It is in vain, therefore, to insist upon the uses of the parts in

animals or vegetables, and their curious adjustment to each other. I

would fain know, how an animal could subsist, unless its parts were so

adjusted? Do we not find, that it immediately perishes whenever this

adjustment ceases, and that its matter corrupting tries some new form?

It happens indeed, that the parts of the world are so well adjusted,

that some regular form immediately lays claim to this corrupted matter:

and if it were not so, could the world subsist? Must it not dissolve as

well as the animal, and pass through new positions and situations, till

in great, but finite succession, it fall at last into the present or

some such order?

It is well, replied Cleanthes, you told us, that this hypothesis

was suggested on a sudden, in the course of the argument. Had

you had leisure to examine it, you would soon have perceived the

insuperable objections to which it is exposed. No form, you say, can

subsist, unless it possess those powers and organs requisite for its

subsistence: some new order or economy must be tried, and so on,

without intermission; till at last some order, which can support and

maintain itself, is fallen upon. But according to this hypothesis,

whence arise the many conveniences and advantages which men and all

animals possess? Two eyes, two ears, are not absolutely necessary for

the subsistence of the species. Human race might have been propagated

and preserved, without horses, dogs, cows, sheep, and those innumerable

fruits and products which serve to our satisfaction and enjoyment. If

no camels had been created for the use of man in the sandy deserts of

Africa and Arabia, would the world have been dissolved? If no loadstone

had been framed to give that wonderful and useful direction to the

needle, would human society and the human kind have been immediately

extinguished? Though the maxims of Nature be in general very frugal,

yet instances of this kind are far from being rare; and any one of them

is a sufficient proof of design, and of a benevolent design, which gave

rise to the order and arrangement of the universe.

At least, you may safely infer, said Philo, that the foregoing

hypothesis is so far incomplete and imperfect, which I shall not

scruple to allow. But can we ever reasonably expect greater success

in any attempts of this nature? Or can we ever hope to erect a system

of cosmogony, that will be liable to no exceptions, and will contain

no circumstance repugnant to our limited and imperfect experience of

the analogy of Nature? Your theory itself cannot surely pretend to any

such advantage, even though you have run into _Anthropomorphism_, the

better to preserve a conformity to common experience. Let us once more

put into trial. In all instances which we have ever seen, ideas are

copied from real objects, and are ectypal, not archetypal, to express

myself in learned terms: You reverse this order, and give thought the

precedence. In all instances which we have ever seen, thought has no

influence upon matter, except where that matter is so conjoined with

it as to have an equal reciprocal influence upon it. No animal can move

immediately any thing but the members of its own body; and indeed,

the equality of action and re-action seems to be an universal law of

nature: But your theory implies a contradiction to this experience.

These instances, with many more, which it were easy to collect,

(particularly the supposition of a mind or system of thought that is

eternal, or, in other words, an animal ingenerable and immortal); these

instances, I say, may teach all of us sobriety in condemning each

other, and let us see, that as no system of this kind ought ever to be

received from a slight analogy, so neither ought any to be rejected on

account of a small incongruity. For that is an inconvenience from which

we can justly pronounce no one to be exempted.

All religious systems, it is confessed, are subject to great and

insuperable difficulties. Each disputant triumphs in his turn; while he

carries on an offensive war, and exposes the absurdities, barbarities,

and pernicious tenets of his antagonist. But all of them, on the whole,

prepare a complete triumph for the _Sceptic_; who tells them, that no

system ought ever to be embraced with regard to such subjects: For

this plain reason, that no absurdity ought ever to be assented to with

regard to any subject. A total suspense of judgment is here our only

reasonable resource. And if every attack, as is commonly observed, and

no defence, among Theologians, is successful; how complete must be

_his_ victory, who remains always, with all mankind, on the offensive,

and has himself no fixed station or abiding city, which he is ever, on

any occasion, obliged to defend?

PART IX.

But if so many difficulties attend the argument _a posteriori_, said

Demea, had we not better adhere to that simple and sublime argument _a

priori_, which, by offering to us infallible demonstration, cuts off

at once all doubt and difficulty? By this argument, too, we may prove

the INFINITY of the Divine attributes, which, I am afraid, can never be

ascertained with certainty from any other topic. For how can an effect,

which either is finite, or, for aught we know, may be so; how can such

an effect, I say, prove an infinite cause? The unity too of the Divine

Nature, it is very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to deduce

merely from contemplating the works of nature; nor will the uniformity

alone of the plan, even were it allowed, give us any assurance of that

attribute. Whereas the argument _a priori_....

You seem to reason, Demea, interposed Cleanthes, as if those

advantages and conveniences in the abstract argument were full proofs

of its solidity. But it is first proper, in my opinion, to determine

what argument of this nature you choose to insist on; and we shall

afterwards, from itself, better than from its _useful_ consequences,

endeavour to determine what value we ought to put upon it.

The argument, replied Demea, which I would insist on, is the common

one. Whatever exists must have a cause or reason of its existence; it

being absolutely impossible for any thing to produce itself, or be the

cause of its own existence. In mounting up, therefore, from effects

to causes, we must either go on in tracing an infinite succession,

without any ultimate cause at all; or must at last have recourse to

some ultimate cause, that is _necessarily_ existent: Now, that the

first supposition is absurd, may be thus proved. In the infinite chain

or succession of causes and effects, each single effect is determined

to exist by the power and efficacy of that cause which immediately

preceded; but the whole eternal chain or succession, taken together,

is not determined or caused by any thing; and yet it is evident that

it requires a cause or reason, as much as any particular object

which begins to exist in time. The question is still reasonable,

why this particular succession of causes existed from eternity, and

not any other succession, or no succession at all. If there be no

necessarily existent being, any supposition which can be formed is

equally possible; nor is there any more absurdity in Nothing's having

existed from eternity, than there is in that succession of causes

which constitutes the universe. What was it, then, which determined

Something to exist rather than Nothing, and bestowed being on a

particular possibility, exclusive of the rest? _External causes_, there

are supposed to be none. _Chance_ is a word without a meaning. Was it

_Nothing_? But that can never produce any thing. We must, therefore,

have recourse to a necessarily existent Being, who carries the REASON

of his existence in himself, and who cannot be supposed not to exist,

without an express contradiction. There is, consequently, such a Being;

that is, there is a Deity.

I shall not leave it to Philo, said Cleanthes, though I know that the

starting objections is his chief delight, to point out the weakness of

this metaphysical reasoning. It seems to me so obviously ill-grounded,

and at the same time of so little consequence to the cause of true

piety and religion, that I shall myself venture to show the fallacy of

it.

I shall begin with observing, that there is an evident absurdity in

pretending to demonstrate a matter of fact, or to prove it by any

arguments _a priori_. Nothing is demonstrable, unless the contrary

implies a contradiction. Nothing, that is distinctly conceivable,

implies a contradiction. Whatever we conceive as existent, we can

also conceive as non-existent. There is no being, therefore, whose

non-existence implies a contradiction. Consequently there is no being,

whose existence is demonstrable. I propose this argument as entirely

decisive, and am willing to rest the whole controversy upon it.

It is pretended that the Deity is a necessarily existent being; and

this necessity of his existence is attempted to be explained by

asserting, that if we knew his whole essence or nature, we should

perceive it to be as impossible for him not to exist, as for twice two

not to be four. But it is evident that this can never happen, while

our faculties remain the same as at present. It will still be possible

for us, at any time, to conceive the non-existence of what we formerly

conceived to exist; nor can the mind ever lie under a necessity of

supposing any object to remain always in being; in the same manner as

we lie under a necessity of always conceiving twice two to be four. The

words, therefore, _necessary existence_, have no meaning; or, which is

the same thing, none that is consistent.

But farther, why may not die material universe be the necessarily

existent Being, according to this pretended explication of necessity?

We dare not affirm that we know all the qualities of matter; and for

aught we can determine, it may contain some qualities, which, were they

known, would make its non-existence appear as great a contradiction as

that twice two is five. I find only one argument employed to prove,

that the material world is not the necessarily existent Being; and

this argument is derived from the contingency both of the matter and

the form of the world. 'Any particle of matter,' it is said,[1] 'may

be _conceived_ to be annihilated; and any form may be _conceived_ to

be altered. Such an annihilation or alteration, therefore, is not

impossible.' But it seems a great partiality not to perceive, that

the same argument extends equally to the Deity, so far as we have

any conception of him; and that the mind can at least imagine him to

be non-existent, or his attributes to be altered. It must be some

unknown, inconceivable qualities, which can make his non-existence

appear impossible, or his attributes unalterable: And no reason can

be assigned, why these qualities may not belong to matter. As they

are altogether unknown and inconceivable, they can never be proved

incompatible with it.

Add to this, that in tracing an eternal succession of objects, it seems

absurd to inquire for a general cause or first author. How can any

thing, that exists from eternity, have a cause, since that relation

implies a priority in time, and a beginning of existence?

In such a chain, too, or succession of objects, each part is caused

by that which preceded it, and causes that which succeeds it. Where

then is the difficulty? But the WHOLE, you say, wants a cause. I

answer, that the uniting of these parts into a whole, like the uniting

of several distinct countries into one kingdom, or several distinct

members into one body, is performed merely by an arbitrary act of the

mind, and has no influence on the nature of things. Did I show you

the particular causes of each individual in a collection of twenty

particles of matter, I should think it very unreasonable, should you

afterwards ask me, what was the cause of the whole twenty. This is

sufficiently explained in explaining the cause of the parts.

Though the reasonings which you have urged, Cleanthes, may well

excuse me, said Philo, from starting any farther difficulties, yet

I cannot forbear insisting still upon another topic. It is observed

by arithmeticians, that the products of 9 compose always either 9,

or some lesser product of 9, if you add together all the characters

of which any of the former products is composed. Thus, of 18, 27,

36, which are products of 9, you make 9 by adding 1 to 8, 2 to 7, 3

to 6. Thus, 369 is a product also of 9; and if you add 3, 6, and 9,

you make 18, a lesser product of 9.[2] To a superficial observer, so

wonderful a regularity may be admired as the effect either of chance

or design: but a skilful algebraist immediately concludes it to be

the work of necessity, and demonstrates, that it must for ever result

from the nature of these numbers. Is it not probable, I ask, that the

whole economy of the universe is conducted by a like necessity, though

no human algebra can furnish a key which solves the difficulty? And

instead of admiring the order of natural beings, may it not happen,

that, could we penetrate into the intimate nature of bodies, we should

clearly see why it was absolutely impossible they could ever admit of

any other disposition? So dangerous is it to introduce this idea of

necessity into the present question! and so naturally does it afford an

inference directly opposite to the religious hypothesis!

But dropping all these abstractions, continued Philo, and confining

ourselves to more familiar topics, I shall venture to add an

observation, that the argument _a priori_ has seldom been found

very convincing, except to people of a metaphysical head, who have

accustomed themselves to abstract reasoning, and who, finding from

mathematics, that the understanding frequently leads to truth through

obscurity, and, contrary to first appearances, have transferred the

same habit of thinking to subjects where it ought not to have place.

Other people, even of good sense and the best inclined to religion,

feel always some deficiency in such arguments, though they are not

perhaps able to explain distinctly where it lies; a certain proof that

men ever did, and ever will derive their religion from other sources

than from this species of reasoning.

[1] Dr Clarke.

[2] République des Lettres, Août 1685.

PART X.

It is my opinion, I own, replied Demea, that each man feels, in a

manner, the truth of religion within his own breast, and, from a

consciousness of his imbecility and misery, rather than from any

reasoning, is led to seek protection from that Being, on whom he and

all nature is dependent. So anxious or so tedious are even the best

scenes of life, that futurity is still the object of all our hopes

and fears. We incessantly look forward, and endeavour, by prayers,

adoration, and sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers, whom we

find, by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us. Wretched

creatures that we are! what resource for us amidst the innumerable

ills of life, did not religion, suggest some methods of atonement,

and appease those terrors with which we are incessantly agitated and

tormented?

I am indeed persuaded, said Philo, that the best, and indeed the only

method of bringing every one to a due sense of religion, is by just

representations of the misery and wickedness of men. And for that

purpose a talent of eloquence and strong imagery is more requisite than

that of reasoning and argument. For is it necessary to prove what every

one feels within himself? It is only necessary to make us feel it, if

possible, more intimately and sensibly.

The people, indeed, replied Demea, are sufficiently convinced of this

great and melancholy truth. The miseries of life; the unhappiness

of man; the general corruptions of our nature; the unsatisfactory

enjoyment of pleasures, riches, honours; these phrases have become

almost proverbial in all languages. And who can doubt of what all men

declare from their own immediate feeling and experience?

In this point, said Philo, the learned are perfectly agreed with the

vulgar; and in all letters, _sacred_ and _profane_, the topic of

human misery has been insisted on with the most pathetic eloquence

that sorrow and melancholy could inspire. The poets, who speak from

sentiment, without a system, and whose testimony has therefore the

more authority, abound in images of this nature. From Homer down to Dr

Young, the whole inspired tribe have ever been sensible, that no other

representation of things would suit the feeling and observation of each

individual.

As to authorities, replied Demea, you need not seek them. Look round

this library of Cleanthes. I shall venture to affirm, that, except

authors of particular sciences, such as chemistry or botany, who have

no occasion to treat of human life, there is scarce one of those

innumerable writers, from whom the sense of human misery has not, in

some passage or other, extorted a complaint and confession of it. At

least, the chance is entirely on that side; and no one author has ever,

so far as I can recollect, been so extravagant as to deny it.

There you must excuse me, said Philo: Leibnitz has denied it; and is

perhaps the first[1] who ventured upon so bold and paradoxical an

opinion; at least, the first who made it essential to his philosophical

system.

And by being the first, replied Demea, might he not have been sensible

of his error? For is this a subject in which philosophers can propose

to make discoveries especially in so late an age? And can any man hope

by a simple denial (for the subject scarcely admits of reasoning),

to bear down the united testimony of mankind, founded on sense and

consciousness?

And why should man, added he, pretend to an exemption from the lot of

all other animals? The whole earth, believe me, Philo, is cursed and

polluted. A perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures.

Necessity, hunger, want, stimulate the strong and courageous: Fear,

anxiety, terror, agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into

life gives anguish to the new-born infant and to its wretched parent:

Weakness, impotence, distress, attend each stage of that life: and it

is at last finished in agony and horror.

Observe too, says Philo, the curious artifices of Nature, in order

to embitter the life of every living being. The stronger prey upon

the weaker, and keep them in perpetual terror and anxiety. The weaker

too, in their turn, often prey upon the stronger, and vex and molest

them without relaxation. Consider that innumerable race of insects,

which either are bred on the body of each animal, or, flying about,

infix their stings in him. These insects have others still less than

themselves, which torment them. And thus on each hand, before and

behind, above and below, every animal is surrounded with enemies, which

incessantly seek his misery and destruction.

Man alone, said Demea, seems to be, in part, an exception to this rule.

For by combination in society, he can easily master lions, tigers, and

bears, whose greater strength and agility naturally enable them to prey

upon him.

On the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried Philo, that the uniform

and equal maxims of Nature are most apparent. Man, it is true, can,

by combination, surmount all his _real_ enemies, and become master of

the whole animal creation: but does he not immediately raise up to

himself _imaginary_ enemies, the demons of his fancy, who haunt him

with superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life? His

pleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime: his food and

repose give them umbrage and offence: his very sleep and dreams furnish

new materials to anxious fear: and even death, his refuge from every

other ill, presents only the dread of endless and innumerable woes. Nor

does the wolf molest more the timid flock, than superstition does the

anxious breast of wretched mortals.

Besides, consider, Demea: This very society, by which we surmount those

wild beasts, our natural enemies; what new enemies does it not raise to

us? What wo and misery does it not occasion? Man is the greatest enemy

of man. Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition,

war, calumny, treachery, fraud; by these they mutually torment each

other; and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed,

were it not for the dread of still greater ills, which must attend

their separation.

But though these external insults, said Demea, from animals, from men,

from all the elements, which assault us, form a frightful catalogue

of woes, they are nothing in comparison of those which arise within

ourselves, from the distempered condition of our mind and body. How

many lie under the lingering torment of diseases? Hear the pathetic

enumeration of the great poet.

Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs,

Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,

And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy,

Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence.

Dire was the tossing, deep the groans: *DESPAIR

Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch.

And over them triumphant *DEATH his dart

Shook: but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd

With vows, as their chief good and final hope.

The disorders of the mind, continued Demea, though more secret, are

not perhaps less dismal and vexatious. Remorse, shame, anguish, rage,

disappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, despair; who has ever passed

through life without cruel inroads from these tormentors? How many

have scarcely ever felt any better sensations? Labour and poverty, so

abhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number;

and those few privileged persons, who enjoy ease and opulence, never

reach contentment or true felicity. All the goods of life united would

not make a very happy man; but all the ills united would make a wretch

indeed; and any one of them almost (and who can be free from every

one?) nay often the absence of one good (and who can possess all?) is

sufficient to render life ineligible.

Were a stranger to drop on a sudden into this world, I would show him,

as a specimen of its ills, an hospital full of diseases, a prison

crowded with malefactors and debtors, a field of battle strewed with

carcases, a fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languishing under

tyranny, famine, or pestilence. To turn the gay side of life to him,

and give him a notion of its pleasures; whether should I conduct him?

to a ball, to an opera, to court? He might justly think, that I was

only showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow.

There is no evading such striking instances, said Philo, but by

apologies, which still farther aggravate the charge. Why have all men,

I ask, in all ages, complained incessantly of the miseries of life?....

They have no just reason, says one: these complaints proceed only from

their discontented, repining, anxious disposition.... And can there

possibly, I reply, be a more certain foundation of misery, than such a

wretched temper?

But if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says my antagonist,

why do they remain in life?....

Not satisfied with life, afraid of death.

This is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are terrified, not

bribed to the continuance of our existence.

It is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few refined spirits

indulge, and which has, spread these complaints among the whole, nice

of mankinds.... And what is this delicacy, I ask, which you blame? Is

it any thing but a greater sensibility to all the pleasures and pains

of life? and if the man of a delicate, refined temper, by being so much

more alive than the rest of the world, is only so much more unhappy,

what judgment must we form in general of human life?

Let men remain at rest, says our adversary, and they will be easy. They

are willing artificers of their own misery.... No! reply I: an anxious

languor follows their repose; disappointment, vexation, trouble, their

activity and ambition.

I can observe something like what you mention in some others, replied

Cleanthes: but I confess I feel little or nothing of it in myself, and

hope that it is not so common as you represent it.

If you feel not human misery yourself, cried Demea, I congratulate

you on so happy a singularity. Others, seemingly the most prosperous,

have not been ashamed to vent their complaints in the most melancholy

strains. Let us attend to the great, the fortunate emperor, Charles

V., when, tired with human grandeur, he resigned all his extensive

dominions into the hands of his son. In the last harangue which

he made on that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed, _that the

greatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had been mixed with

so many adversities, that he might truly say he had never enjoyed

any satisfaction or contentment_. But did the retired life, in which

he sought for shelter, afford him any greater happiness? If we may

credit his son's account, his repentance commenced the very day of his

resignation.

Cicero's fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the greatest lustre

and renown; yet what pathetic complaints of the ills of life do his

familiar letters, as well as philosophical discourses, contain? And

suitably to his own experience, he introduces Cato, the great, the

fortunate Cato, protesting in his old age, that had he a new life in

his offer, he would reject the present.

Ask yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether they would live

over again the last ten or twenty years of their life. No! but the next

twenty, they say, will be better:

And from the dregs of life, hope to receive

What the first sprightly running could not give.

Thus at last they find (such is the greatness of human misery, it

reconciles even contradictions), that they complain at once of the

shortness of life, and of its vanity and sorrow.

And is it possible, Cleanthes, said Philo, that after all these

reflections, and infinitely more, which might be suggested, you

can still persevere in your Anthropomorphism, and assert the moral

attributes of the Deity, his justice, benevolence, mercy, and

rectitude, to be of the same nature with these virtues in human

creatures? His power we allow is infinite: whatever he wills is

executed: but neither man nor any other animal is happy: therefore he

does not will their happiness. His wisdom is infinite: he is never

mistaken in choosing the means to any end: but the course of Nature

tends not to human or animal felicity: therefore it is not established

for that purpose. Through the whole compass of human knowledge, there

are no inferences more certain and infallible than these. In what

respect, then, do his benevolence and mercy resemble the benevolence

and mercy of men?

Epicurus's old questions are yet unanswered.

Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? then is he impotent. Is

he able, but not willing? then is he malevolent Is he both able and

willing? whence then is evil?

You ascribe, Cleanthes (and I believe justly), a purpose and intention

to Nature. But what, I beseech you, is the object of that curious

artifice and machinery, which she has displayed in all animals? The

preservation alone of individuals, and propagation of the species. It

seems enough for her purpose, if such a rank be barely upheld in the

universe, without any care or concern for the happiness of the members

that compose it. No resource for this purpose: no machinery, in order

merely to give pleasure or ease: no fund of pure joy and contentment:

no indulgence, without some want or necessity accompanying it. At

least, the few phenomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite

phenomena of still greater importance.

Our sense of music, harmony, and indeed beauty of all kinds, gives

satisfaction, without being absolutely necessary to the preservation

and propagation of the species. But what racking pains, on the other

hand, arise from gouts, gravels, megrims, toothaches, rheumatisms,

where the injury to the animal machinery is either small or incurable?

Mirth, laughter, play, frolic, seem gratuitous satisfactions, which

have no farther tendency: spleen, melancholy, discontent, superstition,

are pains of the same nature. How then does the Divine benevolence

display itself, in the sense of you Anthropomorphites? None but we

Mystics, as you were pleased to call us, can account for this strange

mixture of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes, infinitely

perfect, but incomprehensible.

And have you at last, said Cleanthes smiling, betrayed your intentions,

Philo? Your long agreement with Demea did indeed a little surprise me;

but I find you were all the while erecting a concealed battery against

me. And I must confess, that you have now fallen upon a subject worthy

of your noble spirit of opposition and controversy. If you can make out

the present point, and prove mankind to be unhappy or corrupted, there

is an end at once of all religion. For to what purpose establish the

natural attributes of the Deity, while the moral are still doubtful and

uncertain?

You take umbrage very easily, replied Demea, at opinions the most

innocent, and the most generally received, even amongst the religious

and devout themselves: and nothing can be more surprising than to

find a topic like this, concerning the wickedness and misery of man,

charged with no less than Atheism and profaneness. Have not all

pious divines and preachers, who have indulged their rhetoric on so

fertile a subject; have they not easily, I say, given a solution of

any difficulties which may attend it? This world is but a point in

comparison of the universe; this life but a moment in comparison of

eternity. The present evil phenomena, therefore, are rectified in

other regions, and in some future period of existence. And the eyes

of men, being then opened to larger views of things, see the whole

connection of general laws; and trace with adoration, the benevolence

and rectitude of the Deity, through all the mazes and intricacies of

his providence.

No! replied Cleanthes, No! These arbitrary suppositions can never be

admitted, contrary to matter of fact, visible and uncontroverted.

Whence can any cause be known but from its known effects? Whence can

any hypothesis be proved but from the apparent phenomena? To establish

one hypothesis upon another, is building entirely in the air; and

the utmost we ever attain, by these conjectures and fictions, is to

ascertain the bare possibility of our opinion; but never can we, upon

such terms, establish its reality.

The only method of supporting Divine benevolence, and it is what I

willingly embrace, is to deny absolutely the misery and wickedness of

man. Your representations are exaggerated; your melancholy views mostly

fictitious; your inferences contrary to fact and experience. Health is

more common than sickness; pleasure than pain; happiness than misery.

And for one vexation which we meet with, we attain, upon computation, a

hundred enjoyments.

Admitting your position, replied Philo, which yet is extremely

doubtful, you must at the same time allow, that if pain be less

frequent than pleasure, it is infinitely more violent and durable.

One hour of it is often able to outweigh a day, a week, a month of

our common insipid enjoyments; and how many days, weeks, and months,

are passed by several in the most acute torments? Pleasure, scarcely

in one instance, is ever able to reach ecstasy and rapture; and in

no one instance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch

and altitude. The spirits evaporate, the nerves relax, the fabric is

disordered, and the enjoyment quickly degenerates into fatigue and

uneasiness. But pain often, good God, how often! rises to torture and

agony; and the longer it continues, it becomes still more genuine agony

and torture. Patience is exhausted, courage languishes, melancholy

seizes us, and nothing terminates our misery but the removal of its

cause, or another event, which is the sole cure of all evil, but

which, from our natural folly, we regard with still greater horror and

consternation.

But not to insist upon these topics, continued Philo, though most

obvious, certain, and important; I must use the freedom to admonish

you, Cleanthes, that you have put the controversy upon a most dangerous

issue, and are unawares introducing a total scepticism into the most

essential articles of natural and revealed theology. What! no method of

fixing a just foundation for religion, unless we allow the happiness

of human life, and maintain a continued existence even in this world,

with all our present pains, infirmities, vexations, and follies, to be

eligible and desirable! But this is contrary to every one's feeling and

experience: It is contrary to an authority so established as nothing

can subvert.

No decisive proofs can ever be produced against this authority; nor is

it possible for you to compute, estimate and compare, all the pains and

all the pleasures in the lives of all men and of all animals: And thus,

by your resting the whole system of religion on a point, which, from

its very nature, must for ever be uncertain, you tacitly confess, that

that system is equally uncertain.

But allowing you what never will be believed, at least what you never

possibly can prove, that animal, or at least human happiness, in this

life, exceeds its misery, you have yet done nothing: For this is not,

by any means, what we expect from infinite power, infinite wisdom, and

infinite goodness. Why is there any misery at all in the world? Not by

chance surely. From some cause then. Is it from the intention of the

Deity? But he is perfectly benevolent. Is it contrary to his intention?

But he is almighty. Nothing can shake the solidity of this reasoning,

so short, so clear, so decisive; except we assert, that these subjects

exceed all human capacity, and that our common measures of truth and

falsehood are not applicable to them; a topic which I have all along

insisted on, but which you have, from the beginning, rejected with

scorn and indignation.

But I will be contented to retire still from this intrenchment, for

I deny that you can ever force me in it. I will allow, that pain or

misery in man is _compatible_ with infinite power and goodness in the

Deity, even in your sense of these attributes: What are you advanced by

all these concessions? A mere possible compatibility is not sufficient.

You must _prove_ these pure, unmixt, and uncontrollable attributes

from the present mixt and confused phenomena, and from these alone. A

hopeful undertaking! Were the phenomena ever so pure and unmixt, yet

being finite, they would be insufficient for that purpose. How much

more, where they are also so jarring and discordant!

Here, Cleanthes, I find myself at ease in my argument. Here I triumph.

Formerly, when we argued concerning the natural attributes of

intelligence and design, I needed all my sceptical and metaphysical

subtilty to elude your grasp. In many views of the universe, and of its

parts, particularly the latter, the beauty and fitness of final causes

strike us with such irresistible force, that all objections appear

(what I believe they really are) mere cavils and sophisms; nor can

we then imagine how it was ever possible for us to repose any weight

on them. But there is no view of human life, or of the condition of

mankind, from which, without the greatest violence, we can infer the

moral attributes, or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined with

infinite power and infinite wisdom, which we must discover by the eyes

of faith alone. It is your turn now to tug the labouring oar, and to

support your philosophical subtilties against the dictates of plain

reason and experience.

[1] That sentiment had been maintained by Dr King, and some few others,

before Leibnitz, though by none of so great fame as that German

philosopher.

PART XI.

I scruple not to allow, said Cleanthes, that I have been apt to

suspect the frequent repetition of the word _infinite_, which we meet

with in all theological writers, to savour more of panegyric than of

philosophy; and that any purposes of reasoning, and even of religion,

would be better served, were we to rest contented with more accurate

and more moderate expressions. The terms, _admirable, excellent,

superlatively great, wise_, and _holy_; these sufficiently fill the

imaginations of men; and any thing beyond, besides that it leads into

absurdities, has no influence on the affections or sentiments. Thus,

in the present subject, if we abandon all human analogy, as seems your

intention, Demea, I am afraid we abandon all religion, and retain no

conception of the great object of our adoration. If we preserve human

analogy, we must for ever find it impossible to reconcile any mixture

of evil in the universe with infinite attributes; much less can we ever

prove the latter from the former. But supposing the Author of Nature

to be finitely perfect, though far exceeding mankind, a satisfactory

account may then be given of natural and moral evil, and every untoward

phenomenon be explained and adjusted. A less evil may then be chosen,

in order to avoid a greater; inconveniences be submitted to, in order

to reach a desirable end; and in a word, benevolence, regulated by

wisdom, and limited by necessity, may produce just such a world as

the present. You, Philo, who are so prompt at starting views, and

reflections, and analogies, I would gladly hear, at length, without

interruption, your opinion of this new theory; and if it deserve our

attention, we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it into form.

My sentiments, replied Philo, are not worth being made a mystery of;

and therefore, without any ceremony, I shall deliver what occurs to

me with regard to the present subject. It must, I think, be allowed,

that if a very limited intelligence, whom we shall suppose utterly

unacquainted with the universe, were assured, that it were the

production of a very good, wise, and powerful Being, however finite, he

would, from his conjectures, form _beforehand_ a different notion of it

from what we find it to be by experience; nor would he ever imagine,

merely from these attributes of the cause, of which he is informed,

that the effect could be so full of vice and misery and disorder, as

it appears in this life. Supposing now, that this person were brought

into the world, still assured that it was the workmanship of such a

sublime and benevolent Being; he might, perhaps, be surprised at the

disappointment; but would never retract his former belief, if founded

on any very solid argument; since such a limited intelligence must

be sensible of his own blindness and ignorance, and must allow, that

there may be many solutions of those phenomena, which will for ever

escape his comprehension. But supposing, which is the real case with

regard to man, that this creature is not antecedently convinced of a

supreme intelligence, benevolent, and powerful, but is left to gather

such a belief from the appearances of things; this entirely alters

the case, nor will he ever find any reason for such a conclusion. He

may be fully convinced of the narrow limits of his understanding; but

this will not help him in forming an inference concerning the goodness

of superior powers, since he must form that inference from what he

knows, not from what he is ignorant of. The more you exaggerate his

weakness and ignorance, the more diffident you render him, and give

him the greater suspicion that such subjects are beyond the reach of

his faculties. You are obliged, therefore, to reason with him merely

from the known phenomena, and to drop every arbitrary supposition or

conjecture.

Did I show you a house or palace, where there was not one apartment

convenient or agreeable; where the windows, doors, fires passages,

stairs, and the whole economy of the building, were the source of

noise, confusion, fatigue, darkness, and the extremes of heat and

cold; you would certainly blame the contrivance, without any farther

examination. The architect would in vain display his subtilty, and

prove to you, that if this door or that window were altered, greater

ills would ensue. What he says may be strictly true: The alteration

of one particular, while the other parts of the building remain, may

only augment the inconveniences. But still you would assert in general,

that, if the architect had had skill and good intentions, he might

have formed such a plan of the whole, and might have adjusted the

parts in such a manner, as would have remedied all or most of these

inconveniences. His ignorance, or even your own ignorance of such a

plan, will never convince you of the impossibility of it. If you find

any inconveniences and deformities in the building, you will always,

without entering into any detail, condemn the architect.

In short, I repeat the question: Is the world, considered in general,

and as it appears to us in this life, different from what a man, or

such a limited being, would, _beforehand_, expect from a very powerful,

wise, and benevolent Deity? It must be strange prejudice to assert

the contrary. And from thence I conclude, that however consistent the

world may be, allowing certain suppositions and conjectures, with the

idea of such a Deity, it can never afford us an inference concerning

his existence. The consistence is not absolutely denied, only the

inference. Conjectures, especially where infinity is excluded from the

Divine attributes, may perhaps be sufficient to prove a consistence,

but can never be foundations for any inference.

There seem to be _four_ circumstances, on which depend all, or the

greatest part of the ills, that molest sensible creatures; and it

is not impossible but all these circumstances may be necessary

and unavoidable. We know so little beyond common life, or even of

common life, that, with regard to the economy of a universe, there

is no conjecture, however wild, which may not be just; nor any one,

however plausible, which may not be erroneous. All that belongs to

human understanding, in this deep ignorance and obscurity, is to be

sceptical, or at least cautious, and not to admit of any hypothesis

whatever, much less of any which is supported by no appearance of

probability. Now, this I assert to be the case with regard to all the

causes of evil, and the circumstances on which it depends. None of them

appear to human reason in the least degree necessary or unavoidable;

nor can we suppose them such, without the utmost license of imagination.

The _first_ circumstance which introduces evil, is that contrivance or

economy of the animal creation, by which pains, as well as pleasures,

are employed to excite all creatures to action, and make them vigilant

in the great work of self-preservation. Now pleasure alone, in its

various degrees, seems to human understanding sufficient for this

purpose. All animals might be constantly in a state of enjoyment:

but when urged by any of the necessities of nature, such as thirst,

hunger, weariness; instead of pain, they might feel a diminution of

pleasure, by which they might be prompted to seek that object which

is necessary to their subsistence. Men pursue pleasure as eagerly as

they avoid pain; at least, they might have been so constituted. It

seems, therefore, plainly possible to carry on the business of life

without any pain. Why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of

such a sensation? If animals can be free from it an hour, they might

enjoy a perpetual exemption from it; and it required as particular a

contrivance of their organs to produce that feeling, as to endow them

with sight, hearing, or any of the senses. Shall we conjecture, that

such a contrivance was necessary, without any appearance of reason? and

shall we build on that conjecture as on the most certain truth?

But a capacity of pain would not alone produce pain, were it not for

the _second_ circumstance, viz. the conducting of the world by general

laws; and this seems nowise necessary to a very perfect Being. It is

true, if every thing were conducted by particular volitions, the course

of nature would be perpetually broken, and no man could employ his

reason in the conduct of life. But might not other particular volitions

remedy this inconvenience? In short, might not the Deity exterminate

all ill, wherever it were to be found; and produce all good, without

any preparation, or long progress of causes and effects?

Besides, we must consider, that, according to the present economy of

the world, the course of nature, though supposed exactly regular,

yet to us appears not so, and many events are uncertain, and many

disappoint our expectations. Health and sickness, calm and tempest,

with an infinite number of other accidents, whose causes are unknown

and variable, have a great influence both on the fortunes of particular

persons and on the prosperity of public societies; and indeed all human

life, in a manner, depends on such accidents. A being, therefore, who

knows the secret springs of the universe, might easily, by particular

volitions, turn all these accidents to the good of mankind, and render

the whole world happy, without discovering himself in any operation.

A fleet, whose purposes were salutary to society, might always meet

with a fair wind. Good princes enjoy sound health and long life.

Persons born to power and authority, be framed with good tempers and

virtuous dispositions. A few such events as these, regularly and

wisely conducted, would change the face of the world; and yet would no

more seem to disturb the course of nature, or confound human conduct,

than the present economy of things, where the causes are secret, and

variable, and compounded. Some small touches given to Caligula's brain

in his infancy, might have converted him into a Trajan. One wave, a

little higher than the rest, by burying Cæsar and his fortune in the

bottom of the ocean, might have restored liberty to a considerable

part of mankind. There may, for aught we know, be good reasons why

Providence interposes not in this manner; but they are unknown to

us; and though the mere supposition, that such reasons exist, may be

sufficient to _save_ the conclusion concerning the Divine attributes,

yet surely it can never be sufficient to _establish_ that conclusion.

If every thing in the universe be conducted by general laws, and if

animals be rendered susceptible of pain, it scarcely seems possible

but some ill must arise in the various shocks of matter, and the

various concurrence and opposition of general laws; but this ill

would be very rare, were it not for the _third_ circumstance, which I

proposed to mention, viz. the great frugality with which all powers

and faculties are distributed to every particular being. So well

adjusted are the organs and capacities of all animals, and so well

fitted to their preservation, that, as far as history or tradition

reaches, there appears not to be any single species which has yet

been extinguished in the universe. Every animal has the requisite

endowments; but these endowments are bestowed with so scrupulous an

economy, that any considerable diminution must entirely destroy the

creature. Wherever one power is increased, there is a proportional

abatement in the others. Animals which excel in swiftness are commonly

defective in force. Those which possess both are either imperfect in

some of their senses, or are oppressed with the most craving wants.

The human species, whose chief excellency is reason and sagacity, is

of all others the most necessitous, and the most deficient in bodily

advantages; without clothes, without arms, without food, without

lodging, without any convenience of life, except what they owe to

their own skill and industry. In short, nature seems to have formed

an exact calculation of the necessities of her creatures; and, like

a _rigid master_, has afforded them little more powers or endowments

than what are strictly sufficient to supply those necessities. An

_indulgent parent_ would have bestowed a large stock, in order to

guard against accidents, and secure the happiness and welfare of the

creature in the most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. Every

course of life would not have been so surrounded with precipices, that

the least departure from the true path, by mistake or necessity, must

involve us in misery and ruin. Some reserve, some fund, would have been

provided to ensure happiness; nor would the powers and the necessities

have been adjusted with so rigid an economy. The Author of Nature is

inconceivably powerful: his force is supposed great, if not altogether

inexhaustible: nor is there any reason, as far as we can judge, to make

him observe this strict frugality in his dealings with his creatures.

It would have been better, were his power extremely limited, to have

created fewer animals, and to have endowed these with more faculties

for their happiness and preservation. A builder is never esteemed

prudent, who undertakes a plan beyond what his stock will enable him to

finish.

In order to cure most of the ills of human life, I require not that

man should have the wings of the eagle, the swiftness of the stag, the

force of the ox, the arms of the lion, the scales of the crocodile

or rhinoceros; much less do I demand the sagacity of an angel or

cherubim. I am contented to take an increase in one single power or

faculty of his soul. Let him be endowed with a greater propensity to

industry and labour; a more vigorous spring and activity of mind; a

more constant bent to business and application. Let the whole species

possess naturally an equal diligence with that which many individuals

are able to attain by habit and reflection; and the most beneficial

consequences, without any allay of ill, is the immediate and necessary

result of this endowment. Almost all the moral, as well as natural

evils of human life, arise from idleness; and were our species, by

the original constitution of their frame, exempt from this vice or

infirmity, the perfect cultivation of land, the improvement of arts and

manufactures, the exact execution of every office and duty, immediately

follow; and men at once may fully reach that state of society, which

is so imperfectly attained by the best regulated government. But

as industry is a power, and the most valuable of any, Nature seems

determined, suitably to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men with a

very sparing hand; and rather to punish him severely for his deficiency

in it, than to reward him for his attainments. She has so contrived

his frame, that nothing but the most violent necessity can oblige him

to labour; and she employs all his other wants to overcome, at least

in part, the want of diligence, and to endow him with some share of a

faculty of which she has thought fit naturally to bereave him. Here our

demands may be allowed very humble, and therefore the more reasonable.

If we required the endowments of superior penetration and judgment, of

a more delicate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to benevolence

and friendship; we might be told, that we impiously pretend to break

the order of Nature; that we want to exalt ourselves into a higher rank

of being; that the presents which we require, not being suitable to our

state and condition, would only be pernicious to us. But it is hard; I

dare to repeat it, it is hard, that being placed in a world so full of

wants and necessities, where almost every being and element is either

our foe or refuses its assistance ... we should also have our own

temper to struggle with, and should be deprived of that faculty which

can alone fence against these multiplied evils.

The _fourth_ circumstance, whence arises the misery and ill of

the universe, is the inaccurate workmanship of all the springs and

principles of the great machine of nature. It must be acknowledged,

that there are few parts of the universe, which seem not to serve

some purpose, and whose removal would not produce a visible defect

and disorder in the whole. The parts hang all together; nor can one

be touched without affecting the rest, in a greater or less degree.

But at the same time, it must be observed, that none of these parts

or principles, however useful, are so accurately adjusted, as to keep

precisely within those bounds in which their utility consists; but

they are, all of them, apt, on every occasion, to run into the one

extreme or the other. One would imagine, that this grand production

had not received the last hand of the maker; so little finished is

every part, and so coarse are the strokes with which it is executed.

Thus, the winds are requisite to convey the vapours along the surface

of the globe, and to assist men in navigation: but how oft, rising

up to tempests and hurricanes, do they become pernicious? Rains are

necessary to nourish all the plants and animals of the earth: but how

often are they defective? how often excessive? Heat is requisite to all

life and vegetation; but is not always found in the due proportion.

On the mixture and secretion of the humours and juices of the body

depend the health and prosperity of the animal: but the parts perform

not regularly their proper function. What more useful than all the

passions of the mind, ambition, vanity love, anger? But how oft do they

break their bounds, and cause the greatest convulsions in society?

There is nothing so advantageous in the universe, but what frequently

becomes pernicious, by its excess or defect; nor has Nature guarded,

with the requisite accuracy, against all disorder or confusion. The

irregularity is never perhaps so great as to destroy any species; but

is often sufficient to involve the individuals in ruin and misery.

On the concurrence, then, of these _four_ circumstances, does all or

the greatest part of natural evil depend. Were all living creatures

incapable of pain, or were the world administered by particular

volitions, evil never could have found access into the universe: and

were animals endowed with a large stock of powers and faculties,

beyond what strict necessity requires; or were the several springs

and principles of the universe so accurately framed as to preserve

always the just temperament and medium; there must have been very

little ill in comparison of what we feel at present. What then shall

we pronounce on this occasion? Shall we say that these circumstances

are not necessary, and that they might easily have been altered in

the contrivance of the universe? This decision seems too presumptuous

for creatures so blind and ignorant. Let us be more modest in our

conclusions. Let us allow, that, if the goodness of the Diety (I mean

a goodness like the human) could be established on any tolerable

reasons _a priori_, these phenomena, however untoward, would not be

sufficient to subvert that principle; but might easily, in some unknown

manner, be reconcileable to it. But let us still assert, that as this

goodness is not antecedently established, but must be inferred from the

phenomena, there can be no grounds for such an inference, while there

are so many ills in the universe, and while these ills might so easily

have been remedied, as far as human understanding can be allowed to

judge on such a subject. I am Sceptic enough to allow, that the bad

appearances, notwithstanding all my reasonings, may be compatible with

such attributes as you suppose; but surely they can never prove these

attributes. Such a conclusion cannot result from Scepticism, but must

arise from the phenomena, and from our confidence in the reasonings

which we deduce from these phenomena.

Look round this universe. What an immense profusion of beings, animated

and organized, sensible and active! You admire this prodigious

variety and fecundity. But inspect a little more narrowly these

living existences, the only beings worth regarding. How hostile and

destructive to each other! How insufficient all of them for their own

happiness! How contemptible or odious to the spectator! The whole

presents nothing but the idea of a blind Nature, impregnated by a

great vivifying principle, and pouring forth from her lap, without

discernment or parental care, her maimed and abortive children!

Here the Manichæan system occurs as a proper hypothesis to solve the

difficulty: and no doubt, in some respects, it is very specious, and

has more probability than the common hypothesis, by giving a plausible

account of the strange mixture of good and ill which appears in life.

But if we consider, on the other hand, the perfect uniformity and

agreement of the parts of the universe, we shall not discover in it any

marks of the combat of a malevolent with a benevolent being. There is

indeed an opposition of pains and pleasures in the feelings of sensible

creatures: but are not all the operations of Nature carried on by an

opposition of principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and

heavy? The true conclusion is, that the original Source of all things

is entirely indifferent to all these principles; and has no more regard

to good above ill, than to heat above cold, or to drought above

moisture, or to light above heavy.

There may _four_ hypotheses be framed concerning the first causes of

the universe: _that_ they are endowed with perfect goodness; _that_

they have perfect malice; _that_ they are opposite, and have both

goodness and malice; _that_ they have neither goodness nor malice. Mixt

phenomena can never prove the two former unmixt principles; and the

uniformity and steadiness of general laws seem to oppose the third. The

fourth, therefore, seems by far the most probable.

What I have said concerning natural evil will apply to moral, with

little or no variation; and we have no more reason to infer, that the

rectitude of the Supreme Being resembles human rectitude, than that

his benevolence resembles the human. Nay, it will be thought, that we

have still greater cause to exclude from him moral sentiments, such as

we feel them; since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is much more

predominant above moral good than natural evil above natural good.

But even though this should not be allowed, and though the virtue which

is in mankind should be acknowledged much superior to the vice, yet so

long as there is any vice at all in the universe, it will very much

puzzle you Anthropomorphites, how to account for it. You must assign a

cause for it, without having recourse to the first cause. But as every

effect must have a cause, and that cause another, you must either carry

on the progression _in infinitum_, or rest on that original principle,

who is the ultimate cause of all things....

Hold! hold! cried Demea: Whither does your imagination hurry you? I

joined in alliance with you, in order to prove the incomprehensible

nature of the Divine Being, and refute the principles of Cleanthes,

who would measure every thing by human rule and standard. But I now

find you running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and

infidels, and betraying that holy cause which you seemingly espoused.

Are you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy than Cleanthes himself?

And are you so late in perceiving it? replied Cleanthes. Believe me,

Demea, your friend Philo, from the beginning, has been amusing himself

at both our expense; and it must be confessed, that the injudicious

reasoning of our vulgar theology has given him but too just a handle

of ridicule. The total infirmity of human reason, the absolute

incomprehensibility of the Divine Nature, the great and universal

misery, and still greater wickedness of men; these are strange topics,

surely, to be so fondly cherished by orthodox divines and doctors.

In ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, these principles may

safely be espoused; and perhaps no views of things are more proper to

promote superstition, than such as encourage the blind amazement, the

diffidence, and melancholy of mankind. But at present....

Blame not so much, interposed Philo, the ignorance of these reverend

gentlemen. They know how to change their style with the times. Formerly

it was a most popular theological topic to maintain, that human life

was vanity and misery, and to exaggerate all the ills and pains which

are incident to men. But of late years, divines, we find, begin to

retract this position; and maintain, though still with some hesitation,

that there are more goods than evils, more pleasures than pains, even

in this life. When religion stood entirely upon temper and education,

it was thought proper to encourage melancholy; as indeed mankind never

have recourse to superior powers so readily as in that disposition. But

as men have now learned to form principles, and to draw consequences,

it is necessary to change the batteries, and to make use of such

arguments as will endure at least some scrutiny and examination. This

variation is the same (and from the same causes) with that which I

formerly remarked with regard to Scepticism.

Thus Philo continued to the last his spirit of opposition, and his

censure of established opinions. But I could observe that Demea did not

at all relish the latter part of the discourse; and he took occasion

soon after, on some pretence or other, to leave the company.

PART XII.

After Demea's departure, Cleanthes and Philo continued the conversation

in the following manner. Our friend, I am afraid, said Cleanthes,

will have little inclination to revive this topic of discourse,

while you are in company; and to tell truth, Philo, I should rather

wish to reason with either of you apart on a subject so sublime and

interesting. Your spirit of controversy, joined to your abhorence of

vulgar superstition, carries you strange lengths, when engaged in an

argument; and there is nothing so sacred and venerable, even in your

own eyes, which you spare on that occasion.

I must confess, replied Philo, that I am less cautious on the subject

of Natural Religion than on any other; both because I know that I can

never, on that head, corrupt the principles of any man of common sense;

and because no one, I am confident, in whose eyes I appear a man of

common sense, will ever mistake my intentions. You, in particular,

Cleanthes, with whom I live in unreserved intimacy; you are sensible,

that notwithstanding the freedom of my conversation, and my love of

singular arguments, no one has a deeper sense of religion impressed

on his mind, or pays more profound adoration to the Divine Being,

as he discovers himself to reason, in the inexplicable contrivance

and artifice of nature. A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes

every where the most careless, the most stupid thinker; and no man

can be so hardened in absurd systems, as at all times to reject it.

_That Nature does nothing in vain_, is a maxim established in all

the schools, merely from the contemplation of the works of Nature,

without any religious purpose; and, from a firm conviction of its

truth, an anatomist, who had observed a new organ or canal, would never

be satisfied till he had also discovered its use and intention. One

great foundation of the Copernican system is the maxim, _That Nature

acts by the simplest methods, and chooses the most proper means to

any end_; and astronomers often, without thinking of it, lay this

strong foundation of piety and religion. The same thing is observable

in other parts of philosophy: And thus all the sciences almost lead

us insensibly to acknowledge a first intelligent Author; and their

authority is often so much the greater, as they do not directly profess

that intention.

It is with pleasure I hear Galen reason concerning the structure of

the human body. The anatomy of a man, says he,[1] discovers above 600

different muscles; and whoever duly considers these, will find, that,

in each of them, Nature must have adjusted at least ten different

circumstances, in order to attain the end which she proposed; proper

figure, just magnitude, right disposition of the several ends, upper

and lower position of the whole, the due insertion of the several

nerves, veins, and arteries: So that, in the muscles alone, above 6000

several views and intentions must have been formed and executed. The

bones he calculates to be 284: The distinct purposes aimed at in the

structure of each, above forty. What a prodigious display of artifice,

even in these simple and homogeneous parts! But if we consider the

skin, ligaments, vessels, glandules, humours, the several limbs and

members of the body; how must our astonishment rise upon us, in

proportion to the number and intricacy of the parts so artificially

adjusted! The farther we advance in these researches, we discover new

scenes of art and wisdom: But descry still, at a distance, farther

scenes beyond our reach; in the fine internal structure of the parts,

in the economy of the brain, in the fabric of the seminal vessels. All

these artifices are repeated in every different species of animal, with

wonderful variety, and with exact propriety, suited to the different

intentions of Nature in framing each species. And if the infidelity of

Galen, even when these natural sciences were still imperfect, could

not withstand such striking appearances, to what pitch of pertinacious

obstinacy must a philosopher in this age have attained, who can now

doubt of a Supreme Intelligence!

Could I meet with one of this species (who, I thank God, are very

rare), I would ask him: Supposing there were a God, who did not

discover himself immediately to our senses, were it possible for him

to give stronger proofs of his existence, than what appear on the

whole face of Nature? What indeed could such a Divine Being do, but

copy the present economy of things; render many of his artifices so

plain, that no stupidity could mistake them; afford glimpses of still

greater artifices, which demonstrate his prodigious superiority above

our narrow apprehensions; and conceal altogether a great many from such

imperfect creatures? Now, according to all rules of just reasoning,

every fact must pass for undisputed, when it is supported by all the

arguments which its nature admits of; even though these arguments be

not, in themselves, very numerous or forcible: How much more, in the

present case, where no human imagination can compute their number, and

no understanding estimate their cogency!

I shall farther add, said Cleanthes, to what you have so well urged,

that one great advantage of the principle of Theism, is, that it is

the only system of cosmogony which can be rendered intelligible and

complete, and yet can throughout preserve a strong analogy to what

we every day see and experience in the world. The comparison of the

universe to a machine of human contrivance, is so obvious and natural,

and is justified by so many instances of order and design in Nature,

that it must immediately strike all unprejudiced apprehensions,

and procure universal approbation. Whoever attempts to weaken this

theory, cannot pretend to succeed by establishing in its place any

other that is precise and determinate: It is sufficient for him if

he start doubts and difficulties; and by remote and abstract views

of things, reach that suspense of judgment, which is here the utmost

boundary of his wishes. But, besides that this state of mind is in

itself unsatisfactory, it can never be steadily maintained against

such striking appearances as continually engage us into the religious

hypothesis. A false, absurd system, human nature, from the force of

prejudice, is capable of adhering to with obstinacy and perseverance:

But no system at all, in opposition to a theory supported by strong and

obvious reason, by natural propensity, and by early education, I think

it absolutely impossible to maintain or defend.

So little, replied Philo, do I esteem this suspense of judgment in the

present case to be possible, that I am apt to suspect there enters

somewhat of a dispute of words into this controversy; more than is

usually imagined. That the works of Nature bear a great analogy to

the productions of art, is evident; and according to all the rules of

good reasoning, we ought to infer, if we argue at all concerning them,

that their causes have a proportional analogy. But as there are also

considerable differences, we have reason to suppose a proportional

difference in the causes; and in particular, ought to attribute a much

higher degree of power and energy to the supreme cause, than any we

have ever observed in mankind. Here then the existence of a *DEITY is

plainly ascertained by reason: and if we make it a question, whether,

on account of these analogies, we can properly call him a _mind_

or _intelligence_, notwithstanding the vast difference which may

reasonably be supposed between him and human minds; what is this but

a mere verbal controversy? No man can deny the analogies between the

effects: To restrain ourselves from inquiring concerning the causes is

scarcely possible. From this inquiry, the legitimate conclusion is,

that the causes have also an analogy: And if we are not contented with

calling the first and supreme cause a *GOD or *DEITY, but desire to

vary the expression; what can we call him but *MIND or $THOUGHT, to

which he is justly supposed to bear a considerable resemblance?

All men of sound reason are disgusted with verbal disputes, which

abound so much in philosophical and theological inquiries; and it

is found, that the only remedy for this abuse must arise from clear

definitions, from the precision of those ideas which enter into any

argument, and from the strict and uniform use of those terms which

are employed. But there is a species of controversy, which, from the

very nature of language and of human ideas, is involved in perpetual

ambiguity, and can never, by any precaution or any definitions, be

able to reach a reasonable certainty or precision. These are the

controversies concerning the degrees of any quality or circumstance.

Men may argue to all eternity, whether Hannibal be a great, or a very

great, or a superlatively great man, what degree of beauty Cleopatra

possessed, what epithet of praise Livy or Thucydides is entitled to,

without bringing the controversy to any determination. The disputants

may here agree in their sense, and differ in the terms, or _vice

versa_; yet never be able to define their terms, so as to enter into

each other's meaning: Because the degrees of these qualities are not,

like quantity or number, susceptible of any exact mensuration, which

may be the standard in the controversy. That the dispute concerning

Theism is of this nature, and consequently is merely verbal, or

perhaps, if possible, still more incurably ambiguous, will appear upon

the slightest inquiry. I ask the Theist, if he does not allow, that

there is a great and immeasurable, because incomprehensible difference

between the _human_ and the _divine_ mind: The more pious he is, the

more readily will he assent to the affirmative, and the more will he

be disposed to magnify the difference: He will even assert, that the

difference is of a nature which cannot be too much magnified. I next

turn to the Atheist, who, I assert, is only nominally so, and can never

possibly be in earnest; and I ask him, whether, from the coherence

and apparent sympathy in all the parts of this world, there be not

a certain degree of analogy among all the operations of Nature, in

every situation and in every age; whether the rotting of a turnip, the

generation of an animal, and the structure of human thought, be not

energies that probably bear some remote analogy to each other: It

is impossible he can deny it: He will readily acknowledge it. Having

obtained this concession, I push him still farther in his retreat;

and I ask him, if it be not probable, that the principle which first

arranged, and still maintains order in this universe, bears not also

some remote inconceivable analogy to the other operations of Nature,

and, among the rest, to the economy of human mind and thought. However

reluctant, he must give his assent. Where then, cry I to both these

antagonists, is the subject of your dispute? The Theist allows, that

the original intelligence is very different from human reason: The

Atheist allows, that the original principle of order bears some remote

analogy to it. Will you quarrel, Gentlemen, about the degrees, and

enter into a controversy, which admits not of any precise meaning,

nor consequently of any determination? If you should be so obstinate,

I should not be surprised to find you insensibly change sides; while

the Theist, on the one hand, exaggerates the dissimilarity between the

Supreme Being, and frail, imperfect, variable, fleeting, and mortal

creatures; and the Atheist, on the other, magnifies the analogy among

all the operations of Nature, in every period, every situation, and

every position. Consider then, where the real point of controversy

lies; and if you cannot lay aside your disputes, endeavour, at least,

to cure yourselves of your animosity.

And here I must also acknowledge, Cleanthes, that as the works of

Nature have a much greater analogy to the effects of _our_ art and

contrivance, than to those of _our_ benevolence and justice, we have

reason to infer, that the natural attributes of the Deity have a

greater resemblance to those of men, than his moral have to human

virtues. But what is the consequence? Nothing but this, that the moral

qualities of man are more defective in their kind than his natural

abilities. For, as the Supreme Being is allowed to be absolutely and

entirely perfect, whatever differs most from him, departs the farthest

from the supreme standard of rectitude and perfection.[2]

These, Cleanthes, are my unfeigned sentiments on this subject; and

these sentiments, you know, I have ever cherished and maintained. But

in proportion to my veneration for true religion, is my abhorrence of

vulgar superstitions; and I indulge a peculiar pleasure, I confess,

in pushing such principles, sometimes into absurdity, sometimes into

impiety. And you are sensible, that all bigots, notwithstanding their

great aversion to the latter above the former, are commonly equally

guilty of both.

My inclination, replied Cleanthes, lies, I own, a contrary way.

Religion, however corrupted, is still better than no religion at all.

The doctrine of a future state is so strong and necessary a security

to morals, that we never ought to abandon or neglect it. For if and

temporary rewards and punishments have so great an effect, as we daily

find; how much greater must be expected from such as are infinite and

eternal?

How happens it then, said Philo, if vulgar superstition be so salutary

to society, that all history abounds so much with accounts of its

pernicious consequences on public affairs? Factions, civil wars,

persecutions, subversions of government, oppression, slavery; these

are the dismal consequences which always attend its prevalency over

the minds of men. If the religious spirit be ever mentioned in any

historical narration, we are sure to meet afterwards with a detail of

the miseries which attend it. And no period of time can be happier or

more prosperous, than those in which it is never regarded or heard of.

The reason of this observation, replied Cleanthes, is obvious. The

proper office of religion is to regulate the heart of men, humanize

their conduct, infuse the spirit of temperance, order, and obedience;

and as its operation is silent, and only enforces the motives of

morality and justice, it is in danger of being overlooked, and

confounded with these other motives. When it distinguishes itself, and

acts as a separate principle over men, it has departed from its proper

sphere, and has become only a cover to faction and ambition.

And so will all religion, said Philo, except the philosophical and

rational kind. Your reasonings are more easily eluded than my facts.

The inference is not just, because finite and temporary rewards and

punishments have so great influence, that therefore such as are

infinite and eternal must have so much greater. Consider, I beseech

you, the attachment which we have to present things, and the little

concern which we discover for objects so remote and uncertain. When

divines are declaiming against the common behaviour and conduct of

the world, they always represent this principle as the strongest

imaginable (which indeed it is); and describe almost all human kind as

lying under the influence of it, and sunk into the deepest lethargy

and unconcern about their religious interests. Yet these same divines,

when they refute their speculative antagonists, suppose the motives

of religion to be so powerful, that, without them, it were impossible

for civil society to subsist; nor are they ashamed of so palpable a

contradiction. It is certain, from experience, that the smallest grain

of natural honesty and benevolence has more effect on men's conduct,

than the most pompous views suggested by theological theories and

systems. A man's natural inclination works incessantly upon him; it

is for ever present to the mind, and mingles itself with every view

and consideration: whereas religious motives, where they act at all,

operate only by starts and bounds; and it is scarcely possible for them

to become altogether habitual to the mind. The force of the greatest

gravity, say the philosophers, is infinitely small, in comparison of

that of the least impulse: yet it is certain, that the smallest gravity

will, in the end, prevail above a great impulse; because no strokes or

blows can be repeated with such constancy as attraction and gravitation.

Another advantage of inclination: It engages on its side all the wit

and ingenuity of the mind; and when set in opposition to religious

principles, seeks every method and art of eluding them: In which it

is almost always successful. Who can explain the heart of man, or

account for those strange salvos and excuses, with which people satisfy

themselves, when they follow their inclinations in opposition to their

religious duty? This is well understood in the world; and none but

fools ever repose less trust in a man, because they hear, that from

study and philosophy, he has entertained some speculative doubts with

regard to theological subjects. And when we have to do with a man, who

makes a great profession of religion and devotion, has this any other

effect upon several, who pass for prudent, than to put them on their

guard, lest they be cheated and deceived by him?

We must farther consider, that philosophers, who cultivate reason and

reflection, stand less in need of such motives to keep them under

the restraint of morals; and that the vulgar, who alone may need

them, are utterly incapable of so pure a religion as represents the

Deity to be pleased with nothing but virtue in human behaviour. The

recommendations to the Divinity are generally supposed to be either

frivolous observances, or rapturous ecstasies, or a bigotted credulity.

We need not run back into antiquity, or wander into remote regions,

to find instances of this degeneracy. Amongst ourselves, some have

been guilty of that atrociousness, unknown to the Egyptian and Grecian

superstitions, of declaiming in express terms, against morality; and

representing it as a sure forfeiture of the Divine favour, if the least

trust or reliance be laid upon it.

But even though superstition or enthusiasm should not put itself in

direct opposition to morality; the very diverting of the attention,

the raising up a new and frivolous species of merit, the preposterous

distribution which it makes of praise and blame, must have the most

pernicious consequences, and weaken extremely men's attachment to the

natural motives of justice and humanity.

Such a principle of action likewise, not being any of the familiar

motives of human conduct, acts only by intervals on the temper;

and must be roused by continual efforts, in order to render the

pious zealot satisfied with his own conduct, and make him fulfil

his devotional task. Many religious exercises are entered into with

seeming fervour, where the heart, at the time, feels cold and languid:

A habit of dissimulation is by degrees contracted; and fraud and

falsehood become the predominant principle. Hence the reason of that

vulgar observation, that the highest zeal in religion and the deepest

hypocrisy, so far from being inconsistent, are often or commonly united

in the same individual character.

The bad effects of such habits, even in common life, are easily

imagined; but where the interests of religion are concerned, no

morality can be forcible enough to bind the enthusiastic zealot. The

sacredness of the cause sanctifies every measure which can be made use

of to promote it.

The steady attention alone to so important an interest as that of

eternal salvation, is apt to extinguish the benevolent affections,

and beget a narrow, contracted selfishness. And when such a temper is

encouraged, it easily eludes all the general precepts of charity and

benevolence.

Thus, the motives of vulgar superstition have no great influence on

general conduct; nor is their operation favourable to morality, in the

instances where they predominate.

Is there any maxim in politics more certain and infallible, than that

both the number and authority of priests should be confined within very

narrow limits; and that the civil magistrate ought, for ever, to keep

his _fasces_ and _axes_ from such dangerous hands? But if the spirit of

popular religion were so salutary to society, a contrary maxim ought

to prevail. The greater number of priests, and their greater authority

and riches, will always augment the religious spirit. And though the

priests have the guidance of this spirit, why may we not expect a

superior sanctity of life, and greater benevolence and moderation, from

persons who are set apart for religion, who are continually inculcating

it upon others, and who must themselves imbibe a greater share of it?

Whence comes it then, that, in fact, the utmost a wise magistrate can

propose with regard to popular religions, is, as far as possible, to

make a saving game of it, and to prevent their pernicious consequences

with regard to society? Every expedient which he tries for so humble

a purpose is surrounded with inconveniences. If he admits only one

religion among his subjects, he must sacrifice, to an uncertain

prospect of tranquillity, every consideration of public liberty,

science, reason, industry, and even his own independency. If he gives

indulgence to several sects, which is the wiser maxim, he must preserve

a very philosophical indifference to all of them, and carefully

restrain the pretensions of the prevailing sect; otherwise he can

expect nothing but endless disputes, quarrels, factions, persecutions,

and civil commotions.

True religion, I allow, has no such pernicious consequences: but we

must treat of religion, as it has commonly been found in the world;

nor have I any thing to do with that speculative tenet of Theism,

which, as it is a species of philosophy, must partake of the beneficial

influence of that principle, and at the same time must lie under a like

inconvenience, of being always confined to very few persons.

Oaths are requisite in all courts of judicature; but it is a question

whether their authority arises from any popular religion. It is the

solemnity and importance of the occasion, the regard to reputation,

and the reflecting on the general interests of society, which are the

chief restraints upon mankind. Customhouse oaths and political oaths

are but little regarded even by some who pretend to principles of

honesty and religion; and a Quaker's asseveration is with us justly put

upon the same footing with the oath of any other person. I know, that

Polybius[3] ascribes the infamy of Greek faith to the prevalency of the

Epicurean philosophy: but I know also, that Punic faith had as bad a

reputation in ancient times as Irish evidence has in modern; though we

cannot account for these vulgar observations by the same reason. Not to

mention that Greek faith was infamous before the rise of the Epicurean

philosophy; and Euripides,[4] in a passage which I shall point out to

you, has glanced a remarkable stroke of satire against his nation, with

regard to this circumstance.

Take care, Philo, replied Cleanthes, take care: push not matters too

far: allow not your zeal against false religion to undermine your

veneration for the true. Forfeit not this principle, the chief, the

only great comfort in life; and our principal support amidst all the

attacks of adverse fortune. The most agreeable reflection, which it is

possible for human imagination to suggest, is that of genuine Theism,

which represents us as the workmanship of a Being perfectly good, wise,

and powerful; who created us for happiness; and who, having implanted

in us immeasurable desires of good, will prolong our existence to all

eternity, and will transfer us into an infinite variety of scenes, in

order to satisfy those desires, and render our felicity complete and

durable. Next to such a Being himself (if the comparison be allowed),

the happiest lot which we can imagine, is that of being under his

guardianship and protection.

These appearances, said Philo, are most engaging and alluring; and with

regard to the true philosopher, they are more than appearances. But it

happens here, as in the former case, that, with regard to the greater

part of mankind, the appearances are deceitful, and that the terrors of

religion commonly prevail above its comforts.

It is allowed, that men never have recourse to devotion so readily as

when dejected with grief or depressed with sickness. Is not this a

proof, that the religious spirit is not so nearly allied to joy as to

sorrow?

But men, when afflicted, find consolation in religion, replied

Cleanthes. Sometimes, said Philo: but it is natural to imagine,

that they will form a notion of those unknown beings, suitably to

the present gloom and melancholy of their temper, when they betake

themselves to the contemplation of them. Accordingly, we find the

tremendous images to predominate in all religions; and we ourselves,

after having employed the most exalted expression in our descriptions

of the Deity, fall into the flattest contradiction in affirming that

the damned are infinitely superior in number to the elect.

I shall venture to affirm, that there never was a popular religion,

which represented the state of departed souls in such a light, as would

render it eligible for human kind that there should be such a state.

These fine models of religion are the mere product of philosophy. For

as death lies between the eye and the prospect of futurity, that event

is so shocking to Nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the regions

which lie beyond it; and suggest to the generality of mankind the idea

of Cerberus and Furies; devils, and torrents of fire and brimstone.

It is true, both fear and hope enter into religion; because both these

passions, at different times, agitate the human mind, and each of

them forms a species of divinity suitable to itself. But when a man

is in a cheerful disposition, he is fit for business, or company, or

entertainment of any kind; and he naturally applies himself to these,

and thinks not of religion. When melancholy and dejected, he has

nothing to do but brood upon the terrors of the invisible world, and

to plunge himself still deeper in affliction. It may indeed happen,

that after he has, in this manner, engraved the religious opinions deep

into his thought and imagination, there may arrive a change of health

or circumstances, which may restore his good humour, and, raising

cheerful prospects of futurity, make him run into the other extreme of

joy and triumph. But still it must be acknowledged, that, as terror

is the primary principle of religion, it is the passion which always

predominates in it, and admits but of short intervals of pleasure.

Not to mention, that these fits of excessive, enthusiastic joy, by

exhausting the spirits, always prepare the way for equal fits of

superstitious terror and dejection; nor is there any state of mind

so happy as the calm and equable. But this state it is impossible to

support, where a man thinks that he lies in such profound darkness

and uncertainty, between an eternity of happiness and an eternity of

misery. No wonder that such an opinion disjoints the ordinary frame

of the mind, and throws it into the utmost confusion. And though that

opinion is seldom so steady in its operation as to influence all the

actions; yet it is apt to make a considerable breach in the temper, and

to produce that gloom and melancholy so remarkable in all devout people.

It is contrary to common sense to entertain apprehensions or terrors

upon account of any opinion whatsoever, or to imagine that we run any

risk hereafter, by the freest use of our reason. Such a sentiment

implies both an _absurdity_ and an _inconsistency_. It is an absurdity

to believe that the Deity has human passions, and one of the lowest

of human passions, a restless appetite for applause. It is an

inconsistency to believe, that, since the Deity has this human passion,

he has not others also; and, in particular, a disregard to the opinions

of creatures so much inferior.

_To know God_, says Seneca, _is to worship him_. All other worship

is indeed absurd, superstitious, and even impious. It degrades him

to the low condition of mankind, who are delighted with entreaty,

solicitation, presents, and flattery. Yet is this impiety the smallest

of which superstition is guilty. Commonly, it depresses the Deity far

below the condition of mankind; and represents him as a capricious

demon, who exercises his power without reason and without humanity! And

were that Divine Being disposed to be offended at the vices and follies

of silly mortals, who are his own workmanship, ill would it surely fare

with the votaries of most popular superstitions. Nor would any of human

race merit his _favour_, but a very few, the philosophical Theists,

who entertain, or rather indeed endeavour to entertain, suitable

notions of his Divine perfections: As the only persons entitled to his

_compassion_ and _indulgence_ would be the philosophical Sceptics, a

sect almost equally rare, who, from a natural diffidence of their own

capacity, suspend, or endeavour to suspend, all judgment with regard to

such sublime and such extraordinary subjects.

If the whole of Natural Theology, as some people seem to maintain,

resolves itself into one simple, though somewhat ambiguous, at least

undefined proposition, _That the cause or causes of order in the

universe probably bear some remote analogy to human intelligence_:

If this proposition be not capable of extension, variation, or more

particular explication: If it affords no inference that affects human

life, or can be the source of any action or forbearance: And if the

analogy, imperfect as it is, can be carried no farther than to the

human intelligence, and cannot be transferred, with any appearance of

probability, to the other qualities of the mind; if this really be the

case, what can the most inquisitive, contemplative, and religious man

do more than give a plain, philosophical assent to the proposition,

as often as it occurs, and believe that the arguments on which it

is established exceed the objections which lie against it? Some

astonishment, indeed, will naturally arise from the greatness of the

object; some melancholy from its obscurity; some contempt of human

reason, that it can give no solution more satisfactory with regard to

so extraordinary and magnificent a question. But believe me, Cleanthes,

the most natural sentiment which a well-disposed mind will feel on

this occasion, is a longing desire and expectation that Heaven would

be pleased to dissipate, at least alleviate, this profound ignorance,

by affording some more particular revelation to mankind, and making

discoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the Divine

object of our faith. A person, seasoned with a just sense of the

imperfections of natural reason, will fly to revealed truth with the

greatest avidity: While the haughty Dogmatist, persuaded that he can

erect a complete system of Theology by the mere help of philosophy,

disdains any further aid, and rejects this adventitious instructor.

To be a philosophical Sceptic is, in a man of letters, the first and

most essential step towards being a sound, believing Christian; a

proposition which I would willingly recommend to the attention of

Pamphilus: And I hope Cleanthes will forgive me for interposing so far

in the education and instruction of his pupil.

Cleanthes and Philo pursued not this conversation much farther: and as

nothing ever made greater impression on me, than all the reasonings

of that day, so I confess, that, upon a serious review of the whole,

I cannot but think, that Philo's principles are more probable than

Demea's; but that those of Cleanthes approach still nearer to the truth.

[1] De Formatione Foetus.

[2] It seems evident that the dispute between the Sceptics and

Dogmatists is entirely verbal, or at least regards only the degrees

of doubt and assurance which we ought to indulge with regard to all

reasoning; and such disputes are commonly, at the bottom, verbal, and

admit not of any precise determination. No philosophical Dogmatist

denies that there are difficulties both with regard to the senses and

to all science, and that these difficulties are in a regular, logical

method, absolutely insolvable. No Sceptic denies that we lie under an

absolute necessity, notwithstanding these difficulties, of thinking,

and believing, and reasoning, with regard to all kinds of subjects, and

even of frequently assenting with confidence and security. The only

difference, then, between these sects, if they merit that name, is,

that the Sceptic, from habit, caprice, or inclination, insists most on

the difficulties; the Dogmatist, for like reasons, on the necessity.

[3] Lib. vi. cap. 54.

[4] Iphigenia in Tauride.

APPENDIX

TO THE

TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.

There is nothing I would more willingly lay hold of, than an

opportunity of confessing my errors; and should esteem such a return to

truth and reason to be more honourable than the most unerring judgment.

A man who is free from mistakes can pretend to no praises, except from

the justness of his understanding; but a man who corrects his mistakes

shows at once the justness of his understanding, and the candour

and ingenuity of his temper. I have not yet been so fortunate as to

discover any very considerable mistakes in the reasonings delivered

in the preceding volumes, except on one article; but I have found by

experience, that some of my expressions have not been so well chosen

as to guard against all mistakes in the readers; and 'tis chiefly to

remedy this defect I have subjoined the following Appendix.

We can never be induced to believe any matter of fact except where

its cause or its effect is present to us; but what the nature is of

that belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect, few

have had the curiosity to ask themselves. In my opinion this dilemma

is inevitable. Either the belief is some new idea, such as that of

_reality_ or _existence_, which we join to the simple conception

of an object, or it is merely a peculiar _feeling_ or _sentiment_.

That it is not a new idea, annexed to the simple conception, may be

evinced from these two arguments. _First_, We have no abstract idea of

existence, distinguishable and separable from the idea of particular

objects. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this idea of existence can

be annexed to the idea of any object, or form the difference betwixt

a simple conception and belief. _Secondly_, The mind has the command

over all its ideas, and can separate, unite, mix, and vary them, as

it pleases; so that, if belief consisted merely in a new idea annexed

to the conception, it would be in a man's power to believe what he

pleased. We may therefore conclude, that belief consists merely in a

certain feeling or sentiment; in something that depends not on the

will, but must arise from certain determinate causes and principles

of which we are not masters. When we are convinced of any matter of

fact, we do nothing but conceive it, along with a certain feeling,

different from what attends the mere _reveries_ of the imagination.

And when we express our incredulity concerning any fact, we mean,

that the arguments for the fact produce not that feeling. Did not the

belief consist in a sentiment different from our mere conception,

whatever objects were presented by the wildest imagination would be on

an equal footing with the most established truths founded on history

and experience. There is nothing but the feeling or sentiment to

distinguish the one from the other.

This, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth, that _belief is

nothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the simple conception_,

the next question that naturally occurs is, _what is the nature of

this feeling or sentiment, and whether it be analogous to any other

sentiment of the human mind_? This question is important. For if it be

not analogous to any other sentiment, we must despair of explaining

its causes, and must consider it as an original principle of the human

mind. If it be analogous, we may hope to explain its causes from

analogy, and trace it up to more general principles. Now, that there

is a greater firmness and solidity in the conceptions, which are the

objects of conviction and assurance, than in the loose and indolent

reveries of a castle-builder, every one will readily own. They strike

upon us with more force; they are more present to us; the mind has

a firmer hold of them, and is more actuated and moved by them. It

acquiesces in them; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes itself on

them. In short, they approach nearer to the impressions, which are

immediately present to us; and are therefore analogous to many other

operations of the mind.

There is not, in my opinion, any possibility of evading this

conclusion, but by asserting that belief, beside the simple conception,

consists in some impression or feeling, distinguishable from the

conception. It does not modify the conception, and render it more

present and intense: it is only annexed to it, after the same manner

that _will_ and _desire_ are annexed to particular conceptions of

good and pleasure. But the following considerations will, I hope,

be sufficient to remove this hypothesis. _First_, It is directly

contrary to experience, and our immediate consciousness? All men have

ever allowed reasoning to be merely an operation of our thoughts or

ideas; and however those ideas may be varied to the feeling, there is

nothing ever enters into our _conclusions_ but ideas, or our fainter

conceptions. For instance, I hear at present a person's voice with

whom I am acquainted, and this sound comes from the next room. This

impression of my senses immediately conveys my thoughts to the person,

along with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out to myself

as existent at present, with the same qualities and relations that I

formerly knew them possessed of. These ideas take faster hold of my

mind, than the ideas of an enchanted castle. They are different to the

feeling; but there is no distinct or separate impression attending

them. 'Tis the same case when I recollect the several incidents of a

journey, or the events of any history. Every particular fact is there

the object of belief. Its idea is modified differently from the loose

reveries of a castle-builder: but no distinct impression attends

every distinct idea, or conception of matter of fact. This is the

subject of plain experience. If ever this experience can be disputed

on any occasion, 'tis when the mind has been agitated with doubts and

difficulties; and afterwards, upon taking the object in a new point of

view, or being presented with a new argument, fixes and reposes itself

in one settled conclusion and belief. In this case there is a feeling

distinct and separate from the conception. The passage from doubt

and agitation to tranquillity and repose, conveys a satisfaction and

pleasure to the mind. But take any other case. Suppose I see the legs

and thighs of a person in motion, while some interposed object conceals

the rest of his body. Here 'tis certain, the imagination spreads out

the whole figure. I give him a head and shoulders, and breast and neck.

These members I conceive and believe him to be possessed of. Nothing

can be more evident, than that this whole operation is performed

by the thought or imagination alone. The transition is immediate.

The ideas presently strike us. Their customary connexion with the

present impression varies them and modifies them in a certain manner,

but produces no act of the mind, distinct from this peculiarity of

conception. Let any one examine his own mind, and he will evidently

find this to be the truth.

_Secondly_, Whatever may be the case, with regard to this distinct

impression, it must be allowed that the mind has a firmer hold, or

more steady conception of what it takes to be matter of fact than of

fictions. Why then look any farther, or multiply suppositions without

necessity?

_Thirdly_, We can explain the _causes_ of the firm conception, but not

those of any separate impression. And not only so, but the causes of

the firm conception exhaust the whole subject, and nothing is left to

produce any other effect. An inference concerning a matter of fact is

nothing but the idea of an object that is frequently conjoined, or is

associated with a present impression. This is the whole of it. Every

part is requisite to explain, from analogy, the more steady conception;

and nothing remains capable of producing any distinct impression.

_Fourthly_, The _effects_ of belief, in influencing the passions

and imagination, can all be explained from the firm conception; and

there is no occasion to have recourse to any other principle. These

arguments, with many others, enumerated in the foregoing volumes,

sufficiently prove, that belief only modifies the idea or conception;

and renders it different to the feeling, without producing any distinct

impression.

Thus, upon a general view of the subject, there appear to be two

questions of importance, which we may venture to recommend to

the consideration of philosophers, _Whether there be any thing to

distinguish belief from the simple conception, beside the feeling

or sentiment_? And, _Whether this feeling be any thing but a firmer

conception, or a faster hold, that we take of the object_?

If, upon impartial inquiry, the same conclusion that I have formed

be assented to by philosophers, the next business is to examine the

analogy which there is betwixt belief and other acts of the mind,

and find the cause of the firmness and strength of conception; and

this I do not esteem a difficult task. The transition from a present

impression, always enlivens and strengthens any idea. When any object

is presented, the idea of its usual attendant immediately strikes us,

as something real and solid. 'Tis _felt_ rather than conceived, and

approaches the impression, from which it is derived, in its force

and influence. This I have proved at large, and cannot add any new

arguments.

I had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our theory of the

intellectual world might be, it would be free from those contradictions

and absurdities, which seem to attend every explication, that human

reason can give of the material world. But upon a more strict review of

the section concerning _personal identity_, I find myself involved in

such a labyrinth, that, I must confess, I neither know how to correct

my former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. If this be not

a good _general_ reason for scepticism, 'tis at least a sufficient

one (if I were not already abundantly supplied) for me to entertain

a diffidence and modesty in all my decisions. I shall propose the

arguments on both sides, beginning with those that induced me to deny

the strict and proper identity and simplicity of a self or thinking

being.

When we talk of _self_ or _subsistence_, we must have an idea annexed

to these terms, otherwise they are altogether unintelligible. Every

idea is derived from preceding impressions; and we have no impression

of self or substance, as something simple and individual. We have,

therefore, no idea of them in that sense.

Whatever is distinct, is distinguishable, and whatever is

distinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. All

perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable, and

separable, and may be conceived, as separately existent, and may exist

separately, without any contradiction or absurdity.

When I view this table and that chimney, nothing is present to me but

particular perceptions, which are of a like nature with all the other

perceptions. This is the doctrine of philosophers. But this table,

which is present to me, and that chimney, may, and do exist separately.

This is the doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction.

There, is no contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine

to all the perceptions.

In general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. All ideas are

borrowed from preceding perceptions. Our ideas of objects, therefore,

are derived from that source. Consequently no proposition can be

intelligible or consistent with regard to objects, which is not so

with regard to perceptions. But 'tis intelligible and consistent to

say, that objects exist distinct and independent, without any common

_simple_ substance or subject of inhesion. This proposition, therefore,

can never be absurd with regard to perceptions.

When I turn my reflection on _myself_, I never can perceive this _self_

without some one or more perceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thing

but the perceptions. 'Tis the composition of these, therefore, which

forms the self.

We can conceive a thinking being to have either many or few

perceptions. Suppose the mind to be reduced even below the life of an

oyster. Suppose it to have only one perception, as of thirst or hunger.

Consider it in that situation. Do you conceive any thing but merely

that perception? Have you any notion of _self_ or _substance_? If not,

the addition of other perceptions can never give you that notion.

The annihilation which some people suppose to follow upon death, and

which entirely destroys this self, is nothing but an extinction of all

particular perceptions; love and hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and

sensation. These, therefore, must be the same with self, since the one

cannot survive the other.

Is _self_ the same with _substance_? If it be, how can that question

have place, concerning the subsistence of self, under a change of

substance? If they be distinct, what is the difference betwixt them?

For my part, I have a notion of neither, when conceived distinct from

particular perceptions.

Philosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, _that we have

no idea of external substance, distinct from the ideas of particular

qualities_. This must pave the way for a like principle with regard to

the mind, _that we have no notion of it, distinct from the particular

perception_.

So far I seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. But having thus

loosened all our particular perceptions, when I proceed to explain

the principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us

attribute to them a real simplicity and identity, I am sensible that my

account is very defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence

of the precedent reasonings could have induced me to receive it. If

perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being

connected together. But no connexions among distinct existences are

ever discoverable by human understanding. We only _feel_ a connexion

or determination of the thought to pass from one object to another. It

follows, therefore, that the thought alone feels personal identity,

when reflecting on the train of past perceptions that compose a mind,

the ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally

introduce each other. However extraordinary this conclusion may seem,

it need not surprise us. Most philosophers seem inclined to think, that

personal identity _arises_ from consciousness, and consciousness is

nothing but a reflected thought or perception. The present philosophy,

therefore, has so far a promising aspect. But all my hopes vanish, when

I come to explain the principles that unite our successive perceptions

in our thought or consciousness. I cannot discover any theory, which

gives me satisfaction on this head.

In short, there are two principles which I cannot render consistent,

nor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz. _that all

our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind

never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences_. Did

our perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or

did the mind perceive some real connexion among them, there would be

no difficulty in the case. For my part, I must plead the privilege

of a sceptic, and confess, that this difficulty is too hard for my

understanding. I pretend not, however, to pronounce it absolutely

insuperable. Others, perhaps, or myself, upon more mature reflections,

may discover some hypothesis that will reconcile those contradictions.

I shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other errors of

less importance, which more mature reflection has discovered to me in

my reasoning. The first may be found in Vol. I. page 85, where I say,

that the distance betwixt two bodies is known, among other things, by

the angles which the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with

each other. 'Tis certain, that these angles are not known to the mind,

and consequently can never discover the distance. The second error may

be found in Vol. I. p. 132, where I say, that two ideas of the same

object can only be different by their different degrees of force and

vivacity. I believe there are other differences among ideas, which

cannot properly be comprehended under these terms. Had I said, that

two ideas of the same object can only be different by their different

_feeling_, I should have been nearer the truth.

END OF VOLUME SECOND.

End of Project Gutenberg's Philosophical Works, v. 2 (of 4), by David Hume