have any

notion of that relation.

'Tis certainly a kind of indignity to philosophy, whose sovereign

authority ought every where to be acknowledged, to oblige her on every

occasion to make apologies for her conclusions, and justify herself

to every particular art and science, which may be offended at her.

This puts one in mind of a king arraigned for high treason against

his subjects. There is only one occasion when philosophy will think

it necessary and even honourable to justify herself; and that is,

religion may seem to be in the least offended; whose rights are as dear

to her as her own, and are indeed the same. If any one, therefore,

should imagine that the foregoing arguments are any ways dangerous to

religion, I hope the following apology will remove his apprehensions.

There is no foundation for any conclusion _a priori_, either concerning

the operations or duration of any object, of which 'tis possible for

the human mind to form a conception. Any object may be imagined to

become entirely inactive, or to be annihilated in a moment; and 'tis

an evident principle, _that whatever we can imagine is possible_.

Now this is no more true of matter, than of spirit; of an extended

compounded substance, than of a simple and unextended. In both cases

the metaphysical arguments for the immortality of the soul are equally

inconclusive; and in both cases the moral arguments and those derived

from the analogy of nature are equally strong and convincing. If my

philosophy therefore makes no addition to the arguments for religion, I

have at least the satisfaction to think it takes nothing from them, but

that every thing remains precisely as before.

[9] Part I. Sect. 5.

[10] Sect 2, towards the end.

[11] Part. II. Sect. 6.

[12] Such as that of Sect. 2, from the coherence of our perceptions.

[13] See Bayle's Dictionary, article of Spinoza.

[14] Part III. sect. 15.

[15] As Father Malebranche and other Cartesians.

SECTION VI.

OF PERSONAL IDENTITY.

There are some philosophers, who imagine we are every moment intimately

conscious of what we call our _self_; that we feel its existence and

its continuance in existence; and are certain, beyond the evidence

of a demonstration, both of its perfect identity and simplicity. The

strongest sensation, the most violent passion, say they, instead of

distracting us from this view, only fix it the more intensely, and make

us consider their influence on _self_ either by their pain or pleasure.

To attempt a farther proof of this were to weaken its evidence; since

no proof can be derived from any fact of which we are so intimately

conscious; nor is there any thing, of which we can be certain, if we

doubt of this.

Unluckily all these positive assertions are contrary to that very

experience which is pleaded for them; nor have we any idea of _self_,

after the manner it is here explained. For, from what impression could

this idea be derived? This question 'tis impossible to answer without

a manifest contradiction and absurdity; and yet 'tis a question which

must necessarily be answered, if we would have the idea of self pass

for clear and intelligible. It must be some one impression that gives

rise to every real idea. But self or person is not any one impression,

but that to which our several impressions and ideas are supposed to

have a reference. If any impression gives rise to the idea of self,

that impression must continue invariably the same, through the whole

course of our lives; since self is supposed to exist after that manner.

But there is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and pleasure,

grief and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never

all exist at the same time. It cannot therefore be from any of these

impressions, or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and

consequently there is no such idea.

But farther, what must become of all our particular perceptions upon

this hypothesis? All these are different, and distinguishable, and

separable from each other, and may be separately considered, and may

exist separately, and have no need of any thing to support their

existence. After what manner therefore do they belong to self, and how

are they connected with it? For my part, when I enter most intimately

into what I call _myself_, I always stumble on some particular

perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred,

pain or pleasure. I never can catch _myself_ at any time without a

perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception. When

my perceptions are removed for any time, as by sound sleep, so long am

I insensible of _myself_, and may truly be said not to exist. And were

all my perceptions removed by death, and could I neither think, nor

feel, nor see, nor love, nor hate, after the dissolution of my body,

I should be entirely annihilated, nor do I conceive what is farther

requisite to make me a perfect nonentity. If any one, upon serious and

unprejudiced reflection, thinks he has a different notion of _himself_,

I must confess I can reason no longer with him. All I can allow him is,

that he may be in the right as well as I, and that we are essentially

different in this particular. He may, perhaps, perceive something

simple and continued, which he calls _himself_; though I am certain

there is no such principle in me.

But setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, I may venture to

affirm of the rest of mankind, that they are nothing but a bundle or

collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an

inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement. Our

eyes cannot turn in their sockets without varying our perceptions.

Our thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our

other senses and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there

any single power of the soul, which remains unalterably the same,

perhaps for one moment. The mind is a kind of theatre, where several

perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, repass, glide

away, and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations.

There is properly no _simplicity_ in it at one time, nor _identity_

in different, whatever natural propension we may have to imagine that

simplicity and identity. The comparison of the theatre must not mislead

us. They are the successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind;

nor have we the most distant notion of the place where these scenes are

represented, or of the materials of which it is composed.

What then gives us so great a propension to ascribe an identity to

these successive perceptions, and to suppose ourselves possessed of an

invariable and uninterrupted existence through the whole course of our

lives? In order to answer this question, we must distinguish betwixt

personal identity, as it regards our thought or imagination, and as it

regards our passions or the concern we take in ourselves. The first

is our present subject; and to explain it perfectly we must take the

matter pretty deep, and account for that identity, which we attribute

to plants and animals; there being a great analogy betwixt it and the

identity of a self or person.

We have a distinct idea of an object that remains invariable and

uninterrupted through a supposed variation of time; and this idea we

call that of _identity_ or _sameness_. We have also a distinct idea

of several different objects existing in succession, and connected

together by a close relation; and this to an accurate view affords

as perfect a notion of _diversity_, as if there was no manner of

relation among the objects. But though these two ideas of identity,

and a succession of related objects, be in themselves perfectly

distinct, and even contrary, yet 'tis certain that, in our common

way of thinking, they are generally confounded with each other. That

action of the imagination, by which we consider the uninterrupted and

invariable object, and that by which we reflect on the succession of

related objects, are almost the same to the feeling; nor is there much

more effort of thought required in the latter case than in the former.

The relation facilitates the transition of the mind from one object

to another, and renders its passage as smooth as if it contemplated

one continued object. This resemblance is the cause of the confusion

and mistake, and makes us substitute the notion of identity, instead

of that of related objects. However at one instant we may consider

the related succession as variable or interrupted, we are sure the

next to ascribe to it a perfect identity, and regard it as invariable

and uninterrupted. Our propensity to this mistake is so great from

the resemblance above mentioned, that we fall into it before we are

aware; and though we incessantly correct ourselves by reflection,

and return to a more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long

sustain our philosophy, or take off this bias from the imagination.

Our last resource is to yield to it, and boldly assert that these

different related objects are in effect the same, however interrupted

and variable. In order to justify to ourselves this absurdity, we often

feign some new and unintelligible principle, that connects the objects

together, and prevents their interruption or variation. Thus, we feign

the continued existence of the perceptions of our senses, to remove

the interruption; and run into the notion of a _soul_, and _self_, and

_substance_, to disguise the variation. But, we may farther observe,

that where we do not give rise to such a fiction, our propension to

confound identity with relation is so great, that we are apt to imagine

something unknown and mysterious,[16] connecting the parts, beside

their relation; and this I take to be the case with regard to the

identity we ascribe to plants and vegetables. And even when this does

not take place, we still feel a propensity to confound these ideas,

though we are not able fully to satisfy ourselves in that particular,

nor find any thing invariable and uninterrupted to justify our notion

of identity.

Thus, the controversy concerning identity is not merely a dispute

of words. For, when we attribute identity, in an improper sense,

to variable or interrupted objects, our mistake is not confined to

the expression, but is commonly attended with a fiction, either of

something invariable and uninterrupted, or of something mysterious and

inexplicable, or at least with a propensity to such fictions. What

will suffice to prove this hypothesis to the satisfaction of every

fair inquirer, is to show, from daily experience and observation, that

the objects which are variable or interrupted, and yet are supposed

to continue the same, are such only as consist of a succession of

parts, connected together by resemblance, contiguity, or causation.

For as such a succession answers evidently to our notion of diversity,

it can only be by mistake we ascribe to it an identity; and as the

relation of parts, which leads us into this mistake, is really nothing

but a quality, which produces an association of ideas, and an easy

transition of the imagination from one to another, it can only be from

the resemblance, which this act of the mind bears to that by which we

contemplate one continued object, that the error arises. Our chief

business, then, must be to prove, that all objects, to which we ascribe

identity, without observing their invariableness and uninterruptedness,

are such as consist of a succession of related objects.

In order to this, suppose any mass of matter, of which the parts are

contiguous and connected, to be placed before us; 'tis plain we must

attribute a perfect identity to this mass, provided all the parts

continue uninterruptedly and invariably the same, whatever motion or

change of place we may observe either in the whole or in any of the

parts. But supposing some very _small_ or _inconsiderable_ part to

be added to the mass, or subtracted from it; though this absolutely

destroys the identity of the whole, strictly speaking, yet as we seldom

think so accurately, we scruple not to pronounce a mass of matter

the same, where we find so trivial an alteration. The passage of the

thought from the object before the change to the object after it, is so

smooth and easy, that we scarce perceive the transition, and are apt to

imagine, that 'tis nothing but a continued survey of the same object.

There is a very remarkable circumstance that attends this experiment;

which is, that though the change of any considerable part in a mass

of matter destroys the identity of the whole, yet we must measure

the greatness of the part, not absolutely, but by its _proportion_

to the whole. The addition or diminution of a mountain would not be

sufficient to produce a diversity in a planet; though the change of a

very few inches would be able to destroy the identity of some bodies.

'Twill be impossible to account for this, but by reflecting that

objects operate upon the mind, and break or interrupt the continuity of

its actions, not according to their real greatness, but according to

their proportion to each other; and therefore, since this interruption

makes an object cease to appear the same, it must be the uninterrupted

progress of the thought which constitutes the imperfect identity.

This may be confirmed by another phenomenon. A change in any

considerable part of a body destroys its identity; but 'tis remarkable,

that where the change is produced _gradually_ and _insensibly_, we

are less apt to ascribe to it the same effect. The reason can plainly

be no other, than that the mind, in following the successive changes

of the body, feels an easy passage from the surveying its condition

in one moment, to the viewing of it in another, and in no particular

time perceives any interruption in its actions. From which continued

perception, it ascribes a continued existence and identity to the

object.

But whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes

gradually, and making them proportionable to the whole, 'tis certain,

that where the changes are at last observed to become considerable, we

make a scruple of ascribing identity to such different objects. There

is, however, another artifice, by which we may induce the imagination

to advance a step farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the

parts to each other, and a combination to some _common end_ or purpose.

A ship, of which a considerable part has been changed by frequent

reparations, is still considered as the same; nor does the difference

of the materials hinder us from ascribing an identity to it. The

common end, in which the parts conspire, is the same under all their

variations, and affords an easy transition of the imagination from one

situation of the body to another.

But this is still more remarkable, when we add a _sympathy_ of parts

to their _common end_, and suppose that they bear to each other the

reciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their actions and

operations. This is the case with all animals and vegetables; where not

only the several parts have a reference to some general purpose, but

also a mutual dependence on, and connexion with, each other. The effect

of so strong a relation is, that though every one must allow, that in

a very few years both vegetables and animals endure a _total_ change,

yet we still attribute identity to them, while their form, size and

substance, are entirely altered. An oak that grows from a small plant

to a large tree is still the same oak, though there be not one particle

of matter or figure of its parts the same. An infant becomes a man, and

is sometimes fat, sometimes lean, without any change in his identity.

We may also consider the two following phenomena, which are remarkable

in their kind. The first is, that though we commonly be able to

distinguish pretty exactly betwixt numerical and specific identity, yet

it sometimes happens that we confound them, and in our thinking and

reasoning employ the one for the other. Thus, a man who hears a noise

that is frequently interrupted and renewed, says it is still the same

noise, though 'tis evident the sounds have only a specific identity or

resemblance, and there is nothing numerically the same but the cause

which produced them. In like manner it may be said, without breach

of the propriety of language, that such a church, which was formerly

of brick, fell to ruin, and that the parish rebuilt the same church

of freestone, and according to modern architecture. Here neither the

form nor materials are the same, nor is there any thing common to the

two objects but their relation to the inhabitants of the parish; and

yet this alone is sufficient to make us denominate them the same. But

we must observe, that in these cases the first object is in a manner

annihilated before the second comes into existence; by which means,

we are never presented, in any one point of time, with the idea of

difference and multiplicity; and for that reason are less scrupulous in

calling them the same.

Secondly, we may remark, that though, in a succession of related

objects, it be in a manner requisite that the change of parts be not

sudden nor entire, in order to preserve the identity, yet where the

objects are in their nature changeable and inconstant, we admit of a

more sudden transition than would otherwise be consistent with that

relation. Thus, as the nature of a river consists in the motion and

change of parts, though in less than four-and-twenty hours these be

totally altered, this hinders not the river from continuing the same

during several ages. What is natural and essential to any thing is,

in a manner, expected; and what is expected makes less impression,

and appears of less moment than what is unusual and extraordinary.

A considerable change of the former kind seems really less to the

imagination than the most trivial alteration of the latter; and by

breaking less the continuity of the thought, has less influence in

destroying the identity.

We now proceed to explain the nature of _personal identity_, which

has become so great a question in philosophy, especially of late

years, in England, where all the abstruser sciences are studied with a

peculiar ardour and application. And here 'tis evident the same method

of reasoning must be continued which has so successfully explained the

identity of plants, and animals, and ships, and houses, and of all the

compounded and changeable productions either of art or nature. The

identity which we ascribe to the mind of man is only a fictitious one,

and of a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal

bodies. It cannot therefore have a different origin, but must proceed

from a like operation of the imagination upon like objects.

But lest this argument should not convince the reader, though in my

opinion perfectly decisive, let him weigh the following reasoning,

which is still closer and more immediate. 'Tis evident that the

identity which we attribute to the human mind, however perfect we may

imagine it to be, is not able to run the several different perceptions

into one, and make them lose their characters of distinction and

difference, which are essential to them. 'Tis still true that every

distinct perception which enters into the composition of the mind,

is a distinct existence, and is different, and distinguishable,

and separable from every other perception, either contemporary or

successive. But as, notwithstanding this distinction and separability,

we [suppose] the whole train of perceptions to be united by identity,

a question naturally arises concerning this relation of identity,

whether it be something that really binds our several perceptions

together, or only associates their ideas in the imagination; that is,

in other words, whether, in pronouncing concerning the identity of a

person, we observe some real bond among his perceptions, or only feel

one among the ideas we form of them. This question we might easily

decide, if we would recollect what has been already proved at large,

that the understanding never observes any real connexion among objects,

and that even the union of cause and effect, when strictly examined,

resolves itself into a customary association of ideas. For from thence

it evidently follows, that identity is nothing really belonging to

these different perceptions, and uniting them together, but is merely

a quality which we attribute to them, because of the union of their

ideas in the imagination when we reflect upon them. Now, the only

qualities which can give ideas an union in the imagination, are these

three relations above mentioned. These are the uniting principles in

the ideal world, and without them every distinct object is separable

by the mind, and may be separately considered, and appears not to have

any more connexion with any other object than if disjoined by the

greatest difference and remoteness. 'Tis therefore on some of these

three relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation, that identity

depends; and as the very essence of these relations consists in their

producing an easy transition of ideas, it follows, that our notions of

personal identity proceed entirely from the smooth and uninterrupted

progress of the thought along a train of connected ideas, according to

the principles above explained.

The only question, therefore, which remains is, by what relations this

uninterrupted progress of our thought is produced, when we consider

the successive existence of a mind or thinking person. And here 'tis

evident we must confine ourselves to resemblance and causation, and

must drop contiguity, which has little or no influence in the present

case.

To begin with _resemblance_; suppose we could see clearly into the

breast of another, and observe that succession of perceptions which

constitutes his mind or thinking principle, and suppose that he always

preserves the memory of a considerable part of past perceptions, 'tis

evident that nothing could more contribute to the bestowing a relation

on this succession amidst all its variations. For what is the memory

but a faculty, by which we raise up the images of past perceptions? And

as an image necessarily resembles its object, must not the frequent

placing of these resembling perceptions in the chain of thought, convey

the imagination more easily from one link to another, and make the

whole seem like the continuance of one object? In this particular,

then, the memory not only discovers the identity, but also contributes

to its production, by producing the relation of resemblance among the

perceptions. The case is the same, whether we consider ourselves or

others.

As to _causation_; we may observe, that the true idea of the human

mind, is to consider it as a system of different perceptions or

different existences, which are linked together by the relation of

cause and effect, and mutually produce, destroy, influence, and

modify each other. Our impressions give rise to their correspondent

ideas; and these ideas, in their turn, produce other impressions. One

thought chases another, and draws after it a third, by which it is

expelled in its turn. In this respect, I cannot compare the soul more

properly to any thing than to a republic or commonwealth, in which

the several members are united by the reciprocal ties of government

and subordination, and give rise to other persons who propagate the

same republic in the incessant changes of its parts. And as the same

individual republic may not only change its members, but also its

laws and constitutions; in like manner the same person may vary his

character and disposition, as well as his impressions and ideas,

without losing his identity. Whatever changes he endures, his several

parts are still connected by the relation of causation. And in this

view our identity with regard to the passions serves to corroborate

that with regard to the imagination, by the making our distant

perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present concern

for our past or future pains or pleasures.

As memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and extent of this

succession of perceptions, 'tis to be considered, upon that account

chiefly, as the source of personal identity. Had we no memory, we never

should have any notion of causation, nor consequently of that chain of

causes and effects, which constitute our self or person. But having

once acquired this notion of causation from the memory, we can extend

the same chain of causes, and consequently the identity of our persons

beyond our memory, and can comprehend times, and circumstances, and

actions, which we have entirely forgot, but suppose in general to have

existed. For how few of our past actions are there, of which we have

any memory? Who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts and

actions on the first of January 1715, the eleventh of March 1719, and

the third of August 1733? Or will he affirm, because he has entirely

forgot the incidents of these days, that the present self is not the

same person with the self of that time; and by that means overturn

all the most established notions of personal identity? In this view,

therefore, memory does not so much _produce_ as _discover_ personal

identity, by showing us the relation of cause and effect among our

different perceptions. 'Twill be incumbent on those who affirm that

memory produces entirely our personal identity, to give a reason why we

can thus extend our identity beyond our memory.

The whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion, which is of great

importance in the present affair, viz. that all the nice and subtile

questions concerning personal identity can never possibly be decided,

and are to be regarded rather as grammatical than as philosophical

difficulties. Identity depends on the relations of ideas; and these

relations produce identity, by means of that easy transition they

occasion. But as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may

diminish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard by which we

can decide any dispute concerning the time when they acquire or lose a

title to the name of identity. All the disputes concerning the identity

of connected objects are merely verbal, except so far as the relation

of parts gives rise to some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as

we have already observed.

What I have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our

notion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended

with little or no variation to that of _simplicity_. An object, whose

different co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation,

operates upon the imagination after much the same manner as one

perfectly simple and indivisible, and requires not a much greater

stretch of thought in order to its conception. From this similarity

of operation we attribute a simplicity to it, and feign a principle

of union as the support of this simplicity, and the centre of all the

different parts and qualities of the object.

Thus we have finished our examination of the several systems of

philosophy, both of the intellectual and moral world; and, in our

miscellaneous way of reasoning, have been led into several topics,

which will either illustrate and confirm some preceding part of this

discourse, or prepare the way for our following opinions. 'Tis now time

to return to a more close examination of our subject, and to proceed in

the accurate anatomy of human nature, having fully explained the nature

of our judgment and understanding.

[16] If the reader is desirous to see how a great genius may be

influenced by these seemingly trivial principles of the imagination, as

well as the mere vulgar, let him read my Lord Shaftsbury's reasonings

concerning the uniting principle of the universe, and the identity of

plants and animals. See his _Moralists_, or _Philosophical Rhapsody_.

SECTION VII.

CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.

But before I launch out into those immense depths of philosophy which

lie before me, I find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present

station, and to ponder that voyage which I have undertaken, and which

undoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a

happy conclusion. Methinks I am like a man, who, having struck on many

shoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith,

has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten

vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing

the globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. My memory of past

errors and perplexities makes me diffident for the future. The wretched

condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must employ in

my inquiries, increase my apprehensions. And the impossibility of

amending or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair,

and makes me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which I am at

present, rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean which

runs out into immensity. This sudden view of my danger strikes me with

melancholy; and, as 'tis usual for that passion, above all others, to

indulge itself, I cannot forbear feeding my despair with all those

desponding reflections which the present subject furnishes me with in

such abundance.

I am first affrighted and confounded with that forlorn solitude in

which I am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange

uncouth monster, who, not being able to mingle and unite in society,

has been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and

disconsolate. Fain would I run into the crowd for shelter and warmth,

but cannot prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. I call

upon others to join me, in order to make a company apart, but no one

will hearken to me. Every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that

storm which beats upon me from every side. I have exposed myself to

the enmity of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even

theologians; and can I wonder at the insults I must suffer? I have

declared my disapprobation of their systems; and can I be surprised

if they should express a hatred of mine and of my person? When I look

abroad, I foresee on every side dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny

and detraction. When I turn my eye inward, I find nothing but doubt and

ignorance. All the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though

such is my weakness, that I feel all my opinions loosen and fall of

themselves, when unsupported by the approbation of others. Every step

I take is with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an

error and absurdity in my reasoning.

For with what confidence can I venture upon such bold enterprises,

when, beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, I find so

many which are common to human nature? Can I be sure that, in leaving

all established opinions, I am following truth? and by what criterion

shall I distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on

her footsteps? After the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, I

can give no reason why I should assent to it, and feel nothing but a

_strong_ propensity to consider objects _strongly_ in that view under

which they appear to me. Experience is a principle which instructs me

in the several conjunctions of objects for the past. Habit is another

principle which determines me to expect the same for the future; and

both of them conspiring to operate upon the imagination, make me form

certain ideas in a more intense and lively manner than others which

are not attended with the same advantages. Without this quality, by

which the mind enlivens some ideas beyond others (which seemingly is so

trivial, and so little founded on reason), we could never assent to any

argument, nor carry our view beyond those few objects which are present

to our senses. Nay, even to these objects we could never attribute any

existence but what was dependent on the senses, and must comprehend

them entirely in that succession of perceptions which constitutes our

self or person. Nay, farther, even with relation to that succession, we

could only admit of those perceptions which are immediately present to

our consciousness; nor could those lively images, with which the memory

presents us, be ever received as true pictures of past perceptions. The

memory, senses, and understanding are therefore all of them founded on

the imagination, or the vivacity of our ideas.

No wonder a principle so inconstant and fallacious should lead us into

errors when implicitly followed (as it must be) in all its variations.

'Tis this principle which makes us reason from causes and effects; and

'tis the same principle which convinces us of the continued existence

of external objects when absent from the senses. But though these two

operations be equally natural and necessary in the human mind, yet in

some circumstances they are directly contrary;[17] nor is it possible

for us to reason justly and regularly from causes and effects, and at

the same time believe the continued existence of matter. How then shall

we adjust those principles together? Which of them shall we prefer? Or

in case we prefer neither of them, but successively assent to both, as

is usual among philosophers, with what confidence can we afterwards

usurp that glorious title, when we thus knowingly embrace a manifest

contradiction?

This contradiction[18] would be more excusable were it compensated

by any degree of solidity and satisfaction in the other parts of our

reasoning. But the case is quite contrary. When we trace up the human

understanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us into

such sentiments as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains and

industry, and to discourage us from future inquiries. Nothing is more

curiously inquired after by the mind of man than the causes of every

phenomenon; nor are we content with knowing the immediate causes, but

push on our inquiries till we arrive at the original and ultimate

principle. We would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with

that energy in the cause by which it operates on its effect; that tie,

which connects them together; and that efficacious quality on which

the tie depends. This is our aim in all our studies and reflections:

and how must we be disappointed when we learn that this connexion,

tie, or energy lies merely in ourselves, and is nothing but that

determination of the mind which is acquired by custom, and causes us

to make a transition from an object to its usual attendant, and from

the impression of one to the lively idea of the other? Such a discovery

not only cuts off all hope of ever attaining satisfaction, but even

prevents our very wishes; since it appears, that when we say we desire

to know the ultimate and operating principle as something which resides

in the external object, we either contradict ourselves, or talk without

a meaning.

This deficiency in our ideas is not indeed perceived in common life,

nor are we sensible that, in the most usual conjunctions of cause and

effect, we are as ignorant of the ultimate principle which binds them

together, as in the most unusual and extraordinary. But this proceeds

merely from an illusion of the imagination; and the question is,

how far we ought to yield to these illusions. This question is very

difficult, and reduces us to a very dangerous dilemma, whichever way we

answer it. For if we assent to every trivial suggestion of the fancy,

beside that these suggestions are often contrary to each other, they

lead us into such errors, absurdities, and obscurities, that we must

at last become ashamed of our credulity. Nothing is more dangerous to

reason than the flights of the imagination, and nothing has been the

occasion of more mistakes among philosophers. Men of bright fancies

may in this respect be compared to those angels, whom the Scripture

represents as covering their eyes with their wings. This has already

appeared in so many instances, that we may spare ourselves the trouble

of enlarging upon it any farther.

But, on the other hand, if the consideration of these instances makes

us take a resolution to reject all the trivial suggestions of the

fancy, and adhere to the understanding, that is, to the general and

more established properties of the imagination; even this resolution,

if steadily executed, would be dangerous, and attended with the

most fatal consequences. For I have already shown,[19] that the

understanding, when it acts alone, and according to its most general

principles, entirely subverts itself, and leaves not the lowest degree

of evidence in any proposition, either in philosophy or common life.

We save ourselves from this total scepticism only by means of that

singular and seemingly trivial property of the fancy, by which we

enter with difficulty into remote views of things, and are not able to

accompany them with so sensible an impression, as we do those which

are more easy and natural. Shall we, then, establish it for a general

maxim, that no refined or elaborate reasoning is ever to be received?

Consider well the consequences of such a principle. By this means you

cut off entirely all science and philosophy: you proceed upon one

singular quality of the imagination, and by a parity of reason must

embrace all of them: and you expressly contradict yourself; since this

maxim must be built on the preceding reasoning, which will be allowed

to be sufficiently refined and metaphysical. What party, then, shall

we choose among these difficulties? If we embrace this principle,

and condemn all refined reasoning, we run into the most manifest

absurdities. If we reject it in favour of these reasonings, we subvert

entirely the human understanding. We have therefore no choice left,

but betwixt a false reason and none at all. For my part, I know not

what ought to be done in the present case. I can only observe what

is commonly done; which is, that this difficulty is seldom or never

thought of; and even where it has once been present to the mind, is

quickly forgot, and leaves but a small impression behind it. Very

refined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do

not, and cannot establish it for a rule, that they ought not to have

any influence; which implies a manifest contradiction.

But what have I here said, that reflections very refined and

metaphysical have little or no influence upon us? This opinion I can

scarce forbear retracting, and condemning from my present feeling and

experience. The _intense_ view of these manifold contradictions and

imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my

brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can

look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another.

Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to

what condition shall I return? Whose favour shall I court, and whose

anger must I dread? What beings surround me? and on whom have I any

influence, or who have any influence on me? I am confounded with all

these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable

condition imaginable, environed with the deepest darkness, and utterly

deprived of the use of every member and faculty.

Most fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of

dispelling these clouds, Nature herself suffices to that purpose, and

cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by

relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression

of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a

game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and

when, after three or four hours' amusement, I would return to these

speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I

cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther.

Here, then, I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to

live, and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of

life. But notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course

of my animal spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief

in the general maxims of the world, I still feel such remains of my

former disposition, that I am ready to throw all my books and papers

into the fire, and resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life

for the sake of reasoning and philosophy. For those are my sentiments

in that splenetic humour which governs me at present. I may, nay I

must yield to the current of nature, in submitting to my senses and

understanding; and in this blind submission I show most perfectly my

sceptical disposition and principles. But does it follow that I must

strive against the current of nature, which leads me to indolence

and pleasure; that I must seclude myself, in some measure, from the

commerce and society of men, which is so agreeable; and that I must

torture my brain with subtilties and sophistries, at the very time that

I cannot satisfy myself concerning the reasonableness of so painful an

application, nor have any tolerable prospect of arriving by its means

at truth and certainty? Under what obligation do I lie of making such

an abuse of time? And to what end can it serve, either for the service

of mankind, or for my own private interest? No: if I must be a fool, as

all those who reason or believe any thing _certainly_ are, my follies

shall at least be natural and agreeable. Where I strive against my

inclination, I shall have a good reason for my resistance; and will no

more be led a wandering into such dreary solitudes, and rough passages,

as I have hitherto met with.

These are the sentiments of my spleen and indolence; and indeed I must

confess, that philosophy has nothing to oppose to them, and expects a

victory more from the returns of a serious good-humoured disposition,

than from the force of reason and conviction. In all the incidents of

life, we ought still to preserve our scepticism. If we believe that

fire warms, or water refreshes, 'tis only because it costs us too much

pains to think otherwise. Nay, if we are philosophers, it ought only to

be upon sceptical principles, and from an inclination which we feel to

the employing ourselves after that manner. Where reason is lively, and

mixes itself with some propensity, it ought to be assented to. Where it

does not, it never can have any title to operate upon us.

At the time, therefore, that I am tired with amusement and company,

and have indulged a _reverie_ in my chamber, or in a solitary walk

by a river side, I feel my mind all collected within itself, and am

naturally _inclined_ to carry my view into all those subjects, about

which I have met with so many disputes in the course of my reading and

conversation. I cannot forbear having a curiosity to be acquainted with

the principles of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of

government, and the cause of those several passions and inclinations

which actuate and govern me. I am uneasy to think I approve of one

object, and disapprove of another; call one thing beautiful, and

another deformed; decide concerning truth and falsehood, reason and

folly, without knowing upon what principles I proceed. I am concerned

for the condition of the learned world, which lies under such a

deplorable ignorance in all these particulars. I feel an ambition to

arise in me of contributing to the instruction of mankind, and of

acquiring a name by my inventions and discoveries. These sentiments

spring up naturally in my present disposition; and should I endeavour

to banish them, by attaching myself to any other business or diversion,

I _feel_ I should be a loser in point of pleasure; and this is the

origin of my philosophy.

But even suppose this curiosity and ambition should not transport

me into speculations without the sphere of common life, it would

necessarily happen, that from my very weakness I must be led into such

inquiries. 'Tis certain that superstition is much more bold in its

systems and hypotheses than philosophy; and while the latter contents

itself with assigning new causes and principles to the phenomena which

appear in the visible world, the former opens a world of its own, and

presents us with scenes, and beings, and objects, which are altogether

new. Since, therefore, 'tis almost impossible for the mind of man to

rest, like those of beasts, in that narrow circle of objects, which

are the subject of daily conversation and action, we ought only to

deliberate concerning the choice of our guide, and ought to prefer that

which is safest and most agreeable. And in this respect I make bold to

recommend philosophy, and shall not scruple to give it the preference

to superstition of every kind or denomination. For as superstition

arises naturally and easily from the popular opinions of mankind, it

seizes more strongly on the mind, and is often able to disturb us in

the conduct of our lives and actions. Philosophy, on the contrary, if

just, can present us only with mild and moderate sentiments; and if

false and extravagant, its opinions are merely the objects of a cold

and general speculation, and seldom go so far as to interrupt the

course of our natural propensities. The _Cynics_ are an extraordinary

instance of philosophers, who, from reasonings purely philosophical,

ran into as great extravagancies of conduct as any _monk_ or _dervise_

that ever was in the world. Generally speaking, the errors in religion

are dangerous; those in philosophy only ridiculous.

I am sensible, that these two cases of the strength and weakness of the

mind will not comprehend all mankind, and that there are in England,

in particular, many honest gentlemen, who, being always employed in

their domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations,

have carried their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which

are every day exposed to their senses. And indeed, of such as these I

pretend not to make philosophers, nor do I expect them either to be

associates in these researches, or auditors of these discoveries. They

do well to keep themselves in their present situation; and, instead

of refining them into philosophers, I wish we could communicate to

our founders of systems, a share of this gross earthy mixture, as an

ingredient, which they commonly stand much in need of, and which would

serve to temper those fiery particles, of which they are composed.

While a warm imagination is allowed to enter into philosophy, and

hypotheses embraced merely for being specious and agreeable, we can

never have any steady principles, nor any sentiments, which will suit

with common practice and experience. But were these hypotheses once

removed, we might hope to establish a system or set of opinions, which

if not true (for that, perhaps, is too much to be hoped for), might at

least be satisfactory to the human mind, and might stand the test of

the most critical examination. Nor should we despair of attaining this

end, because of the many chimerical systems, which have successively

arisen and decayed away among men, would we consider the shortness of

that period, wherein these questions have been the subjects of inquiry

and reasoning. Two thousand years with such long interruptions, and

under such mighty discouragements, are a small space of time to give

any tolerable perfection to the sciences; and perhaps we are still in

too early an age of the world to discover any principles, which will

bear the examination of the latest posterity. For my part, my only hope

is, that I may contribute a little to the advancement of knowledge,

by giving in some particulars a different turn to the speculations of

philosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly those subjects,

where alone they can expect assurance and conviction. Human Nature is

the only science of man; and yet has been hitherto the most neglected.

'Twill be sufficient for me, if I can bring it a little more into

fashion; and the hope of this serves to compose my temper from that

spleen, and invigorate it from that indolence, which sometimes prevail

upon me. If the reader finds himself in the same easy disposition,

let him follow me in my future speculations. If not, let him follow

his inclination, and wait the returns of application and good humour.

The conduct of a man who studies philosophy in this careless manner,

is more truly sceptical than that of one who, feeling in himself an

inclination to it, is yet so overwhelmed with doubts and scruples,

as totally to reject it. A true sceptic will be diffident of his

philosophical doubts, as well as of his philosophical conviction; and

will never refuse any innocent satisfaction which offers itself, upon

account of either of them.

Nor is it only proper we should in general indulge our inclination

in the most elaborate philosophical researches, notwithstanding our

sceptical principles, but also that we should yield to that propensity,

which inclines us to be positive and certain in _particular points_,

according to the light in which we survey them in any _particular

instant_. 'Tis easier to forbear all examination and inquiry, than

to check ourselves in so natural a propensity, and guard against

that assurance, which always arises from an exact and full survey

of an object. On such an occasion we are apt not only to forget our

scepticism, but even our modesty too; and make use of such terms as

these, _'tis evident, 'tis certain, 'tis undeniable_; which a due

deference to the public ought, perhaps, to prevent. I may have fallen

into this fault after the example of others; but I here enter a

_caveat_ against any objections which may be offered on that head; and

declare that such expressions were extorted from me by the present view

of the object, and imply no dogmatical spirit, nor conceited idea of

my own judgment, which are sentiments that I am sensible can become

nobody, and a sceptic still less than any other.

[17] Sect. 4.

[18] Part III. Sect. 14.

[19] Section 1.

END OF VOLUME FIRST.

End of Project Gutenberg's Philosophical Works, v. 1 (of 4), by David Hume

Philosophical Works, v. 1 (of 4) Including All the Essays, and Exhibiting the More Important Alterations and Corrections in the Successive Editions Published by the Author · 第 17 / 17 章

But here it may be objected, that the imagination, according to my own