The various senses or powers of percepti_The Theory of Moral Sentiments Or, an Essay Towards an Analysis of the Principles by Which Men Naturally Judge Concerning the Conduct and Character, First of Their Neighbours, and Afterwards of Themselves. to Which Is Added, a Dissertation on the Origin of Languages.

mind derives all its simple ideas, were, according to this system, of

two different kinds, of which the one were called the direct or

antecedent, the other, the reflex or consequent senses. The direct

senses were those faculties from which the mind derived the perception

of such species of things as did not presuppose the antecedent

perception of any other. Thus sounds and colours were objects of the

direct senses. To hear a sound or to see a colour does not presuppose

the antecedent perception of any other quality or object. The reflex or

consequent senses, on the other hand, were those faculties from which

the mind derived the perception of such species of things as presupposed

the antecedent perception of some other. Thus harmony and beauty were

objects of the reflex senses. In order to perceive the harmony of a

sound, or the beauty of a colour, we must first perceive the sound or

the colour. The moral sense was considered as a faculty of this kind.

That faculty, which Mr. Locke calls reflection, and from which he

derived the simple ideas of the different passions and emotions of the

human mind, was, according to Dr. Hutcheson, a direct internal sense.

That faculty again by which we perceived the beauty or deformity, the

virtue or vice of those different passions and emotions, was a reflex,

internal sense.

Footnote 25:

Treatise of the passions.

Dr. Hutcheson endeavoured still further to support this doctrine, by

shewing that it was agreeable to the analogy of nature, and that the

mind was endowed with a variety of other reflex senses exactly similar

to the moral sense; such as a sense of beauty and deformity in external

objects; a public sense, by which we sympathize with the happiness or

misery of our fellow-creatures; a sense of shame and honour, and a sense

of ridicule.

But notwithstanding all the pains which this ingenious philosopher has

taken to prove that the principle of approbation is founded in a

peculiar power of perception, somewhat analogous to the external senses,

there are some consequences, which he acknowledges to follow from this

doctrine, that will, perhaps, be regarded by many as a sufficient

confutation of it. The qualities, he allows,[26] which belong to the

objects of any sense, cannot, without the greatest absurdity, be

ascribed to the sense itself. Who ever thought of calling the sense of

seeing black or white, the sense of hearing loud or low, or the sense of

tasting sweet or bitter? And, according to him, it is equally absurd to

call our moral faculties virtuous or vicious, morally good or evil.

These qualities belong to the objects of those faculties, not to the

faculties themselves. If any man, therefore, was so absurdly constituted

as to approve of cruelty and injustice as the highest virtues, and to

disapprove of equity and humanity as the most pitiful vices, such a

constitution of mind might indeed be regarded as inconvenient both to

the individual and to the society, and likewise as strange, surprising,

and unnatural in itself; but it could not, without the greatest

absurdity, be denominated vicious or morally evil.

Footnote 26:

Illustrations upon the Moral Sense. Sect. 1. p. 237, et seq. Third

Edition.

Yet surely if we saw any man shouting with admiration and applause at a

barbarous and unmerited execution, which some insolent tyrant had

ordered, we should not think we were guilty of any great absurdity in

denominating this behaviour vicious and morally evil in the highest

degree, though it expressed nothing but depraved moral faculties, or an

absurd approbation of this horrid action, as of what was noble,

magnanimous, and great. Our heart, I imagine, at the sight of such a

spectator, would forget for a while its sympathy with the sufferer, and

feel nothing but horror and detestation, at the thought of so execrable

a wretch. We should abominate him even more than the tyrant who might be

goaded on by the strong passions of jealousy, fear, and resentment, and

upon that account be more excusable. But the sentiments of the spectator

would appear altogether without cause or motive, and therefore most

perfectly and completely detestable. There is no perversion of sentiment

or affection which our heart would be more averse to enter into, or

which it would reject with greater hatred and indignation than one of

this kind; and so far from regarding such a constitution of mind as

being merely something strange or inconvenient, and not in any respect

vicious or morally evil, we should rather consider it as the very last

and most dreadful stage of moral depravity.

Correct moral sentiments, on the contrary, naturally appear in some

degree laudable and morally good. The man, whose censure and applause

are upon all occasions suited with the greatest accuracy to the value or

unworthiness of the object, seems to deserve a degree even of moral

approbation. We admire the delicate precision of his moral sentiments:

they lead our own judgments, and, upon account of their uncommon and

surprising justness, they even excite our wonder and applause. We cannot

indeed be always sure that the conduct of such a person would be in any

respect correspondent to the precision and accuracy of his judgments

concerning the conduct of others. Virtue requires habit and resolution

of mind, as well as delicacy of sentiment; and unfortunately the former

qualities are sometimes wanting, where the latter is in the greatest

perfection. This disposition of mind, however, though it may sometimes

be attended with imperfections, is incompatible with any thing that is

grossly criminal, and is the happiest foundation upon which the

superstructure of perfect virtue can be built. There are many men who

mean very well, and seriously purpose to do what they think their duty,

who notwithstanding are disagreeable on account of the coarseness of

their moral sentiments.

It may be said, perhaps, that though the principle of approbation is not

founded upon any power of perception that is in any respect analogous to

the external senses, it may still be founded upon a peculiar sentiment

which answers this one particular purpose and no other. Approbation and

disapprobation, it may be pretended, are certain feelings or emotions

which arise in the mind upon the view of different characters and

actions; and as resentment might be called a sense of injuries, or

gratitude a sense of benefits, so these may very properly receive the

name of a sense of right and wrong, or of a moral sense.

But this account of things, though it may not be liable to the same

objections with the foregoing, is exposed to others which are equally

unanswerable.

First of all, whatever variations any particular emotion may undergo, it

still preserves the general features which distinguish it to be an

emotion of such a kind, and these general features are always more

striking and remarkable than any variation which it may undergo in

particular cases. Thus anger is an emotion of a particular kind: and

accordingly its general features are always more distinguishable than

all the variations it undergoes in particular cases. Anger against a

man, is, no doubt, somewhat different from anger against a woman, and

that again from anger against a child. In each of those three cases, the

general passion of anger receives a different modification from the

particular character of its object, as may easily be observed by the

attentive. But still the general features of the passion predominate in

all these cases. To distinguish these, requires no nice observation: a

very delicate attention, on the contrary, is necessary to discover their

variations: every body takes notice of the former: scarce any body

observes the latter. If approbation and disapprobation, therefore, were,

like gratitude and resentment, emotions of a particular kind, distinct

from every other, we should expect that in all the variations which

either of them might undergo, it would still retain the general features

which mark it to be an emotion of such a particular kind, clear, plain,

and easily distinguishable. But in fact it happens quite otherwise. If

we attend to what we really feel when upon different occasions we either

approve or disapprove, we shall find that our emotion in one case is

often totally different from that in another, and that no common

features can possibly be discovered between them. Thus the approbation

with which we view a tender, delicate, and humane sentiment, is quite

different from that with which we are struck by one that appears great,

daring, and magnanimous. Our approbation of both may, upon different

occasions, be perfect and entire; but we are softened by the one, and we

are elevated by the other, and there is no sort of resemblance between

the emotions which they excite in us. But, according to that system

which I have been endeavouring to establish, this must necessarily be

the case. As the emotions of the person whom we approve of, are, in

those two cases, quite opposite to one another, and as our approbation

arises from sympathy with those opposite emotions, what we feel upon the

one occasion, can have no sort of resemblance to what we feel upon the

other. But this could not happen if approbation consisted in a peculiar

emotion which had nothing in common with the sentiments we approved of,

but which arose at the view of those sentiments, like any other passion

at the view of its proper object. The same thing holds true with regard

to disapprobation. Our horror for cruelty has no sort of resemblance to

our contempt for mean-spiritedness. It is quite a different species of

discord which we feel at the view of those two different vices, between

our minds and those of the person whose sentiments and behaviour we

consider.

Secondly, I have already observed, that not only the different passions

or affections of the human mind which are approved or disapproved of

appear morally good or evil, but that proper and improper approbation

appear, to our natural sentiments, to be stampt with the same

characters. I would ask, therefore, how it is, that, according to this

system, we approve or disapprove of proper or improper approbation. To

this question, there is, I imagine, but one reasonable answer, which can

possibly be given. It must be said, that when the approbation with which

our neighbour regards the conduct of a third person coincides with our

own, we approve of his approbation, and consider it as, in some measure,

morally good; and that on the contrary, when it does not coincide with

our own sentiments, we disapprove of it, and consider it as, in some

measure, morally evil. It must be allowed, therefore, that, at least in

this one case, the coincidence or opposition of sentiments, between the

observer and the person observed, constitutes moral approbation or

disapprobation. And if it does so in this one case, I would ask, why not

in every other? to what purpose imagine a new power of perception in

order to account for those sentiments?

Against every account of the principle of approbation, which makes it

depend upon a peculiar sentiment, distinct from every other, I would

object; that it is strange that this sentiment, which Providence

undoubtedly intended to be the governing principle of human nature,

should hitherto have been so little taken notice of, as not to have got

a name in any language. The word moral sense is of very late formation,

and cannot yet be considered as making part of the English tongue. The

word approbation has but within these few years been appropriated to

denote peculiarly any thing of this kind. In propriety of language we

approve of whatever is entirely to our satisfaction, of the form of a

building, of the contrivance of a machine, of the flavour of a dish of

meat. The word conscience does not immediately denote any moral faculty

by which we approve or disapprove. Conscience supposes, indeed, the

existence of some such faculty, and properly signifies our consciousness

of having acted agreeably or contrary to its directions. When love,

hatred, joy, sorrow, gratitude, resentment, with so many other passions

which are all supposed to be the subjects of this principle, have made

themselves considerable enough to get titles to know them by, is it not

surprising that the sovereign of them all should hitherto have been so

little heeded, that, a few philosophers excepted, no body has yet

thought it worth while to bestow a name upon it?

When we approve of any character or action, the sentiments which we

feel, are, according to the foregoing system, derived from four sources,

which are in some respects different from one another. First, we

sympathize with the motives of the agent; secondly, we enter into the

gratitude of those who receive the benefit of his actions; thirdly, we

observe that his conduct has been agreeable to the general rules by

which those two sympathies generally act; and, last of all, when we

consider such actions as making part of a system of behaviour which

tends to promote the happiness either of the individual or of the

society, they appear to derive a beauty from this utility, not unlike

that which we ascribe to any well contrived machine. After deducting, in

any one particular case, all that must be acknowledged to proceed from

some one or other of these four principles, I should be glad to know

what remains, and I shall freely allow this overplus to be ascribed to a

moral sense, or to any other peculiar faculty, provided any body will

ascertain precisely what this overplus is. It might be expected,

perhaps, that if there was any such peculiar principle, such as this

moral sense is supposed to be, we should feel it, in some particular

cases, separated and detached from every other, as we often feel joy,

sorrow, hope, and fear, pure and unmixed with any other emotion. This

however, I imagine, cannot even be pretended. I have never heard any

instance alleged in which this principle could be said to exert itself

alone and unmixed with sympathy or antipathy, with gratitude or

resentment, with the perception of the agreement or disagreement of any

action to an established rule, or last of all with that general taste

for beauty and order which is excited by inanimated as well as by

animated objects.

II. There is another system which attempts to account for the origin of

our moral sentiments from sympathy distinct from that which I have been

endeavouring to establish. It is that which places virtue in utility,

and accounts for the pleasure with which the spectator surveys the

utility of any quality from sympathy with the happiness of those who are

affected by it. This sympathy is different both from that by which we

enter into the motives of the agent, and from that by which we go along

with the gratitude of the persons who are benefited by his actions. It

is the same principle with that by which we approve of a well contrived

machine. But no machine can be the object of either of those two last

mentioned sympathies. I have already, in the fourth part of this

discourse, given some account of this system.

SECTION IV.

Of the manner in which different authors have treated of the practical

rules of morality.

It was observed in the third part of this discourse, that the rules of

justice are the only rules of morality which are precise and accurate;

that those of all the other virtues are loose, vague, and indeterminate;

that the first may be compared to the rules of grammar; the others to

those which critics lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and

elegant in composition, and which present us rather with a general idea

of the perfection we ought to aim at, than afford us any certain and

infallible directions for acquiring it.

As the different rules of morality admit such different degrees of

accuracy, those authors who have endeavoured to collect and digest them

into systems have done it in two different manners; and one set has

followed thro’ the whole that loose method to which they were naturally

directed by the consideration of one species of virtues; while another

has as universally endeavoured to introduce into their precepts that

sort of accuracy of which only some of them are susceptible. The first

have wrote like critics, the second like grammarians.

I. The first, among whom we may count all the ancient moralists, have

contented themselves with describing in a general manner the different

vices and virtues, and with pointing out the deformity and misery of the

one disposition as well as the propriety and happiness of the other, but

have not affected to lay down many precise rules that are to hold good

unexceptionably in all particular cases. They have only endeavoured to

ascertain, as far as language is capable of ascertaining, first, wherein

consists the sentiment of the heart, upon which each particular virtue

is founded, what sort of internal feeling or emotion it is which

constitutes the essence of friendship, of humanity, of generosity, of

justice, of magnanimity, and of all the other virtues, as well as of the

vices which are opposed to them: and, secondly, What is the general way

of acting, the ordinary tone and tenour of conduct to which each of

those sentiments would direct us, or how it is that a friendly, a

generous, a brave, a just, and a humane man, would, upon ordinary

occasions, chuse to act.

To characterize the sentiment of the heart, upon which each particular

virtue is founded, though it requires both a delicate and accurate

pencil, is a talk, however, which may be executed with some degree of

exactness. It is impossible, indeed, to express all the variations which

each sentiment either does or ought to undergo, according to every

possible variation of circumstances. They are endless, and language

wants names to mark them by. The sentiment of friendship, for example,

which we feel for an old man is different from that which we feel for a

young: that which we entertain for an austere man different from that

which we feel for one of softer and gentler manners: and that again from

what we feel for one of gay vivacity and spirit. The friendship which we

conceive for a man is different from that with which a woman affects us,

even where there is no mixture of any grosser passion. What author could

enumerate and ascertain these and all the other infinite varieties which

this sentiment is capable of undergoing? But still the general sentiment

of friendship and familiar attachment which is common to them all, may

be ascertained with a sufficient degree of accuracy. The picture which

is drawn of it, though it will always be in many respects incomplete,

may, however, have such a resemblance as to make us know the original

when we meet with it, and even distinguish it from other sentiments to

which it has a considerable resemblance, such as good-will, respect,

esteem, admiration.

To describe, in a general manner, what is the ordinary way of acting to

which each virtue would prompt us, is still more easy. It is, indeed,

scarce possible to describe the internal sentiment or emotion upon which

it is founded, without doing something of this kind. It is impossible by

language to express, if I may say so, the invisible features of all the

different modifications of passion as they show themselves within. There

is no other way of marking and distinguishing them from one another, but

by describing the effects which they produce without, the alterations

which they occasion in the countenance, in the air and external

behaviour, the resolutions they suggest, the actions they prompt to. It

is thus that Cicero, in the first book of his Offices, endeavours to

direct us to the practice of the four cardinal virtues, and that

Aristotle in the practical parts of his Ethics, points out to us the

different habits by which he would have us regulate our behaviour, such

as liberality, magnificence, magnanimity, and even jocularity and good

humour, qualities, which that indulgent philosopher has thought worthy

of a place in the catalogue of the virtues, though the lightness of that

approbation which we naturally bestow upon them, should not seem to

entitle them to so venerable a name.

Such works present us with agreeable and lively pictures of manners. By

the vivacity of their descriptions they inflame our natural love of

virtue, and increase our abhorrence of vice: by the justness as well as

delicacy of their observations they may often help both to correct and

to ascertain our natural sentiments with regard to the propriety of

conduct, and suggesting many nice and delicate attentions, form us to a

more exact justness of behaviour, than what, without such instruction,

we should have been apt to think of. In treating of the rules of

morality, in this manner, consists the science which is properly called

Ethics, a science, which though like criticism, it does not admit of the

most accurate precision, is, however, both highly useful and agreeable.

It is of all others the most susceptible of the embellishments of

eloquence, and by means of them of bestowing, if that be possible, a new

importance upon the smallest rules of duty. Its precepts, when thus

dressed and adorned, are capable of producing upon the flexibility of

youth, the noblest and most lasting impressions, and as they fall in

with the natural magnanimity of that generous age, they are able to

inspire, for a time at least, the most heroic resolutions, and thus tend

both to establish and confirm the best and most useful habits of which

the mind of man is susceptible. Whatever precept and exhortation can do

to animate us to the practice of virtue, is done by this science

delivered in this manner.

II. The second set of moralists, among whom we may count all the

casuists of the middle and latter ages of the christian church, as well

as all those who in this and in the preceding century have treated of

what is called natural jurisprudence, do not content themselves with

characterizing in this general manner that tenour of conduct which they

would recommend to us, but endeavour to lay down exact and precise rules

for the direction of every circumstance of our behaviour. As justice is

the only virtue with regard to which such exact rules can properly be

given; it is this virtue, that has chiefly fallen under the

consideration of those two different sets of writers. They treat of it,

however, in a very different manner.

Those who write upon the principles of jurisprudence, consider only what

the person to whom the obligation is due, ought to think himself

entitled to exact by force; what every impartial spectator would approve

of him for exacting, or what a judge or arbiter, to whom he had

submitted his case, and who had undertaken to do him justice, ought to

oblige the other person to suffer or to perform. The casuists, on the

other hand, do not so much examine what it is, that might properly be

exacted by force, as what it is, that the person who owes the obligation

ought to think himself bound to perform from the most sacred and

scrupulous regard to the general rules of justice, and from the most

conscientious dread, either of wronging his neighbour, or of violating

the integrity of his own character. It is the end of jurisprudence to

prescribe rules for the decisions of judges and arbiters. It is the end

of casuistry to prescribe rules for the conduct of a good man. By

observing all the rules of jurisprudence, supposing them ever so

perfect, we should deserve nothing but to be free from external

punishment. By observing those of casuistry, supposing them such as they

ought to be, we should be entitled to considerable praise by the exact

and scrupulous delicacy of our behaviour.

It may frequently happen that a good man ought to think himself bound,

from a sacred and conscientious regard to the general rules of justice

to perform many things which it would be the highest injustice to extort

from him, or for any judge or arbiter to impose on him by force. To give

a trite example; a highwayman, by the fear of death, obliges a traveller

to promise him a certain sum of money. Whether such a promise, extorted

in this manner by unjust force, ought to be regarded as obligatory, is a

question that has been very much debated.

If we consider it merely as a question of jurisprudence, the decision

can admit of no doubt. It would be absurd to suppose that the highwayman

can be entitled to use force to constrain the other to perform. To

extort the promise was a crime which deserved the highest punishment,

and to extort the performance would only be adding a new crime to the

former. He can complain of no injury who has been only deceived by the

person by whom he might justly have been killed. To suppose that a judge

ought to enforce the obligation of such promises, or that the magistrate

ought to allow them to sustain an action at law, would be the most

ridiculous of all absurdities. If we consider this question, therefore,

as a question of jurisprudence, we can be at no loss about the decision.

But if we consider it as a question of casuistry, it will not be so

easily determined. Whether a good man, from a conscientious regard to

that most sacred rule of justice, which commands the observance of all

serious promises, would not think himself bound to perform, is at least

much more doubtful. That no regard is due to the disappointment of the

wretch who brings him into this situation, that no injury is done to the

robber, and consequently that nothing can be extorted by force, will

admit of no sort of dispute. But whether some regard is not, in this

case, due to his own dignity and honour, to the inviolable sacredness of

that part of his character which makes him reverence the law of truth,

and abhor every thing that approaches to treachery and falsehood, may,

perhaps, more reasonably be made a question. The casuists accordingly

are greatly divided about it. One party, with whom we may count Cicero

among the ancients, among the moderns, Puffendorf, Barbeyrac his

commentator, and above all the late Dr. Hutcheson, one who in most cases

was by no means a loose casuist, determine, without any hesitation, that

no sort of regard is due to any such promise, and that to think

otherwise is mere weakness and superstition. Another party, among whom

we may reckon [27]some of the ancient fathers of the church, as well as

some very eminent modern casuists, have been of another opinion, and

have judged all such promises obligatory.

Footnote 27:

St. Augustine, la Placette.

If we consider the matter according to the common sentiments of mankind,

we shall find that some regard would be thought due even to a promise of

this kind; but that it is impossible to determine how much, by any

general rule that will apply to all cases without exception. The man who

was quite frank and easy in making promises of this kind, and who

violated them with as little ceremony, we should not choose for our

friend and companion. A gentleman who should promise a highwayman five

pounds and not perform, would incur some blame. If the sum promised,

however, was very great, it might be more doubtful, what was proper to

be done. If it was such, for example, that the payment of it would

entirely ruin the family of the promiser, if it was so great as to be

sufficient for promoting the most useful purposes, it would appear in

some measure criminal, at least extremely improper, to throw it, for the

sake of a punctilio, into such worthless hands. The man who should

beggar himself, or who should throw away an hundred thousand pounds,

though he could afford that vast sum, for the sake of observing such a

parole with a thief, would appear to the common sense of mankind, absurd

and extravagant in the highest degree. Such profusion would seem

inconsistent with his duty, with what he owed both to himself and

others, and what, therefore, regard, to a promise extorted in this

manner, could by no means authorize. To fix, however, by any precise

rule, what degree of regard ought to be paid to it, or what might be the

greatest sum which could be due from it, is evidently impossible. This

would vary according to the characters of the persons, according to

their circumstances, according to the solemnity of the promise, and even

according to the incidents of the rencounter: and if the promiser had

been treated with a great deal of that sort of gallantry, which is

sometimes to be met with in persons of the most abandoned characters,

more would seem due than upon other occasions. It may be said in

general, that exact propriety requires the observance of all such

promises, whenever it is not inconsistent with some other duties that

are more sacred; such as regard to the public interest, to those whom

gratitude, whom natural affection, or whom the laws of proper

beneficence should prompt us to provide for. But, as was formerly taken

notice of, we have no precise rules to determine what external actions

are due from a regard to such motives, nor, consequently, when it is

that those virtues are inconsistent with the observance of such

promises.

It is to be observed, however, that whenever such promises are violated,

though for the most necessary reasons, it is always with some degree of

dishonour to the person who made them. After they are made, we may be

convinced of the impropriety of observing them. But still there is some

fault in having made them. It is at least a departure from the highest

and noblest maxims of magnanimity and honour. A brave man ought to die,

rather than make a promise which he can neither keep without folly, nor

violate without ignominy. For some degree of ignominy always attends a

situation of this kind. Treachery and falsehood are vices so dangerous,

so dreadful, and, at the same time, such as may so easily, and, upon

many occasions, so safely be indulged, that we are more jealous of them

than of almost any other. Our imagination therefore attaches the idea of

shame to all violations of faith, in every circumstance and in every

situation. They resemble, in this respect, the violations of chastity in

the fair sex, a virtue of which, for the like reasons, we are

excessively jealous; and our sentiments are not more delicate with

regard to the one, than with regard to the other. Breach of chastity

dishonours irretrievably. No circumstances, no solicitation can excuse

it; no sorrow, no repentance atone for it. We are so nice in this

respect that even a rape dishonours, and the innocence of the mind

cannot, in our imagination, wash out the pollution of the body. It is

the same case with the violation of faith, when it has been solemnly

pledged, even to the most worthless of mankind. Fidelity is so necessary

a virtue, that we apprehend it in general to be due even to those to

whom nothing else is due, and whom we think it lawful to kill and

destroy. It is to no purpose that the person who has been guilty of the

breach of it, urges that he promised in order to save his life, and that

he broke his promise because it was inconsistent with some other

respectable duty to keep it. These circumstances may alleviate, but

cannot entirely wipe out his dishonour. He appears to have been guilty

of an action with which, in the imaginations of men, some degree of

shame is inseparably connected. He has broke a promise which he had

solemnly averred he would maintain; and his character, if not

irretrievably stained and polluted, has at least a ridicule affixed to

it, which it will be very difficult entirely to efface; and no man, I

imagine, who had gone through an adventure of this kind, would be fond

of telling the story.

This instance may serve to show wherein consists the difference between

casuistry and jurisprudence, even when both of them consider the

obligations of the general rules of justice.

But though this difference be real and essential, though those two

sciences propose quite different ends, the sameness of the subject has

made such a similarity between them, that the greater part of authors

whose professed design was to treat of jurisprudence, have determined

the different questions they examine, sometimes according to the

principles of that science, and sometimes according to those of

casuistry, without distinguishing, and, perhaps, without being

themselves aware when they did the one, and when the other.

The doctrine of the casuists, however, is by no means confined to the

consideration of what a conscientious regard to the general rules of

justice, would demand of us. It embraces many other parts of Christian

and moral duty. What seems principally to have given occasion to the

cultivation of this species of science was the custom of auricular

confession, introduced by the Roman Catholic superstition, in times of

barbarism and ignorance. By that institution, the most secret actions,

and even the thoughts of every person, which could be suspected of

receding in the smallest degree from the rules of Christian purity, were

to be revealed to the confessor. The confessor informed his penitents

whether, and in what respect they had violated their duty, and what

penance it behoved them to undergo, before he could absolve them in the

name of the offended Deity.

The consciousness, or even the suspicion of having done wrong, is a load

upon every mind, and is accompanied with anxiety and terror in all those

who are not hardened by long habits of iniquity. Men, in this, as in all

other distresses, are naturally eager to disburthen themselves of the

oppression which they feel upon their thoughts, by unbosoming the agony

of their mind to some person whose secrecy and discretion they can

confide in. The shame, which they suffer from this acknowledgment, is

fully compensated by that alleviation of their uneasiness which the

sympathy of their confident seldom fails to occasion. It relieves them

to find that they are not altogether unworthy of regard, and that

however their past conduct may be censured, their present disposition is

at least approved of, and is perhaps sufficient to compensate the other,

at least to maintain them in some degree of esteem with their friend. A

numerous and artful clergy had, in those times of superstition,

insinuated themselves into the confidence of almost every private

family. They possessed all the little learning which the times could

afford, and their manners, though in many respects rude and disorderly,

were polished and regular compared with those of the age they lived in.

They were regarded, therefore, not only as the great directors of all

religious, but of all moral duties. Their familiarity gave reputation to

whoever was so happy as to possess it, and every mark of their

disapprobation stamped the deepest ignominy upon all who had the

misfortune to fall under it. Being considered as the great judges of

right and wrong, they were naturally consulted about all scruples that

occurred, and it was reputable for any person to have it known that he

made those holy men the confidents of all such secrets, and took no

important or delicate step in his conduct without their advice and

approbation. It was not difficult for the clergy, therefore, to get it

established as a general rule, that they should be entrusted with what

it had already become fashionable to entrust them, and with what they

generally would have been entrusted though no such rule had been

established. To qualify themselves for confessors became thus a

necessary part of the study of churchmen and divines, and they were

thence led to collect what are called cases of conscience, nice and

delicate situations, in which it is hard to determine whereabouts the

propriety of conduct may lie. Such works, they imagined, might be of use

both to the directors of consciences and to those who were to be

directed; and hence the origin of books of casuistry.

The moral duties which fell under the consideration of the casuists were

chiefly those which can, in some measure at least, be circumscribed

within general rules, and of which the violation is naturally attended

with some degree of remorse and some dread of suffering punishment. The

design of that institution which gave occasion to their works, was to

appease those terrors of conscience which attend upon the infringement

of such duties. But it is not every virtue of which the defect is

accompanied with any very severe compunctions of this kind, and no man

applies to his confessor for absolution, because he did not perform the

most generous, the most friendly, or the most magnanimous action which,

in his circumstances, it was possible to perform. In failures of this

kind, the rule that is violated is commonly not very determinate, and is

generally of such a nature too, that though the observance of it might

entitle to honour and reward, the violation seems to expose to no

positive blame, censure, or punishment. The exercise of such virtues the

casuists seem to have regarded as a sort of works of supererogation,

which could not be very strictly enacted, and which it was therefore

unnecessary for them to treat of.

The breaches of moral duty, therefore, which came before the tribunal of

the confessor, and upon that account fell under the cognizance of the

casuists, were chiefly of three different kinds.

First and principally, breaches of the rules of justice. The rules here

are all express and positive, and the violation of them is naturally

attended with the consciousness of deserving, and the dread of suffering

punishment both from God and man.

Secondly, breaches of the rules of chastity. These in all grosser

instances are real breaches of the rules of justice, and no person can

be guilty of them without doing the most unpardonable injury to some

other. In smaller instances, when they amount only to a violation of

those exact decorums which ought to be observed in the conversation of

the two sexes, they cannot indeed justly be considered as violations of

the rules of justice. They are generally, however, violations of a

pretty plain rule, and, at least in one of the sexes, tend to bring

ignominy upon the person who has been guilty of them, and consequently

to be attended in the scrupulous with some degree of shame and

contrition of mind.

Thirdly, breaches of the rules of veracity. The violation of truth, it

is to be observed, is not always a breach of justice, though it is so

upon many occasions, and consequently cannot always expose to any

external punishment. The vice of common lying, though a most miserable

meanness, may frequently do hurt to no person, and in this case no claim

of vengeance or satisfaction can be due either to the persons imposed

upon, or to others. But though the violation of truth is not always a

breach of justice, it is always a breach of a very plain rule, and what

naturally tends to cover with shame the person who has been guilty of

it. The great pleasure of conversation, and indeed of society, arises

from a certain correspondence of sentiments and opinions, from a certain

harmony of minds, which like so many musical instruments coincide and

keep time with one another. But this most delightful harmony cannot be

obtained unless there is a free communication of sentiments and

opinions. We all desire, upon this account, to feel how each other is

affected, to penetrate into each other’s bosoms, and to observe the

sentiments and affections which really subsist there. The man who

indulges us in this natural passion, who invites us into his heart, who,

as it were, sets open the gates of his breast to us, seems to exercise a

species of hospitality more delightful than any other. No man, who is in

ordinary good temper, can fail of pleasing, if he has the courage to

utter his real sentiments as he feels them, and because he feels them.

It is this unreserved sincerity which renders even the prattle of a

child agreeable. How weak and imperfect soever the views of the

open-hearted, we take pleasure to enter into them, and endeavour, as

much as we can, to bring down our own understanding to the level of

their capacities, and to regard every subject in the particular light in

which they appear to have considered it. This passion to discover the

real sentiments of others is naturally so strong, that it often

degenerates into a troublesome and impertinent curiosity to pry into

those secrets of our neighbours which they have very justifiable reasons

for concealing, and, upon many occasions, it requires prudence and a

strong sense of propriety to govern this, as well as all the other

passions of human nature, and to reduce it to that pitch which any

impartial spectator can approve of. To disappoint this curiosity,

however, when it is kept within proper bounds, and aims at nothing which

there can be any just reason for concealing, is equally disagreeable in

its turn. The man who eludes our most innocent questions, who gives no

satisfaction to our most inoffensive inquiries, who plainly wraps

himself up in impenetrable obscurity, seems, as it were, to build a wall

about his breast. We run forward to get within it, with all the

eagerness of harmless curiosity, and feel ourselves all at once pushed

back with the rudest and most offensive violence. If to conceal is so

disagreeable, to attempt to deceive us is still more disgusting, even

though we could possibly suffer nothing by the success of the fraud. If

we see that our companion wants to impose upon us, if the sentiments and

opinions which he utters appear evidently not to be his own, let them be

ever so fine, we can derive no sort of entertainment from them; and if

something of human nature did not now and then transpire through all the

covers which falsehood and affectation are capable of wrapping around

it, a puppet of wood would be altogether as pleasant a companion as a

person who never spoke as he was affected. No man ever deceives, with

regard to the most insignificant matters, who is not conscious of doing

something like an injury to those he converses with; and who does not

inwardly blush and shrink back with shame and confusion even at the

secret thought of a detection. Breach of veracity, therefore, being

always attended with some degree of remorse and self-condemnation,

naturally fell under the cognizance of the casuists.

The chief subjects of the works of the casuists, therefore, were the

conscientious regard that is due to the rules of justice; how far we

ought to respect the life and property of our neighbour; the duty of

restitution; the laws of chastity and modesty, and wherein consisted

what, in their language, are called the sins of concupiscence: the rules

of veracity, and the obligation of oaths, promises, and contracts of all

kinds.

It may be said in general of the works of the casuists that they

attempted, to no purpose, to direct by precise rules what belongs to

feeling and sentiment only to judge of. How is it possible to ascertain

by rules the exact point at which, in every case, a delicate sense of

justice begins to run into a frivolous and weak scrupulosity of

conscience? When it is that secrecy and reserve begin to grow into

dissimulation? How far an agreeable irony may be carried, and at what

precise point it begins to degenerate into a detestable lie? What is the

highest pitch of freedom and ease of behaviour which can be regarded as

graceful and becoming, and when it is that it first begins to run into a

negligent and thoughtless licentiousness? With regard to all such

matters, what would hold good in any one case would scarce do so exactly

in any other, and what constitutes the propriety and happiness of

behaviour varies in every case with the smallest variety of situation.

Books of casuistry, therefore, are generally as useless as they are

commonly tiresome. They could be of little use to one who should consult

them upon occasion, even supposing their decisions to be just; because,

notwithstanding the multitude of cases collected in them, yet upon

account of the still greater variety of possible circumstances, it is a

chance, if among all those cases there be found one exactly parallel to

that under consideration. One, who is really anxious to do his duty,

must be very weak, if he can imagine that he has much occasion for them;

and with regard to one who is negligent of it, the style of those

writings is not such as is likely to awaken him to more attention. None

of them tend to animate us to what is generous and noble. None of them

tend to soften us to what is gentle and humane. Many of them, on the

contrary, tend rather to teach us to chicane with our own consciences,

and by their vain subtilties serve to authorize innumerable evasive

refinements with regard to the most essential articles of our duty. That

frivolous accuracy which they attempted to introduce into subjects which

do not admit of it, almost necessarily betrayed them into those

dangerous errors, and at the same time rendered their works dry and

disagreeable, abounding in abstruse and metaphysical distinctions, but

incapable of exciting in the heart any of those emotions which it is the

principal use of books of morality to excite.

The two useful parts of moral philosophy, therefore, are Ethics and

Jurisprudence: casuistry ought to be rejected altogether, and the

ancient moralists appear to have judged much better, who, in treating of

the same subjects, did not affect any such nice exactness, but contented

themselves with describing, in a general manner, what is the sentiment

upon which justice, modesty, and veracity are founded, and what is the

ordinary way of acting to which those virtues would commonly prompt us.

Something, indeed, not unlike the doctrine of the casuists, seems to

have been attempted by several philosophers. There is something of this

kind in the third book of Cicero’s Offices, where he endeavours like a

casuist to give rules for our conduct in many nice cases, in which it is

difficult to determine whereabouts the point of propriety may lie. It

appears too, from many passages in the same book, that several other

philosophers had attempted something of the same kind before him.

Neither he nor they, however, appear to have aimed at giving a complete

system of this sort, but only meant to show how situations may occur, in

which it is doubtful, whether the highest propriety of conduct consists

in observing or in receding from what, in ordinary cases, are the rules

of duty.

Every system of positive law may be regarded as a more or less imperfect

attempt towards a system of natural jurisprudence, or towards an

enumeration of the particular rules of justice. As the violation of

justice is what men will never submit to from one another, the public

magistrate is under a necessity of employing the power of the

commonwealth to enforce the practice of this virtue. Without this

precaution, civil society would become a scene of bloodshed and

disorder, every man revenging himself at his own hand whenever he

fancied he was injured. To prevent the confusion which would attend upon

every man’s doing justice to himself, the magistrate, in all governments

that have acquired any considerable authority, undertakes to do justice

to all, and promises to hear and to redress every complaint of injury.

In all well-governed states too, not only judges are appointed for

determining the controversies of individuals, but rules are prescribed

for regulating the decisions of those judges; and these rules are, in

general, intended to coincide with those of natural justice. It does

not, indeed, always happen that they do so in every instance. Sometimes

what is called the constitution of the state, that is, the interest of

the government; sometimes of the interest of particular orders of men

who tyrannize the government, warp the positive laws of the country from

what natural justice would prescribe. In some countries, the rudeness

and barbarism of the people hinder the natural sentiments of justice

from arriving at that accuracy and precision which, in more civilized

nations, they naturally attain to. Their laws are, like their manners,

gross and rude and undistinguishing. In other countries the unfortunate

constitution of their courts of judicature hinders any regular system of

jurisprudence from ever establishing itself among them, though the

improved manners of the people may be such as would admit of the most

accurate. In no country do the decisions of positive law coincide

exactly, in every case, with the rules which the natural sense of

justice would dictate. Systems of positive law, therefore, though they

deserve the greatest authority, as the records of the sentiments of

mankind in different ages and nations, yet can never be regarded as

accurate systems of the rules of natural justice.

It might have been expected that the reasonings of lawyers, upon the

different imperfections and improvements of the laws of different

countries, should have given occasion to an inquiry into what were the

natural rules of justice independent of all positive institution. It

might have been expected that these reasonings should have led them to

aim at establishing a system of what might properly be called natural

jurisprudence, or a theory of the general principles which ought to run

through and be the foundation of the laws of all nations. But tho’ the

reasonings of lawyers did produce something of this kind, and though no

man has treated systematically of the laws of any particular country,

without intermixing in his work many observations of this sort; it was

very late in the world before any such general system was thought of, or

before the philosophy of law was treated of by itself, and without

regard to the particular institutions of any one nation. In none of the

ancient moralists, do we find any attempt towards a particular

enumeration of the rules of justice. Cicero in his Offices, and

Aristotle in his Ethics, treat of justice in the same general manner in

which they treat of all the other virtues. In the laws of Cicero and

Plato, where we might naturally have expected some attempts towards an

enumeration of those rules of natural equity, which ought to be enforced

by the positive laws of every country, there is however, nothing of this

kind. Their laws are laws of police, not of justice. Grotius seems to

have been the first, who attempted to give the world any thing like a

system of those principles which ought to run through, and be the

foundation of the laws of all nations; and his treatise of the laws of

war and peace, with all its imperfections, is perhaps at this day the

most complete work that has yet been given upon this subject. I shall in

another discourse endeavour to give an account of the general principles

of law and government, and of the different revolutions they have

undergone in the different ages and periods of society, not only in what

concerns justice, but in what concerns police, revenue, and arms, and

whatever else is the object of law. I shall not, therefore, at present

enter into any further detail concerning the history of jurisprudence.

THE END.

CONSIDERATIONS

Concerning the FIRST

FORMATION OF LANGUAGES,

AND THE

Different Genius of original and compounded LANGUAGES.

The assignation of particular names, to denote particular objects, that

is, the institution of nouns substantive, would, probably, be one of the

first steps towards the formation of language. Two savages, who had

never been taught to speak, but had been bred up remote from the

societies of men, would naturally begin to form that language by which

they would endeavour to make their mutual wants intelligible to each

other, by uttering certain sounds, whenever they meant to denote certain

objects. Those objects only which were most familiar to them, and which

they had most frequent occasion to mention, would have particular names

assigned to them. The particular cave whose covering sheltered them from

the weather, the particular tree whose fruit relieved their hunger, the

particular fountain whose water allayed their thirst, would first be

denoted by the words _cave_, _tree_, _fountain_, or by whatever other

appellations they might think proper, in that primitive jargon, to mark

them. Afterwards, when the more enlarged experience of these savages had

led them to observe, and their necessary occasions obliged them to make

mention of, other caves, and other trees, and other fountains, they

would naturally bestow, upon each of those new objects, the same name,

by which they had been accustomed to express the similar object they

were first acquainted with. The new objects had none of them any name of

its own, but each of them exactly resembled another object, which had

such an appellation. It was impossible that those savages could behold

the new objects, without recollecting the old ones; and the name of the

old ones, to which the new bore so close a resemblance. When they had

occasion, therefore, to mention, or to point out to each other, any of

the new objects, they would naturally utter the name of the

correspondent old one, of which the idea could not fail, at that

instant, to present itself to their memory in the strongest and

liveliest manner. And thus, those words, which were originally the

proper names of individuals, would each of them insensibly become the

common name of a multitude. A child that is just learning to speak,

calls every person who comes to the house its papa or its mama; and thus

bestows upon the whole species those names which it had been taught to

apply to two individuals. I have known a clown, who did not know the

proper name of the river which ran by his own door. It was _the river_,

he said, and he never heard any other name for it. His experience, it

seems, had not led him to observe any other river. The general word

_river_, therefore, was, it is evident, in his acceptance of it, a

proper name, signifying an individual object. If this person had been

carried to another river, would he not readily have called it a river?

Could we suppose any person living on the banks of the Thames so

ignorant, as not to know the general word _river_, but to be acquainted

only with the particular word _Thames_, if he was brought to any other

river, would he not readily call it a _Thames_? This, in reality, is no

more than what they, who are well acquainted with the general word, are

very apt to do. An Englishman, describing any great river which he may

have seen in some foreign country, naturally says, that it is another

Thames. The Spaniards, when they first arrived upon the coast of Mexico,

and observed the wealth, populousness, and habitations of that fine

country, so much superior to the savage nations which they had been

visiting for some time before, cried out, that it was another Spain.

Hence it was called New Spain; and this name has stuck to that

unfortunate country ever since. We say, in the same manner, of a hero,

that he is an Alexander; of an orator, that he is a Cicero; of a

philosopher, that he is a Newton. This way of speaking, which the

grammarians call an Antonomasia, and which is still extremely common,

though now not at all necessary, demonstrates how much mankind are

naturally disposed to give to one object the name of any other, which

nearly resembles it, and thus to denominate a multitude, by what

originally was intended to express an individual.

It is this application of the name of an individual to a great multitude

of objects, whose resemblance naturally recalls the idea of that

individual, and of the name which expresses it, that seems originally to

have given occasion to the formation of those classes and assortments,

which, in the schools, are called genera and species, and of which the

ingenious and eloquent M. Rousseau of Geneva[28], finds himself so much

at a loss to account for the origin. What constitutes a species is

merely a number of objects, bearing a certain degree of resemblance to

one another, and on that account denominated by a single appellation,

which may be applied to express any one of them.

Footnote 28:

Origine de l’Inegalité. Partie premiere, p. 376, 377, Edition

d’Amsterdam, des Oeuvres diverses de J. J. Rousseau.

When the greater part of objects had thus been arranged under their

proper classes and assortments, distinguished by such general names, it

was impossible that the greater part of that almost infinite number of

individuals, comprehended under each particular assortment or species,

could have any peculiar or proper names of their own, distinct from the

general name of the species. When there was occasion, therefore, to

mention any particular object, it often became necessary to distinguish

it from the other objects comprehended under the same general name,

either, first, by its peculiar qualities; or, secondly, by the peculiar

relation which it stood in to some other things. Hence the necessary

origin of two other sets of words, of which the one should express

quality; the other relation.

Nouns adjective are the words which express quality considered as

qualifying, or, as the schoolmen say, in concrete with, some particular

subject. Thus the word _green_ expresses a certain quality considered as

qualifying, or as in concrete with, the particular subject to which it

may be applied. Words of this kind, it is evident, may serve to

distinguish particular objects from others comprehended under the same

general appellation. The words _green tree_, for example, might serve to

distinguish a particular tree from others that were withered or blasted.

Prepositions are the words which express relation considered, in the

same manner, in concrete with the co-relative object. Thus the

prepositions _of_, _to_, _for_, _with_, _by_, _above_, _below_, _&c._

denote some relation subsisting between the objects expressed by the

words between which the prepositions are placed; and they denote that

this relation is considered in concrete with the co-relative object.

Words of this kind serve to distinguish particular objects from others

of the same species, when those particular objects cannot be so properly

marked out by any peculiar qualities of their own. When we say, _the

green tree of the meadow_, for example, we distinguish a particular

tree, not only by the quality which belongs to it, but by the relation

which it stands in to another object.

As neither quality nor relation can exist in abstract, it is natural to

suppose that the words which denote them considered in concrete, the way

in which we always see them subsist, would be of much earlier invention,

than those which express them considered in abstract, the way in which

we never see them subsist. The words _green_ and _blue_ would, in all

probability, be sooner invented than the words _greenness_ and

_blueness_; the words _above_ and _below_, than the words _superiority_

and _inferiority_. To invent words of the latter kind requires a much

greater effort of abstraction than to invent those of the former. It is

probable, therefore, that such abstract terms would be of much later

institution. Accordingly, their etymologies generally show that they are

so, they being generally derived from others that are concrete.

But though the invention of nouns adjective be much more natural than

that of the abstract nouns substantive derived from them, it would

still, however, require a considerable degree of abstraction and

generalization. Those, for example, who first invented the words,

_green_, _blue_, _red_, and the other names of colours, must have

observed and compared together a great number of objects, must have

remarked their resemblances and dissimilitudes in respect of the quality

of colour, and must have arranged them, in their own minds, into

different classes and assortments, according to those resemblances and

dissimilitudes. An adjective is by nature a general, and in some

measure, an abstract word, and necessarily presupposes the idea of a

certain species or assortment of things, to all of which it is equally

applicable. The word _green_ could not, as we were supposing might be

the case of the word _cave_, have been originally the name of an

individual, and afterwards have become, by what grammarians call an

Antonomasia the name of a species. The word _green_ denoting, not the

name of a substance, but the peculiar quality of a substance, must from

the very first have been a general word, and considered as equally

applicable to any other substance possessed of the same quality. The man

who first distinguished a particular object by the epithet of _green_,

must have observed other objects that were not _green_, from which he

meant to separate it by this appellation. The institution of this name,

therefore, supposes comparison. It likewise supposes some degree of

abstraction. The person who first invented this appellation must have

distinguished the quality from the object to which it belonged, and must

have conceived the object as capable of subsisting without the quality.

The invention, therefore, even of the simplest nouns adjective, must

have required more metaphysics than we are apt to be aware of. The

different mental operations, of arrangement or classing, of comparison,

and of abstraction, must all have been employed, before even the names

of the different colours, the least metaphysical of all nouns adjective,

could be instituted. From all which I infer, that when languages were

beginning to be formed, nouns adjective would by no means be the words

of the earliest invention.

There is another expedient for denoting the different qualities of

different substances, which as it requires no abstraction, nor any

conceived separation of the quality from the subject, seems more natural

than the invention of nouns adjective, and which, upon this account,

could hardly fail, in the first formation of language, to be thought of

before them. This expedient is to make some variation upon the noun

substantive itself, according to the different qualities which it is

endowed with. Thus, in many languages, the qualities both of sex and of

the want of sex, are expressed by different terminations in the nouns

substantive, which denote objects so qualified. In Latin, for example,

_lupus_, _lupa_; _equus_, _equa_; _juvencus_, _juvenca_; _Julius_,

_Julia_; _Lucretius_, _Lucretia_, &c. denote the qualities of male and

female in the animals and persons to whom such appellations belong,

without needing the addition of any adjective for this purpose. On the

other hand, the words _forum_, _pratum_, _plaustrum_, denote by their

peculiar termination the total absence of sex in the different

substances which they stand for. Both sex, and the want of all sex,

being naturally considered as qualities modifying and inseparable from

the particular substances to which they belong, it was natural to

express them rather by a modification in the noun substantive, than by

any general and abstract word expressive of this particular species of

quality. The expression bears, it is evident, in this way, a much more

exact analogy to the idea or object which it denotes, than in the other.

The quality appears, in nature, as a modification of the substance, and

as it is thus expressed, in language, by a modification of the noun

substantive, which denotes that substance, the quality and the subject

are, in this case, blended together, if I may say so, in the expression,

in the same manner, as they appear to be in the object and in the idea.

Hence the origin of the masculine, feminine, and neutral genders, in all

the ancient languages. By means of these, the most important of all

distinctions, that of substances into animated and inanimated, and that

of animals into male and female, seem to have been sufficiently marked

without the assistance of adjectives, or of any general names denoting

this most extensive species of qualifications.

There are no more than these three genders in any of the languages with

which I am acquainted; that is to say, the formation of nouns

substantive, can, by itself, and without the accompaniment of

adjectives, express no other qualities but those three above-mentioned,

the qualities of male, of female, of neither male nor female. I should

not, however, be surprised, if, in other languages with which I am

unacquainted, the different formations of nouns substantive should be

capable of expressing many other different qualities. The different

diminutives of the Italian, and of some other languages, do, in reality,

sometimes, express a great variety of different modifications in the

substances denoted by those nouns which undergo such variations.

It was impossible, however, that nouns substantive could, without losing

altogether their original form, undergo so great a number of variations,

as would be sufficient to express that almost infinite variety of

qualities, by which it might, upon different occasions, be necessary to

specify and distinguish them. Though the different formation of nouns

substantive, therefore, might, for some time, forestall the necessity of

inventing nouns adjective, it was impossible that this necessity could

be forestalled altogether. When nouns adjective came to be invented, it

was natural that they should be formed with some similarity to the

substantives, to which they were to serve as epithets or qualifications.

Men would naturally give them the same terminations with the

substantives to which they were first applied, and from that love of

similarity of sound, from that delight in the returns of the same

syllables, which is in the foundation of analogy in all languages, they

would be apt to vary the termination of the same adjective, according as

they had occasion to apply it to a masculine, to a feminine, or to a

neutral substantive. They would say, _magnus lupus_, _magna lupa_,

_magnum pratum_, when they meant to express a great he wolf, a great

_she wolf_, a great _meadow_.

This variation, in the termination of the noun adjective, according to

the gender of the substantive, which takes place in all the ancient

languages, seems to have been introduced chiefly for the sake of a

certain similarity of sound, of a certain species of rhyme, which is

naturally so very agreeable to the human ear. Gender, it is to be

observed, cannot properly belong to a noun adjective, the signification

of which is always precisely the same, to whatever species of

substantives it is applied. When we say, _a great man_, _a great woman_,

the word _great_ has precisely the same meaning in both cases, and the

difference of the sex in the subjects to which it may be applied, makes

no sort of difference in its signification. _Magnus_, _magna_, _magnum_,

in the same manner, are words which express precisely the same quality,

and the change of the termination is accompanied with no sort of

variation in the meaning. Sex and gender are qualities which belong to

substances, but cannot belong to the qualities of substances. In

general, no quality, when considered in concrete, or as qualifying some

particular subject, can itself be conceived as the subject of any other

quality; though when considered in abstract it may. No adjective

therefore can qualify any other adjective. A _great good man_, means a

man who is both _great_ and _good_. Both the adjectives qualify the

substantive; they do not qualify one another. On the other hand, when we

say, the _great goodness_ of the man, the word _goodness_ denoting a

quality considered in abstract, which may itself be the subject of other

qualities, is upon that account capable of being qualified by the word,

_great_.

If the original invention of nouns adjective would be attended with so

much difficulty, that of prepositions would be accompanied with yet

more. Every preposition, as I have already observed, denotes some

relation considered in concrete with the co-relative object. The

preposition _above_, for example, denotes the relation of superiority,

not in abstract, as it is expressed by the word _superiority_, but in

concrete with some co-relative object. In this phrase, for example, _the

tree above the cave_, the word _above_, expresses a certain relation

between the _tree_ and the _cave_, and it expresses this relation in

concrete with the co-relative object, the _cave_. A preposition always

requires, in order to complete the sense, some other word to come after

it; as may be observed in this particular instance. Now, I say, the

original invention of such words would require a yet greater effort of

abstraction and generalization, than that of nouns adjective. First of

all, a relation is, in itself, a more metaphysical object than a

quality. Nobody can be at a loss to explain what is meant by a quality;

but few people will find themselves able to express, very distinctly,

what is understood by a relation. Qualities are almost always the

objects of our external senses; relations never are. No wonder,

therefore, that the one set of objects should be so much more

comprehensible than the other. Secondly, though prepositions always

express the relation which they stand for, in concrete with the

co-relative object, they could not have originally been formed without a

considerable effort of abstraction. A preposition denotes a relation,

and nothing but a relation. But before men could institute a word, which

signified a relation, and nothing but a relation, they must have been

able, in some measure, to consider this relation abstractedly from the

related objects; since the idea of those objects does not, in any

respect, enter into the signification of the preposition. The invention

of such a word, therefore, must have required a considerable degree of

abstraction. Thirdly, a preposition is from its nature a general word,

which, from its very first institution, must have been considered as

equally applicable to denote any other similar relation. The man who

first invented the word _above_, must not only have distinguished, in

some measure, the relation of _superiority_ from the objects which were

so related, but he must also have distinguished this relation from other

relations, such as, from the relation of _inferiority_ denoted by the

word _below_, from the relation of _juxtaposition_, expressed by the

word _beside_, and the like. He must have conceived this word,

therefore, as expressive of a particular sort or species of relation

distinct from every other, which could not be done without a

considerable effort of comparison and generalization.

Whatever were the difficulties, therefore, which embarrassed the first

invention of nouns adjective, the same, and many more, must have

embarrassed that of prepositions. If mankind, therefore, in the first

formation of languages, seem to have, for some time, evaded the

necessity of nouns adjective, by varying the termination of the names of

substances, according as these varied in some of their most important

qualities, they would much more find themselves under the necessity of

evading, by some similar contrivance, the yet more difficult invention

of prepositions. The different cases in the ancient languages is a

contrivance of precisely the same kind. The genitive and dative cases,

in Greek and Latin, evidently supply the place of the prepositions; and

by a variation in the noun substantive, which stands for the co-relative

term, express the relation which subsists between what is denoted by

that noun substantive, and what is expressed by some other word in the

sentence. In these expressions, for example, _fructus arboris_, _the

fruit of the tree_; _sacer Herculi_, _sacred to Hercules_; the

variations made in the co-relative words, _arbor_ and _Hercules_,

express the same relations which are expressed in English by the

prepositions _of_ and _to_.

To express a relation in this manner, did not require any effort of

abstraction. It was not here expressed by a peculiar word denoting

relation and nothing but relation, but by a variation upon the

co-relative term. It was expressed here, as it appears in nature, not as

something separated and detached, but as thoroughly mixed and blended

with the co-relative object.

To express relation in this manner, did not require any effort of

generalization. The words _arboris_ and _Herculi_, while they involve in

their signification the same relation expressed by the English

prepositions _of_ and _to_, are not, like those prepositions, general

words, which can be applied to express the same relation between

whatever other objects it might be observed to subsist.

To express relation in this manner did not require any effort of

comparison. The words _arboris_ and _Herculi_ are not general words

intended to denote a particular species of relations which the inventors

of those expressions meant, in consequence of some sort of comparison,

to separate and distinguish from every other sort of relation. The

example, indeed, of this contrivance would soon probably be followed,

and whoever had occasion to express a similar relation between any other

objects would be very apt to do it by making a similar variation on the

name of the co-relative object. This, I say, would probably, or rather

certainly happen; but it would happen without any intention or foresight

in those who first set the example, and who never meant to establish any

general rule. The general rule would establish itself insensibly, and by

slow degrees, in consequence of that love of analogy and similarity of

sound, which is the foundation of by far the greater part of the rules

of grammar.

To express relation therefore, by a variation in the name of the

co-relative object, requiring neither abstraction, nor generalization,

nor comparison of any kind, would, at first, be much more natural and

easy, than to express it by those general words called prepositions, of

which the first invention must have demanded some degree of all those

operations.

The number of cases is different in different languages. There are five

in the Greek, six in the Latin, and there are said to be ten in the

Armenian language. It must have naturally happened that there should be

a greater or a smaller number of cases, according as in the terminations

of nouns substantive the first formers of any language happened to have

established a greater or a smaller number of variations, in order to

express the different relations they had occasion to take notice of,

before the invention of those more general and abstract prepositions

which could supply their place.

It is, perhaps, worth while to observe that those prepositions, which in

modern languages hold the place of the ancient cases, are, of all

others, the most general, and abstract, and metaphysical; and of

consequence, would probably be the last invented. Ask any man of common

acuteness, What relation is expressed by the preposition _above_? He

will readily answer, that of _superiority_. By the preposition _below_?

He will as quickly reply, that of _inferiority_. But ask him, what

relation is expressed by the preposition _of_, and, if he has not

beforehand employed his thoughts a good deal upon these subjects, you

may safely allow him a week to consider of his answer. The prepositions

_above_ and _below_ do not denote any of the relations expressed by the

cases in the ancient languages. But the preposition _of_, denotes the

same relation, which is in them expressed by the genitive case; and

which, it is easy to observe, is of a very metaphysical nature. The

preposition of, denotes relation in general, considered in concrete with

the co-relative object. It marks that the noun substantive which goes

before it, is somehow or other related to that which comes after it, but

without in any respect ascertaining, as is done by the preposition

_above_, what is the peculiar nature of that relation. We often apply

it, therefore, to express the most opposite relations; because, the most

opposite relations agree so far that each of them comprehends in it the

general idea or nature of a relation. We say, _the father of the son_,

and _the son of the father_; _the fir-trees of the forest_, and the

_forest of the fir-trees_. The relation in which the father stands to

the son, is, it is evident, a quite opposite relation to that in which

the son stands to the father; that in which the parts stand to the

whole, is quite opposite to that in which the whole stands to the parts.

The word _of_, however, serves very well to denote all those relations,

because in itself it denotes no particular relation, but only relation

in general; and so far as any particular relation is collected from such

expressions, it is inferred by the mind, not from the preposition

itself, but from the nature and arrangement of the substantives, between

which the preposition is placed.

What I have said concerning the preposition _of_, may in some measure be

applied to the prepositions, _to_, _for_, _with_, _by_, and to whatever

other prepositions are made use of in modern languages, to supply the

place of the ancient cases. They all of them express very abstract and

metaphysical relations, which any man, who takes the trouble to try it,

will find it extremely difficult to express by nouns substantive, in the

same manner as we may express the relation denoted by the preposition

_above_, by the noun substantive _superiority_. They all of them,

however, express some specific relation, and are, consequently, none of

them so abstract as the preposition _of_, which may be regarded as by

far the most metaphysical of all prepositions. The prepositions

therefore, which are capable of supplying the place of the ancient

cases, being more abstract than the other prepositions, would naturally

be of more difficult invention. The relations at the same time which

those prepositions express, are, of all others, those which we have most

frequent occasion to mention. The prepositions _above_, _below_, _near_,

_within_, _without_, _against_, &c. are much more rarely made use of, in

modern languages, than the prepositions _of_, _to_, _for_, _with_,

_from_, _by_. A preposition of the former kind will not occur twice in a

page; we can scarce compose a single sentence without the assistance of

one or two of the latter. If these latter prepositions, therefore, which

supply the place of the cases, would be of such difficult invention on

account of their abstractedness, some expedient, to supply their place,

must have been of indispensable necessity, on account of the frequent

occasion which men have to take notice of the relations which they

denote. But there is no expedient so obvious, as that of varying the

termination of one of the principal words.

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to observe, that there are some of the cases

in the ancient languages, which, for particular reasons, cannot be

represented by any prepositions. These are the nominative, accusative,

and vocative cases. In those modern languages, which do not admit of any

such variety in the terminations of their nouns substantive, the

correspondent relations are expressed by the place of the words, and by

the order and construction of the sentence.

As men have frequently occasion to make mention of multitudes as well as

of single objects, it became necessary that they should have some method

of expressing number. Number may be expressed either by a particular

word, expressing number in general, such as the words _many_, _more_,

&c. or by some variation upon the words which express the things

numbered. It is this last expedient which mankind would probably have

recourse to, in the infancy of language. Number, considered in general,

without relation to any particular set of objects numbered, is one of

the most abstract and metaphysical ideas, which the mind of man is

capable of forming; and, consequently, is not an idea, which would

readily occur to rude mortals, who were just beginning to form a

language. They would naturally, therefore, distinguish when they talked

of a single, and when they talked of a multitude of objects, not by any

metaphysical adjectives, such as the English, _a_, _an_, _many_, but by

a variation upon the termination of the word which signified the objects

numbered. Hence the origin of the singular and plural numbers, in all

the ancient languages; and the same distinction has likewise been

retained in all the modern languages, at least, in the greater part of

words.

All primitive and uncompounded languages seem to have a dual, as well as

a plural number. This is the case of the Greek, and I am told of the

Hebrew, of the Gothic, and of many other languages. In the rude

beginnings of society, _one_, _two_, and _more_, might possibly be all

the numeral distinctions which mankind would have any occasion to take

notice of. These they would find it more natural to express, by a

variation upon every particular noun substantive, than by such general

and abstract words as _one_, _two_, _three_, _four_, &c. These words,

though custom has rendered them familiar to us, express, perhaps, the

most subtile and refined abstractions, which the mind of man is capable

of forming. Let any one consider within himself, for example, what he

means by the word _three_, which signifies neither three shillings, nor

three pence, nor three men, nor three horses, but three in general; and

he will easily satisfy himself that a word, which denotes so very

metaphysical an abstraction, could not be either a very obvious or a

very early invention. I have read of some savage nations, whose language

was capable of expressing no more than the three first numeral

distinctions. But whether it expressed those distinctions by three

general words, or by variations upon the nouns substantive, denoting the

things numbered, I do not remember to have met with any thing which

could determine.

As all the same relations which subsist between single, may likewise

subsist between numerous objects, it is evident there would be occasion

for the same number of cases in the dual and in the plural, as in the

singular number. Hence the intricacy and complexness of the declensions

in all the ancient languages. In the Greek there are five cases in each

of the three numbers, consequently fifteen in all.

As nouns adjective, in the ancient languages, varied their terminations

according to the gender of the substantive to which they were applied,

so did they likewise, according to the case and the number. Every noun

adjective in the Greek language, therefore, having three genders, and

three numbers, and five cases in each number, may be considered as

having five and forty different variations. The first formers of

language seem to have varied the termination of the adjective, according

to the case and the number of the substantive, for the same reason which

made them vary according to the gender; the love of analogy, and of a

certain regularity of sound. In the signification of adjectives there is

neither case nor number, and the meaning of such words is always

precisely the same, notwithstanding all the variety of termination under

which they appear. _Magnus vir_, _magni viri_, _magnorum virorum_; _a

great man_, _of a great man_, _of great men_ in all these expressions

the words _magnus_, _magni_, _magnorum_, as well as the word _great_,

have precisely one and the same signification, though the substantives

to which they are applied have not. The difference of termination in the

noun adjective is accompanied with no sort of difference in the meaning.

An adjective denotes the qualification of a noun substantive. But the

different relations in which that noun substantive may occasionally

stand, can make no sort of difference upon its qualification.

If the declensions of the ancient languages are so very complex, their

conjugations are infinitely more so. And the complexness of the one is

founded upon the same principle with that of the other, the difficulty

of forming, in the beginnings of language, abstract and general terms.

Verbs must necessarily have been coeval with the very first attempts

towards the formation of language. No affirmation can be expressed

without the assistance of some verb. We never speak but in order to

express our opinion that something either is or is not. But the word

denoting this event, or this matter of fact, which is the subject of our

affirmation, must always be a verb.

Impersonal verbs, which express in one word a complete event, which

preserve in the expression that perfect simplicity and unity, which

there always is in the object and in the idea, and which suppose no

abstraction, or metaphysical division of the event into its several

constituent members of subject and attribute, would, in all probability,

be the species of verbs first invented. The verbs _pluit_, _it rains_;

_ningit_, _it snows_; _tonat_, _it thunders_; _lucet_, _it is day_;

_turbatur_, _there is a confusion_, &c. each of them express a complete

affirmation, the whole of an event, with that perfect simplicity and

unity with which the mind conceives it in nature. On the contrary, the

phrases, _Alexander ambulat_, _Alexander walks_; _Petrus sedet_, _Peter

sits_, divide the event, as it were, into two parts, the person or

subject, and the attribute, or matter of fact, affirmed of that subject.

But in nature, the idea or conception of Alexander walking, is as

perfectly and completely one single conception, as that of Alexander not

walking. The division of this event, therefore, into two parts, is

altogether artificial, and is the effect of the imperfection of

language, which, upon this, as upon many other occasions, supplies, by a

number of words, the want of one, which could express at once the whole

matter of fact that was meant to be affirmed. Every body must observe

how much more simplicity there is in the natural expression, _pluit_,

than in the more artificial expressions, _imber decidit_, _the rain

falls_; or, _tempestas est pluvia_, _the weather is rainy_. In these two

last expressions, the simple event, or matter of fact, is artificially

split and divided, in the one, into two; in the other, into three parts.

In each of them it is expressed by a sort of grammatical circumlocution,

of which the significancy is founded upon a certain metaphysical

analysis of the component parts of the idea expressed by the word

_pluit_. The first verbs, therefore, perhaps even the first words, made

use of in the beginnings of language, would in all probability be such

impersonal verbs. It is observed accordingly, I am told, by the Hebrew

Grammarians, that the radical words of their language, from which all

the others are derived, are all of them verbs, and impersonal verbs.

It is easy to conceive how, in the progress of language, those

impersonal verbs should become personal. Let us suppose, for example,

that the word _venit_, _it comes_, was originally an impersonal verb,

and that it denoted, not the coming of something in general, as at

present, but the coming of a particular object, such as _the Lion_. The

first savage inventors of language, we shall suppose, when they observed

the approach of this terrible animal, were accustomed to cry out to one

another, _venit_, that is, _the lion comes_; and that this word thus

expressed a complete event, without the assistance of any other.

Afterwards, when, on the further progress of language, they had begun to

give names to particular substances, whenever they observed the approach

of any other terrible object, they would naturally join the name of that

object to the word _venit_, and cry out, _venit ursus_, _venit lupus_.

By degrees the word _venit_ would thus come to signify the coming of any

terrible object, and not merely the coming of the lion. It would now

therefore, express, not the coming of a particular object, but the

coming of an object of a particular kind. Having become more general in

its signification, it could no longer represent any particular distinct

event by itself, and without the assistance of a noun substantive, which

might serve to ascertain and determine its signification. It would now,

therefore, have become a personal, instead of an impersonal verb. We may

easily conceive how, in the further progress of society, it might still

grow more general in its signification, and come to signify, as at

present, the approach of any thing whatever, whether good, bad, or

indifferent.

It is probably in some such manner as this, that almost all verbs have

become personal, and that mankind have learned by degrees to split and

divide almost every event into a great number of metaphysical parts,

expressed by the different parts of speech, variously combined in the

different members of every phrase and sentence.[29] The same sort of

progress seems to have been made in the art of speaking as in the art of

writing. When mankind first began to attempt to express their ideas by

writing, every character represented a whole word. But the number of

words being almost infinite, the memory found itself quite loaded and

oppressed by the multitude of characters which it was obliged to retain.

Necessity taught them, therefore, to divide words into their elements,

and to invent characters which should represent, not the words

themselves, but the elements of which they were composed. In consequence

of this invention, every particular word came to be represented, not by

one character, but by a multitude of characters; and the expression of

it in writing became much more intricate and complex than before. But

though particular words were thus represented by a greater number of

characters, the whole language was expressed by a much smaller, and

about four and twenty letters were found capable of supplying the place

of that immense multitude of characters, which were requisite before. In

the same manner, in the beginnings of language, men seem to have

attempted to express every particular event, which they had occasion to

take notice of, by a particular word, which expressed at once the whole

of that event. But as the number of words must, in this case, have

become really infinite, in consequence of the really infinite variety of

events, men found themselves partly compelled by necessity, and partly

conducted by nature, to divide every event into what may be called its

metaphysical elements, and to institute words, which should denote not

so much the events, as the elements of which they were composed. The

expression of every particular event, became in this manner more

intricate and complex, but the whole system of the language became more

coherent, more connected, more easily retained and comprehended.

Footnote 29:

As the far greater part of Verbs express, at present, not an event,

but the attribute of an event, and, consequently, require a subject,

or nominative case, to complete their signification, some grammarians,

not having attended to this progress of nature, and being desirous to

make their common rules quite universal, and without any exception,

have insisted that all verbs required a nominative, either expressed

or understood; and have, accordingly put themselves to the torture to

find some awkward nominatives to those few verbs, which still

expressing a complete event, plainly admit of none. _Pluit_, for

example, according to _Sanctius_, means _pluvia pluit_, in English,

_the rain rains_. See Sanctii Minerva, l. 3. c. 1.

When verbs, from being originally impersonal had thus, by the division

of the event into its metaphysical elements, become personal, it is

natural to suppose that they would first be made use of in the third

person singular. No verb is ever used impersonally in our language, nor,

so far as I know, in any other modern tongue. But in the ancient

languages, whenever any verb is used impersonally, it is always in the

third person singular. The termination of those verbs, which are still

always impersonal, is constantly the same with that of the third person

singular of personal verbs. The consideration of these circumstances,

joined to the naturalness of the thing itself, may serve to convince us

that verbs first became personal in what is now called the third person

singular.

But as the event, or matter of fact, which is expressed by a verb, may

be affirmed either of the person who speaks, or of the person who is

spoken to, as well as of some third person or object, it became

necessary to fall upon some method of expressing these two peculiar

relations of the event. In the English language this is commonly done,

by prefixing, what are called the personal pronouns, to the general word

which expresses the event affirmed. _I came_, _you came_, _he_ or _it

came_; in these phrases the event of having come is, in the first,

affirmed of the speaker; in the second, of the person spoken to; in the

third, of some other person, or object. The first formers of language,

it may be imagined, might have done the same thing, and prefixing in the

same manner the two first personal pronouns, to the same termination of

the verb, which expressed the third person singular, might have said,

_ego venit_, _tu venit_, as well as _ille_ or _illud venit_. And I make

no doubt but they would have done so, if at the time when they had first

occasion to express these relations of the verb, there had been any such

words as either _ego_ or _tu_ in their language. But in this early

period of the language, which we are now endeavouring to describe, it is

extremely improbable that any such words would be known. Though custom

has now rendered them familiar to us, they, both of them, express ideas

extremely metaphysical and abstract. The word _I_, for example, is a

word of a very particular species. Whatever speaks may denote itself by

this personal pronoun. The word _I_, therefore, is a general word,

capable of being predicated, as the logicians say, of an infinite

variety of objects. It differs, however, from all other general words in

this respect; that the objects of which it may be predicated, do not

form any particular species of objects distinguished from all others.

The word _I_, does not, like the word _man_, denote a particular class

of objects, separated from all others by peculiar qualities of their

own. It is far from being the name of a species, but, on the contrary,

whenever it is made use of, it always denotes a precise individual, the

particular person who then speaks. It may be said to be, at once, both

what the logicians call, a singular, and what they call, a common term;

and to join in its signification the seemingly opposite qualities of the

most precise individuality, and the most extensive generalization. This

word, therefore, expressing so very abstract and metaphysical an idea,

would not easily or readily occur to the first formers of language. What

are called the personal pronouns, it may be observed, are among the last

words of which children learn to make use. A child, speaking of itself,

says, _Billy walks_, _Billy sits_, instead of _I walk_, _I sit_. As in

the beginnings of language, therefore, mankind seem to have evaded the

invention of at least the more abstract proportions, and to have

expressed the same relations which these _now_ stand for, by varying the

termination of the co-relative term, so they likewise would naturally

attempt to evade the necessity of inventing those more abstract pronouns

by varying the termination of the verb, according as the event which it

expressed was intended to be affirmed of the first, second, or third

person. This seems, accordingly, to be the universal practice of all the

ancient languages. In Latin, _veni_, _venisti_, _venit_, sufficiently

denote, without any other addition, the different events expressed by

the English phrases, _I came_, _you came_, he, or _it came_. The verb

would, for the same reason, vary its termination, according as the event

was intended to be affirmed of the first, second, or third persons

plural; and what is expressed by the English phrases, _we came_, _ye

came_, _they came_, would be denoted by the Latin words, _venimus_,

_venistis_, _venerunt_. Those primitive languages, too, which, upon

account of the difficulty of inventing numeral names, had introduced a

dual, as well as a plural number, into the declension of their nouns

substantive, would probably, from analogy, do the same thing in the

conjugations of their verbs. And thus in all those original languages,

we might expect to find, at least six, if not eight or nine variations,

in the termination of every verb, according as the event which it

denoted was meant to be affirmed of the first, second, or third persons

singular, dual, or plural. These variations again being repeated, along

with others, through all its different tenses, modes and voices, must

necessarily have rendered their conjugations still more intricate and

complex than their declensions.

Language would probably have continued upon this footing in all

countries, nor would ever have grown more simple in its declensions and

conjugations, had it not become more complex in its composition, in

consequence of the mixture of several languages with one another,

occasioned by the mixture of different nations. As long as any language

was spoke by those only who learned it in their infancy, the intricacy

of its declensions and conjugations could occasion no great

embarrassment. The far greater part of those who had occasion to speak

it, had acquired it at so very early a period of their lives, so

insensibly and by such slow degrees, that they were scarce ever sensible

of the difficulty. But when two nations came to be mixed with one

another, either by conquest or migration, the case would be very

different. Each nation, in order to make itself intelligible to those

with whom it was under the necessity of conversing, would be obliged to

learn the language of the other. The greater part of individuals too,

learning the new language, not by art, or by remounting to its rudiments

and first principles, but by rote, and by what they commonly heard in

conversation, would be extremely perplexed by the intricacy of its

declensions and conjugations. They would endeavour, therefore, to supply

their ignorance of these, by whatever shift the language could afford

them. Their ignorance of the declensions they would naturally supply by

the use of prepositions; and a Lombard, who was attempting to speak

Latin, and wanted to express that such a person was a citizen of Rome,

or a benefactor to Rome, if he happened not to be acquainted with the

genitive and dative cases of the word _Roma_, would naturally express

himself by prefixing the prepositions _ad_ and _de_ to the nominative;

and, instead of _Romæ_, would say, _ad Roma_, and _de Roma_. _Al Roma_

and _di Roma_, accordingly, is the manner in which the present Italians,

the descendants of the ancient Lombards and Romans, express this and all

other similar relations. And in this manner prepositions seem to have

been introduced, in the room of the ancient declensions. The same

alteration has, I am informed, been produced upon the Greek language,

since the taking of Constantinople by the Turks. The words are, in a

great measure, the same as before; but the grammar is entirely lost,

prepositions having come in the place of the old declensions. This

change is undoubtedly a simplification of the language, in point of

rudiments and principle. It introduces, instead of a great variety of

declensions, one universal declension, which is the same in every word,

of whatever gender, number, or termination.

A similar expedient enables men, in the situation above-mentioned, to

get rid of almost the whole intricacy of their conjugations. There is in

every language a verb, known by the name of the substantive verb; in

Latin, _sum_; in English, _I am_. This verb denotes not the existence of

any particular event, but existence in general. It is, upon this

account, the most abstract and metaphysical of all verbs; and,

consequently, could by no means be a a word of early invention. When it

came to be invented, however, as it had all the tenses and modes of any

other verb, by being joined with the passive participle, it was capable

of supplying the place of the whole passive voice, and of rendering this

part of their conjugations as simple and uniform, as the use of

prepositions had rendered their declensions. A Lombard, who wanted to

say, _I am loved_, but could not recollect the word _amor_, naturally

endeavoured to supply his ignorance, by saying, _ego sum amatus_. _Io

sono amato_, is at this day the Italian expression, which corresponds to

the English phrase above-mentioned.

There is another verb, which, in the same manner, runs through all

languages, and which is distinguished by the name of the possessive

verb; in Latin, _habeo_; in English, _I have_. This verb, likewise,

denotes an event of an extremely abstract and metaphysical nature, and,

consequently, cannot be supposed to have been a word of the earliest

invention. When it came to be invented, however, by being applied to the

passive participle, it was capable of supplying a great part of the

active voice, as the substantive verb had supplied the whole of the

passive. A Lombard, who wanted to say, _I had loved_, but could not

recollect the word _amaveram_, would endeavour to supply the place of

it, by saying either _ego habebam amatum_, or _ego habui amatum_. _Io

avevá amato_, or _Io ebbi amato_, are the correspondent Italian

expressions at this day. And thus upon the intermixture of different

nations with one another, the conjugations, by means of different

auxiliary verbs, were made to approach towards the simplicity and

uniformity of the declensions.

In general it may be laid down for a maxim, that the more simple any

language is in its composition, the more complex it must be in its

declensions and conjugations; and, on the contrary, the more simple it

is in its declensions and conjugations, the more complex it must be in

its composition.

The Greek seems to be, in a great measure, a simple, uncompounded

language, formed from the primitive jargon of those wandering savages,

the ancient Hellenians and Pelasgians, from whom the Greek nation is

said to have been descended. All the words in the Greek language are

derived from about three hundred primitives, a plain evidence that the

Greeks formed their language almost entirely among themselves, and that

when they had occasion for a new word, they were not accustomed, as we

are, to borrow it from some foreign language, but to form it, either by

composition or derivation from some other word or words, in their own.

The declensions and conjugations, therefore, of the Greek are much more

complex than those of any other European language with which I am

acquainted.

The Latin is a composition of the Greek and of the ancient Tuscan

languages. Its declensions and conjugations accordingly are much less

complex than those of the Greek: it has dropt the dual number in both.

Its verbs have no optative mood distinguished by any peculiar

termination. They have but one future. They have no aorist distinct from

the preterit-perfect; they have no middle voice; and even many of their

tenses in the passive voice are eked out, in the same manner as in the

modern languages, by the help of the substantive verb joined to the

passive participle. In both the voices, the number of infinitives and

participles is much smaller in the Latin than in the Greek.

The French and Italian languages are each of them compounded, the one of

the Latin, and the language of the ancient Franks, the other of the same

Latin and the language of the ancient Lombards. As they are both of

them, therefore, more complex in their composition than the Latin, so

are they likewise more simple in their declensions and conjugations.

With regard to their declensions, they have both of them lost their

cases altogether; and with regard to their conjugations, they have both

of them lost the whole of the passive, and some part of the active

voices of their verbs. The want of the passive voice they supply

entirely by the substantive verb joined to the passive participle; and

they make out part of the active, in the same manner, by the help of the

possessive verb and the same passive participle.

The English is compounded of the French and the ancient Saxon languages.

The French was introduced into Britain by the Norman conquest, and

continued, till the time of Edward III. to be the sole language of the

law as well as the principal language of the court. The English, which

came to be spoken afterwards, and which continues to be spoken now, is a

mixture of the ancient Saxon and this Norman French. As the English

language, therefore, is more complex in its composition than either the

French or the Italian, so is it likewise more simple in its declensions

and conjugations. Those two languages retain, at least, a part of the

distinction of genders, and their adjectives vary their termination

according as they are applied to a masculine or to a feminine

substantive. But there is no such distinction in the English language,

whose adjectives admit of no variety of termination. The French and

Italian languages have, both of them, the remains of a conjugation, and

all those tenses of the active voice, which cannot be expressed by the

possessive verb joined to the passive participle, as well as many of

those which can, are, in those languages, marked by varying the

termination of the principal verb. But almost all those other tenses are

in the English eked out by other auxiliary verbs, so that there is in

this language scarce even the remains of a conjugation. _I love_, _I

loved_, _loving_, are all the varieties of termination which the greater

part of English verbs admit of. All the different modifications of

meaning, which cannot be expressed by any of those three terminations,

must be made out by different auxiliary verbs joined to some one or

other of them. Two auxiliary verbs supply all the deficiencies of the

French and Italian conjugations; it requires more than half a dozen to

supply those of the English, which besides the substantive and

possessive verbs, makes use of _do_, _did_; _will_, _would_; _shall_,

_should_; _can_, _could_; _may_, _might_.

It is in this manner that language becomes more simple in its rudiments

and principles, just in proportion as it grows more complex in its

composition, and the same thing has happened in it, which commonly

happens with regard to mechanical engines. All machines are generally,

when first invented, extremely complex in their principles, and there is

often a particular principle of motion for every particular movement

which, it is intended, they should perform. Succeeding improvers

observe, that one principle may be so applied as to produce several of

those movements, and thus the machine becomes gradually more and more

simple, and produces its effects with fewer wheels, and fewer principles

of motion. In language, in the same manner, every case of every noun,

and every tense of every verb, was originally expressed by a particular

distinct word, which served for this purpose and for no other. But

succeeding observation discovered that one set of words was capable of

supplying the place of all that infinite number, and that four or five

prepositions, and half a dozen auxiliary verbs, were capable of

answering the end of all the declensions, and of all the conjugations in

the ancient languages.

But this simplification of languages, though it arises, perhaps, from

similar causes, has by no means similar effects with the correspondent

simplification of machines. The simplification of machines renders them

more and more perfect, but this simplification of the rudiments of

languages renders them more and more imperfect and less proper for many

of the purposes of language: and this for the following reasons.

First of all, languages are by this simplification rendered more prolix,

several words having become necessary to express what could have been

expressed by a single word before. Thus the words, _Dei_ and, _Deo_, in

the Latin, sufficiently show, without any addition, what relation, the

object signified is understood to stand in to the objects expressed by

the other words in the sentence. But to express the same relation in

English, and in all other modern languages, we must make use of, at

least, two words, and say, _of God_, _to God_. So far as the declensions

are concerned, therefore, the modern languages are much more prolix than

the ancient. The difference is still greater with regard to the

conjugations. What a Roman expressed by the single word, _amavissem_, an

Englishman is obliged to express by four different words, _I should have

loved_. It is unnecessary to take any pains to show how much this

prolixness must enervate the eloquence of all modern languages. How much

the beauty of any expression depends upon its conciseness, is well known

to those who have any experience in composition.

Secondly, this simplification of the principles of languages renders

them less agreeable to the ear. The variety of termination in the Greek

and Latin, occasioned by their declensions and conjugations, give a

sweetness to their language altogether unknown to ours, and a variety

unknown to any other modern language. In point of sweetness, the

Italian, perhaps, may surpass the Latin, and almost equal the Greek; but

in point of variety, it is greatly inferior to both.

Thirdly, this simplification, not only renders the sounds of our

language less agreeable to the ear, but it also restrains us from

disposing such sounds as we have, in the manner that might be most

agreeable. It ties down many words to a particular situation, though

they might often be placed in another with much more beauty. In the

Greek and Latin, though the adjective and substantive were separated

from one another, the correspondence of their terminations still showed

their mutual reference, and the separation did not necessarily occasion

any sort of confusion. Thus in the first line of Virgil:

_Tityre tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi._

We easily see that _tu_ refers to _recubans_, and _patulæ_ to _fagi_;

though the related words are separated from one another by the

intervention of several others: because the terminations, showing the

correspondence of their cases, determine their mutual reference. But if

we were to translate this line literally into English, and say,

_Tityrus, thou of spreading reclining under the shade beech_, Œdipus

himself could not make sense of it; because there is here no difference

of termination, to determine which substantive each adjective belongs

to. It is the same case with regard to verbs. In Latin the verb may

often be placed, without an inconveniency or ambiguity, in any part of

the sentence. But in English its place is almost always precisely

determined. It must follow the subjective and precede the objective

member of the phrase in almost all cases. Thus in Latin whether you say,

_Joannem verberavit Robertus_, or _Robertus verberavit Joannem_, the

meaning is precisely the same, and the termination fixes John to be the

sufferer in both cases. But in English _John beat Robert_, and _Robert

beat John_, have by no means the same signification. The place therefore

of the three principal members of the phrase is in the English, and for

the same reason in the French and Italian languages almost always

precisely determined; whereas in the ancient languages a greater

latitude is allowed, and the place of those members is often, in a great

measure, indifferent. We must have recourse to Horace, in order to

interpret some parts of Milton’s literal translation;

_Who now enjoys thee credulous all gold,

Who always vacant, always amiable

Hopes thee; of flattering gales

Unmindful._

are verses which it is impossible to interpret by any rules of our

language. There are no rules in our language, by which any man could

discover, that, in the first line, _credulous_ referred to _who_, and

not to _thee_; or, that _all gold_ referred to any thing; or, that in

the fourth line, _unmindful_, referred to _who_, in the second, and not

to _thee_ in the third; or, on the contrary, that, in the second line

_always vacant, always amiable_, referred to _thee_ in the third, and

not to _who_ in the same line with it. In the Latin, indeed, all this is

abundantly plain.

_Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aureâ,

Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem

Sperat te; nescius auræ fallacis._

Because the terminations in the Latin determine the reference of each

adjective to its proper substantive, which it is impossible for any

thing in the English to do. How much this power of transposing the order

of their words must have facilitated the composition of the ancients,

both in verse and prose, can hardly be imagined. That it must greatly

have facilitated their versification it is needless to observe; and in

prose, whatever beauty depends upon the arrangement and construction of

the several members of the period, must to them have been acquirable

with much more ease, and to much greater perfection, than it can be to

those whose expression is constantly confined by the prolixness,

constraint and monotony of modern languages.

FINIS.

[Illustration]

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

The Theory of Moral Sentiments Or, an Essay Towards an Analysis of the Principles by Which Men Naturally Judge Concerning the Conduct and Character, First of Their Neighbours, and Afterwards of Themselves. to Which Is Added, a Dissertation on the Origin of Languages. · 第 5 / 5 章

The various senses or powers of perception,[25] from which the human