Secondly, There is a false sensation or experience even of the

liberty of indifference; which is regarded as an argument for its real

existence. The necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the

mind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or

intelligent being, who may consider the action, and consists in the

determination of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding

objects: As liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the

want of that determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel in

passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other. Now we

may observe, that though in reflecting on human actions we seldom feel

such a looseness or indifference, yet it very commonly happens, that in

performing the actions themselves we are sensible of something like

it: And as all related or resembling objects are readily taken for each

other, this has been employed as a demonstrative or even an intuitive

proof of human liberty. We feel that our actions are subject to our will

on most occasions, and imagine we feel that the will itself is subject

to nothing; because when by a denial of it we are provoked to try, we

feel that it moves easily every way, and produces an image of itself

even on that side, on which it did not settle. This image or faint

motion, we persuade ourselves, could have been compleated into the thing

itself; because, should that be denyed, we find, upon a second trial,

that it can. But these efforts are all in vain; and whatever capricious

and irregular actions we may perform; as the desire of showing our

liberty is the sole motive of our actions; we can never free ourselves

from the bonds of necessity. We may imagine we feel a liberty within

ourselves; but a spectator can commonly infer our actions from our

motives and character; and even where he cannot, he concludes in

general, that he might, were he perfectly acquainted with every

circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most secret springs

of our complexion and disposition. Now this is the very essence of

necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine.

A third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better

received in the world, than its antagonist, proceeds from religion,

which has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. There is

no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable, than in

philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis by a pretext

of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality. When any opinion

leads us into absurdities, it is certainly false; but it is not certain

an opinion is false, because it is of dangerous consequence. Such

topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn, as serving nothing

to the discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an antagonist

odious. This I observe in general, without pretending to draw any

advantage from it. I submit myself frankly to an examination of this

kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine of necessity,

according to my explication of it, is not only innocent, but even

advantageous to religion and morality.

I define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of

cause, of which it makes an essential part. I place it either in the

constant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference of

the mind from the one to the other. Now necessity, in both these senses,

has universally, though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in

common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man, and no one has

ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning human

actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced union

of like actions with like motives and circumstances. The only particular

in which any one can differ from me, is either, that perhaps he will

refuse to call this necessity. But as long as the meaning is understood,

I hope the word can do no harm. Or that he will maintain there is

something else in the operations of matter. Now whether it be so or

not is of no consequence to religion, whatever it may be to natural

philosophy. I may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no idea of any

other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad to be farther

instructed on that head: But sure I am, I ascribe nothing to the actions

of the mind, but what must readily be allowed of. Let no one, therefore,

put an invidious construction on my words, by saying simply, that

I assert the necessity of human actions, and place them on the same

footing with the operations of senseless matter. I do not ascribe to the

will that unintelligible necessity, which is supposed to lie in matter.

But I ascribe to matter, that intelligible quality, call it necessity or

not, which the most rigorous orthodoxy does or must allow to belong to

the will. I change, therefore, nothing in the received systems, with

regard to the will, but only with regard to material objects.

Nay I shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so

essential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue

an absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is

entirely destructive to all laws both divine and human. It is indeed

certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and punishments,

it is supposed as a fundamental principle, that these motives have an

influence on the mind, and both produce the good and prevent the evil

actions. We may give to this influence what name we please; but as it

is usually conjoined with the action, common sense requires it should be

esteemed a cause, and be booked upon as an instance of that necessity,

which I would establish.

This reasoning is equally solid, when applied to divine laws, so far

as the deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed to inflict

punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce obedience. But I

also maintain, that even where he acts not in his magisterial capacity,

but is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on account of their

odiousness and deformity, not only it is impossible, without the

necessary connexion of cause and effect in human actions, that

punishments could be inflicted compatible with justice and moral equity;

but also that it could ever enter into the thoughts of any reasonable

being to inflict them. The constant and universal object of hatred or

anger is a person or creature endowed with thought and consciousness;

and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that passion, it

is only by their relation to the person or connexion with him. But

according to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion is

reduced to nothing, nor are men more accountable for those actions,

which are designed and premeditated, than for such as are the most

casual and accidental. Actions are by their very nature temporary and

perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the characters

and disposition of the person, who performed them, they infix not

themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good, nor

infamy, if evil. The action itself may be blameable; it may be contrary

to all the rules of morality and religion: But the person is not

responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him, that is

durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, it is

impossible he can, upon its account, become the object of punishment or

vengeance. According to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is

as pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes, as

at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way concerned

in his actions; since they are not derived from it, and the wickedness

of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of the other.

It is only upon the principles of necessity, that a person acquires

any merit or demerit from his actions, however the common opinion may

incline to the contrary.

But so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often

assert, that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either

towards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to

reason upon these very principles of necessity in all their judgments

concerning this matter. Men are not blamed for such evil actions as they

perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their consequences.

Why? but because the causes of these actions are only momentary, and

terminate in them alone. Men are less blamed for such evil actions, as

they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than for such as proceed from

thought and deliberation. For what reason? but because a hasty temper,

though a constant cause in the mind, operates only by intervals, and

infects not the whole character. Again, repentance wipes off every

crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of life and

manners. How is this to be accounted for? But by asserting that actions

render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal

passions or principles in the mind; and when by any alteration of these

principles they cease to be just proofs, they likewise cease to be

criminal. But according to the doctrine of liberty or chance they never

were just proofs, and consequently never were criminal.

Here then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system

from these odious consequences before he charge them upon others. Or if

he rather chuses, that this question should be decided by fair arguments

before philosophers, than by declamations before the people, let him

return to what I have advanced to prove that liberty and chance

are synonimous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the

regularity of human actions. Upon a review of these reasonings, I

cannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore having proved, that all

actions of the will have particular causes, I proceed to explain what

these causes are, and how they operate.

SECT. III OF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL

Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to

talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to

reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform

themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, it is said, is

obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or

principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose it,

till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity with

that superior principle. On this method of thinking the greatest part of

moral philosophy, antient and modern, seems to be founded; nor is

there an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as popular

declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above passion.

The eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former have

been displayed to the best advantage: The blindness, unconstancy, and

deceitfulness of the latter have been as strongly insisted on. In order

to shew the fallacy of all this philosophy, I shall endeavour to prove

first, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action of the

will; and secondly, that it can never oppose passion in the direction of

the will.

The understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as it judges

from demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations

of our ideas, or those relations of objects, of which experience only

gives us information. I believe it scarce will be asserted, that the

first species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. As its

proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always places

us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem, upon that

account, to be totally removed, from each other. Mathematics, indeed,

are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in almost every

art and profession: But it is not of themselves they have any influence:

Mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of bodies to some

designed end or purpose; and the reason why we employ arithmetic in

fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may discover the

proportions of their influence and operation. A merchant is desirous of

knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person: Why? but that he

may learn what sum will have the same effects in paying his debt, and

going to market, as all the particular articles taken together. Abstract

or demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never influences any of our

actions, but only as it directs our judgment concerning causes and

effects; which leads us to the second operation of the understanding.

It is obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from

any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity,

and are carryed to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasines or

satisfaction. It is also obvious, that this emotion rests not here, but

making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever objects are

connected with its original one by the relation of cause and effect.

Here then reasoning takes place to discover this relation; and according

as our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent variation. But

it is evident in this case that the impulse arises not from reason, but

is only directed by it. It is from the prospect of pain or pleasure that

the aversion or propensity arises towards any object: And these emotions

extend themselves to the causes and effects of that object, as they are

pointed out to us by reason and experience. It can never in the least

concern us to know, that such objects are causes, and such others

effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent to us. Where the

objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion can never give

them any influence; and it is plain, that as reason is nothing but the

discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means that the objects

are able to affect us.

Since reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to

volition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing

volition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion.

This consequence is necessary. It is impossible reason could have the

latter effect of preventing volition, but by giving an impulse in a

contrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated

alone, would have been able to produce volition. Nothing can oppose

or retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this

contrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must have

an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as well as

hinder any act of volition. But if reason has no original influence,

it is impossible it can withstand any principle, which has such an

efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. Thus it appears,

that the principle, which opposes our passion, cannot be the same

with reason, and is only called so in an improper sense. We speak not

strictly and philosophically when we talk of the combat of passion and

of reason. Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions,

and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey

them. As this opinion may appear somewhat extraordinary, it may not be

improper to confirm it by some other considerations.

A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of

existence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders

it a copy of any other existence or modification. When I am angry, I am

actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more a

reference to any other object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or more

than five foot high. It is impossible, therefore, that this passion

can be opposed by, or be contradictory to truth and reason; since this

contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as

copies, with those objects, which they represent.

What may at first occur on this head, is, that as nothing can be

contrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as

the judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must

follow, that passions can be contrary to reason only so far as they are

accompanyed with some judgment or opinion. According to this principle,

which is so obvious and natural, it is only in two senses, that any

affection can be called unreasonable. First, When a passion, such as

hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded on the

supposition or the existence of objects, which really do not exist.

Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we chuse means

insufficient for the designed end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment

of causes and effects. Where a passion is neither founded on

false suppositions, nor chuses means insufficient for the end, the

understanding can neither justify nor condemn it. It is not contrary to

reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of

my finger. It is not contrary to reason for me to chuse my total ruin,

to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian or person wholly unknown

to me. It is as little contrary to reason to prefer even my own

acknowledgeed lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent

affection for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from

certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from

the greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more

extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight raise

up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. In short, a passion

must be accompanyed with some false judgment in order to its being

unreasonable; and even then it is not the passion, properly speaking,

which is unreasonable, but the judgment.

The consequences are evident. Since a passion can never, in any sense,

be called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition or when

it chuses means insufficient for the designed end, it is impossible,

that reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or dispute for the

government of the will and actions. The moment we perceive the falshood

of any supposition, or the insufficiency of any means our passions yield

to our reason without any opposition. I may desire any fruit as of an

excellent relish; but whenever you convince me of my mistake, my longing

ceases. I may will the performance of certain actions as means of

obtaining any desired good; but as my willing of these actions is only

secondary, and founded on the supposition, that they are causes of the

proposed effect; as soon as I discover the falshood of that supposition,

they must become indifferent to me.

It is natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict

philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are

entirely the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are not

immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. Reason, for

instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion; and

except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the

frivolous subtilties of the school, scarce ever conveys any pleasure

or uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind, which

operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded with

reason by all those, who judge of things from the first view and

appearance. Now it is certain, there are certain calm desires and

tendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion

in the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate

feeling or sensation. These desires are of two kinds; either certain

instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and

resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general

appetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. When

any of these passions are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul,

they are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are

supposed to proceed from the same faculty, with that, which judges of

truth and falshood. Their nature and principles have been supposed the

same, because their sensations are not evidently different.

Beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are

certain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great

influence on that faculty. When I receive any injury from another, I

often feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his

evil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and

advantage to myself. When I am immediately threatened with any grievous

ill, my fears, apprehensions, and aversions rise to a great height, and

produce a sensible emotion.

The common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction

of the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the other

to have no influence. Men often act knowingly against their interest:

For which reason the view of the greatest possible good does not always

influence them. Men often counter-act a violent passion in prosecution

of their interests and designs: It is not therefore the present

uneasiness alone, which determines them. In general we may observe, that

both these principles operate on the will; and where they are contrary,

that either of them prevails, according to the general character or

present disposition of the person. What we call strength of mind,

implies the prevalence of the calm passions above the violent; though

we may easily observe, there is no man so constantly possessed of this

virtue, as never on any occasion to yield to the sollicitations of

passion and desire. From these variations of temper proceeds the great

difficulty of deciding concerning the actions and resolutions of men,

where there is any contrariety of motives and passions.

SECT. IV OF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS

There is not in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than this

of the different causes and effects of the calm and violent passions.

It is evident passions influence not the will in proportion to their

violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper; but on the

contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled principle of

action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul, it commonly

produces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated custom and its

own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs the actions and

conduct without that opposition and emotion, which so naturally attend

every momentary gust of passion. We must, therefore, distinguish betwixt

a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and a strong one. But

notwithstanding this, it is certain, that when we would govern a man,

and push him to any action, it will commonly be better policy to work

upon the violent than the calm passions, and rather take him by his

inclination, than what is vulgarly called his reason. We ought to place

the object in such particular situations as are proper to encrease the

violence of the passion. For we may observe, that all depends upon the

situation of the object, and that a variation in this particular will be

able to change the calm and the violent passions into each other. Both

these kinds of passions pursue good, and avoid evil; and both of them

are encreased or diminished by the encrease or diminution of the good or

evil. But herein lies the difference betwixt them: The same good, when

near, will cause a violent passion, which, when remote, produces only a

calm one. As this subject belongs very properly to the present question

concerning the will, we shall here examine it to the bottom, and shall

consider some of those circumstances and situations of objects, which

render a passion either calm or violent.

It is a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion, which

attends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their natures

they be originally different from, and even contrary to each other.

It is true; in order to make a perfect union among passions, there is

always required a double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one

relation sufficient for that purpose. But though this be confirmed by

undoubted experience, we must understand it with its proper limitations,

and must regard the double relation, as requisite only to make one

passion produce another. When two passions are already produced by their

separate causes, and are both present in the mind, they readily mingle

and unite, though they have but one relation, and sometimes without any.

The predominant passion swallows up the inferior, and converts it into

itself. The spirits, when once excited, easily receive a change in their

direction; and it is natural to imagine this change will come from the

prevailing affection. The connexion is in many respects closer betwixt

any two passions, than betwixt any passion and indifference.

When a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprices

of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels, to which that commerce is

so subject; however unpleasant and related to anger and hatred; are yet

found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. It is a common

artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very much by

a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to excite

his curiosity; delay as long as possible the satisfying it; and by that

means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before they give

him a full insight into the business. They know that his curiosity will

precipitate him into the passion they design to raise, and assist the

object in its influence on the mind. A soldier advancing to the battle,

is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his

friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with fear and terror, when

he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion, therefore, proceeds

from the former naturally encreases the courage; as the same emotion,

proceeding from the latter, augments the fear; by the relation of ideas,

and the conversion of the inferior emotion into the predominant. Hence

it is that in martial discipline, the uniformity and lustre of our

habit, the regularity of our figures and motions, with all the pomp and

majesty of war, encourage ourselves and allies; while the same objects

in the enemy strike terror into us, though agreeable and beautiful in

themselves.

Since passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each

other, if they are both present at the same time; it follows, that when

good or evil is placed in such a situation, as to cause any particular

emotion, beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter

passion must acquire new force and violence.

This happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary

passions. For it is observable that an opposition of passions commonly

causes a new emotion in the spirits, and produces more disorder, than

the concurrence of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion

is easily converted into the predominant passion, and encreases its

violence, beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with

no opposition. Hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a

pleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful.

The notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able

to overcome them; and when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to

encrease them, by producing an opposition in our motives and principles.

The same effect follows whether the opposition arises from internal

motives or external obstacles. The passion commonly acquires new force

and violence in both cases.

The efforts, which the mind makes to surmount the obstacle, excite the

spirits and inliven the passion.

Uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The agitation of the

thought; the quick turns it makes from one view to another; the variety

of passions, which succeed each other, according to the different views;

All these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves

into the predominant passion.

There is not in my opinion any other natural cause, why security

diminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty, which

encreases them. The mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes;

and in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by

a new flow of passion. For the same reason, despair, though contrary to

security, has a like influence.

It is certain nothing more powerfully animates any affection, than to

conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade,

which at the same time that it chews enough to pre-possess us in favour

of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. Besides that

obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort,

which the fancy makes to compleat the idea, rouzes the spirits, and

gives an additional force to the passion.

As despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the

same effects; so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and in

different circumstances either encreases or diminishes our affections.

The Duc de La Rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence

destroys weak passions, but encreases strong; as the wind extinguishes

a candle, but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally weakens our idea,

and diminishes the passion: But where the idea is so strong and lively

as to support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, encreases

the passion and gives it new force and violence.

SECT. V OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM

But nothing has a greater effect both to encrease and diminish our

passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than

custom and repetition. Custom has two original effects upon the mind, in

bestowing a facility in the performance of any action or the conception

of any object; and afterwards a tendency or inclination towards it;

and from these we may account for all its other effects, however

extraordinary.

When the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the

conception of any object, to which it is not accustomed, there is a

certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirit's

moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the spirits,

it is the source of wonder, surprize, and of all the emotions, which

arise from novelty; and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing,

which inlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But though surprize be

agreeable in itself, yet as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not

only augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according

to the foregoing principle, that every emotion, which precedes or

attends a passion, is easily converted into it. Hence every thing, that

is new, is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or pain,

than what, strictly speaking, naturally belongs to it. When it often

returns upon us, the novelty wears off; the passions subside; the

hurry of the spirits is over; and we survey the objects with greater

tranquillity.

By degrees the repetition produces a facility of the human mind, and

an infallible source of pleasure, where the facility goes not beyond

a certain degree. And here it is remarkable that the pleasure, which

arises from a moderate facility, has not the same tendency with that

which arises from novelty, to augment the painful, as well as the

agreeable affections. The pleasure of facility does not so much consist

in any ferment of the spirits, as in their orderly motion; which will

sometimes be so powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give

us a relish in time what at first was most harsh and disagreeable.

But again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it often converts

pleasure into pain, when it is too great, and renders the actions of the

mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able to interest and

support it. And indeed, scarce any other objects become disagreeable

through custom; but such as are naturally attended with some emotion or

affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent repetition. One

can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, and stones, however

frequently repeated, without ever feeling any aversion. But when the

fair sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing, that naturally ought

to be agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily produces the opposite

affection.

But custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but likewise

an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not entirely

disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination. And this

is the reason why custom encreases all active habits, but diminishes

passive, according to the observation of a late eminent philosopher. The

facility takes off from the force of the passive habits by rendering

the motion of the spirits faint and languid. But as in the active, the

spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves, the tendency of the

mind gives them new force, and bends them more strongly to the action.

SECT. VI OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS

It is remarkable, that the imagination and affections have close union

together, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely

indifferent to the latter. Wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire a

new vivacity, the passions become more violent; and keep pace with

the imagination in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from

the principle above-mentioned, that any attendant emotion is easily

converted into the predominant, I shall not determine. It is sufficient

for my present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this

influence of the imagination upon the passions.

Any pleasure, with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any

other, which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly

ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea:

The other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and it is

certain, that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the

less influence they have upon the imagination. A general idea, though

it be nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is

commonly more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we

represent a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily

be changed for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the

representation.

There is a noted passage in the history of Greece, which may serve for

our present purpose. Themistocles told the Athenians, that he had formed

a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which it was

impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the execution,

since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with which it should

be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting him full power to

act as he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his design to

Aristides, in whose prudence they had an entire confidence, and

whose opinion they were resolved blindly to submit to. The design of

Themistocles was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the Grecian

commonwealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port, and which

being once destroyed would give the Athenians the empire of the sea

without any rival Aristides returned to the assembly, and told them,

that nothing could be more advantageous than the design of Themistocles

but at the same time that nothing could be more unjust: Upon which the

people unanimously rejected the project.

A late celebrated historian[1] admires this passage of antient history,

as one of the most singular that is any where to be met.

[1] Mons. Rollin {Charles Rollin, HISTOIRE ANCIENNE.(Paris 1730-38)}.

"Here," says he, "they are not philosophers, to whom it is easy in

their schools to establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of

morality, who decide that interest ought never to prevail above justice.

It is a whole people interested in the proposal which is made to

them, who consider it as of importance to the public good, and who

notwithstanding reject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely

because it is contrary to justice."

For my part I see nothing so extraordinary in this proceeding of the

Athenians. The same reasons, which render it so easy for philosophers to

establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part, to diminish the merit

of such a conduct in that people. Philosophers never ballance betwixt

profit and honesty, because their decisions are general, and neither

their passions nor imaginations are interested in the objects. And

though in the present case the advantage was immediate to the Athenians,

yet as it was known only under the general notion of advantage,

without being conceived by any particular idea, it must have had a

less considerable influence on their imaginations, and have been a

less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted with all

its circumstances: Otherwise it is difficult to conceive, that a whole

people, unjust and violent as men commonly are, should so unanimously

have adhered to justice, and rejected any considerable advantage.

Any satisfaction, which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is

fresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence, than another

of which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. From whence

does this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the

fancy and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions?

The image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these

qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with it

by the relation of resemblance.

A pleasure, which is suitable to the way of life, in which we are

engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another, which

is foreign to it. This phænomenon may be explained from the same

principle.

Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than

eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most

lively colours. We may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object

is valuable, and such another odious; but until an orator excites the

imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble

influence either on the will or the affections.

But eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion of another,

especially when inforced with passion, will cause an idea of good or

evil to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been

entirely neglected. This proceeds from the principle of sympathy or

communication; and sympathy, as I have already observed, is nothing

but the conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of

imagination.

It is remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively

imagination. In this respect, as well as others, the force of the

passion depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or

situation of the object.

I have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea

related to a present impression. This vivacity is a requisite

circumstance to the exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the

violent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any considerable

influence upon either of them. It is too weak to take hold of the mind,

or be attended with emotion.

SECT. VII OF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME

There is an easy reason, why every thing contiguous to us, either in

space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity,

and excel every other object, in its influence on the imagination.

Ourself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self

must partake of that quality. But where an object is so far removed

as to have lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther

removed, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, would,

perhaps, require a more particular examination.

It is obvious, that the imagination can never totally forget the points

of space and time, in which we are existent; but receives such frequent

advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that however it

may turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it is necessitated

every moment to reflect on the present. It is also remarkable, that in

the conception of those objects, which we regard as real and existent,

we take them in their proper order and situation, and never leap from

one object to another, which is distant from it, without running over,

at least in a cursory manner, all those objects, which are interposed

betwixt them. When we reflect, therefore, on any object distant from

ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach it at first by passing

through all the intermediate space betwixt ourselves and the object, but

also to renew our progress every moment; being every moment recalled to

the consideration of ourselves and our present situation. It is easily

conceived, that this interruption must weaken the idea by breaking the

action of the mind, and hindering the conception from being so intense

and continued, as when we reflect on a nearer object. The fewer steps

we make to arrive at the object, and the smoother the road is, this

diminution of vivacity is less sensibly felt, but still may be observed

more or less in proportion to the degrees of distance and difficulty.

Here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and

remote; of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves,

approach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter by reason of

the interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker

and more imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagination. If

my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on the will

and passions. Contiguous objects must have an influence much superior to

the distant and remote. Accordingly we find in common life, that men are

principally concerned about those objects, which are not much removed

either in space or time, enjoying the present, and leaving what is afar

off to the care of chance and fortune. Talk to a man of his condition

thirty years hence, and he will not regard you. Speak of what is to

happen tomorrow, and he will lend you attention. The breaking of a

mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the burning of a house,

when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant.

But farther; though distance both in space and time has a considerable

effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will and passions,

yet the consequence of a removal in space are much inferior to those of

a removal in time. Twenty years are certainly but a small distance

of time in comparison of what history and even the memory of some may

inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thousand leagues, or even the

greatest distance of place this globe can admit of, will so remarkably

weaken our ideas, and diminish our passions. A West-Indian merchant will

tell you, that he is not without concern about what passes in Jamaica;

though few extend their views so far into futurity, as to dread very

remote accidents.

The cause of this phænomenon must evidently lie in the different

properties of space and time. Without having recourse to metaphysics,

any one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a number

of co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of being

at once present to the sight or feeling. On the contrary, time or

succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents to us

more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them ever to

be co-existent. These qualities of the objects have a suitable effect on

the imagination. The parts of extension being susceptible of an union to

the senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as the appearance of

one part excludes not another, the transition or passage of the thought

through the contiguous parts is by that means rendered more smooth and

easy. On the other hand, the incompatibility of the parts of time in

their real existence separates them in the imagination, and makes it

more difficult for that faculty to trace any long succession or series

of events. Every part must appear single and alone, nor can regularly

have entrance into the fancy without banishing what is supposed to have

been immediately precedent. By this means any distance in time causes a

greater interruption in the thought than an equal distance in space, and

consequently weakens more considerably the idea, and consequently the

passions; which depend in a great measure, on the imagination, according

to my system.

There is another phænomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz,

the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in the

past. This difference with respect to the will is easily accounted for.

As none of our actions can alter the past, it is not strange it should

never determine the will. But with respect to the passions the question

is yet entire, and well worth the examining.

Besides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of

space and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking,

which concurs in producing this phænomenon. We always follow the

succession of time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of

any object pass more easily to that, which follows immediately after

it, than to that which went before it. We may learn this, among other

instances, from the order, which is always observed in historical

narrations. Nothing but an absolute necessity can oblige an historian to

break the order of time, and in his narration give the precedence to an

event, which was in reality posterior to another.

This will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect on

what I have before observed, that the present situation of the person is

always that of the imagination, and that it is from thence we proceed

to the conception of any distant object. When the object is past, the

progression of the thought in passing to it from the present is contrary

to nature, as proceeding from one point of time to that which is

preceding, and from that to another preceding, in opposition to the

natural course of the succession. On the other hand, when we turn our

thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the stream of time,

and arrives at the object by an order, which seems most natural, passing

always from one point of time to that which is immediately posterior to

it. This easy progression of ideas favours the imagination, and makes

it conceive its object in a stronger and fuller light, than when we

are continually opposed in our passage, and are obliged to overcome the

difficulties arising from the natural propensity of the fancy. A small

degree of distance in the past has, therefore, a greater effect, in

interupting and weakening the conception, than a much greater in

the future. From this effect of it on the imagination is derived its

influence on the will and passions.

There is another cause, which both contributes to the same effect, and

proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined

to trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas. When

from the present instant we consider two points of time equally distant

in the future and in the past, it is evident, that, abstractedly

considered, their relation to the present is almost equal. For as the

future will sometime be present, so the past was once present. If we

could, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an equal

distance in the past and in the future, would have a similar influence.

Nor is this only true, when the fancy remains fixed, and from the

present instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it

changes its situation, and places us in different periods of time. For

as on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of time

interposed betwixt the present instant and the future object, we find

the future object approach to us, and the past retire, and become more

distant: so on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a

point of time interposed betwixt the present and the past, the past

approaches to us, and the future becomes more distant. But from the

property of the fancy above-mentioned we rather chuse to fix our thought

on the point of time interposed betwixt the present and the future, than

on that betwixt the present and the past. We advance, rather than retard

our existence; and following what seems the natural succession of time,

proceed from past to present, and from present to future. By which means

we conceive the future as flowing every moment nearer us, and the

past as retiring. An equal distance, therefore, in the past and in the

future, has not the same effect on the imagination; and that because we

consider the one as continually encreasing, and the other as continually

diminishing. The fancy anticipates the course of things, and surveys the

object in that condition, to which it tends, as well as in that, which

is regarded as the present.

SECT. VIII THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUed

Thus we have accounted for three phaenomena, which seem pretty

remarkable. Why distance weakens the conception and passion: Why

distance in time has a greater effect than that in space: And why

distance in past time has still a greater effect than that in future. We

must now consider three phaenomena, which seem to be, in a manner, the

reverse of these: Why a very great distance encreases our esteem and

admiration for an object; Why such a distance in time encreases it

more than that in space: And a distance in past time more than that in

future. The curiousness of the subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling

on it for some time.

To begin with the first phænomenon, why a great distance encreases our

esteem and admiration for an object; it is evident that the mere view

and contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended,

enlarges the soul, and give it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide

plain, the ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these are

entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful, which

accompanies not its beauty with a suitable greatness. Now when any very

distant object is presented to the imagination, we naturally reflect on

the interposed distance, and by that means, conceiving something great

and magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction. But as the fancy passes

easily from one idea to another related to it, and transports to the

second all the passions excited by the first, the admiration, which is

directed to the distance, naturally diffuses itself over the distant

object. Accordingly we find, that it is not necessary the object should

be actually distant from us, in order to cause our admiration; but that

it is sufficient, if, by the natural association of ideas, it conveys

our view to any considerable distance. A great traveller, though in

the same chamber, will pass for a very extraordinary person; as a Greek

medal, even in our cabinet, is always esteemed a valuable curiosity.

Here the object, by a natural transition, conveys our views to the

distance; and the admiration, which arises from that distance, by

another natural transition, returns back to the object.

But though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant

object, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that in

space. Antient busts and inscriptions are more valued than Japan tables:

And not to mention the Greeks and Romans, it is certain we regard with

more veneration the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the modern Chinese

and Persians, and bestow more fruitless pains to dear up the history and

chronology of the former, than it would cost us to make a voyage, and

be certainly informed of the character, learning and government of the

latter. I shall be obliged to make a digression in order to explain this

phænomenon.

It is a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition,

which does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a

contrary effect, and inspires us with a more than ordinary grandeur

and magnanimity. In collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we

invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it

would never have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our strength

useless, makes us insensible of it: but opposition awakens and employs

it.

This is also true in the universe. Opposition not only enlarges the

soul; but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner

seeks opposition.

Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis

Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.

[And, among the tamer beasts, [he] longs to be granted, in answer to his prayers,

a slavering boar, or to have a tawny lion come down from the mountain.]

Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as on the

contrary, what weakens and infeebles them is uneasy. As opposition

has the first effect, and facility the second, no wonder the mind, in

certain dispositions, desires the former, and is averse to the latter.

These principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the

passions. To be convinced of this we need only consider the influence

of heights and depths on that faculty. Any great elevation of place

communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and gives

a fancyed superiority over those that lie below; and, vice versa, a

sublime and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and elevation.

Hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea of whatever

is good with that of height, and evil with lowness. Heaven is supposed

to be above, and hell below. A noble genius is called an elevate and

sublime one. ATQUE UDAM SPERNIT HUMUM FUGIENTE PENNA. [Spurns the dank

soil in winged flight.] On the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception

is stiled indifferently low or mean. Prosperity is denominated ascent,

and adversity descent. Kings and princes are supposed to be placed at

the top of human affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be

in the lowest stations. These methods of thinking, and of expressing

ourselves, are not of so little consequence as they may appear at first

sight.

It is evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no

natural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this

distinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces a

motion from the one to the other. The very same direction, which in

this part of the globe is called ascent, is denominated descent in our

antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency

of bodies. Now it is certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually

operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency in

the fancy, and that when we consider any object situated in an ascent,

the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it from the

place, in which it is situated, to the place immediately below it, and

so on, until we come to the ground, which equally stops the body and

our imagination. For a like reason we feel a difficulty in mounting, and

pass not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior to that which is

situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of gravity from their

objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that the facility, which

is so much studyed in music and poetry, is called the fail or cadency of

the harmony or period; the idea of facility communicating to us that of

descent, in the same manner as descent produces a facility?

Since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds an

opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since the soul,

when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner seeks opposition, and

throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought or action, where

its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ it; it follows, that

everything, which invigorates and inlivens the soul, whether by touching

the passions or imagination naturally conveys to the fancy this

inclination for ascent, and determines it to run against the natural

stream of its thoughts and conceptions. This aspiring progress of

the imagination suits the present disposition of the mind; and the

difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and alacrity, has the

contrary affect, of sustaining and encreasing it. Virtue, genius, power,

and riches are for this reason associated with height and sublimity; as

poverty, slavery, and folly are conjoined with descent and lowness. Were

the case the same with us as Milton represents it to be with the angels,

to whom descent is adverse, and who cannot sink without labour and

compulsion, this order of things would be entirely inverted; as appears

hence, that the very nature of ascent and descent is derived from the

difficulty and propensity, and consequently every one of their effects

proceeds from that origin.

All this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable

distance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant objects

than a like removal in space. The imagination moves with more difficulty

in passing from one portion of time to another, than in a transition

through the parts of space; and that because space or extension appears

united to our senses, while time or succession is always broken and

divided. This difficulty, when joined with a small distance, interrupts

and weakens the fancy: But has a contrary effect in a great removal. The

mind, elevated by the vastness of its object, is still farther elevated

by the difficulty of the conception; and being obliged every moment to

renew its efforts in the transition from one part of time to another,

feels a more vigorous and sublime disposition, than in a transition

through the parts of space, where the ideas flow along with easiness and

facility. In this disposition, the imagination, passing, as is usual,

from the consideration of the distance to the view of the distant

objects, gives us a proportionable veneration for it; and this is the

reason why all the relicts of antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and

appear more valuable than what is brought even from the remotest parts

of the world.

The third phænomenon I have remarked will be a full confirmation of

this. It is not every removal in time, which has the effect of producing

veneration and esteem. We are not apt to imagine our posterity

will excel us, or equal our ancestors. This phænomenon is the more

remarkable, because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so

much as an equal removal in the past. Though a removal in the past, when

very great, encreases our passions beyond a like removal in the future,

yet a small removal has a greater influence in diminishing them.

In our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station

betwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of

difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following the

course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, and

the facility of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to be, in

a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us. Our fancy

arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches the other:

Which effort weakens the conception, where the distance is small; but

enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a suitable

object. As on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy in a

small removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates any

considerable distance.

It may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to

resume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order

to set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. What

we commonly understand by passion is a violent and sensible emotion of

mind, when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the

original formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite.

By reason we mean affections of the very same kind with the former; but

such as operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper: Which

tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes us to

regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties. Both

the causes and effects of these violent and calm passions are pretty

variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper

and disposition of every individual. Generally speaking, the violent

passions have a more powerful influence on the will; though it is often

found, that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and

seconded by resolution, are able to controul them in their most furious

movements. What makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm

passion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change of

temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the object, as by the

borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by exciting

the imagination. Upon the whole, this struggle of passion and of reason,

as it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men so different

not only from each other, but also from themselves in different times.

Philosophy can only account for a few of the greater and more sensible

events of this war; but must leave all the smaller and more delicate

revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and minute for her

comprehension.

SECT. IX OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS

It is easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect, are

founded on pain and pleasure, and that in order to produce an affection

of any kind, it is only requisite to present some good or evil. Upon the

removal of pain and pleasure there immediately follows a removal of love

and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion, and of most of our

reflective or secondary impressions.

The impressions, which arise from good and evil most naturally, and with

the least preparation are the direct passions of desire and aversion,

grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. The mind by an

original instinct tends to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the

evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be considered as to

exist in any future period of time.

But supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or pleasure,

and that arising from an object related to ourselves or others, this

does not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the consequent

emotions, but by concurring with certain dormant principles of the human

mind, excites the new impressions of pride or humility, love or hatred.

That propensity, which unites us to the object, or separates us from

it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction with the indirect

passions, which arise from a double relation of impressions and ideas.

These indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in their

turn additional force to the direct passions, and encrease our desire

and aversion to the object. Thus a suit of fine cloaths produces

pleasure from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the direct

passions, or the impressions of volition and desire. Again, when these

cloaths are considered as belonging to ourself, the double relation

conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect passion; and

the pleasure, which attends that passion, returns back to the direct

affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition, joy or hope.

When good is certain or probable, it produces joy. When evil is in the

same situation there arises GRIEF or SORROW.

When either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to FEAR or HOPE,

according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the other.

DESIRE arises from good considered simply, and AVERSION is derived from

evil. The WILL exerts itself, when either the good or the absence of the

evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.

Beside good and evil, or in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct

passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is

perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to our

enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few other

bodily appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce good and

evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections.

None of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention,

except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for.

It is evident that the very same event, which by its certainty would

produce grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when only

probable and uncertain. In order, therefore, to understand the reason

why this circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we must

reflect on what I have already advanced in the preceding book concerning

the nature of probability.

Probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by

which the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly

tost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider

an object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. The

imagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates

betwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned

to the one side than the other, it is impossible for it, by reason of

the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. The pro and con

of the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the object

in its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly destroys

all certainty and established opinion.

Suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are

doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, it is evident,

that, according as the mind turns itself either to the one side or the

other, it must feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. An object,

whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect on those

causes, which produce it; and for the same reason excites grief

or uneasiness from the opposite consideration: So that as the

understanding, in all probable questions, is divided betwixt the

contrary points of view, the affections must in the same manner be

divided betwixt opposite emotions.

Now if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that with regard to

the passions, it is not the nature of a wind-instrument of music, which

in running over all the notes immediately loses the sound after the

breath ceases; but rather resembles a string-instrument, where after

each stroke the vibrations still retain some sound, which gradually and

insensibly decays. The imagination is extreme quick and agile; but the

passions are slow and restive: For which reason, when any object is

presented, that affords a variety of views to the one, and emotions to

the other; though the fancy may change its views with great celerity;

each stroke will not produce a clear and distinct note of passion,

but the one passion will always be mixt and confounded with the other.

According as the probability inclines to good or evil, the passion of

joy or sorrow predominates in the composition: Because the nature of

probability is to cast a superior number of views or chances on one

side; or, which is the same thing, a superior number of returns of

one passion; or since the dispersed passions are collected into one, a

superior degree of that passion. That is, in other words, the grief and

joy being intermingled with each other, by means of the contrary views

of the imagination, produce by their union the passions of hope and

fear.

Upon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning

that contrariety of passions, which is our present subject. It is

observable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented

at once, beside the encrease of the predominant passion (which has

been already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock

or rencounter) it sometimes happens, that both the passions exist

successively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each

other, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them

remain united in the mind. It may, therefore, be asked, by what theory

we can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can

reduce them.

When the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they

take place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating the

impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. Thus when

a man is afflicted for the loss of a law-suit, and joyful for the birth

of a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous object,

with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely temper

the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a state of

indifference.

It more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of a

mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous

in its different circumstances. For in that case, both the passions,

mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually

destructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquility.

But suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound of

good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any degree;

in that case I assert, that the contrary passions will both of them be

present at once in the soul, and instead of destroying and tempering

each other, will subsist together, and produce a third impression

or affection by their union. Contrary passions are not capable of

destroying each other, except when their contrary movements exactly

rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as in the

sensation they produce. This exact rencounter depends upon the relations

of those ideas, from which they are derived, and is more or less

perfect, according to the degrees of the relation. In the case of

probability the contrary chances are so far related, that they determine

concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object. But this

relation is far from being perfect; since some of the chances lie on

the side of existence, and others on that of non-existence; which are

objects altogether incompatible. It is impossible by one steady view to

survey the opposite chances, and the events dependent on them; but it is

necessary, that the imagination should run alternately from the one to

the other. Each view of the imagination produces its peculiar passion,

which decays away by degrees, and is followed by a sensible vibration

after the stroke. The incompatibility of the views keeps the passions

from shocking in a direct line, if that expression may be allowed; and

yet their relation is sufficient to mingle their fainter emotions. It is

after this manner that hope and fear arise from the different mixture of

these opposite passions of grief and joy, and from their imperfect union

and conjunction.

Upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when

they arise from different objects: They mutually destroy each other,

when they proceed from different parts of the same: And they subsist

both of them and mingle together, when they are derived from the

contrary and incompatible chances or possibilities, on which any one

object depends. The influence of the relations of ideas is plainly seen

in this whole affair. If the objects of the contrary passions be totally

different, the passions are like two opposite liquors in different

bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the objects be

intimately connected, the passions are like an alcali and an acid,

which, being mingled, destroy each other. If the relation be more

imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same object,

the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, never

perfectly unite and incorporate.

As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence

along with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. A few strong

arguments are better than many weak ones.

The passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on

both sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the

other. Nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as

the mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with

the greatest uncertainty. Throw in a superior degree of probability to

the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over

the composition, and tincture it into fear. Encrease the probability,

and by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more, till

at last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes, into pure

grief. After you have brought it to this situation, diminish the

grief, after the same manner that you encreased it; by diminishing the

probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every moment,

until it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after the same

manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you encrease that part of the

composition by the encrease of the probability. Are not these as plain

proofs, that the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and

joy, as in optics it is a proof, that a coloured ray of the sun passing

through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as you diminish

or encrease the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably

more or less in the composition? I am sure neither natural nor moral

philosophy admits of stronger proofs.

Probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself

uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object

be already certain, yet it is uncertain to our judgment, which finds

a number of proofs on each side of the question. Both these kinds of

probabilities cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that

property, in which they agree, viz, the uncertainty and fluctuation they

bestow on the imagination by that contrariety of views, which is common

to both.

It is a probable good or evil, that commonly produces hope or fear;

because probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of surveying

an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty of passion.

But we may observe, that wherever from other causes this mixture can be

produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise, even though there

be no probability; which must be allowed to be a convincing proof of the

present hypothesis. We find that an evil, barely conceived as possible,

does sometimes produce fear; especially if the evil be very great. A man

cannot think of excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be

in the least danger of suffering them. The smallness of the probability

is compensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is

equally lively, as if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpse

of the former, has the same effect as several of the latter.

But they are not only possible evils, that cause fear, but even

some allowed to be impossible; as when we tremble on the brink of a

precipice, though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and have

it in our choice whether we will advance a step farther. This

proceeds from the immediate presence of the evil, which influences the

imagination in the same manner as the certainty of it would do; but

being encountered by the reflection on our security, is immediately

retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when from a

contrariety of chances contrary passions are produced.

Evils, that are certain, have sometimes the same effect in producing

fear, as the possible or impossible. Thus a man in a strong prison

well-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the thought

of the rack, to which he is sentenced. This happens only when the

certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind

continually rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in

upon the thought. The evil is there fixed and established, but the mind

cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty

there arises a passion of much the same appearance with fear.

But it is not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its existence,

but also as to its kind, that fear or hope arises. Let one be told by

a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one of his sons is

suddenly killed, it is evident the passion this event would occasion,

would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain information, which

of his sons he had lost. Here there is an evil certain, but the kind of

it uncertain. Consequently the fear we feel on this occasion is without

the least mixture of joy, and arises merely from the fluctuation of the

fancy betwixt its objects. And though each side of the question produces

here the same passion, yet that passion cannot settle, but receives

from the imagination a tremulous and unsteady motion, resembling in its

cause, as well as in its sensation, the mixture and contention of grief

and joy.

From these principles we may account for a phænomenon in the passions,

which at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz, that surprize is apt

to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights

us. The most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is in

general pusillanimous; since upon the sudden appearance of any object.

we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and without waiting till we

can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at first affected

with fear. This I say is the most obvious conclusion; but upon farther

examination we shall find that the phænomenon is otherwise to be

accounted for. The suddenness and strangeness of an appearance naturally

excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing for which we are not

prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. This commotion, again,

naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness, which being very

violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of the object, becomes

uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and uncertainty, the sensation

of fear or the mixed passions of grief and joy. This image of

fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and gives us a real

apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its judgments more from

its present disposition than from the nature of its objects.

Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even

though they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite

views and considerations they present to us. A person, who has left his

friend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if

he were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him

assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. In

this case, though the principal object of the passion, viz, the life or

death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when

absent; yet there are a thousand little circumstances of his friend's

situation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and

prevents that fluctuation and uncertainty so near allyed to fear.

Uncertainty is, indeed, in one respect as near allyed to hope as to

fear, since it makes an essential part in the composition of the former

passion; but the reason, why it inclines not to that side, is, that

uncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a relation of impressions to the

uneasy passions.

It is thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating

to a person encreases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune.

Horace has remarked this phænomenon.

Ut assidens implumibus pullis avis

Serpentium allapsus timet,

Magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxilî

Latura plus præsentibus.

[As a bird, watching over her fledgelings, is more afraid of their being

attacked by snakes if she were to leave them even though, were she to

stay, she would not be any more capable of helping them, when they were

with her.]

But this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty I carry

farther, and observe that any doubt produces that passion, even though

it presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and desireable. A

virgin, on her bridalnight goes to bed full of fears and apprehensions,

though she expects nothing but pleasure of the highest kind, and what

she has long wished for. The newness and greatness of the event, the

confusion of wishes and joys so embarrass the mind, that it knows not

on what passion to fix itself; from whence arises a fluttering or

unsettledness of the spirits which being, in some degree, uneasy, very

naturally degenerates into fear.

Thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of

passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at

least a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished.

I have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in

their most simple and natural situation, without considering all the

variations they may receive from the mixture of different views and

reflections. Terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety, and other

passions of that kind, are nothing but different species and degrees of

fear. It is easy to imagine how a different situation of the object, or

a different turn of thought, may change even the sensation of a passion;

and this may in general account for all the particular sub-divisions of

the other affections, as well as of fear. Love may shew itself in the

shape of tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem, good-will, and in

many other appearances; which at the bottom are the same affections; and

arise from the same causes, though with a small variation, which it is

not necessary to give any particular account of. It is for this reason I

have all along confined myself to the principal passion.

The same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I wave the

examination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals;

since nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature,

and excited by the same causes as in human creatures. I leave this to

the reader's own observation; desiring him at the same time to consider

the additional force this bestows on the present system.

SECT. X OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH

But methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so many

different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions, without

taking once into the consideration that love of truth, which was the

first source of all our enquiries. Twill therefore be proper, before

we leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that passion, and

shew its origin in human nature. It is an affection of so peculiar a

kind, that it would have been impossible to have treated of it under any

of those heads, which we have examined, without danger of obscurity and

confusion.

Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the

proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our

ideas of objects to their real existence. It is certain, that the former

species of truth, is not desired merely as truth, and that it is not the

justness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. For these

conclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two

bodies by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical

demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative,

and in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind

acquiesces with equal assurance in the one as in the other. And in an

arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the assurance are

of the same nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the

pleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate

into pain: Which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we

sometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not from it,

merely as such, but only as endowed with certain qualities.

The first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render

truth agreeable, is the genius and capacity, which is employed in its

invention and discovery. What is easy and obvious is never valued; and

even what is in itself difficult, if we come to the knowledge of it

without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or judgment,

is but little regarded. We love to trace the demonstrations of

mathematicians; but should receive small entertainment from a person,

who should barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles,

though we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and

veracity. In this case it is sufficient to have ears to learn the truth.

We never are obliged to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of

all other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant and agreeable.

But though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that

satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt, if it be alone

sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. The truth we discover

must also be of some importance. It is easy to multiply algebraical

problems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the

proportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any

pleasure in these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is more

useful and important. Now the question is, after what manner this

utility and importance operate upon us? The difficulty on this head

arises from hence, that many philosophers have consumed their time, have

destroyed their health, and neglected their fortune, in the search of

such truths, as they esteemed important and useful to the world, though

it appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour, that they were not

endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had any concern for the

interests of mankind. Were they convinced, that their discoveries

were of no consequence, they would entirely lose all relish for their

studies, and that though the consequences be entirely indifferent to

them; which seems to be a contradiction.

To remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain

desires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination,

and are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any

real affections. Thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the

fortifications of any city; considers their strength and advantages,

natural or acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the

bastions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; it is plain, that

in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends he will

receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure, as it

arises from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other

than a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose security all this art is

employed; though it is possible, that this person, as a stranger or an

enemy, may in his heart have no kindness for them, or may even entertain

a hatred against them.

It may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight

foundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application,

as we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so

inconsiderable an original. But here I return to what I have already

remarked, that the pleasure of study conflicts chiefly in the action

of the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the

discovery or comprehension of any truth. If the importance of the truth

be requisite to compleat the pleasure, it is not on account of any

considerable addition, which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but

only because it is, in some measure, requisite to fix our attention.

When we are careless and inattentive, the same action of the

understanding has no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that

satisfaction, which arises from it, when we are in another disposition.

But beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation

of the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in the

attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine. Upon

this head I shall make a general remark, which may be useful on many

occasions, viz, that where the mind pursues any end with passion; though

that passion be not derived originally from the end, but merely from

the action and pursuit; yet by the natural course of the affections,

we acquire a concern for the end itself, and are uneasy under any

disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it. This proceeds from the

relation and parallel direction of the passions above-mentioned.

To illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe, that

there cannot be two passions more nearly resembling each other, than

those of hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first

sight appear betwixt them. It is evident, that the pleasure of hunting

conflicts in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention,

the difficulty, and the uncertainty. It is evident likewise, that these

actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their

having any effect upon us. A man of the greatest fortune, and the

farthest removed from avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting

after patridges and pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows

and magpies; and that because he considers the first as fit for the

table, and the other as entirely useless. Here it is certain, that the

utility or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is

only requisite to support the imagination; and the same person, who

over-looks a ten times greater profit in any other subject, is pleased

to bring home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employed

several hours in hunting after them. To make the parallel betwixt

hunting and philosophy more compleat, we may observe, that though in

both cases the end of our action may in itself be despised, yet in the

heat of the action we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are

very uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss

our game, or fall into any error in our reasoning.

If we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the

passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles

as hunting and philosophy. It has been remarked, that the pleasure of

gaming arises not from interest alone; since many leave a sure gain for

this entertainment: Neither is it derived from the game alone; since

the same persons have no satisfaction, when they play for nothing: But

proceeds from both these causes united, though separately they have

no effect. It is here, as in certain chymical preparations, where the

mixture of two clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is

opaque and coloured..

The interest, which we have in any game, engages our attention, without

which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action.

Our attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden

reverses of fortune, still farther interest us; and it is from that

concern our satisfaction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and

men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses

them, though by a passion mixt with pain, does in the main give them a

sensible pleasure. And this pleasure is here encreased by the nature of

the objects, which being sensible, and of a narrow compass, are entered

into with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination.

The same theory, that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics and

algebra may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy, and

other studies, where we consider not the other abstract relations of

ideas, but their real connexions and existence. But beside the love of

knowledge, which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain

curiosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from

a quite different principle. Some people have an insatiable desire of

knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their

interest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on

others for their information; in which case there is no room for study

or application. Let us search for the reason of this phænomenon.

It has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once to

inliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind

of hesitation and uncertainty about it. Both these circumstances are

advantageous. By the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and

produce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure, which arises from

a moderate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its

certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the

mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. It is a

quality of human nature, which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is

common both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change

is unpleasant to us, and that however any objects may in themselves be

indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As it is the nature

of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly

from one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of

pain. This pain chiefly takes place, where interest, relation, or the

greatness and novelty of any event interests us in it. It is not every

matter of fact, of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are

they such only as we have an interest to know. It is sufficient if the

idea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to

give us an uneasiness in its instability and inconstancy. A stranger,

when he arrives first at any town, may be entirely indifferent about

knowing the history and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he becomes

farther acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable time among

them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives. When we are reading

the history of a nation, we may have an ardent desire of clearing up

any doubt or difficulty, that occurs in it; but become careless in such

researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a great measure,

obliterated.

BOOK III OF MORALS

PART I OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL

SECT. I MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVED FROM REASON

There is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning that

it may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the

same intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first

requisite for its invention. When we leave our closet, and engage in

the common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish, like the

phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning; and it is

difficult for us to retain even that conviction, which we had attained

with difficulty. This is still more conspicuous in a long chain of

reasoning, where we must preserve to the end the evidence of the first

propositions, and where we often lose sight of all the most received

maxims, either of philosophy or common life. I am not, however, without

hopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force as

it advances; and that our reasonings concerning morals will corroborate

whatever has been said concerning the UNDERSTANDING and the PASSIONS.

Morality is a subject that interests us above all others: We fancy the

peace of society to be at stake in every decision concerning it; and

it is evident, that this concern must make our speculations appear

more real and solid, than where the subject is, in a great measure,

indifferent to us. What affects us, we conclude can never be a chimera;

and as our passion is engaged on the one side or the other, we naturally

think that the question lies within human comprehension; which, in other

cases of this nature, we are apt to entertain some doubt of. Without

this advantage I never should have ventured upon a third volume of such

abstruse philosophy, in an age, wherein the greatest part of men seem

agreed to convert reading into an amusement, and to reject every thing

that requires any considerable degree of attention to be comprehended.

It has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but

its perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging,

loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. The mind can

never exert itself in any action, which we may not comprehend under the

term of perception; and consequently that term is no less applicable to

those judgments, by which we distinguish moral good and evil, than

to every other operation of the mind. To approve of one character, to

condemn another, are only so many different perceptions.

Now as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz. impressions

and ideas, this distinction gives rise to a question, with which we

shall open up our present enquiry concerning morals. WHETHER IT IS

BY MEANS OF OUR IDEAS OR IMPRESSIONS WE DISTINGUISH BETWIXT VICE AND

VIRTUE, AND PRONOUNCE AN ACTION BLAMEABLE OR PRAISEWORTHY? This will

immediately cut off all loose discourses and declamations, and reduce us

to something precise and exact on the present subject.

Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason; that

there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which are the

same to every rational being that considers them; that the immutable

measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not only on human

creatures, but also on the Deity himself: All these systems concur in

the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned merely by ideas,

and by their juxta-position and comparison. In order, therefore, to

judge of these systems, we need only consider, whether it be possible,

from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and evil, or

whether there must concur some other principles to enable us to make

that distinction.

If morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions,

it were in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be

more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts, with which all

moralists abound. Philosophy is commonly divided into speculative and

practical; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter

division, it is supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to

go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. And this

is confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are often

governed by their duties, and are detered from some actions by the

opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation.

Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and

affections, it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and

that because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have any

such influence. Morals excite passions, and produce or prevent actions.

Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The rules of

morality therefore, are not conclusions of our reason.

No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is

there any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle,

on which it is founded. As long as it is allowed, that reason has no

influence on our passions and action, it is in vain to pretend,

that morality is discovered only by a deduction of reason. An active

principle can never be founded on an inactive; and if reason be inactive

in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and appearances, whether

it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects, whether it considers the

powers of external bodies, or the actions of rational beings.

It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which I have

proved,[1] that reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent

or produce any action or affection, it will be easy to recollect what

has been said upon that subject. I shall only recall on this occasion

one of these arguments, which I shall endeavour to render still more

conclusive, and more applicable to the present subject.

[1] Book II. Part III. Sect 3.

Reason is the discovery of truth or falshood. Truth or falshood consists

in an agreement or disagreement either to the real relations of ideas,

or to real existence and matter of fact. Whatever, therefore, is not

susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of being

true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. Now it is

evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible of

any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and realities,

compleat in themselves, and implying no reference to other passions,

volitions, and actions. It is impossible, therefore, they can be

pronounced either true or false, and be either contrary or conformable

to reason.

This argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. For

it proves DIRECTLY, that actions do not derive their merit from a

conformity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it

proves the same truth more INDIRECTLY, by shewing us, that as reason

can never immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or

approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which

are found to have that influence. Actions may be laudable or blameable;

but they cannot be reasonable: Laudable or blameable, therefore, are

not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit and demerit

of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes controul our natural

propensities. But reason has no such influence. Moral distinctions,

therefore, are not the offspring of reason. Reason is wholly inactive,

and can never be the source of so active a principle as conscience, or a

sense of morals.

But perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can

be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a

contradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in its

causes or effects. The action may cause a judgment, or may be obliquely

caused by one, when the judgment concurs with a passion; and by an

abusive way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow of, the same

contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the action. How

far this truth or falsehood may be the source of morals, it will now be

proper to consider.

It has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense,

can have influence on our conduct only after two ways: Either when it

excites a passion by informing us of the existence of something which is

a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of causes and

effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion. These are the

only kinds of judgment, which can accompany our actions, or can be

said to produce them in any manner; and it must be allowed, that these

judgments may often be false and erroneous. A person may be affected

with passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an object, which

has no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or which produces

the contrary to what is imagined. A person may also take false measures

for the attaining his end, and may retard, by his foolish conduct,

instead of forwarding the execution of any project. These false

judgments may be thought to affect the passions and actions, which are

connected with them, and may be said to render them unreasonable, in

a figurative and improper way of speaking. But though this be

acknowledged, it is easy to observe, that these errors are so far

from being the source of all immorality, that they are commonly

very innocent, and draw no manner of guilt upon the person who is so

unfortunate as to fail into them. They extend not beyond a mistake of

fact, which moralists have not generally supposed criminal, as being

perfectly involuntary. I am more to be lamented than blamed, if I am

mistaken with regard to the influence of objects in producing pain or

pleasure, or if I know not the proper means of satisfying my desires.

No one can ever regard such errors as a defect in my moral character.

A fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me at a

distance, and through mistake I fancy it to be pleasant and delicious.

Here is one error. I choose certain means of reaching this fruit, which

are not proper for my end. Here is a second error; nor is there any

third one, which can ever possibly enter into our reasonings concerning

actions. I ask, therefore, if a man, in this situation, and guilty of

these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal, however

unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be possible to imagine, that

such errors are the sources of all immorality?

And here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be

derived from the truth or falshood of those judgments, they must take

place wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference,

whether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether the

error be avoidable or unavoidable. For as the very essence of morality

is supposed to consist in an agreement or disagreement to reason, the

other circumstances are entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow

on any action the character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it

of that character. To which we may add, that this agreement or

disagreement, not admitting of degrees, all virtues and vices would of

course be equal.

Should it be pretended, that though a mistake of fact be not criminal,

yet a mistake of right often is; and that this may be the source of

immorality: I would answer, that it is impossible such a mistake can

ever be the original source of immorality, since it supposes a real

right and wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals, independent of

these judgments. A mistake, therefore, of right may become a species

of immorality; but it is only a secondary one, and is founded on some

other, antecedent to it.

As to those judgments which are the effects of our actions, and which,

when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary to truth

and reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause any judgment,

either true or false, in ourselves, and that it is only on others

they have such an influence. It is certain, that an action, on many

occasions, may give rise to false conclusions in others; and that a

person, who through a window sees any lewd behaviour of mine with my

neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine she is certainly my

own. In this respect my action resembles somewhat a lye or falshood;

only with this difference, which is material, that I perform not the

action with any intention of giving rise to a false judgment in another,

but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. It causes, however, a mistake

and false judgment by accident; and the falshood of its effects may be

ascribed, by some odd figurative way of speaking, to the action itself.

But still I can see no pretext of reason for asserting, that the

tendency to cause such an error is the first spring or original source

of all immorality.

[2] One might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if

a late author [William Wollaston, THE RELIGION OF NATURE DELINEATED

(London 1722)], who has had the good fortune to obtain some

reputation, had not seriously affirmed, that such a falshood is the

foundation of all guilt and moral deformity. That we may discover

the fallacy of his hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false

conclusion is drawn from an action, only by means of an obscurity

of natural principles, which makes a cause be secretly interrupted

in its operation, by contrary causes, and renders the connexion

betwixt two objects uncertain and variable. Now, as a like

uncertainty and variety of causes take place, even in natural

objects, and produce a like error in our judgment, if that tendency

to produce error were the very essence of vice and immorality, it

should follow, that even inanimate objects might be vicious and

immoral.

One might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a

late author [William Wollaston, THE RELIGION OF NATURE DELINEATED

(London 1722)], who has had the good fortune to obtain some

reputation, had not seriously affirmed, that such a falshood is

the foundation of all guilt and moral deformity. That we may

discover the fallacy of his hypothesis, we need only consider,

that a false conclusion is drawn from an action, only by means of

an obscurity of natural principles, which makes a cause be

secretly interrupted In its operation, by contrary causes, and

renders the connexion betwixt two objects uncertain and variable.

Now, as a like uncertainty and variety of causes take place, even

in natural objects, and produce a like error in our judgment, if

that tendency to produce error were the very essence of vice and

immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects might be

vicious and immoral.

It is in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty

and choice. For as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an

action produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no

respect, essential to morality; and I do not readily perceive,

upon this system, how they can ever come to be regarded by it. If

the tendency to cause error be the origin of immorality, that

tendency and immorality would in every case be inseparable.

Add to this, that if I had used the precaution of shutting the

windows, while I indulged myself in those liberties with my

neighbour's wife, I should have been guilty of no immorality; and

that because my action, being perfectly concealed, would have had

no tendency to produce any false conclusion.

For the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a

window, and takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is

in no respect criminal. For either he will not be perceived, or if

he be, it is impossible he can produce any error, nor will any

one, from these circumstances, take him to be other than what he

really is.

It is well known, that those who are squint-sighted, do very

readily cause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute

or are talking to one person, while they address themselves to

another. Are they therefore, upon that account, immoral?

Besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there

is an evident reasoning in a circle. A person who takes possession

of another's goods, and uses them as his own, in a manner declares

them to be his own; and this falshood is the source of the

immorality of injustice. But is property, or right, or obligation,

intelligible, without an antecedent morality?

A man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms,

that he never received any favours from him. But in what manner?

Is it because it is his duty to be grateful? But this supposes,

that there is some antecedent rule of duty and morals. Is it

because human nature is generally grateful, and makes us conclude,

that a man who does any harm never received any favour from the

person he harmed? But human nature is not so generally grateful,

as to justify such a conclusion. Or if it were, is an exception to

a general rule in every case criminal, for no other reason than

because it is an exception?

But what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is,

that it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why

truth is virtuous and falshood vicious, as to account for the

merit or turpitude of any other action. I shall allow, if you

please, that all immorality is derived from this supposed falshood

in action, provided you can give me any plausible reason, why such

a falshood is immoral. If you consider rightly of the matter, you

will find yourself in the same difficulty as at the beginning.

This last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not an

evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or

falahood, It can never have any influence upon our actions. For,

who ever thought of forbearing any action, because others might

possibly draw false conclusions from it? Or, who ever performed

any, that he might give rise to true conclusions?

Thus upon the whole, it is impossible, that the distinction betwixt

moral good and evil, can be made to reason; since that distinction

has an influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable.

Reason and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by

prompting, or by directing a passion: But it is not pretended, that a

judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falshood, is attended

with virtue or vice. And as to the judgments, which are caused by our

judgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the

actions, which are their causes.

But to be more particular, and to shew, that those eternal immutable

fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound

philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations.