another, that exists without any place or extension, yet are they
susceptible of many other relations. Thus the taste and smell of any
fruit are inseparable from its other qualities of colour and
tangibility; and whichever of them be the cause or effect, it is
certain they are always co-existent. Nor are they only co-existent in
general, but also co-temporary in their appearance in the mind; and it
is upon the application of the extended body to our senses we perceive
its particular taste and smell. These relations, then, of causation,
and contiguity in the time of their appearance, betwixt the extended
object and the quality, which exists without any particular place, must
have such an effect on the mind, that upon the appearance of one it
will immediately turn its thought to the conception of the other. Nor
is this all. We not only turn our thought from one to the other upon
account of their relation, but likewise endeavour to give them a new
relation, viz. that of a CONJUNCTION IN PLACE, that we may render the
transition more easy and natural. For it is a quality, which I shall
often have occasion to remark in human nature, and shall explain more
fully in its proper place, that when objects are united by any
relation, we have a strong propensity to add some new relation to them,
in order to compleat the union. In our arrangement of bodies we never
fail to place such as are resembling, in contiguity to each other, or
at least in correspondent points of view: Why? but because we feel a
satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that of
resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. The
effects this propensity have been[9] already observed in that
resemblance, which we so readily suppose betwixt particular impressions
and their external causes. But we shall not find a more evident effect
of it, than in the present instance, where from the relations of
causation and contiguity in time betwixt two objects, we feign likewise
that of a conjunction in place, in order to strengthen the connexion.
[9] Sect. 2, towards the end.
But whatever confused notions we may form of an union in place betwixt
an extended body, as a fig, and its particular taste, it is certain
that upon reflection we must observe this union something altogether
unintelligible and contradictory. For should we ask ourselves one
obvious question, viz. if the taste, which we conceive to be contained
in the circumference of the body, is in every part of it or in one only,
we must quickly find ourselves at a loss, and perceive the impossibility
of ever giving a satisfactory answer. We cannot rely, that it is only
in one part: For experience convinces us, that every part has the same
relish. We can as little reply, that it exists in every part: For
then we must suppose it figured and extended; which is absurd and
incomprehensible. Here then we are influenced by two principles directly
contrary to each other, viz. that inclination of our fancy by which we
are determined to incorporate the taste with the extended object, and
our reason, which shows us the impossibility of such an union. Being
divided betwixt these opposite principles, we renounce neither one nor
the other, but involve the subject in such confusion and obscurity, that
we no longer perceive the opposition. We suppose, that the taste exists
within the circumference of the body, but in such a manner, that it
fills the whole without extension, and exists entire in every part
without separation. In short, we use in our most familiar way of
thinking, that scholastic principle, which, when crudely proposed,
appears so shocking, of TOTUM IN TOTO & TOLUM IN QUALIBET PARTE: Which
is much the same, as if we should say, that a thing is in a certain
place, and yet is not there.
All this absurdity proceeds from our endeavouring to bestow a place on
what is utterly incapable of it; and that endeavour again arises from
our inclination to compleat an union, which is founded on causation,
and a contiguity of time, by attributing to the objects a conjunction in
place. But if ever reason be of sufficient force to overcome prejudice,
it is certain, that in the present case it must prevail. For we have
only this choice left, either to suppose that some beings exist without
any place; or that they are figured and extended; or that when they are
incorporated with extended objects, the whole is in the whole, and the
whole in every part. The absurdity of the two last suppositions proves
sufficiently the veracity of the first. Nor is there any fourth
opinion. For as to the supposition of their existence in the manner of
mathematical points, it resolves itself into the second opinion, and
supposes, that several passions may be placed in a circular figure,
and that a certain number of smells, conjoined with a certain number of
sounds, may make a body of twelve cubic inches; which appears ridiculous
upon the bare mentioning of it.
But though in this view of things we cannot refuse to condemn the
materialists, who conjoin all thought with extension; yet a little
reflection will show us equal reason for blaming their antagonists, who
conjoin all thought with a simple and indivisible substance. The most
vulgar philosophy informs us, that no external object can make itself
known to the mind immediately, and without the interposition of an
image or perception. That table, which just now appears to me, is only a
perception, and all its qualities are qualities of a perception. Now the
most obvious of all its qualities is extension. The perception consists
of parts. These parts are so situated, as to afford us the notion
of distance and contiguity; of length, breadth, and thickness. The
termination of these three dimensions is what we call figure. This
figure is moveable, separable, and divisible. Mobility, and separability
are the distinguishing properties of extended objects. And to cut short
all disputes, the very idea of extension is copyed from nothing but an
impression, and consequently must perfectly agree to it. To say the idea
of extension agrees to any thing, is to say it is extended.
The free-thinker may now triumph in his turn; and having found there are
impressions and ideas really extended, may ask his antagonists, how
they can incorporate a simple and indivisible subject with an extended
perception? All the arguments of Theologians may here be retorted upon
them. Is the indivisible subject, or immaterial substance, if you
will, on the left or on the right hand of the perception? Is it in this
particular part, or in that other? Is it in every part without being
extended? Or is it entire in any one part without deserting the rest? It
is impossible to give any answer to these questions, but what will both
be absurd in itself, and will account for the union of our indivisible
perceptions with an extended substance.
This gives me an occasion to take a-new into consideration the question
concerning the substance of the soul; and though I have condemned that
question as utterly unintelligible, yet I cannot forbear proposing some
farther reflections concerning it. I assert, that the doctrine of the
immateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a thinking substance
is a true atheism, and will serve to justify all those sentiments, for
which Spinoza is so universally infamous. From this topic, I hope at
least to reap one advantage, that my adversaries will not have any
pretext to render the present doctrine odious by their declamations,
when they see that they can be so easily retorted on them.
The fundamental principle of the atheism of Spinoza is the doctrine
of the simplicity of the universe, and the unity of that substance, in
which he supposes both thought and matter to inhere. There is only one
substance, says he, in the world; and that substance is perfectly simple
and indivisible, and exists every where, without any local presence.
Whatever we discover externally by sensation; whatever we feel
internally by reflection; all these are nothing but modifications of
that one, simple, and necessarily existent being, and are not possest
of any separate or distinct existence. Every passion of the soul; every
configuration of matter, however different and various, inhere in
the same substance, and preserve in themselves their characters of
distinction, without communicating them to that subject, in which
they inhere. The same substratum, if I may so speak, supports the most
different modifications, without any difference in itself; and varies
them, without any variation. Neither time, nor place, nor all the
diversity of nature are able to produce any composition or change in its
perfect simplicity and identity.
I believe this brief exposition of the principles of that famous
atheist will be sufficient for the present purpose, and that without
entering farther into these gloomy and obscure regions, I shall be able
to shew, that this hideous hypothesis is almost the same with that of
the immateriality of the soul, which has become so popular. To make
this evident, let us[10] remember, that as every idea is derived from a
preceding perception, it is impossible our idea of a perception, and
that of an object or external existence can ever represent what are
specifically different from each other. Whatever difference we may
suppose betwixt them, it is still incomprehensible to us; and we are
obliged either to conceive an external object merely as a relation
without a relative, or to make it the very same with a perception or
impression.
[10] Part II, Sect. 6.
The consequence I shall draw from this may, at first sight, appear a
mere sophism; but upon the least examination will be found solid and
satisfactory. I say then, that since we may suppose, but never can
conceive a specific deference betwixt an object and impression; any
conclusion we form concerning the connexion and repugnance of
impressions, will not be known certainly to be applicable to objects;
but that on the other hand, whatever conclusions of this kind we form
concerning objects, will most certainly be applicable to impressions.
The reason is not difficult. As an object is supposed to be different
from an impression, we cannot be sure, that the circumstance, upon
which we found our reasoning, is common to both, supposing we form the
reasoning upon the impression. It is still possible, that the object
may differ from it in that particular. But when we first form our
reasoning concerning the object, it is beyond doubt, that the same
reasoning must extend to the impression: And that because the quality
of the object, upon which the argument is founded, must at least be
conceived by the mind; and could not be conceived, unless it were
common to an impression; since we have no idea but what is derived from
that origin. Thus we may establish it as a certain maxim, that we can
never, by any principle, but by an irregular kind[11] form the
coherence of our perceptions.] of reasoning from experience, discover a
connexion or repugnance betwixt objects, which extends not to
impressions; though the inverse proposition may not be equally true,
that all the discoverable relations of impressions are common to
objects.
[11] Such as that of Sect. 2, form the coherence of our
perceptions.
To apply this to the present case; there are two different systems
of being presented, to which I suppose myself under necessity of
assigning some substance, or ground of inhesion. I observe first the
universe of objects or of body: The sun, moon and stars; the earth,
seas, plants, animals, men, ships, houses, and other productions either
of art or nature. Here Spinoza appears, and tells me, that these are
only modifications; and that the subject, in which they inhere, is
simple, incompounded, and indivisible. After this I consider the other
system of beings, viz. the universe of thought, or my impressions and
ideas. There I observe another sun, moon and stars; an earth, and seas,
covered and inhabited by plants and animals; towns, houses, mountains,
rivers; and in short every thing I can discover or conceive in the
first system. Upon my enquiring concerning these, Theologians present
themselves, and tell me, that these also are modifications, and
modifications of one simple, uncompounded, and indivisible substance.
Immediately upon which I am deafened with the noise of a hundred voices,
that treat the first hypothesis with detestation and scorn, and the
second with applause and veneration. I turn my attention to these
hypotheses to see what may be the reason of so great a partiality; and
find that they have the same fault of being unintelligible, and that
as far as we can understand them, they are so much alike, that it is
impossible to discover any absurdity in one, which is not common to both
of them. We have no idea of any quality in an object, which does not
agree to, and may not represent a quality in an impression; and that
because all our ideas are derived from our impressions. We can
never, therefore, find any repugnance betwixt an extended object as
a modification, and a simple uncompounded essence, as its substance,
unless that repugnance takes place equally betwixt the perception or
impression of that extended object, and the same uncompounded essence.
Every idea of a quality in an object passes through an impression;
and therefore every perceivable relation, whether of connexion or
repugnance, must be common both to objects and impressions.
But though this argument, considered in general, seems evident beyond
all doubt and contradiction, yet to make it more clear and sensible, let
us survey it in detail; and see whether all the absurdities, which have
been found in the system of Spinoza, may not likewise be discovered in
that of Theologians.[12]
[12] See _Bayle's_ dictionary, article of _Spinoza_.
First, It has been said against Spinoza, according to the scholastic way
of talking, rather than thinking, that a mode, not being any distinct
or separate existence, must be the very same with its substance,
and consequently the extension of the universe, must be in a manner
identifyed with that, simple, uncompounded essence, in which the
universe is supposed to inhere. But this, it may be pretended, is
utterly impossible and inconceivable unless the indivisible substance
expand itself, so as to correspond to the extension, or the extension
contract itself, so as to answer to the indivisible substance. This
argument seems just, as far as we can understand it; and it is plain
nothing is required, but a change in the terms, to apply the same
argument to our extended perceptions, and the simple essence of the
soul; the ideas of objects and perceptions being in every respect
the same, only attended with the supposition of a difference, that is
unknown and incomprehensible.
Secondly, It has been said, that we have no idea of substance, which is
not applicable to matter; nor any idea of a distinct substance, which is
not applicable to every distinct portion of matter. Matter, therefore,
is not a mode but a substance, and each part of matter is not a distinct
mode, but a distinct substance. I have already proved, that we have no
perfect idea of substance; but that taking it for something, that can
exist by itself, it is evident every perception is a substance,
and every distinct part of a perception a distinct substance: And
consequently the one hypothesis labours under the same difficulties in
this respect with the other.
Thirdly, It has been objected to the system of one simple substance in
the universe, that this substance being the support or substratum of
every thing, must at the very same instant be modifyed into forms,
which are contrary and incompatible. The round and square figures are
incompatible in the same substance at the same time. How then is it
possible, that the same substance can at once be modifyed into
that square table, and into this round one? I ask the same question
concerning the impressions of these tables; and find that the answer is
no more satisfactory in one case than in the other.
It appears, then, that to whatever side we turn, the same difficulties
follow us, and that we cannot advance one step towards the establishing
the simplicity and immateriality o the soul, without preparing the
way for a dangerous and irrecoverable atheism. It is the same case, if
instead o calling thought a modification of the soul, we should give it
the more antient, and yet more modish name of an action. By an action we
mean much the same thing, as what is commonly called an abstract
mode; that is, something, which, properly speaking, is neither
distinguishable, nor separable from its substance, and is only conceived
by a distinction of reason, or an abstraction. But nothing is gained by
this change of the term of modification, for that of action; nor do we
free ourselves from one single difficulty by its means; as will appear
from the two following reflexions.
First, I observe, that the word, action, according to this explication
of it, can never justly be applied to any perception, as derived from
a mind or thinking substance. Our perceptions are all really different,
and separable, and distinguishable from each other, and from everything
else, which we can imagine: and therefore it is impossible to conceive,
how they can be the action or abstract mode of any substance. The
instance of motion, which is commonly made use of to shew after what
manner perception depends, as an action, upon its substance, rather
confounds than instructs us. Motion to all appearance induces no real
nor essential change on the body, but only varies its relation to other
objects. But betwixt a person in the morning walking a garden with
company, agreeable to him; and a person in the afternoon inclosed in a
dungeon, and full of terror, despair, and resentment, there seems to be
a radical difference, and of quite another kind, than what is produced
on a body by the change of its situation. As we conclude from the
distinction and separability of their ideas, that external objects
have a separate existence from each other; so when we make these ideas
themselves our objects, we must draw the same conclusion concerning
them, according to the precedent reasoning. At least it must be confest,
that having idea of the substance of the soul, it is impossible for us
to tell how it can admit of such differences, and even contrarieties of
perception without any fundamental change; and consequently can never
tell in what sense perceptions are actions of that substance. The use,
therefore, of the word, action, unaccompanyed with any meaning, instead
of that of modification, makes no addition to our knowledge, nor is of
any advantage to the doctrine of the immateriality of the soul.
I add in the second place, that if it brings any advantage to that
cause, it must bring an equal to the cause of atheism. For do our
Theologians pretend to make a monopoly of the word, action, and may not
the atheists likewise take possession of it, and affirm that plants,
animals, men, &c. are nothing but particular actions of one simple
universal substance, which exerts itself from a blind and
absolute necessity? This you'll say is utterly absurd. I own it is
unintelligible; but at the same time assert, according to the principles
above-explained, that it is impossible to discover any absurdity in the
supposition, that all the various objects in nature are actions of
one simple substance, which absurdity will not be applicable to a like
supposition concerning impressions and ideas.
From these hypotheses concerning the substance and local conjunction of
our perceptions, we may pass to another, which is more intelligible
than the former, and more important than the latter, viz. concerning the
cause of our perceptions. Matter and motion, it is commonly said in the
schools, however varyed, are still matter and motion, and produce only
a difference in the position and situation of objects. Divide a body as
often as you please, it is still body. Place it in any figure, nothing
ever results but figure, or the relation of parts. Move it in any
manner, you still find motion or a change of relation. It is absurd to
imagine, that motion in a circle, for instance, should be nothing but
merely motion in a circle; while motion in another direction, as in an
ellipse, should also be a passion or moral reflection: That the shocking
of two globular particles should become a sensation of pain, and that
the meeting of two triangular ones should afford a pleasure. Now as
these different shocks, and variations, and mixtures are the only
changes, of which matter is susceptible, and as these never afford us
any idea of thought or perception, it is concluded to be impossible,
that thought can ever be caused by matter.
Few have been able to withstand the seeming evidence of this argument;
and yet nothing in the world is more easy than to refute it. We need
only reflect on what has been proved at large, that we are never
sensible of any connexion betwixt causes and effects, and that it is
only by our experience of their constant conjunction, we can arrive at
any knowledge of this relation. Now as all objects, which are not
contrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real
objects are contrary;[13] I have inferred from these principles, that
to consider the matter A PRIORI, any thing may produce any thing, and
that we shall never discover a reason, why any object may or may not be
the cause of any other, however great, or however little the
resemblance may be betwixt them. This evidently destroys the precedent
reasoning concerning the cause of thought or perception. For though
there appear no manner of connexion betwixt motion or thought, the case
is the same with all other causes and effects. Place one body of a
pound weight on one end of a lever, and another body of the same weight
on another end; you will never find in these bodies any principle of
motion dependent on their distances from the center, more than of
thought and perception. If you pretend, therefore, to prove a priori,
that such a position of bodies can never cause thought; because turn it
which way you will, it is nothing but a position of bodies; you must by
the same course of reasoning conclude, that it can never produce
motion; since there is no more apparent connexion in the one case than
in the other. But as this latter conclusion is contrary to evident
experience, and as it is possible we may have a like experience in the
operations of the mind, and may perceive a constant conjunction of
thought and motion; you reason too hastily, when from the mere
consideration of the ideas, you conclude that it is impossible motion
can ever produce thought, or a different position of parts give rise to
a different passion or reflection. Nay it is not only possible we may
have such an experience, but it is certain we have it; since every one
may perceive, that the different dispositions of his body change his
thoughts and sentiments. And should it be said, that this depends on
the union of soul and body; I would answer, that we must separate the
question concerning the substance of the mind from that concerning the
cause of its thought; and that confining ourselves to the latter
question we find by the comparing their ideas, that thought and motion
are different from each other, and by experience, that they are
constantly united; which being all the circumstances, that enter into
the idea of cause and effect, when applied to the operations of matter,
we may certainly conclude, that motion may be, and actually is, the
cause of thought and perception.
[13] Part III. Sect. 15.
There seems only this dilemma left us in the present case; either to
assert, that nothing can be the cause of another, but where the mind
can perceive the connexion in its idea of the objects: Or to maintain,
that all objects, which we find constantly conjoined, are upon that
account to be regarded as causes and effects. If we choose the first
part of the dilemma, these are the consequences. First, We in reality
affirm, that there is no such thing in the universe as a cause or
productive principle, not even the deity himself; since our idea of
that supreme Being is derived from particular impressions, none of
which contain any efficacy, nor seem to have any connexion with any
other existence. As to what may be said, that the connexion betwixt the
idea of an infinitely powerful being, and that of any effect, which he
wills, is necessary and unavoidable; I answer, that we have no idea of
a being endowed with any power, much less of one endowed with infinite
power. But if we will change expressions, we can only define power by
connexion; and then in saying, that the idea, of an infinitely powerful
being is connected with that of every effect, which he wills, we really
do no more than assert, that a being, whose volition is connected with
every effect, is connected with every effect: which is an identical
proposition, and gives us no insight into the nature of this power or
connexion. But, secondly, supposing, that the deity were the great and
efficacious principle, which supplies the deficiency of all causes,
this leads us into the grossest impieties and absurdities. For upon the
same account, that we have recourse to him in natural operations, and
assert that matter cannot of itself communicate motion, or produce
thought, viz. because there is no apparent connexion betwixt these
objects; I say, upon the very same account, we must acknowledge that
the deity is the author of all our volitions and perceptions; since
they have no more apparent connexion either with one another, or with
the supposed but unknown substance of the soul. This agency of the
supreme Being we know to have been asserted by[14] several philosophers
with relation to all the actions of the mind, except volition, or
rather an inconsiderable part of volition; though it is easy to
perceive, that this exception is a mere pretext, to avoid the dangerous
consequences of that doctrine. If nothing be active but what has an
apparent power, thought is in no case any more active than matter; and
if this inactivity must make us have recourse to a deity, the supreme
being is the real cause of all our actions, bad as well as good,
vicious as well as virtuous.
[14] As father _Malebranche_ and other _Cartesians_.
Thus we are necessarily reduced to the other side of the dilemma, viz..
that all objects, which are found to be constantly conjoined, are upon
that account only to be regarded as causes and effects. Now as
all objects, which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant
conjunction, and as no real objects are contrary: it follows, that for
ought we can determine by the mere ideas, any thing may be the cause
or effect of any thing; which evidently gives the advantage to the
materialists above their antagonists.
To pronounce, then, the final decision upon the whole; the question
concerning the substance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible: All
our perceptions are not susceptible of a local union, either with what
is extended or unextended: there being some of them of the one kind,
and some of the other: And as the constant conjunction of objects
constitutes the very essence of cause and effect, matter and motion may
often be regarded as the causes of thought, as far as we have any notion
of that relation.
It is certainly a kind of indignity to philosophy, whose sovereign
authority ought every where to be acknowledged, to oblige her on every
occasion to make apologies for her conclusions, and justify herself to
every particular art and science, which may be offended at her. This
puts one in mind of a king arrainged for high-treason against his
subjects. There is only one occasion, when philosophy will think it
necessary and even honourable to justify herself, and that is, when
religion may seem to be in the least offended; whose rights are as
dear to her as her own, and are indeed the same. If any one, therefore,
should imagine that the foregoing arguments are any ways dangerous to
religion, I hope the following apology will remove his apprehensions.
There is no foundation for any conclusion a priori, either concerning
the operations or duration of any object, of which it is possible for
the human mind to form a conception. Any object may be imagined to
become entirely inactive, or to be annihilated in a moment; and it is an
evident principle, that whatever we can imagine, is possible. Now this
is no more true of matter, than of spirit; of an extended compounded
substance, than of a simple and unextended. In both cases the
metaphysical arguments for the immortality of the soul are equally
inconclusive: and in both cases the moral arguments and those derived
from the analogy of nature are equally strong and convincing. If my
philosophy, therefore, makes no addition to the arguments for religion,
I have at least the satisfaction to think it takes nothing from them,
but that every thing remains precisely as before.
SECT. VI. OF PERSONAL IDENTITY
There are some philosophers who imagine we are every moment intimately
conscious of what we call our SELF; that we feel its existence and its
continuance in existence; and are certain, beyond the evidence of a
demonstration, both o its perfect identity and simplicity. The strongest
sensation, the most violent passion, say they, instead of distracting
us from this view, only fix it the more intensely, and make us consider
their influence on self either by their pain or pleasure. To attempt a
farther proof of this were to weaken its evidence; since no proof can be
derived from any fact, of which we are so intimately conscious; nor is
there any thing, of which we can be certain, if we doubt of this.
Unluckily all these positive assertions are contrary to that very
experience, which is pleaded for them, nor have we any idea of self,
after the manner it is here explained. For from what impression could
this idea be derived? This question it is impossible to answer without
a manifest contradiction and absurdity; and yet it is a question, which
must necessarily be answered, if we would have the idea of self pass for
clear and intelligible, It must be some one impression, that gives rise
to every real idea. But self or person is not any one impression, but
that to which our several impressions and ideas are supposed to have
a reference. If any impression gives rise to the idea of self, that
impression must continue invariably the same, through the whole course
of our lives; since self is supposed to exist after that manner. But
there is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and pleasure, grief
and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never all
exist at the same time. It cannot, therefore, be from any of these
impressions, or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and
consequently there is no such idea.
But farther, what must become of all our particular perceptions upon
this hypothesis? All these are different, and distinguishable, and
separable from each other, and may be separately considered, and may
exist separately, and have no Deed of tiny thing to support their
existence. After what manner, therefore, do they belong to self; and how
are they connected with it? For my part, when I enter most intimately
into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception
or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or
pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and
never can observe any thing but the perception. When my perceptions
are removed for any time, as by sound sleep; so long am I insensible of
myself, and may truly be said not to exist. And were all my perceptions
removed by death, and could I neither think, nor feel, nor see, nor
love, nor hate after the dissolution of my body, I should be entirely
annihilated, nor do I conceive what is farther requisite to make me a
perfect non-entity. If any one, upon serious and unprejudiced reflection
thinks he has a different notion of himself, I must confess I can
reason no longer with him. All I can allow him is, that he may be in
the right as well as I, and that we are essentially different in this
particular. He may, perhaps, perceive something simple and continued,
which he calls himself; though I am certain there is no such principle
in me.
But setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, I may venture to
affirm of the rest of mankind, that they are nothing but a bundle or
collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an
inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement. Our
eyes cannot turn in their sockets without varying our perceptions. Our
thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our other senses
and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there any single power
of the soul, which remains unalterably the same, perhaps for one moment.
The mind is a kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively
make their appearance; pass, re-pass, glide away, and mingle in an
infinite variety of postures and situations. There is properly no
simplicity in it at one time, nor identity in different; whatever
natural propension we may have to imagine that simplicity and identity.
The comparison of the theatre must not mislead us. They are the
successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind; nor have we the
most distant notion of the place, where these scenes are represented, or
of the materials, of which it is composed.
What then gives us so great a propension to ascribe an identity to
these successive perceptions, and to suppose ourselves possest of an
invariable and uninterrupted existence through the whole course of our
lives? In order to answer this question, we must distinguish betwixt
personal identity, as it regards our thought or imagination, and as it
regards our passions or the concern we take in ourselves. The first is
our present subject; and to explain it perfectly we must take the matter
pretty deep, and account for that identity, which we attribute to plants
and animals; there being a great analogy betwixt it, and the identity of
a self or person.
We have a distinct idea of an object, that remains invariable and
uninterrupted through a supposed variation of time; and this idea we
call that of identity or sameness. We have also a distinct idea of
several different objects existing in succession, and connected
together by a close relation; and this to an accurate view affords as
perfect a notion of diversity, as if there was no manner of relation
among the objects. But though these two ideas of identity, and a
succession of related objects be in themselves perfectly distinct, and
even contrary, yet it is certain, that in our common way of thinking
they are generally confounded with each other. That action of the
imagination, by which we consider the uninterrupted and invariable
object, and that by which we reflect on the succession of related
objects, are almost the same to the feeling, nor is there much more
effort of thought required in the latter case than in the former. The
relation facilitates the transition of the mind from one object to
another, and renders its passage as smooth as if it contemplated one
continued object. This resemblance is the cause of the confusion and
mistake, and makes us substitute the notion of identity, instead of
that of related objects. However at one instant we may consider the
related succession as variable or interrupted, we are sure the next to
ascribe to it a perfect identity, and regard it as enviable and
uninterrupted. Our propensity to this mistake is so great from the
resemblance above-mentioned, that we fall into it before we are aware;
and though we incessantly correct ourselves by reflection, and return
to a more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long sustain our
philosophy, or take off this biass from the imagination. Our last
resource is to yield to it, and boldly assert that these different
related objects are in effect the same, however interrupted and
variable. In order to justify to ourselves this absurdity, we often
feign some new and unintelligible principle, that connects the objects
together, and prevents their interruption or variation. Thus we feign
the continued existence of the perceptions of our senses, to remove the
interruption: and run into the notion of a soul, and self, and
substance, to disguise the variation. But we may farther observe, that
where we do not give rise to such a fiction, our propension to confound
identity with relation is so great, that we are apt to imagine[15]
something unknown and mysterious, connecting the parts, beside their
relation; and this I take to be the case with regard to the identity we
ascribe to plants and vegetables. And even when this does not take
place, we still feel a propensity to confound these ideas, though we
are not able fully to satisfy ourselves in that particular, nor find
any thing invariable and uninterrupted to justify our notion of
identity.
[15] If the reader is desirous to see how a great genius may be
influencd by these seemingly trivial principles of the imagination,
as well as the mere vulgar, let him read my Lord SHAFTSBURY’S
reasonings concerning the uniting principle of the universe, and
the identity of plants and animals. See his MORALISTS: or,
PHILOSOPHICAL RHAPSODY.
Thus the controversy concerning identity is not merely a dispute of
words. For when we attribute identity, in an improper sense, to variable
or interrupted objects, our mistake is not confined to the expression,
but is commonly attended with a fiction, either of something invariable
and uninterrupted, or of something mysterious and inexplicable, or at
least with a propensity to such fictions. What will suffice to prove
this hypothesis to the satisfaction of every fair enquirer, is to shew
from daily experience and observation, that the objects, which are
variable or interrupted, and yet are supposed to continue the same, are
such only as consist of a succession of parts, connected together by
resemblance, contiguity, or causation. For as such a succession answers
evidently to our notion of diversity, it can only be by mistake we
ascribe to it an identity; and as the relation of parts, which leads us
into this mistake, is really nothing but a quality, which produces an
association of ideas, and an easy transition of the imagination from one
to another, it can only be from the resemblance, which this act of the
mind bears to that, by which we contemplate one continued object, that
the error arises. Our chief business, then, must be to prove, that
all objects, to which we ascribe identity, without observing their
invariableness and uninterruptedness, are such as consist of a
succession of related objects.
In order to this, suppose any mass of matter, of which the parts are
contiguous and connected, to be placed before us; it is plain we must
attribute a perfect identity to this mass, provided all the parts
continue uninterruptedly and invariably the same, whatever motion or
change of place we may observe either in the whole or in any of the
parts. But supposing some very small or inconsiderable part to be added
to the mass, or subtracted from it; though this absolutely destroys
the identity of the whole, strictly speaking; yet as we seldom think so
accurately, we scruple not to pronounce a mass of matter the same, where
we find so trivial an alteration. The passage of the thought from the
object before the change to the object after it, is so smooth and easy,
that we scarce perceive the transition, and are apt to imagine, that it
is nothing but a continued survey of the same object.
There is a very remarkable circumstance, that attends this experiment;
which is, that though the change of any considerable part in a mass
of matter destroys the identity of the whole, let we must measure the
greatness of the part, not absolutely, but by its proportion to the
whole. The addition or diminution of a mountain would not be sufficient
to produce a diversity in a planet: though the change of a very few
inches would be able to destroy the identity of some bodies. It will be
impossible to account for this, but by reflecting that objects operate
upon the mind, and break or interrupt the continuity of its actions not
according to their real greatness, but according to their proportion to
each other: And therefore, since this interruption makes an object cease
to appear the same, it must be the uninterrupted progress o the thought,
which constitutes the imperfect identity.
This may be confirmed by another phenomenon. A change in any
considerable part of a body destroys its identity; but it is remarkable,
that where the change is produced gradually and insensibly we are less
apt to ascribe to it the same effect. The reason can plainly be no
other, than that the mind, in following the successive changes of the
body, feels an easy passage from the surveying its condition in one
moment to the viewing of it in another, and at no particular time
perceives any interruption in its actions. From which continued
perception, it ascribes a continued existence and identity to the
object.
But whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes gradually,
and making them proportionable to the whole, it is certain, that where
the changes are at last observed to become considerable, we make a
scruple of ascribing identity to such different objects. There is,
however, another artifice, by which we may induce the imagination to
advance a step farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the
parts to each other, and a combination to some common end or purpose.
A ship, of which a considerable part has been changed by frequent
reparations, is still considered as the same; nor does the difference
of the materials hinder us from ascribing an identity to it. The
common end, in which the parts conspire, is the same under all their
variations, and affords an easy transition of the imagination from one
situation of the body to another.
But this is still more remarkable, when we add a sympathy of parts
to their common end, and suppose that they bear to each other, the
reciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their actions and
operations. This is the case with all animals and vegetables; where not
only the several parts have a reference to some general purpose, but
also a mutual dependence on, and connexion with each other. The effect
of so strong a relation is, that though every one must allow, that in a
very few years both vegetables and animals endure a total change, yet we
still attribute identity to them, while their form, size, and substance
are entirely altered. An oak, that grows from a small plant to a large
tree, is still the same oak; though there be not one particle of matter,
or figure of its parts the same. An infant becomes a man-, and is
sometimes fat, sometimes lean, without any change in his identity.
We may also consider the two following phaenomena, which are remarkable
in their kind. The first is, that though we commonly be able to
distinguish pretty exactly betwixt numerical and specific identity, yet
it sometimes happens, that we confound them, and in our thinking and
reasoning employ the one for the other. Thus a man, who bears a noise,
that is frequently interrupted and renewed, says, it is still the same
noise; though it is evident the sounds have only a specific identity or
resemblance, and there is nothing numerically the same, but the cause,
which produced them. In like manner it may be said without breach of the
propriety of language, that such a church, which was formerly of brick,
fell to ruin, and that the parish rebuilt the same church of free-stone,
and according to modern architecture. Here neither the form nor
materials are the same, nor is there any thing common to the two
objects, but their relation to the inhabitants of the parish; and yet
this alone is sufficient to make us denominate them the same. But
we must observe, that in these cases the first object is in a manner
annihilated before the second comes into existence; by which means, we
are never presented in any one point of time with the idea of difference
and multiplicity: and for that reason are less scrupulous in calling
them the same.
Secondly, We may remark, that though in a succession of related objects,
it be in a manner requisite, that the change of parts be not sudden nor
entire, in order to preserve the identity, yet where the objects are
in their nature changeable and inconstant, we admit of a more sudden
transition, than would otherwise be consistent with that relation. Thus
as the nature of a river consists in the motion and change of parts;
though in less than four and twenty hours these be totally altered; this
hinders not the river from continuing the same during several ages. What
is natural and essential to any thing is, in a manner, expected; and
what is expected makes less impression, and appears of less moment, than
what is unusual and extraordinary. A considerable change of the former
kind seems really less to the imagination, than the most trivial
alteration of the latter; and by breaking less the continuity of the
thought, has less influence in destroying the identity.
We now proceed to explain the nature of personal identity, which has
become so great a question ill philosophy, especially of late years in
England, where all the abstruser sciences are studyed with a peculiar
ardour and application. And here it is evident, the same method of
reasoning must be continued which has so successfully explained the
identity of plants, and animals, and ships, and houses, and of all
the compounded and changeable productions either of art or nature. The
identity, which we ascribe to the mind of man, is only a fictitious one,
and of a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal
bodies. It cannot, therefore, have a different origin, but must proceed
from a like operation of the imagination upon like objects.
But lest this argument should not convince the reader; though in my
opinion perfectly decisive; let him weigh the following reasoning, which
is still closer and more immediate. It is evident, that the identity,
which we attribute to the human mind, however perfect we may imagine it
to be, is not able to run the several different perceptions into one,
and make them lose their characters of distinction and difference, which
are essential to them. It is still true, that every distinct perception,
which enters into the composition of the mind, is a distinct existence,
and is different, and distinguishable, and separable from every other
perception, either contemporary or successive. But, as, notwithstanding
this distinction and separability, we suppose the whole train of
perceptions to be united by identity, a question naturally arises
concerning this relation of identity; whether it be something that
really binds our several perceptions together, or only associates
their ideas in the imagination. That is, in other words, whether in
pronouncing concerning the identity of a person, we observe some real
bond among his perceptions, or only feel one among the ideas we form of
them. This question we might easily decide, if we would recollect what
has been already proud at large, that the understanding never observes
any real connexion among objects, and that even the union of cause
and effect, when strictly examined, resolves itself into a customary
association of ideas. For from thence it evidently follows, that
identity is nothing really belonging to these different perceptions, and
uniting them together; but is merely a quality, which we attribute to
them, because of the union of their ideas in the imagination, when we
reflect upon them. Now the only qualities, which can give ideas an union
in the imagination, are these three relations above-mentioned. There
are the uniting principles in the ideal world, and without them
every distinct object is separable by the mind, and may be separately
considered, and appears not to have any more connexion with any other
object, than if disjoined by the greatest difference and remoteness.
It is, therefore, on some of these three relations of resemblance,
contiguity and causation, that identity depends; and as the very essence
of these relations consists in their producing an easy transition
of ideas; it follows, that our notions of personal identity, proceed
entirely from the smooth and uninterrupted progress of the thought along
a train of connected ideas, according to the principles above-explained.
The only question, therefore, which remains, is, by what relations this
uninterrupted progress of our thought is produced, when we consider
the successive existence of a mind or thinking person. And here it is
evident we must confine ourselves to resemblance and causation, and must
drop contiguity, which has little or no influence in the present case.
To begin with resemblance; suppose we could see clearly into the
breast of another, and observe that succession of perceptions, which
constitutes his mind or thinking principle, and suppose that he always
preserves the memory of a considerable part of past perceptions; it is
evident that nothing could more contribute to the bestowing a relation
on this succession amidst all its variations. For what is the memory but
a faculty, by which we raise up the images of past perceptions? And
as an image necessarily resembles its object, must not. The frequent
placing of these resembling perceptions in the chain of thought, convey
the imagination more easily from one link to another, and make the whole
seem like the continuance of one object? In this particular, then, the
memory not only discovers the identity, but also contributes to
its production, by producing the relation of resemblance among the
perceptions. The case is the same whether we consider ourselves or
others.
As to causation; we may observe, that the true idea of the human mind,
is to consider it as a system of different perceptions or different
existences, which are linked together by the relation of cause and
effect, and mutually produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other.
Our impressions give rise to their correspondent ideas; said these ideas
in their turn produce other impressions. One thought chaces another,
and draws after it a third, by which it is expelled in its turn. In this
respect, I cannot compare the soul more properly to any thing than to a
republic or commonwealth, in which the several members are united by the
reciprocal ties of government and subordination, and give rise to other
persons, who propagate the same republic in the incessant changes of
its parts. And as the same individual republic may not only change its
members, but also its laws and constitutions; in like manner the
same person may vary his character and disposition, as well as his
impressions and ideas, without losing his identity. Whatever changes
he endures, his several parts are still connected by the relation of
causation. And in this view our identity with regard to the passions
serves to corroborate that with regard to the imagination, by the making
our distant perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present
concern for our past or future pains or pleasures.
As a memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and extent of this
succession of perceptions, it is to be considered, upon that account
chiefly, as the source of personal identity. Had we no memory, we never
should have any notion of causation, nor consequently of that chain of
causes and effects, which constitute our self or person. But having once
acquired this notion of causation from the memory, we can extend the
same chain of causes, and consequently the identity of car persons
beyond our memory, and can comprehend times, and circumstances, and
actions, which we have entirely forgot, but suppose in general to have
existed. For how few of our past actions are there, of which we have
any memory? Who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts and
actions on the 1st of January 1715, the 11th of March 1719, and the 3rd
of August 1733? Or will he affirm, because he has entirely forgot the
incidents of these days, that the present self is not the same person
with the self of that time; and by that means overturn all the most
established notions of personal identity? In this view, therefore,
memory does not so much produce as discover personal identity, by
shewing us the relation of cause and effect among our different
perceptions. It will be incumbent on those, who affirm that memory
produces entirely our personal identity, to give a reason why we can
thus extend our identity beyond our memory.
The whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion, which is of great
importance in the present affair, viz. that all the nice and subtile
questions concerning personal identity can never possibly be decided,
and are to be regarded rather as gramatical than as philosophical
difficulties. Identity depends on the relations of ideas; and these
relations produce identity, by means of that easy transition they
occasion. But as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may
diminish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard, by which we
can decide any dispute concerning the time, when they acquire or lose a
title to the name of identity. All the disputes concerning the identity
of connected objects are merely verbal, except so fax as the relation of
parts gives rise to some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as we
have already observed.
What I have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our
notion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended with
little or no variation to that of simplicity. An object, whose different
co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation, operates upon
the imagination after much the same manner as one perfectly simple and
indivisible and requires not a much greater stretch of thought in order
to its conception. From this similarity of operation we attribute a
simplicity to it, and feign a principle of union as the support of this
simplicity, and the center of all the different parts and qualities of
the object.
Thus we have finished our examination of the several systems of
philosophy, both of the intellectual and natural world; and in our
miscellaneous way of reasoning have been led into several topics;
which will either illustrate and confirm some preceding part of this
discourse, or prepare the way for our following opinions. It is now time
to return to a more close examination of our subject, and to proceed in
the accurate anatomy of human nature, having fully explained the nature
of our judgment and understandings.
SECT. VII. CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.
But before I launch out into those immense depths of philosophy, which
lie before me, I find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present
station, and to ponder that voyage, which I have undertaken, and which
undoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a
happy conclusion. Methinks I am like a man, who having struck on many
shoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith,
has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten
vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing
the globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. My memory of past
errors and perplexities, makes me diffident for the future. The wretched
condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must employ in my
enquiries, encrease my apprehensions. And the impossibility of amending
or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair, and makes
me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which I am at present,
rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean, which runs
out into immensity. This sudden view of my danger strikes me with
melancholy; and as it is usual for that passion, above all others, to
indulge itself; I cannot forbear feeding my despair, with all those
desponding reflections, which the present subject furnishes me with in
such abundance.
I am first affrighted and confounded with that forelorn solitude,
in which I am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange
uncouth monster, who not being able to mingle and unite in society,
has been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and
disconsolate. Fain would I run into the crowd for shelter and warmth;
but cannot prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. I call upon
others to join me, in order to make a company apart; but no one will
hearken to me. Every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that storm,
which beats upon me from every side. I have exposed myself to the enmity
of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even theologians;
and can I wonder at the insults I must suffer? I have declared my
disapprobation of their systems; and can I be surprized, if they should
express a hatred of mine and of my person? When I look abroad, I foresee
on every side, dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny and detraction.
When I turn my eye inward, I find nothing but doubt and ignorance.
All the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though such is my
weakness, that I feel all my opinions loosen and fall of themselves,
when unsupported by the approbation of others. Every step I take is
with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an error and
absurdity in my reasoning.
For with what confidence can I venture upon such bold enterprises, when
beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, I find so many
which are common to human nature? Can I be sure, that in leaving all
established opinions I am following truth; and by what criterion shall
I distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on her
foot-steps? After the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, I can
give no reason why I should assent to it; and feel nothing but a strong
propensity to consider objects strongly in that view, under which they
appear to me. Experience is a principle, which instructs me in
the several conjunctions of objects for the past. Habit is another
principle, which determines me to expect the same for the future; and
both of them conspiring to operate upon the imagination, make me form
certain ideas in a more intense and lively manner, than others, which
are not attended with the same advantages. Without this quality, by
which the mind enlivens some ideas beyond others (which seemingly is so
trivial, and so little founded on reason) we could never assent to any
argument, nor carry our view beyond those few objects, which are present
to our senses. Nay, even to these objects we could never attribute any
existence, but what was dependent on the senses; and must comprehend
them entirely in that succession of perceptions, which constitutes our
self or person. Nay farther, even with relation to that succession, we
could only admit of those perceptions, which are immediately present to
our consciousness, nor could those lively images, with which the memory
presents us, be ever received as true pictures of past perceptions. The
memory, senses, and understanding are, therefore, all of them founded on
the imagination, or the vivacity of our ideas.
No wonder a principle so inconstant and fallacious should lead us into
errors, when implicitly followed (as it must be) in all its variations.
It is this principle, which makes us reason from causes and effects;
and it is the same principle, which convinces us of the continued
existence of external objects, when absent from the senses. But though
these two operations be equally natural and necessary in the human
mind, yet in some circumstances they are[16] directly contrary, nor is
it possible for us to reason justly and regularly from causes and
effects, and at the same time believe the continued existence of
matter. How then shall we adjust those principles together? Which of
them shall we prefer? Or in case we prefer neither of them, but
successively assent to both, as is usual among philosophers, with what
confidence can we afterwards usurp that glorious title, when we thus
knowingly embrace a manifest contradiction?
[16] Sect. 4.
This contradiction[17] would be more excusable, were it compensated by
any degree of solidity and satisfaction in the other parts of our
reasoning. But the case is quite contrary. When we trace up the human
understanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us into such
sentiments, as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains and
industry, and to discourage us from future enquiries. Nothing is more
curiously enquired after by the mind of man, than the causes of every
phenomenon; nor are we content with knowing the immediate causes, but
push on our enquiries, till we arrive at the original and ultimate
principle. We would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with
that energy in the cause, by which it operates on its effect; that tie,
which connects them together; and that efficacious quality, on which
the tie depends. This is our aim in all our studies and reflections:
And how must we be disappointed, when we learn, that this connexion,
tie, or energy lies merely in ourselves, and is nothing but that
determination of the mind, which is acquired by custom, and causes us
to make a transition from an object to its usual attendant, and from
the impression of one to the lively idea of the other? Such a discovery
not only cuts off all hope of ever attaining satisfaction, but even
prevents our very wishes; since it appears, that when we say we desire
to know the ultimate and operating principle, as something, which
resides in the external object, we either contradict ourselves, or talk
without a meaning.
[17] Part III. Sect. 14.
This deficiency in our ideas is not, indeed, perceived in common life,
nor are we sensible, that in the most usual conjunctions of cause and
effect we are as ignorant of the ultimate principle, which binds them
together, as in the most unusual and extraordinary. But this proceeds
merely from an illusion of the imagination; and the question is, how far
we ought to yield to these illusions. This question is very difficult,
and reduces us to a very dangerous dilemma, whichever way we answer it.
For if we assent to every trivial suggestion of the fancy; beside that
these suggestions are often contrary to each other; they lead us into
such errors, absurdities, and obscurities, that we must at last become
ashamed of our credulity. Nothing is more dangerous to reason than the
flights of the imagination, and nothing has been the occasion of more
mistakes among philosophers. Men of bright fancies may in this respect
be compared to those angels, whom the scripture represents as covering
their eyes with their wings. This has already appeared in so many
instances, that we may spare ourselves the trouble of enlarging upon it
any farther.
But on the other hand, if the consideration of these instances makes us
take a resolution to reject all the trivial suggestions of the fancy,
and adhere to the understanding, that is, to the general and more
established properties of the imagination; even this resolution, if
steadily executed, would be dangerous, and attended with the most fatal
consequences. For I have already shewn,[18] that the understanding,
when it acts alone, and according to its most general principles,
entirely subverts itself, and leaves not the lowest degree of evidence
in any proposition, either in philosophy or common life. We save
ourselves from this total scepticism only by means of that singular and
seemingly trivial property of the fancy, by which we enter with
difficulty into remote views of things, and are not able to accompany
them with so sensible an impression, as we do those, which are more
easy and natural. Shall we, then, establish it for a general maxim,
that no refined or elaborate reasoning is ever to be received? Consider
well the consequences of such a principle. By this means you cut off
entirely all science and philosophy: You proceed upon one singular
quality of the imagination, and by a parity of reason must embrace all
of them: And you expressly contradict yourself; since this maxim must
be built on the preceding reasoning, which will be allowed to be
sufficiently refined and metaphysical. What party, then, shall we
choose among these difficulties? If we embrace this principle, and
condemn all refined reasoning, we run into the most manifest
absurdities. If we reject it in favour of these reasonings, we subvert
entirely the human understanding. We have, therefore, no choice left
but betwixt a false reason and none at all. For my part, know not what
ought to be done in the present case. I can only observe what is
commonly done; which is, that this difficulty is seldom or never
thought of; and even where it has once been present to the mind, is
quickly forgot, and leaves but a small impression behind it. Very
refined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do
not, and cannot establish it for a rule, that they ought not to have
any influence; which implies a manifest contradiction.
[18] Sect. 1.
But what have I here said, that reflections very refined and
metaphysical have little or no influence upon us? This opinion I can
scarce forbear retracting, and condemning from my present feeling
and experience. The intense view of these manifold contradictions and
imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my
brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can look
upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another. Where
am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what
condition shall I return? Whose favour shall I court, and whose
anger must I dread? What beings surround me? and on whom have, I any
influence, or who have any influence on me? I am confounded with all
these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable
condition imaginable, invironed with the deepest darkness, and utterly
deprived of the use of every member and faculty.
Most fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of
dispelling these clouds, nature herself suffices to that purpose,
and cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by
relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression
of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a game
of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and when after
three or four hours' amusement, I would return to these speculations,
they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in
my heart to enter into them any farther.
Here then I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live,
and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of life. But
notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course of my animal
spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief in the general
maxims of the world, I still feel such remains of my former disposition,
that I am ready to throw all my books and papers into the fire, and
resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life for the sake of
reasoning and philosophy. For those are my sentiments in that splenetic
humour, which governs me at present. I may, nay I must yield to the
current of nature, in submitting to my senses and understanding; and in
this blind submission I shew most perfectly my sceptical disposition and
principles. But does it follow, that I must strive against the current
of nature, which leads me to indolence and pleasure; that I must seclude
myself, in some measure, from the commerce and society of men, which
is so agreeable; and that I must torture my brains with subtilities and
sophistries, at the very time that I cannot satisfy myself concerning
the reasonableness of so painful an application, nor have any tolerable
prospect of arriving by its means at truth and certainty. Under what
obligation do I lie of making such an abuse of time? And to what end
can it serve either for the service of mankind, or for my own private
interest? No: If I must be a fool, as all those who reason or believe
any thing certainly are, my follies shall at least be natural and
agreeable. Where I strive against my inclination, I shall have a good
reason for my resistance; and will no more be led a wandering into such
dreary solitudes, and rough passages, as I have hitherto met with.
These are the sentiments of my spleen and indolence; and indeed I must
confess, that philosophy has nothing to oppose to them, and expects a
victory more from the returns of a serious good-humoured disposition,
than from the force of reason and conviction. In all the incidents of
life we ought still to preserve our scepticism. If we believe, that fire
warms, or water refreshes, it is only because it costs us too much pains
to think otherwise. Nay if we are philosophers, it ought only to be
upon sceptical principles, and from an inclination, which we feel to the
employing ourselves after that manner. Where reason is lively, and mixes
itself with some propensity, it ought to be assented to. Where it does
not, it never can have any title to operate upon us.
At the time, therefore, that I am tired with amusement and company,
and have indulged a reverie in my chamber, or in a solitary walk by a
river-side, I feel my mind all collected within itself, and am naturally
inclined to carry my view into all those subjects, about which I have
met with so many disputes in the course of my reading and conversation.
I cannot forbear having a curiosity to be acquainted with the principles
of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of government, and
the cause of those several passions and inclinations, which actuate and
govern me. I am uneasy to think I approve of one object, and disapprove
of another; call one thing beautiful, and another deformed; decide
concerning truth and falshood, reason and folly, without knowing upon
what principles I proceed. I am concerned for the condition of the
learned world, which lies under such a deplorable ignorance in all these
particulars. I feel an ambition to arise in me of contributing to the
instruction of mankind, and of acquiring a name by my inventions
and discoveries. These sentiments spring up naturally in my present
disposition; and should I endeavour to banish them, by attaching myself
to any other business or diversion, I feel I should be a loser in point
of pleasure; and this is the origin of my philosophy.
But even suppose this curiosity and ambition should not transport
me into speculations without the sphere of common life, it would
necessarily happen, that from my very weakness I must be led into such
enquiries. It is certain, that superstition is much more bold in its
systems and hypotheses than philosophy; and while the latter contents
itself with assigning new causes and principles to the phaenomena, which
appear in the visible world, the former opens a world of its own, and
presents us with scenes, and beings, and objects, which are altogether
new. Since therefore it is almost impossible for the mind of man to
rest, like those of beasts, in that narrow circle of objects, which
are the subject of daily conversation and action, we ought only to
deliberate concerning the choice of our guide, and ought to prefer that
which is safest and most agreeable. And in this respect I make bold to
recommend philosophy, and shall not scruple to give it the preference to
superstition of every kind or denomination. For as superstition arises
naturally and easily from the popular opinions of mankind, it seizes
more strongly on the mind, and is often able to disturb us in the
conduct of our lives and actions. Philosophy on the contrary, if just,
can present us only with mild and moderate sentiments; and if false and
extravagant, its opinions are merely the objects of a cold and general
speculation, and seldom go so far as to interrupt the course of our
natural propensities. The CYNICS are an extraordinary instance of
philosophers, who from reasonings purely philosophical ran into as great
extravagancies of conduct as any Monk or Dervise that ever was in the
world. Generally speaking, the errors in religion are dangerous; those
in philosophy only ridiculous.
I am sensible, that these two cases of the strength and weakness of the
mind will not comprehend all mankind, and that there are in England, in
particular, many honest gentlemen, who being always employed in their
domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations, have
carried their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which are every
day exposed to their senses. And indeed, of such as these I pretend not
to make philosophers, nor do I expect them either to be associates in
these researches or auditors of these discoveries. They do well to keep
themselves in their present situation; and instead of refining them into
philosophers, I wish we could communicate to our founders of systems,
a share of this gross earthy mixture, as an ingredient, which they
commonly stand much in need of, and which would serve to temper those
fiery particles, of which they are composed. While a warm imagination
is allowed to enter into philosophy, and hypotheses embraced merely for
being specious and agreeable, we can never have any steady principles,
nor any sentiments, which will suit with common practice and experience.
But were these hypotheses once removed, we might hope to establish a
system or set of opinions, which if not true (for that, perhaps, is too
much to be hoped for) might at least be satisfactory to the human mind,
and might stand the test of the most critical examination. Nor should we
despair of attaining this end, because of the many chimerical systems,
which have successively arisen and decayed away among men, would we
consider the shortness of that period, wherein these questions have been
the subjects of enquiry and reasoning. Two thousand years with such long
interruptions, and under such mighty discouragements are a small space
of time to give any tolerable perfection to the sciences; and perhaps we
are still in too early an age of the world to discover any principles,
which will bear the examination of the latest posterity. For my part,
my only hope is, that I may contribute a little to the advancement
of knowledge, by giving in some particulars a different turn to the
speculations of philosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly
those subjects, where alone they can expect assurance and conviction.
Human Nature is the only science of man; and yet has been hitherto the
most neglected. It will be sufficient for me, if I can bring it a little
more into fashion; and the hope of this serves to compose my temper
from that spleen, and invigorate it from that indolence, which
sometimes prevail upon me. If the reader finds himself in the same easy
disposition, let him follow me in my future speculations. If not, let
him follow his inclination, and wait the returns of application and good
humour. The conduct of a man, who studies philosophy in this careless
manner, is more truly sceptical than that of one, who feeling in himself
an inclination to it, is yet so overwhelmed with doubts and scruples,
as totally to reject it. A true sceptic will be diffident of his
philosophical doubts, as well as of his philosophical conviction; and
will never refuse any innocent satisfaction, which offers itself, upon
account of either of them.
Nor is it only proper we should in general indulge our inclination
in the most elaborate philosophical researches, notwithstanding our
sceptical principles, but also that we should yield to that propensity,
which inclines us to be positive and certain in particular points,
according to the light, in which we survey them in any particular
instant. It is easier to forbear all examination and enquiry, than
to check ourselves in so natural a propensity, and guard against that
assurance, which always arises from an exact and full survey of
an object. On such an occasion we are apt not only to forget our
scepticism, but even our modesty too; and make use of such terms as
these, it is evident, it is certain, it is undeniable; which a due
deference to the public ought, perhaps, to prevent. I may have fallen
into this fault after the example of others; but I here enter a caveat
against any Objections, which may be offered on that head; and declare
that such expressions were extorted from me by the present view of the
object, and imply no dogmatical spirit, nor conceited idea of my own
judgment, which are sentiments that I am sensible can become no body,
and a sceptic still less than any other.
BOOK II OF THE PASSIONS
PART I OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY
SECT. I DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT
As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into impressions and
ideas, so the impressions admit of another division into original and
secondary. This division of the impressions is the same with that
which[1] I formerly made use of when I distinguished them into
impressions of sensation and reflection. Original impressions or
impressions of sensation are such as without any antecedent perception
arise in the soul, from the constitution of the body, from the animal
spirits, or from the application of objects to the external organs.
Secondary, or reflective impressions are such as proceed from some of
these original ones, either immediately or by the interposition of its
idea. Of the first kind are all the impressions of the senses, and all
bodily pains and pleasures: Of the second are the passions, and other
emotions resembling them.
[1] Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.
It is certain, that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere;
and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there
must be some impressions, which without any introduction make their
appearance in the soul. As these depend upon natural and physical
causes, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present
subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. For this
reason I shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which
I have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the
original impressions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures
are the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the
mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you
please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. A fit of
the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear; but
is not derived immediately from any affection or idea. The reflective
impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the calm and the
VIOLENT. Of the first kind is the sense of beauty and deformity in
action, composition, and external objects. Of the second are the
passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. This
division is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and music
frequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions,
properly called PASSIONS, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to
become, in a manner, imperceptible. But as in general the passions are
more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity,
these impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. The
subject of the human mind being so copious and various, I shall here
take advantage of this vulgar and spacious division, that I may
proceed with the greater order; and having said all I thought necessary
concerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or
passions, their nature, origin, causes, and effects.
When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of them
into DIRECT and INDIRECT. By direct passions I understand such as arise
immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. By indirect such
as proceed from the same principles, but by the conjunction of other
qualities. This distinction I cannot at present justify or explain any
farther. I can only observe in general, that under the indirect passions
I comprehend pride, humility, ambition, vanity, love, hatred, envy,
pity, malice, generosity, with their dependants. And under the direct
passions, desire, aversion, grief, joy, hope, fear, despair and
security. I shall begin with the former.
SECT. II OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES
The passions of PRIDE and HUMILITY being simple and uniform impressions,
it is impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words, give a just
definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. The utmost we
can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration of such
circumstances, as attend them: But as these words, PRIDE and humility,
are of general use, and the impressions they represent the most common
of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just idea of them,
without any danger of mistake. For which reason, not to lose time upon
preliminaries, I shall immediately enter upon the examination of these
passions.
It is evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have
yet the same OBJECT. This object is self, or that succession of
related ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory and
consciousness. Here the view always fixes when we are actuated by either
of these passions. According as our idea of ourself is more or less
advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are
elated by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may
be comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to
ourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these
passions, or produce the smallest encrease or diminution of them. When
self enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for
pride or humility.
But though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call SELF,
be always the object of these two passions, it is impossible it can
be their CAUSE, or be sufficient alone to excite them. For as these
passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in common; were
their object also their cause; it could never produce any degree of the
one passion, but at the same time it must excite an equal degree of
the other; which opposition and contrariety must destroy both. It is
impossible a man can at the same time be both proud and humble; and
where he has different reasons for these passions, as frequently
happens, the passions either take place alternately; or if they
encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength goes,
and the remainder only of that, which is superior, continues to operate
upon the mind. But in the present case neither of the passions could
ever become superior; because supposing it to be the view only of
ourself, which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to either,
must produce both in the very same proportion; or in other words, can
produce neither. To excite any passion, and at the same time raise an
equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was done, and
must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent.
We must therefore, make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object
of these passions; betwixt that idea, which excites them, and that to
which they direct their view, when excited. Pride and humility, being
once raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard
that as their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther
requisite in order to raise them: Something, which is peculiar to one of
the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree. The first
idea, that is presented to the mind, is that of the cause or productive
principle. This excites the passion, connected with it; and that
passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is that of
self. Here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which the one
produces it, and the other is produced by it. The first idea, therefore,
represents the cause, the second the object of the passion.
To begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that
their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of
subjects, on which they may be placed. Every valuable quality of the
mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition; wit,
good-sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are the
cause of pride; and their opposites of humility. Nor are these passions
confined to the mind but extend their view to the body likewise. A man
may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good mein, address
in dancing, riding, and of his dexterity in any manual business
or manufacture. But this is not all. The passions looking farther,
comprehend whatever objects are in the least allyed or related to us.
Our country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, gardens,
horses, dogs, cloaths; any of these may become a cause either of pride
or of humility.
From the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we shoud
make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that
QUALITY, which operates, and the subject, on which it is placed. A man,
for instance, is vain of a beautiful house, which belongs to him, or
which he has himself built and contrived. Here the object of the passion
is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: Which cause again is
sub-divided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates upon the
passion, and the subject in which the quality inheres. The quality is
the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his property or
contrivance. Both these parts are essential, nor is the distinction vain
and chimerical. Beauty, considered merely as such, unless placed upon
something related to us, never produces any pride or vanity; and the
strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something else in its
place, has as little influence on that passion. Since, therefore, these
two particulars are easily separated and there is a necessity for their
conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we ought to consider them
as component parts of the cause; and infix in our minds an exact idea of
this distinction.
SECT. III WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED
Being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the object
of the passions and their cause, and to distinguish in the cause the
quality, which operates on the passions, from the subject, in which it
inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to
be what it is, and assigns such a particular object, and quality, and
subject to these affections. By this means we shall fully understand the
origin of pride and humility.
It is evident in the first place, that these passions are determined
to have self for their object, not only by a natural but also by an
original property. No one can doubt but this property is natural from
the constancy and steadiness of its operations. It is always self, which
is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions look
beyond, it is still with a view to ourselves, nor can any person or
object otherwise have any influence upon us.
That this proceeds from an original quality or primary impulse, will
likewise appear evident, if we consider that it is the distinguishing
characteristic of these passions Unless nature had given some original
qualities to the mind, it could never have any secondary ones; because
in that case it would have no foundation for action, nor could ever
begin to exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as
original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be
resolved into no other: And such is the quality, which determines
the object of pride and humility. We may, perhaps, make it a greater
question, whether the causes, that produce the passion, be as natural as
the object, to which it is directed, and whether all that vast variety
proceeds from caprice or from the constitution of the mind. This doubt
we shall soon remove, if we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider
that in all nations and ages, the same objects still give rise to pride
and humility; and that upon the view even of a stranger, we can know
pretty nearly, what will either encrease or diminish his passions of
this kind. If there be any variation in this particular, it proceeds
from nothing but a difference in the tempers and complexions of men; and
is besides very inconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible, that while
human nature remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent
to their power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride
and vanity will not be affected by these advantages?
But though the causes of pride and humility be plainly natural, we
shall find upon examination, that they are not original, and that it is
utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these passions
by a particular provision, and primary constitution of nature, Beside
their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, and arise
partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly from
the good fortune of men, Industry produces houses, furniture, cloaths.
Caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. And good
fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the effects
that result from the different mixtures and combinations of bodies. It
is absurd, therefore, to imagine, that each of these was foreseen and
provided for by nature, and that every new production of art, which
causes pride or humility; instead of adapting itself to the passion by
partaking of some general quality, that naturally operates on the mind;
is itself the object of an original principle, which till then lay
concealed in the soul, and is only by accident at last brought to light.
Thus the first mechanic, that invented a fine scritoire, produced pride
in him, who became possest of it, by principles different from those,
which made him proud of handsome chairs and tables. As this appears
evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, that each cause of pride and
humility is not adapted to the passions by a distinct original quality;
but that there are some one or more circumstances common to all of them,
on which their efficacy depends.
Besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be
many, the principles, from which they arise, are commonly but few and
simple, and that it is the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have
recourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different
operation. How much more must this be true with regard to the human
mind, which being so confined a subject may justly be thought incapable
of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would be necessary
to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each distinct cause
adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles?
Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural,
with regard to astronomy before the time of COPERNICUS. The antients,
though sensible of that maxim, THAT NATURE DOES NOTHING IN VAIN,
contrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent
with true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple
and natural. To invent without scruple a new principle to every
new phænomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our
hypotheses with a variety of this kind; are certain proofs, that none of
these principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number
of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth.
SECT. IV OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS
Thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty,
that IT IS FROM NATURAL PRINCIPLES THIS VARIETY OF CAUSES EXCITES PRIDE
AND HUMILITY, and that IT IS NOT BY A DIFFERENT PRINCIPLE EACH DIFFERENT
CAUSE IS ADAPTED TO ITS PASSION. We shall now proceed to enquire how
we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find among the
causes something common, on which their influence depends.
In order to this we must reflect on certain properties of human nature,
which though they have a mighty influence on every operation both of
the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted on by
philosophers. The first of these is the association of ideas, which I
have so often observed and explained. It is impossible for the mind to
fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time; nor can
it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. But however
changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and
method in their changes. The rule, by which they proceed, is to pass
from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced by it.
When one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united by these
relations, naturally follows it, and enters with more facility by means
of that introduction.
The second property I shall observe in the human mind is a like
association of impressions. All resembling impressions are connected
together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow.
Grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to
malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be compleated.
In like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws
itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other
resembling affections. It is difficult for the mind, when actuated by
any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without any
change or variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of any such
regularity. Changeableness is essential to it. And to what can it so
naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are suitable to the
temper, and agree with that set of passions, which then prevail? It is
evident, then, there is an attraction or association among impressions,
as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable difference, that
ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and causation; and
impressions only by resemblance.
In the THIRD place, it is observable of these two kinds of association,
that they very much assist and forward each other, and that the
transition is more easily made where they both concur in the same
object. Thus a man, who, by any injury from another, is very much
discomposed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred subjects
of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions; especially
if he can discover these subjects in or near the person, who was
the cause of his first passion. Those principles, which forward the
transition of ideas, here concur with those, which operate on the
passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double
impulse. The new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater
violence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy
and natural.
Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who
expresses himself in the following manner.
"As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or
beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these
perfections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving a new
satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. Thus any continued
sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens every moment
the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the several
beauties of the place, that lie before him. Thus if there arises a
fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the
imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landschape
appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses recommend each
other, and are pleasanter together than when they enter the mind
separately: As the different colours of a picture, when they are well
disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional beauty from
the advantage of the situation."[2] In this phænomenon we may remark
the association both of impressions and ideas, as well as the mutual
assistance they lend each other.
[2] Addison, SPECTATOR 412, final paragraph.
SECT. V OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY
These principles being established on unquestionable experience, I begin
to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the causes of
pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded, as the qualities,
that operate, or as the subjects, on which the qualities are placed. In
examining these qualities I immediately find many of them to concur
in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, independent of those
affections, which I here endeavour to explain. Thus the beauty of our
person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives pleasure, as well
as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. A magnificent
feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I discover to
be true in some instances, I suppose to be so in all; and take it for
granted at present, without any farther proof, that every cause of
pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate pleasure, and of
humility a separate uneasiness.
Again, in considering the subjects, to which these qualities adhere, I
make a new supposition, which also appears probable from many obvious
instances, viz, that these subjects are either parts of ourselves, or
something nearly related to us. Thus the good and bad qualities of
our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice, and determine our
personal character, than which nothing operates more strongly on these
passions. In like manner, it is the beauty or deformity of our person,
houses, equipage, or furniture, by which we are rendered either vain or
humble. The same qualities, when transfered to subjects, which bear
us no relation, influence not in the smallest degree either of these
affections.
Having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of these
affections, viz, that the qualities produce a separate pain or pleasure,
and that the subjects, on which the qualities are placed, are related
to self; I proceed to examine the passions themselves, in order to find
something in them, correspondent to the supposed properties of their
causes. First, I find, that the peculiar object of pride and humility
is determined by an original and natural instinct, and that it is
absolutely impossible, from the primary constitution of the mind, that
these passions should ever look beyond self, or that individual person.
of whose actions and sentiments each of us is intimately conscious. Here
at last the view always rests, when we are actuated by either of these
passions; nor can we, in that situation of mind, ever lose sight of this
object. For this I pretend not to give any reason; but consider such a
peculiar direction of the thought as an original quality.
The SECOND quality, which I discover in these passions, and which I
likewise consider an an original quality, is their sensations, or the
peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute their
very being and essence. Thus pride is a pleasant sensation, and humility
a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, there is in
reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling convinces us;
and beyond our feeling, it is here in vain to reason or dispute.
If I compare, therefore, these two established properties of the
passions, viz, their object, which is self, and their sensation, which
is either pleasant or painful, to the two supposed properties of the
causes, viz, their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a
pain or pleasure, independent of the passion; I immediately find, that
taking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me
with an irresistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion, is
related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion;
the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to
the sensation of the passion: From this double relation of ideas and
impressions, the passion is derived. The one idea is easily converted
into its correlative; and the one impression into that, which resembles
and corresponds to it: With how much greater facility must this
transition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other,
and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its
impressions and ideas?
That we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose, that nature has
given to the organs of the human mind, a certain disposition fitted to
produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call pride: To this
emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz, that of self, which it
never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily conceived.
We have many instances of such a situation of affairs. The nerves of the
nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain circumstances to convey
such peculiar sensations to the mind: The sensations of lust and hunger
always produce in us the idea of those peculiar objects, which are
suitable to each appetite. These two circumstances are united in pride.
The organs are so disposed as to produce the passion; and the passion,
after its production, naturally produces a certain idea. All this needs
no proof. It is evident we never should be possest of that passion, were
there not a disposition of mind proper for it; and it is as evident,
that the passion always turns our view to ourselves, and makes us think
of our own qualities and circumstances.
This being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, WHETHER NATURE
PRODUCES THE PASSION IMMEDIATELY, OF HERSELF; OR WHETHER SHE MUST BE
ASSISTED BY THE CO-OPERATION OF OTHER CAUSES? For it is observable, that
in this particular her conduct is different in the different passions
and sensations. The palate must be excited by an external object, in
order to produce any relish: But hunger arises internally, without the
concurrence of any external object. But however the case may stand with
other passions and impressions, it is certain, that pride requires the
assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs, which produce
it, exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by an original
internal movement. For first, daily experience convinces us, that pride
requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes when unsupported by
some excellency in the character, in bodily accomplishments, in cloaths,
equipage or fortune. SECONDLY, it is evident pride would be perpetual,
if it arose immediately from nature; since the object is always the
same, and there is no disposition of body peculiar to pride, as there
is to thirst and hunger. Thirdly, Humility is in the very same situation
with pride; and therefore, either must, upon this supposition, be
perpetual likewise, or must destroy the contrary passion from, the very
first moment; so that none of them could ever make its appearance. Upon
the whole, we may rest satisfyed with the foregoing conclusion, that
pride must have a cause, as well as an object, and that the one has no
influence without the other.
The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what
it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs in
action, which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. Upon
my consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, I
immediately find a hundred different causes, that produce pride; and
upon examining these causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to be
probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances; which are, that
of themselves they produce an impression, allyed to the passion, and
are placed on a subject, allyed to the object of the passion. When I
consider after this the nature of relation, and its effects both on the
passions and ideas, I can no longer doubt, upon these suppositions, that
it is the very principle, which gives rise to pride, and bestows
motion on those organs, which being naturally disposed to produce that
affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action.
Any thing, that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self,
excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for
its object.
What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The sensation of
humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason the
separate sensation, arising from the causes, must be reversed, while
the relation to self continues the same. Though pride and humility are
directly contrary in their effects, and in their sensations, they have
notwithstanding the same object; so that it is requisite only to change
the relation of impressions, without making any change upon that
of ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful house, belonging to
ourselves, produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging to
ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is
changed into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which
corresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related to
humility. The double relation between the ideas and impressions subsists
in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one emotion to
the other.
In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain
impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance,
naturally introduces its correlative. If these two attractions or
associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they
mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and
of the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. When
an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is
connected with an idea, related to the first idea, these two impressions
must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be
unattended with the other. It is after this manner, that the particular
causes of pride and humility are determined. The quality, which operates
on the passion, produces separately an impression resembling it; the
subject, to which the quality adheres, is related to self, the object of
the passion: No wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of a
subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the pass on.
To illustrate this hypothesis we may compare it to that, by which I
have already explained the belief attending the judgments, which we form
from causation. I have observed, that in all judgments of this kind,
there is always a present impression and a related idea; and that
the present impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation
conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related idea.
Without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor the
spirits excited. Without the relation, this attention rests on its
first object, and has no farther consequence. There is evidently a great
analogy betwixt that hypothesis and our present one of an impression
and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression and idea by
means of their double relation: Which analogy must be allowed to be no
despicable proof of both hypotheses.
SECT. VI LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM
But before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly
all the causes of pride and humility, it will be proper to make some
limitations to the general system, THAT ALL AGREEABLE OBJECTS, RELATED
TO OURSELVES, BY AN ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS AND OF IMPRESSIONS, PRODUCE
PRIDE, AND DISAGREEABLE ONES, HUMILITY: And these limitations are
derived from the very nature of the subject.
I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the
first passion, that appears on this occasion, is joy; and this passion
discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory. We
may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are regard
with delicacies of every kind: But it is only the master of the feast,
who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of self-applause
and vanity. It is true, men sometimes boast of a great entertainment,
at which they have only been present; and by so small a relation convert
their pleasure into pride: But however, this must in general be owned,
that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation than vanity, and
that many things, which are too foreign to produce pride, are yet able
to give us a delight and pleasure, The reason of the difference may be
explained thus. A relation is requisite to joy, in order to approach
the object to us, and make it give us any satisfaction. But beside this,
which is common to both passions, it is requisite to pride, in order
to produce a transition from one passion to another, and convert the
falsification into vanity. As it has a double task to perform, it must
be endowed with double force and energy. To which we may add, that where
agreeable objects bear not a very close relation to ourselves, they
commonly do to some other person; and this latter relation not only
excels, but even diminishes, and sometimes destroys the former, as we
shall see afterwards.[3]
[3] Part II. Sec. 4.
Here then is the first limitation, we must make to our general position,
that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain,
produces likewise pride or humility. There is not only a relation
required, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy.
II. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable object
be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or at least
common to us with a few persons. It is a quality observable in human
nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards, that
every thing, which is often presented and to which we have been
long accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little
time despised and neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from
comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we cannot
by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook even what
is essentially good in them. These qualities of the mind have an effect
upon joy as well as pride; and it is remarkable, that goods which are
common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by custom, give us
little satisfaction; though perhaps of a more excellent kind, than those
on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher value. But though
this circumstance operates on both these passions, it has a much greater
influence on vanity. We are rejoiced for many goods, which, on account
of their frequency, give us no pride. Health, when it returns after a
long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; but is seldom
regarded as a subject of vanity, because it is shared with such vast
numbers.
The reason, why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than
joy, I take to be, as follows. In order to excite pride, there are
always two objects we must contemplate, viz. the cause or that object
which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of the
passion. But joy has only one object necessary to its production, viz.
that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite, that this bear
some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to render it
agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of this passion.
Since, therefore, pride has in a manner two objects, to which it directs
our view; it follows, that where neither of them have any singularity,
the passion must be more weakened upon that account, than a passion,
which has only one object. Upon comparing ourselves with others, as
we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in the least
distinguished; and upon comparing the object we possess, we
discover still the same unlucky circumstance. By two comparisons so
disadvantageous the passion must be entirely destroyed.
III The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be very
discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves, but to others
also. This circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect upon
joy, as well as pride. We fancy Ourselves more happy, as well as more
virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still more
ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds from
causes, which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards.
IV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause
of these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with
ourselves. What is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less
pride. We are not much satisfyed with the thing itself; and are still
less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account.
We foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination; which makes
us little satisfyed with the thing: We compare it to ourselves, whose
existence is more durable; by which means its inconstancy appears still
greater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from an
object, which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during so
small a part of our existence. It will be easy to comprehend the reason,
why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in pride;
since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion as to
the latter.
V. I may add as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this
system, that general rules have a great influence upon pride and
humility, as well as on all the other passions. Hence we form a notion
of different ranks of men, suitable to the power of riches they
are possest of; and this notion we change not upon account of any
peculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive
them of all enjoyment in their possessions. This may be accounted for
from the same principles, that explained the influence of general rules
on the understanding. Custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds
in our passions, as well as in our reasonings.
It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence
of general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to
facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain
in the progress of this treatise. For it is evident, that if a
person full-grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a
sudden-transported into our world, he would be very much embarrased with
every object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred,
pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it. The
passions are often varyed by very inconsiderable principles; and these
do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the first
trial. But as custom and practice have brought to light all these
principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this must
certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and guide
us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions we
ought to observe in preferring one object to another. This remark may,
perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties, that mayarise concerning some
causes, which I shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions,
and which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and
certainly, as they are found to do.
I shall close this subject with a reflection derived from these five
limitations. This reflection is, that the persons, who are proudest, and
who in the eye of the world have most reason for their pride, are not
always the happiest; nor the most humble always the most miserable, as
may at first sight be imagined from this system. An evil may be real.
though its cause has no relation to us: It may be real, without being
peculiar: It may be real, without shewing itself to others: It may be
real, without being constant: And it may be real, without falling
under the general rules. Such evils as these will not fail to render
us miserable, though they have little tendency to diminish pride: And
perhaps the most real and the most solid evils of life will be found of
this nature.