PART I.

THE paſſion for philoſophy, like that for religion, ſeems liable to this inconvenience, that, tho' it aims at the correction of our manners, and extirpation of our vices, it may only ſerve, by imprudent management, to foſter a predominant inclination, and puſh the mind, with more determined reſolution, towards that ſide, which already draws too much, by the byaſs and propenſity of the natural temper. 'Tis certain, that, while we aſpire to the magnanimous firmneſs of the philoſophic ſage, and endeavour to confine our pleaſures altogether within our own minds, we may, at laſt, render our philoſophy, like that of EPICTETUS, and other Stoics, only a more refined ſyſtem of ſelfiſhneſs, and reaſon ourſelves out of all virtue, as well as ſocial enjoyment. While we ſtudy with attention the vanity of human life, and turn all our thoughts on the empty and tranſitory nature of riches and honors, we are, perhaps, all the while flattering our natural indolence, which, hating the buſtle of the world and drudgery of buſineſs, ſeeks a pretext of reaſon, to give itſelf a full and uncontroled indulgence. There is, however, one ſpecies of philoſophy, which ſeems little liable to this inconvenience, and that becauſe it ſtrikes in with no diſorderly paſſion of the human mind, nor can mingle itſelf with any natural affection or propenſity; and that is the ACADEMIC or SCEPTICAL philoſophy. The academics talk always of doubts, and ſuſpenſe of judgment, of danger in haſty determinations, of confining to very narrow bounds the enquiries of the underſtanding, and of renouncing all ſpeculations which lie not within the limits of common life and practice. Nothing, therefore, can be more contrary than ſuch a philoſophy to the ſupine indolence of the mind, its raſh arrogance, its lofty pretenſions, and its ſuperſtitious credulity. Every paſſion is mortfied by it, except the love of truth; and that paſſion never is, nor can be carried to too high a degree. 'Tis ſurprizing, therefore, that this philoſophy, which, in almoſt every inſtance, muſt be harmleſs and innocent, ſhould be the ſubject of ſo much groundleſs reproach and obloquy. But, perhaps, the very circumſtance which renders it ſo innocent, is what chiefly expoſes it to the public hatred, and reſentment. By flattering no irregular paſſion, it gains few partizans: By oppoſing ſo many vices and follies, it raiſes to itſelf abundance of enemies, who ſtigmatize it as libertine, profane, and irreligious.

NOR need we fear, that this philoſophy, while it endeavours to limit our enquiries to common life, ſhould ever undermine the reaſonings of common life, and carry its doubts ſo far as to deſtroy all action, as well as ſpeculation. Nature will always maintain her rights, and prevail in the end over any abſtract reaſoning whatſoever. Tho' we ſhould conclude, for inſtance, as in the foregoing ſection, that, in all reaſonings from experience, there is a ſtep taken by the mind, which is not ſupported by any argument or proceſs of the underſtanding; there is no danger, that theſe reaſonings, on which almoſt all knowledge depends, will ever be affected by ſuch a diſcovery. If the mind be not engaged by argument to make this ſtep, it muſt be induced by ſome other principle of equal weight and authority; and that principle will preſerve its influence as long as human nature remains the ſame. What that principle is, may well be worth the pains of enquiry.

SUPPOSE a perſon, tho' endowed with the ſtrongeſt faculties of reaſon and reflection, to be brought on a ſudden into this world; he would, indeed, immediately obſerve a continual ſucceſſion of objects, and one event following another; but he would not be able to diſcover any thing farther. He would not, at firſt, by any reaſoning, be able to reach the idea of cauſe and effect; ſince the particular powers, by which all natural operations are performed, never appear to the ſenſes; nor is it reaſonable to conclude, merely becauſe one event, in one inſtance, precedes another, that therefore the one is the cauſe, and the other the effect. Their conjunction may be arbitrary and caſual. There may be no reaſon to infer the exiſtence of the one from the appearance of the other. And in a word, ſuch a perſon without more experience, could never employ his conjecture or reaſoning concerning any matter or fact, or be aſſured of any thing beyond what was immediately preſent to his memory and ſenſes.

SUPPOSE again, that he has acquired more experience, and has lived ſo long in the world as to have obſerved ſimilar objects or events to be conſtantly conjoined together; what is the conſequence of this experience? He immediately inſers the exiſtence of the one object from the appearance of the other. Yet he has not, by all his experience, acquired any idea or knowlege of the ſecret power, by which the one object produces the other; nor is it, by any proceſs of reaſoning, he is engaged to draw this inference. But ſtill he finds himſelf determined to draw it: And tho' he ſhould be convinced, that his underſtanding has no part in the operation, he would nevertheleſs continue in the ſame courſe of thinking. There is ſome other principle, which determines him to form ſuch a concluſion.

THIS principle is CUSTOM or HABIT. For whereever the repetition of any particular act or operation produces a propenſity to renew the ſame act or operation, without being impelled by any reaſoning or proceſs of the underſtanding; we always ſay, that this propenſity is the effect of Cuſtom. By employing that word, we pretend not to have given the ultimate reaſon of ſuch a propenſity. We only point out a principle of human nature, which is univerſally acknowledged, and which is well known by its effects. Perhaps, we can puſh our enquiries no farther, or pretend to give the cauſe of this cauſe; but muſt reſt contented with it as the ultimate principle, which we can aſſign of all our concluſions from experience. 'Tis ſufficient ſatisfaction, that we can go ſo far; without repining at the narrowneſs of our faculties, becauſe they will carry us no farther. And 'tis certain we here advance a very intelligible propoſition at leaſt, if not a true one, when we aſſert, that, after the conſtant conjunction of two objects, heat and flame, for inſtance, weight and ſolidity, we are determined by cuſtom alone to expect the one from the appearance of the other. This hypotheſis ſeems even the only one, which explains the difficulty, why we draw, from a thouſand inſtances, an inference, which we are not able to draw from one inſtance, that is, in no reſpect, different from them. Reaſon is incapable of any ſuch variation. The concluſions, which it draws from conſidering one circle, are the ſame which it would form upon ſurveying all the circles in the univerſe. But no man, having ſeen only one body move after being impelled by another, could infer, that every other body will move after a like impulſe. All inferences from experience, therefore, are effects of cuſtom, not of reaſoning

Nothing is more uſual than for writers even on moral, political, or phyſical ſubjects, to diſtinguiſh between reaſon and experience, and to ſuppoſe, that theſe ſpecies of argumentation are entirely different from each other. The former are taken for the mere reſult of our intellectual faculties, which, by conſidering à priori the nature of things, and examining the effects, that muſt follow from their operation, eſtabliſh particular principles of ſcience and philoſophy. The latter are ſuppoſed to be derived entirely from ſenſe and obſervation, by which we learn what has actually reſulted from the operation of particular objects, and are thence able to infer, what will, for the future, reſult from them. Thus, for inſtance, the limitations and reſtraints of civil government, and a legal conſtitution may be deſended, either from reaſon, which, reflecting on the great frailty and corruption of human nature, teaches, that no man can ſafely be truſted with unlimited authority; or from experience and hiſtory, which inform us of the enormous abuſes, that ambition, in every age and country, has been found to make of ſo imprudent a confidence.

The ſame diſtinction betwixt reaſon and experience is maintained in all our deliberations concerning the conduct of life; while the experienced ſtateſman, general, phyſician or merchant is truſted and followed; and the unpractiſed novice, with whatever natural talents endowed, neglected and deſpiſed. Tho' it be allowed, that reaſon may form very plauſible conjectures with regard to the conſequences of ſuch a particular conduct in ſuch particular circumſtances; 'tis ſtill ſuppoſed imperfect, without the aſſiſtance of experience, which is alone able to give ſtability and certainty to the maxims, derived from ſtudy and reflection.

But notwithſtanding that this diſtinction be thus univerſally received, both in the active and ſpeculative ſcenes of life, I ſhall not ſcruple to pronounce, that it is, at bottom, erroneous, or at leaſt, ſuperficial.

If we examine thoſe arguments, which, in any of the ſciences above-mentioned, are ſuppoſed to be the mere effects of reaſoning and reflection, they will all be found to terminate, at laſt, in ſome general principle or concluſion, for which we can aſſign no reaſon but obſervation and experience. The only difference betwixt them and thoſe maxims, which are vulgarly eſteemed the reſult of pure experience, is, that the former cannot be eſtabliſhed without ſome proceſs of thought, and ſome reflection on what we have obſerved, in order to diſtinguiſh its circumſtances, and trace its conſequences: Whereas in the latter, the experienced event is exactly and fully ſimilar to that which we infer as the reſult of any particular ſituation. The hiſtory of a TIBERIUS or a NERO makes us dread a like tyranny were our monarchs freed from the reſtraints of laws and ſenates: But the obſervation of any fraud or cruelty in private life is ſufficient, with the aid of a little thought, to give us the ſame apprehenſion; while it ſerves as an inſtance of the general corruption of human nature, and ſhews us the danger which we muſt incur by repoſing an entire confidence in mankind. In both caſes, 'tis experience which is ultimately the foundation of our inference and concluſion.

There is no man ſo young and unexperienced, as not to have formed from obſervation, many general and juſt maxims concerning human affairs and the conduct of life; but it muſt be confeſſed, that, when a man comes to put theſe in practice, he will be extremely liable to error, till time and farther experience, both enlarge theſe maxims, and teach him their proper uſe and application. In every ſituation or incident, there are many particular and ſeemingly minute circumſtances, which the man of greateſt talents is, at firſt, apt to overlook, tho' on them the juſtneſs of his concluſions, and conſequently the prudence of his conduct, entirely depend. Not to mention, that, to a young beginner, the general obſervations and maxims occur not always on the proper occaſions, nor can be immediately applied with due calmneſs and diſtinction. The truth is, an unexperienced reaſoner could be no reaſoner at all, were he abſolutely unexperienced; and when we aſſign that character to any one, we mean it only in a comparative ſenſe, and ſuppoſe him poſſeſſed of experience, in a ſmaller and more imperfect degree.

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CUSTOM, then, is the great guide of human life. 'Tis that principle alone, which renders our experience uſeful to us, and makes us expect for the future, a ſimilar train of events with thoſe which have appeared in the paſt. Without the influence of cuſtom, we ſhould be entirely ignorant of every matter of fact, beyond what is immediately preſent to the memory and ſenſes. We ſhould never know how to adjuſt means to ends, or to employ our natural powers in the production of any effect. There would be an end at once of all action, as well as of the chief part of ſpeculation.

BUT here it may be proper to remark, that tho' our concluſions from experience carry us beyond our memory and ſenſes, and aſſure us of matters of fact, which happened in the moſt diſtant places and moſt remote ages; yet ſome fact muſt always be preſent to the ſenſes or memory, from which we may firſt proceed in drawing theſe concluſions. A man, who ſhould find in a deſert country the remains of pompous buildings, would conclude, that the country had, in antient times, been cultivated by civilized inhabitants; but did nothing of this nature occur to him, he could never form ſuch an inference. We learn the events of former ages from hiſtory; but then we muſt peruſe the volumes, in which this inſtruction is contained, and thence carry up our inferences from one teſtimony to another, till we arrive at the eye-witneſſes and ſpectators of theſe diſtant events. In a word, if we proceed not upon ſome fact, preſent to the memory or ſenſes, our reaſonings would be merely hypothetical; and however the particular links might be connected with each other, the whole chain of inferences would have nothing to ſupport it, nor could we ever, by its means, arrive at the knowlege of any real exiſtence. If I aſk, why you believe any particular matter of fact, which you relate, you muſt tell me ſome reaſon; and this reaſon will be ſome other fact, connected with it: But as you cannot proceed after this manner, in infinitum, you muſt at laſt terminate in ſome fact, which is preſent to your memory or ſenſes; or muſt allow, that your belief is entirely without foundation.

WHAT then is the concluſion of the whole matter? A ſimple one; tho' it muſt be confeſſed, pretty remote from the common theories of philoſophy. All belief of matter of fact or real exiſtence is derived merely from ſome object, preſent to the memory or ſenſes, and a cuſtomary conjunction betwixt that and any other object. Or in other words; having found, in many inſtances, that any two kinds of objects, flame and heat, ſnow and cold, have always been conjoined together; if flame or ſnow be preſented anew to our ſenſes; the mind is carried by cuſtom to expect heat or cold, and to believe, that ſuch a quality does exiſt, and will diſcover itſelf upon a nearer approach. This belief is the neceſſary reſult of placing the mind in ſuch circumſtances. 'Tis an operation of the ſoul, when we are ſo ſituated, as unavoidable as to feel the paſſion of love, when we receive benefits, or hatred, when we meet with injuries. All theſe operations are a ſpecies of natural inſtincts, which no reaſoning or proceſs of the thought and underſtanding is able, either to produce, or to prevent.

AT this point, it would be very allowable for us to ſtop our philoſophical reſearches. In moſt queſtions, we can never make a ſingle ſtep farther; and in all queſtions, we muſt terminate here at laſt, after our moſt reſtleſs and curious enquiries. But ſtill our curioſity will be pardonable, perhaps commendable, if it carry us on to ſtill farther reſearches, and make us examine more accurately the nature of this belief, and of the cuſtomary conjunction, whence it is derived. By this means we may meet ſome explications and analogies, that will give ſatisfaction; at leaſt to ſuch as love the abſtract ſciences, and can be entertained with ſpeculations, which, however accurate, may ſtill retain a degree of doubt and uncertainty. As to readers of a different taſte; the remaining part of this ſection is not calculated for them, and the following enquiries may well be underſtood, tho' it be neglected.

PART II.

THERE is nothing more free than the imagination of man; and tho' it cannot exceed that original ſtock of ideas, which is furniſhed by the internal and external ſenſes, it has unlimited power of mixing, compounding, ſeparating, and dividing theſe ideas, to all the varieties of fiction and viſion. It can feign a train of events, with all the appearance of reality, aſcribe to them a particular time and place, conceive them as exiſtent, and paint them out to itſelf with every circumſtance, that belongs to any hiſtorical fact, which it believes with the greateſt certainty. Wherein, therefore, conſiſts the difference between ſuch a fiction and belief? It lies not merely in any peculiar idea, which is annexed to ſuch a conception, as commands our aſſent, and which is wanting to every known fiction. For as the mind has authority over all its ideas, it could voluntarily annex this particular idea to any fiction, and conſequently be able to believe whatever it pleaſes; contrary to what we find by daily experience. We can, in our conception, join the head of a man to the body of a horſe; but it is not in our power to believe, that ſuch an animal has ever really exiſted.

IT follows, therefore, that the difference between fiction and belief lies in ſome ſentiment or feeling, which is annexed to the latter, not to the former, and which depends not on the will, nor can be commanded at pleaſure. It muſt be excited by nature, like all other ſentiments; and muſt ariſe from the particular ſituation, in which the mind is placed at any particular juncture. Whenever any object is preſented to the memory or ſenſes, it immediately, by the force of cuſtom, carries the imagination to conceive that object, which is uſually conjoined to it; and this conception is attended with a feeling or ſentiment, different from the looſe reveries of the fancy. In this conſiſts the whole nature of belief. For as there is no matter of fact which we believe ſo firmly, that we cannot conceive the contrary, there would be no difference between the conception aſſented to, and that which is rejected, were it not for ſome ſentiment, which diſtinguiſhes the one from the other. If I ſee a billiard-ball moving towards another, on a ſmooth table, I can eaſily conceive it to ſtop upon contact. This conception implies no contradiction; but ſtill it feels very differently from that conception, by which I repreſent to myſelf the impulſe, and the communication of motion from one ball to another.

WERE we to attempt a definition of this ſentiment, we ſhould, perhaps, find it a very difficult, if not an impoſſible taſk; in the ſame manner as if we ſhould endeavour to define the feeling of cold or paſſion of anger, to a creature who never had an experience of theſe ſentiments. BELIEF is the true and proper name of this feeling; and no one is ever at a loſs to know the meaning of that term; becauſe every man is every moment conſcious of the ſentiment, repreſented by it. It may not, however, be improper to attempt a deſcription of this ſentiment; in hopes we may, by that means, arrive at ſome analogies, which may afford a more perfect explication of it. I ſay then, that belief is nothing but a more vivid, lively, forcible, firm, ſteady conception of an object, than what the imagination alone is ever able to attain. This variety of terms, which may ſeem ſo unphiloſophical, is intended only to expreſs that act of the mind, which renders realities, or what is taken for ſuch, more preſent to us than fictions, cauſes them to weigh more in the thought, and gives them a ſuperior influence on the paſſions and imagination. Provided we agree about the thing, 'tis needleſs to diſpute about the terms. The imagination has the command over all its ideas, and can join and mix and vary them, in all the ways poſſible. It may conceive fictitious objects with all the circumſtances of place and time. It may ſet them, in a manner, before our eyes, in their true colors, juſt as they might have exiſted. But as it is impoſſible, that that faculty of imagination can ever, of itſelf, reach belief, 'tis evident, that belief conſiſts not in the peculiar nature or order of ideas, but in the manner of their conception, and in their feeling to the mind. I confeſs, that 'tis impoſſible perfectly to explain this feeling or manner of conception. We may make uſe of words, which expreſs ſomething near it. But its true and proper name, as we obſerved before, is belief; which is a term, that every one ſufficiently underſtands in common life. And in philoſophy, we can go no farther than aſſert, that belief is ſomething felt by the mind, which diſtinguiſhes the ideas of the judgment from the fictions of the imagination. It gives them more force and influence; makes them appear of greater importance; inforces them in the mind; and renders them the governing principle of all our actions. I hear at preſent, for inſtance, a perſon's voice, with whom I am acquainted; and the ſound comes as from the next room. This impreſſion of my ſenſes immediately conveys my thought to the perſon, together with all the ſurrounding objects. I paint them out to myſelf as exiſting at preſent, with the ſame qualities and relations, of which I formerly knew them poſſeſt. Theſe ideas take faſter hold of my mind, than ideas of an inchanted caſtle. They are very different to the feeling, and have a much greater influence of every kind, either to give pleaſure or pain, joy or ſorrow.

LET us, then, take in the whole compaſs of this doctrine, and allow, that the ſentiment of belief is nothing but a conception of an object more intenſe and ſteady than what attends the mere fictions of the imagination, and that this manner of conception ariſes from a cuſtomary conjunction of the object with ſomething preſent to the memory or ſenſes: I believe that it will not be difficult, upon theſe ſuppoſitions, to find other operations of the mind analogous to it, and to trace up theſe phaenomena to principles ſtill more general.

WE have already obſerved, that nature has eſtabliſhed connexions among particular ideas, and that no ſooner one idea occurs to our thoughts than it introduces its correlative, and carries our attention towards it, by a gentle and inſenſible movement. Theſe principles of connexion or aſſociation we have reduced to three, viz. Reſemblance, Contiguity, and Cauſation; which are the only bonds, that unite our thoughts together, and beget that regular train of reflection or diſcourſe, which, in a greater or leſs degree, takes place among all mankind. Now here ariſes a queſtion, on which the ſolution of the preſent difficulty will depend. Does it happen, in all theſe relations, that, when one of the objects is preſented to the ſenſes or memory, the mind is not only carried to the conception of the correlative, but reaches a ſteadier and ſtronger conception of it than what otherwiſe it would have been able to attain? This ſeems to be the caſe with that belief, which ariſes from the relation of cauſe and effect. And if the caſe be the ſame with the other relations or principles of aſſociation, we may eſtabliſh this as a general law, which takes place in all the operations of the mind.

WE may, therefore, obſerve, as the firſt experiment to our preſent purpoſe, that, upon the appearance of the picture of an abſent friend, our idea of him is evidently enlivened by the reſemblance, and that every paſſion, which that idea occaſions, whether of joy or ſorrow, acquires new force and vigor. In producing this effect, there concur both a relation and a preſent impreſſion. Where the picture bears him no reſemblance, or at leaſt was not intended for him, it never ſo much as conveys our thought to him: And where it is abſent, as well as the perſon; though the mind may paſs from the thought of the one to that of the other; it feels its idea to be rather weakened than enlivened by that tranſition. We take a pleaſure in viewing the picture of a friend, when 'tis ſet before us; but when 'tis removed, rather chuſe to conſider him directly, than by reflection in an image, which is equally diſtant and obſcure.

THE ceremonies of the ROMAN CATHOLIC religion may be conſidered as experiments of the ſame nature. The devotees of that ſuperſtition uſually plead in excuſe of the mummeries, with which they are upbraided, that they feel the good effect of thoſe external motions, and poſtures, and actions, in enlivening their devotion and quickening their ſervor, which otherwiſe would decay, if directed intirely to diſtant and immaterial objects. We ſhadow out the objects of our faith, ſay they, in ſenſible types and images, and render them more preſent to us by the immediate preſence of theſe types, than 'tis poſſible for us to do, merely by an intellectual view and contemplation. Senſible objects have always a greater influence on the fancy than any other; and this influence they readily convey to thoſe ideas, to which they are related, and which they reſemble. I ſhall only infer from theſe practices, and this reaſoning, that the effect of reſemblance in enlivening the ideas is very common; and as in every caſe a reſemblance and a preſent impreſſion muſt concur, we are abundantly ſupplied with experiments to prove the reality of the foregoing principle.

WE may add force to theſe experiments by others of a different kind, in conſidering the effects of contiguity as well as of reſemblance. 'Tis certain that diſtance diminiſhes the force of every idea, and that upon our approach to any object; tho' it does not diſcover itſelf to our ſenſes; it operates upon the mind with an influence, which imitates an immediate impreſſion. The thinking on any object readily tranſports the mind to what is contiguous; but 'tis only the actual preſence of an object, that tranſports it with a ſuperior vivacity. When I am a few miles from home, whatever relates to it touches me more nearly than when I am two hundred leagues diſtant; tho' even at that diſtance the reflecting on any thing in the neighbourhood of my friends or family naturally produces an idea of them. But as in this latter caſe, both the objects of the mind are ideas; notwithſtanding there is an eaſy tranſition between them; that tranſition alone is not able to give a ſuperior vivacity to any of the ideas, for want of ſome immediate impreſſion

"Naturane nobis, inquit, datum dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum ea loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acceperimus multum eſſe verſatos, magis moveamur, quam ſiquando corum ipſorum aut facta audiamus aut ſcriptum aliquod legamus? Velut ego nunc moveor. Venit enim mihi PLATONIS in mentem, quem accepimus primum hîc diſputare ſolitum: Cujus etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam ſolum mihi afferunt, ſed ipſum videntur in conſpectu meo hîc ponere. Hic SPEUSIPPUS, hic XENOCRATES, hic ejus auditor POLEMO; cujus ipſa illa ſeſſio ſuit quam videamus. Equidem etiam curiam noſtram, HOSTILIAM dico, non hanc novam, quae mihi minor eſſe videtur poſtquam eſt major, ſolebam intuens, SCIPIONEM, CATONEM, LAELIUM, noſtrum vero in primis avum cogitare. Tanta vis admonitionis eſt in locis; ut non ſine cauſa ex his memoriae deducta ſit diſciplina." CICERO de Finibus. Lib. 5.

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NO one can doubt but cauſation has the ſame influence as the other two relations of reſemblance and contiguity. Superſtitious people are fond of the relicts of ſaints and holy men, for the ſame reaſon, that they ſeek after types or images, in order to enliven their devotion, and give them a more intimate and ſtrong conception of thoſe exemplary lives, which they deſire to imitate. Now 'tis evident, that one of the beſt relicts, which a devotee could procure, would be the handywork of a ſaint; and if his cloaths and furniture are ever to be conſidered in this light, 'tis becauſe they were once at his diſpoſal, and were moved and affected by him; in which reſpect they are to be conſidered as imperfect effects, and as connected with him by a ſhorter chain of conſequences than any of thoſe, by which we learn the reality of his exiſtence.

SUPPOSE, that the ſon of a friend, who had been long dead or abſent, were preſented to us; 'tis evident, that this object would inſtantly revive its correlative idea, and recal to our thoughts all paſt intimacies and familiarities in more lively colors than they would otherwiſe have appeared to us. This is another phaenomenon, which ſeems to prove the principle above-mentioned.

WE may obſerve, that in theſe phaenomena the belief of the correlative object is always pre-ſuppoſed; without which the relation could have no effect in enlivening the idea. The influence of the picture ſuppoſes, that we believe our friend to have once exiſted. Contiguity to home can never excite our ideas of home, unleſs we believe that it really exiſts. Now I aſſert, that this belief, where it reaches beyond the memory or ſenſes, is of a ſimilar nature, and ariſes from ſimilar cauſes, with the tranſition of thought and vivacity of conception here explained. When I throw a piece of dry wood into a fire, my mind is immediately carried to conceive, that it augments, not extinguiſhes the flame. This tranſition of thought from the cauſe to the effect proceeds not from reaſon. It derives its origin altogether from cuſtom and experience. And as it firſt begins from an object, preſent to the ſenſes, it renders the idea or conception of flame more ſtrong and lively than any looſe, floating reverie of the imagination. That idea ariſes immediately. The thought moves inſtantly towards it, and conveys to it all that force of conception, which is derived from the impreſſion preſent to the ſenſes. When a ſword is levelled at my breaſt, does not the idea of wound and pain ſtrike me more ſtrongly, than when a glaſs of wine is preſented to me, even tho' by accident this idea ſhould occur after the appearance of the latter object? But what is there in this whole matter to cauſe ſuch a ſtrong conception, except only a preſent object and cuſtomary tranſition to the idea of another object, which we have been accuſtomed to conjoin with the former? This is the whole operation of the mind in all our concluſions concerning matter of fact and exiſtence; and 'tis a ſatisfaction to find ſome analogies, by which it may be explained. The tranſition from a preſent object does in all caſes give ſtrength and ſolidity to the related idea.

HERE is a kind of pre-eſtabliſhed harmony between the courſe of nature and the ſucceſſion of our ideas; and tho' the powers and forces, by which the former is governed, be wholly unknown to us; yet our thoughts and conceptions have ſtill, we find, gone on in the ſame train with the other works of nature. Cuſtom is that admirable principle, by which this correſpondence has been effected; ſo neceſſary to the ſubſiſtence of our ſpecies, and the regulation of our conduct, in every circumſtance and occurrence of human life. Had not the preſence of an object inſtantly excited the idea of thoſe objects, commonly conjoined with it, all our knowledge muſt have been limited to the narrow ſphere of our memory and ſenſes; and we ſhould never have been able to adjuſt means to ends, nor employ our natural powers, either to the producing of good, or avoiding of evil. Thoſe, who delight in the diſcovery and contemplation of final cauſes, have here ample ſubject to employ their wonder and admiration.

I SHALL add, for a further confirmation of the foregoing theory, that as this operation of the mind, by which we infer like effects from like cauſes, and vice verſa, is ſo eſſential to the ſubſiſtence of all human creatures, it is not probable that it could be truſted to the fallacious deductions of our reaſon, which is ſlow in its operations; appears not, in any degree, during the firſt years of infancy; and at beſt is, in every age and period of human life, extremely liable to error and miſtake. 'Tis more conformable to the ordinary wiſdom of nature of ſecure ſo neceſſary an act of the mind, by ſome inſtinct or mechanical tendency, which may be infallible in its operations, may diſcover itſelf at the firſt appearance of life and thought, and may be independent of all the labored deductions of the underſtanding. As nature has taught us the uſe of our limbs, without giving us the knowledge of the muſcles and nerves, by which they are actuated; ſo has ſhe implanted in us an inſtinct, which carries forward the thought in a correſpondent courſe to that which ſhe has eſtabliſhed among external objects; tho' we are ignorant of thoſe powers and forces, on which this regular courſe and ſucceſſion of objects totally depends.

PART I.

THE great advantage of the mathematical ſciences above the moral conſiſts in this, that the ideas of the former, being ſenſible, are always clear and determinate, the ſmalleſt diſtinction between them is immediately perceptible, and the ſame terms are ſtill expreſſive of the ſame ideas, without ambiguity or variation. An oval is never miſtaken for a circle, nor an hyperbola for an ellipſis. The iſoſceles and ſcalenum are diſtinguiſhed by boundaries more exact than vice and virtue, right and wrong. If any term be deſined in geometry, the mind readily, of itſelf ſubſtitutes, on all occaſions, the definition for the term defined; Or even when no definition is employed, the object itſelf may be preſented to the ſenſes, and by that means be ſteadily and clearly apprehended. But the finer ſentiments of the mind, the operations of the underſtanding, the various agitations of the paſſions, tho' really in themſelves diſtinct, eaſily eſcape us, when ſurveyed by reflection; nor is it in our power to recall the original object, as often as we have occaſion to contemplate it. Ambiguity, by this means, is gradually introduced into our reaſonings: Similar objects are readily taken to be the ſame: And the concluſion becomes at laſt very wide of the premiſes.

ONE may ſafely, however, affirm, that, if we conſider theſe ſciences in a proper light, their advantages and diſadvantages very nearly compenſate each other, and reduce both of them to a ſtate of equality. If the mind with greater facility retains the ideas of geometry clear and determinate, it muſt carry on a much longer and more intricate chain of reaſoning, and compare ideas much wider of each other, in order to reach the abſtruſer truths of that ſcience. And if moral ideas are apt, without extreme care, to fall into obſcurity and confuſion, the inferences are always much ſhorter in theſe diſquiſitions, and the intermediate ſteps, which lead to the concluſion, much fewer than in the ſciences which treat of quantity and number. In reality, there is ſcarce a propoſition in EUCLID ſo ſimple, as not to conſiſt of more parts, than are to be found in any moral reaſoning which runs not into chimera and conceit. Where we trace the principles of the human mind thro' a few ſteps, we may be very well ſatisfied with our progreſs; conſidering how ſoon nature throws a bar to all our inquiries concerning cauſes, and reduces us to an acknowledgment of our ignorance. The chief obſtacle, therefore, to our improvement in the moral or metaphyſical ſciences is the obſcurity of the ideas, and ambiguity of the terms. The principal difficulty in the mathematics is the length of inferences and compaſs of thought, requiſite to the forming any concluſion. And perhaps, our progreſs in natural philoſophy is chiefly retarded by the want of proper experiments and phaenomena, which often are diſcovered by chance, and cannot always be found, when requiſite, even by the moſt diligent and prudent inquiry. As moral philoſophy ſeems hitherto to have received leſs improvements than either geometry or phyſics, we may conclude, that, if there be any difference in this reſpect among theſe ſciences, the difficulties, which obſtruct the progreſs of the former, require ſuperior care and capacity to be ſurmounted.

THERE are no ideas, which occur in metaphyſics, more obſcure and uncertain, than thoſe of power▪ force, energy, or neceſſary connexion, of which it is every moment neceſſary for us to treat in all our diſquiſitions. We ſhall, therefore, endeavour, in this ſection, to fix, if poſſible, the preciſe meaning of theſe terms, and thereby remove ſome part of that obſcurity, which is ſo much complained of in this ſpecies of philoſophy.

IT ſeems a propoſition, which will not admit of much diſpute, that all our ideas are nothing but copies of our impreſſions, or, in other words, that 'tis impoſſible for us to think of any thing, which we have not antecedently felt, either by our external or internal ſenſes. I have endeavouredSection II. to explain and prove this propoſition, and have expreſſed my hopes, that, by a proper application of it, men may reach a greater clearneſs and preciſion in philoſophical reaſonings, than what they have hitherto been ever able to attain. Complex ideas may, perhaps, be well known by definition, which is nothing but an enumeration of thoſe parts or ſimple ideas, that compoſe them. But when we have puſhed up definitions to the moſt ſimple ideas, and find ſtill ſome ambiguity and obſcurity; what reſource are we then poſſeſſed of? By what invention can we throw light upon theſe ideas, and render them altogether preciſe and determinate to our intellectual view? Produce the impreſſions or original ſentiments, from which the ideas are copied. Theſe impreſſions are all ſtrong and ſenſible. They admit not of ambiguity. They are not only placed in a full light themſelves, but may throw light on their correſpondent ideas, which lie in obſcurity. And by this means, we may, perhaps, attain a new microſcope or ſpecies of optics, by which, in the moral ſciences, the moſt minute, and moſt ſimple ideas may be ſo enlarged as to fall readily under our apprehenſion, and be equally known with the groſſeſt and moſt ſenſible ideas, which can be the object of our inquiry.

To be fully acquainted, therefore, with the idea of power or neceſſary connexion, let us examine its impreſſion; and in order to find the impreſſion with greater certainty, let us ſearch for it in all the ſources, from which it may poſſibly be derived.

WHEN we look about us towards external objects, and conſider the operation of cauſes, we are never able, in a ſingle inſtance, to diſcover any power or neceſſary connexion; any quality, which binds the effect to the cauſe, and renders the one an infallible conſequence of the other. We only find, that the one does actually, in fact, follow the other. The impulſe of one billiard-ball is attended with motion in the ſecond. This is the whole that appears to the outward ſenſes. The mind feels no ſentiment or inward impreſſion from this ſucceſſion of objects: Conſequently, there is not, in any ſingle, particular inſtance of cauſe and effect, any thing which can ſuggeſt the idea of power or neceſſary connexion.

FROM the firſt appearance of an object, we never can conjecture what effect will reſult from it. But were the power or energy of any cauſe diſcoverable by the mind, we could foreſee the effect, even without experience, and might, at firſt, pronounce with certainty concerning it, by the mere dint of thought and reaſoning.

IN reality, there is no part of matter, that does ever, by its ſenſible qualities, diſcover any power or energy, or give us ground to imagine, that it could produce any thing, or be followed by any other object, which we could denominate its effect. Solidity, extenſion, motion; theſe qualities are all complete in themſelves, and never point out any other event which may reſult from them. The ſcenes of the univerſe are continually ſhifting, and one object follows another in an uninterrupted ſucceſſion; but the power or force, which actuates the whole machine, is intirely concealed from us, and never diſcovers itſelf in any of the ſenſible qualities of body. We know, that, in fact, heat is a conſtant attendant of flame; but what is the connexion between them, we have no room ſo much as to conjecture or imagine. 'Tis impoſſible, therefore, that the idea of power can be derived from the contemplation of bodies, in ſingle inſtances of their operation; becauſe no bodies ever diſcover any power, which can be the original of this ideaMr. LOCKE, in his chapter of power, ſays that finding from experience, that there are ſeveral new productions in matter, and concluding that there muſt ſomewhere be a power capable of producing them, we arrive at laſt by this reaſoning at the idea of power. But no reaſoning can ever give us a new, original, ſimple idea; as this philoſopher himſelf confeſſes. This, therefore, can never be the origin of that idea..

SINCE, therefore, external objects, as they appear to the ſenſes, give us no idea of power or neceſſary connexion, by their operations in particular inſtances, let us ſee, whether this idea be derived from reflection on the operations of our own minds, and be copied from any internal impreſſion. It may be ſaid, that we are every moment conſcious of power in our own minds; while we feel, that, by the ſimple command of our will, we can move the organs of our body, or direct the faculties of our minds, in their operation. An act of volition produces motion in our limbs, or raiſes a new idea in our imagination. This influence of the will we know by conſciouſneſs. Hence we acquire the idea of power or energy; and are certain, that we ourſelves and all other intelligent beings are poſſeſſed of power. This idea, then, is an idea of reflection, ſince it ariſes from reflecting on the operations of our own minds, and on the command which is exerciſed by will, both over the organs of the body and faculties of the mind.

WE ſhall proceed to examine this pretenſion; and firſt with regard to the influence of volition over the organs of the body. This influence, we may obſerve, is a fact, which, like all other natural operations, can be known only by experience, and can never be foreſeen from any apparent energy or power in the cauſe, which connects it with the effect, and renders the one an inſallible conſequence of the other. The motion of our body follows upon the command of our will. Of this we are every moment conſcious: But the means, by which this is effected; the energy, by which the will performs ſo extraordinary an operation; of this we are ſo far from being immediately conſcious, that it muſt for ever eſcape our moſt diligent inquiry.

FOR firſt; is there any principle in all nature more myſterious than the union of ſoul with body; by which a ſuppoſed ſpiritual ſubſtance acquires ſuch an influence over a material one, that the moſt refined thought is able to actuate the groſſeſt matter? Were we empowered, by a ſecret wiſh, to remove mountains, or control the planets in their orbit; this extenſive authority would not be more extraordinary, nor more beyond our comprehenſion. But if by conſciouſneſs we perceived any power or energy in the will, we muſt know this power; we muſt know its connexion with the effect; we muſt know the ſecret union of ſoul and body, and the nature of both theſe ſubſtances: by which the one is able to operate, in ſo many inſtances, upon the other.

Secondly, We are not able to move all the organs of the body with a like authority; tho' we cannot aſſign any other reaſon, beſides experience, for ſo remarkable a difference betwixt one and the other. Why has the will an influence over the tongue and fingers, and not over the heart or liver? This queſtion would never embarraſs us, were we conſcious of a power in the former caſe, and not in the latter. We ſhould then perceive, independent of experience, why the authority of will over the organs of the body is circumſcribed within ſuch particular limits. Being in that caſe fully acquainted with the power or force, by which it operates, we ſhould alſo know, why its influence reaches preciſely to ſuch boundaries, and no farther.

A MAN, ſtruck ſuddenly with a palſy in the leg or arm, or who had newly loſt thoſe members, frequently endeavours, at firſt to move them, and employ them in their uſual offices. Here he is as much conſcious of power to command ſuch limbs, as a man in perfect health is conſcious of power to actuate any member which remains in its natural ſtate and condition. But conſciouſneſs never deceives. Conſequently, neither in the one caſe nor in the other, are we ever conſcious of any power. We learn the influence of our will from experience alone. And experience only teaches us, how one event conſtantly follows another, without inſtructing us in the ſecret connexion, which binds them together, and renders them inſeparable.

Thirdly, WE learn from anatomy, that the immediate object of power in voluntary motion, is not the member itſelf which is moved, but certain muſcles, and nerves, and animal ſpirits, and perhaps, ſomething ſtill more minute and more unknown, thro' which the motion is ſucceſſively propagated, ere it reach the member itſelf whoſe motion is the immediate object of volition. Can there be a more certain proof, that the power, by which this whole operation is performed, ſo far from being directly and fully known by an inward ſentiment or conſciouſneſs, is, to the laſt degree, myſterious and unintelligible? Here the mind wills a certain event: Immediately, another event, unknown to ourſelves, and totally different from that intended, is produced: This event produces another, equally unknown: Till at laſt, thro' a long ſucceſſion, the deſired event is produced. But if the original power were felt, it muſt be known: Were it known, its effect muſt alſo be known; ſince all power is relative to its effect. And vice verſa, if the effect be not known, the power cannot be known or felt. How indeed can we be conſcious of a power to move our limbs, when we have no ſuch power; but only that to move certain animal ſpirits, which, tho' they produce at laſt the motion of our limbs, yet operate in ſuch a manner as is wholly beyond our comprehenſion?

WE may, therefore, conclude from the whole, I hope, without any temerity, tho' with aſſurance; that our idea of power is not copied from any ſentiment or conſciouſneſs of power within ourſelves, when we give riſe to animal motion, or apply our limbs to their proper uſe and office. That their motion follows the command of the will is a matter of common experience, like other natural events: But the power or energy, by which this is effected, like that in other natural events, is unknown and inconceivableIt may be pretended, that the reſiſtance which we meet with in bodies, obliging us frequently to exert our force, and call up all our power, this gives us the idea of force and power. 'Tis this niſus or ſtrong endeavour, of which we are conſcious, that is the original impreſſion from which this idea is copied. But, firſt, we attribute power to a vaſt number of objects, where we never can ſuppoſe this reſiſtance or exertion of force to take place; to the Supreme Being, who never meets with any reſiſtance; to the mind in its command over its ideas and limbs, in common thinking and motion, where the effect follows immediately upon the will, without any exertion or ſummoning up of force; to inanimate matter, which is not capable of this ſentiment. Secondly, This ſentiment of an endeavour to overcome reſiſtance has no known connexion with any event: What follows it, we know by experience; but could not know it à priori. It muſt, however, be confeſſed, that the animal niſus, which we experience, tho' it can afford no accurate preciſe idea of power, enters very much into that vulgar, inaccurate idea, which is formed of it. See p. 121..

SHALL We then aſſert, that we are conſcious of a power or energy in our own minds, when, by an act or command of our will, we raiſe up a new idea, fix the mind to a contemplation of it, turn it on all ſides, and at laſt diſmiſs it for ſome other idea, when we think, that we have ſurveyed it with ſufficient accuracy? I believe the ſame arguments will prove, that even this command of the will gives us no real idea of force or energy.

Firſt, IT muſt be allowed, that when we know a power, we know that very circumſtance in the cauſe, by which it is enabled to produce the effect: For theſe are ſuppoſed to be ſynonimous. We muſt, therefore, know both the cauſe and effect, and the relation between them. But do we pretend to be acquainted with the nature of the human ſoul and the nature of an idea, or the aptitude of the one to produce the other? This is a real creation; a production of ſomething out of nothing: Which implies a power ſo great, that it may ſeem, at firſt ſight, beyond the reach of any being, leſs than infinite. At leaſt it muſt be owned, that ſuch a power is not felt, nor known, nor even conceivable by the mind. We only feel the event, viz. The exiſtence of an idea, confequent to a command of the will: But the manner, in which this operation is performed; the power, by which it is produced; is intirely beyond our comprehenſion.

Secondly, THE command of the mind over itſelf is limited, as well as its command over the body; and theſe limits are not known by reaſon, or any acquaintance with the nature of the cauſe and effect; but only by experience and obſervation, as in all other natural events and in the operation of external objects. Our authority over our ſentiments and paſſions is much weaker than that over our ideas; and even the latter authority is circumſcribed within very narrow boundaries. Will any one pretend to aſſign the ultimate reaſon of theſe boundaries, or ſhow why the power is deficient in one caſe and not in another?

Thirdly, THIS ſelf-command is very different at different times. A man in health poſſeſſes more of it, than one languiſhing with ſickneſs. We are more maſter of our thoughts in the morning than in the evening: Faſting, than after a full meal. Can we give any reaſon for theſe variations, except experience? Where then is the power, of which we pretend to be conſcious? Is there not here, either in a ſpiritual or material ſubſtance, or both, ſome ſecret mechaniſm or ſtructure of parts, upon which the effect depends, and which being intirely unknown to us, renders the power or energy of the will equally unknown and incomprehenſible?

VOLITION is ſurely an act of the mind, with which we are ſufficiently acquainted. Reflect upon it. Conſider it on all ſides. Do you find any thing in it like this creative power, by which it raiſes from nothing a new idea, and with a kind of FIAT, imitates the omnipotence of its Maker, if I may be allowed ſo to ſpeak, who called forth into exiſtence all the various ſcenes of nature? So far from being conſcious of this energy in the will, it requires as certain experience, as that of which we are poſſeſſed, to convince us, that ſuch extraordinary effects do ever reſult from a ſimple act of volition.

THE generality of mankind never find any difficulty in accounting for the more common and familiar operations of nature; ſuch as the deſcent of heavy bodies, the growth of plants, the generation of animals, or the nouriſhment of bodies by food: But ſuppoſe, that, in all theſe caſes, they perceive the very force or energy of the cauſe, by which it is connected with its effect, and is for ever infallible in its operation. They acquire, by long habit, ſuch a turn of mind, that, upon the appearance of the cauſe, they immediately expect with aſſurance its uſual attendant, and hardly conceive it poſſible, that any other event could reſult from it. 'Tis only on the diſcovery of extraordinary phaenomena, ſuch as earthquakes, peſtilence, and prodigies of any kind, that they find themſelves at a loſs to aſſign a proper cauſe, and to explain the manner in which the effect is produced by it. 'Tis uſual for men, in ſuch difficulties, to have recourſe to ſome inviſible, intelligent principle 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 ., as the immediate cauſe of that event, which ſurpriſes them, and which, they think, cannot be accounted for from the common powers of nature. But philoſophers, who carry their ſcrutiny a little farther, immediately perceive, that, even in the moſt familiar events, the energy of the cauſe is as unintelligible as in the moſt unuſual, and that we only learn by experience the frequent CONJUNCTION of objects, without being ever able to comprehend any thing like CONNEXION between them. Here then, many philoſophers think themſelves obliged by reaſon to have recourſe, on all occaſions, to the ſame principle, which the vulgar never appeal to but in caſes, that appear miraculous and ſupernatural. They acknowledge mind and intelligence to be, not only the ultimate and original cauſe of all things, but the immediate and ſole cauſe of every event, which appears in nature. They pretend, that thoſe objects, which are commonly denominated cauſes, are in reality nothing but occaſions; and that the true and direct principle of every effect is not any power or force in nature, but a volition of the Supreme Being, who wills, that ſuch particular objects ſhould, for ever, be conjoined with each other. Inſtead of ſaying, that one billiard-ball moves another, by a force which it has derived from the author of nature; 'tis the Deity himſelf, they ſay, who, by a particular volition, moves the ſecond ball, being determined to this operation by the impulſe of the firſt ball; in conſequence of thoſe general laws, which he has laid down to himſelf in the government of the univerſe. But philoſophers, advancing ſtill in their inquiries, diſcover, that, as we are totally ignorant of the power on which depends the mutual operation of bodies, we are no leſs ignorant of that power, on which depends the operation of mind on body, or of body on mind; nor are we able, either from our ſenſes or conſciouſneſs, to aſſign the ultimate principle in one caſe, more than in the other. The ſame ignorance, therefore, reduces them to the ſame concluſion. They aſſert, that the Deity is the immediate cauſe of the union between ſoul and body, and that they are not the organs of ſenſe, which, being agitated by external objects, produce ſenſations in the mind; but that 'tis a particular volition of our omnipotent Maker, which excites ſuch a ſenſation, in conſequence of ſuch a motion in the organ. In like manner, it is not any energy in the will, that produces local motion in our members: 'Tis God himſelf, who is pleaſed to ſecond our will, in itſelf impotent, and to command that motion, which we erroneouſly attribute to our own power and efficacy. Nor do philoſophers ſtop at this concluſion. They ſometimes extend the ſame inference to the mind itſelf, in its internal operations. Our mental viſion or conception of ideas is nothing but a revelation made to us by our Maker. When we voluntarily turn our thoughts to any object, and raiſe up its image in the fancy; it is not the will which creates that idea; 'Tis the univerſal Creator of all things, who diſcovers it to the mind, and renders it preſent to us.

THUS, according to theſe philoſophers, every thing is full of God. Not contented with the principle, that nothing exiſts but by his will, that nothing poſſeſſes any power but by his conceſſion: They rob nature, and all created beings, of every power, in order to render their dependance on the Deity ſtill more ſenſible and immediate. They conſider not, that by this theory they diminiſh, inſtead of magnifying, the grandeur of thoſe attributes, which they affect ſo much to celebrate. It argues ſurely more power in the Deity to delegate a certain degree of power to inferior creatures, than to operate every thing by his own immediate volition. It argues more wiſdom to contrive at firſt the fabric of the world with ſuch perfect foreſight, that, of itſelf, and by its proper operation, it may ſerve all the purpoſes of providence, than if the great Creator were obliged every moment to adjuſt its parts, and animate by his breath all the wheels of that ſtupendous machine.

BUT if we would have a more a philoſophical confutation of this theory, perhaps the two following reflections may ſuffice.

Firſt, IT ſeems to me, that this theory of the univerſal energy and operation of the Supreme Being, is too bold ever to carry conviction with it to a man who is ſufficiently apprized of the weakneſs of human reaſon, and the narrow limits, to which it is confined in all its operations. Tho' the chain of arguments, which conduct to it, were ever ſo logical, there muſt ariſe a ſtrong ſuſpicion, if not an abſolute aſſurance, that it has carried us quite beyond the reach of our faculties, when it leads to concluſions ſo extraordinary, and ſo remote from common life and experience. We are got into fairy land, long ere we have reached the laſt ſteps of our theory; and there we have no reaſon to truſt our common methods of argument, or think that our uſual analogies and probabilities have any authority. Our line is too ſhort to fathom ſuch immenſe abyſſes. And however we may flatter ourſelves, that we are guided, in every ſtep which we take, by a kind of veriſimilitude and experience; we may be aſſured, that this fancied experience has no authority when we thus apply it to ſubjects that lie intirely out of the ſphere of experience. But on this we ſhall have occaſion to touch afterwardsSection XII..

Secondly, I cannot perceive any force in the arguments on which this theory is founded. We are ignorant, tis true, of the manner in which bodies operate on each other: Their force or energy is intirely incomprehenſible. But are we not equally ignorant of the manner or force, by which a mind, even the ſupreme mind, operates either on itſelf or on body? Whence, I beſeech you, do we acquire any idea of it? We have no ſentiment or conſciouſneſs of this power in ourſelves. We have no idea of the Supreme Being but what we learn from reflection on our own faculties. Were our ignorance, therefore, a good reaſon for rejecting any thing, we ſhould be led into that principle of denying all energy in the Supreme Being as much as in the groſſeſt matter. We ſurely com prehend as little the operations of one as of the other. Is it more difficult to conceive, that motion may ariſe from impulſe, than that it may ariſe from volition? All we know is our profound ignorance in both caſesI need not examine at length the vis inertiae which is ſo much talked of in the new philoſophy, and which is aſcribed to matter. We find by experience, that a body at reſt or in motion continues for ever in its preſent ſtate, till put from it by ſome new cauſe: And that a body impelled takes as much motion from the impelling body as it acquires itſelf. Theſe are facts. When we call this a vis inertiae, we only mark theſe facts, without pretending to have any idea of the inert power; in the ſame manner as, when we talk of gravity, we mean certain effects, without comprehending that active power. It was never the meaning of Sir ISAAC NEWTON to rob ſecond cauſes of all force or energy; tho' ſome of his followers have endeavoured to eſtabliſh that theory upon his authority. On the contrary, that great philoſopher had recourſe to an etherial active fluid to explain his univerſal attraction; tho' he was ſo cautious and modeſt as to allow, that it was a mere hypotheſis, not to be inſiſted on, without more experiments. I muſt confeſs, that there is ſomething in the fate of opinions a little extraordinary. DES-CARTES inſinuated that doctrine of the univerſal and ſole efficacy of the Deity, without inſiſting on it. MALEERANCHE and other CARTESIANS made it the foundation of all their philoſophy. It had, however, no authority in ENGLAND. LOCKE, CLARKE, and CUDWORTH, never ſo much as take notice of it, but ſuppoſed all along, that matter has a real, tho' ſubordinate and derived power. By what means has it become ſo prevalent among our modern metaphyſicians?.

BUT to haſten to a concluſion of this argument, which is already drawn out to too great a length: We have ſought in vain for an idea of power or neceſſary connexion, in all the ſources from which we could ſuppoſe it to be derived. It appears, that, in ſingle inſtances of the operation of bodies, we never can, by our utmoſt ſcrutiny, diſcover any thing but one event following another; without being able to comprehend any force or power, by which the cauſe operates, or any connexion between it and its ſuppoſed effect. The ſame difficulty occurs in contemplating the operations of mind on body; where we obſerve the motion of the latter to follow upon the volition of the former; but are not able to obſerve nor conceive the tye, which binds together the motion and volition, or the energy by which the mind produces this effect. The authority of the will over its own faculties and ideas is not a whit more comprehenſible: So that, upon the whole, there appears not, thro' all nature, any one inſtance of connexion, which is conceivable by us. All events ſeem intirely looſe and ſeparate. One event follows another; but we never can obſerve any tye between them. They ſeem conjoined, but never connected. And as we can have no idea of any thing, which never appeared to our outward ſenſe or inward ſentiment, the neceſſary concluſion ſeems to be, that we have no idea of connexion or power at all, and that theſe words are abſolutely without any meaning, when employed either in philoſophical reaſonings, or common life.

BUT there ſtill remains one method of avoiding this concluſion, and one ſource which we have not yet examined. When any natural object or event is preſented, 'tis impoſſible for us, by any ſagacity or penetration, to diſcover, or even conjecture, without experience, what event will reſult from it, or to carry our foreſight beyond that object, which is immediately preſent to the memory and ſenſes. Even after one inſtance or experiment, where we have obſerved a particular event to follow upon another, we are not intitled to form a general rule, or foretel what will happen in like caſes; it being juſtly eſteemed an unpardonable temerity to judge of the whole courſe of nature from one ſingle experiment, however accurate or certain. But when one particular ſpecies of event has always, in all inſtances, been conjoined with another, we make no longer any ſcruple to foretel the one upon the appearance of the other, and to employ that reaſoning, which can alone aſſure us of any matter of fact or exiſtence. We then call the one object, Cauſe; and the other, Effect. We ſuppoſe, that there is ſome connexion between them; ſome power in the one, by which it infallibly produces the other, and operates with the greateſt certainty and ſtrongeſt neceſſity.

IT appears, then, that this idea of a neceſſary connexion from events ariſes from a number of ſimilar inſtances, which occur, of the conſtant conjunction of theſe events; nor can that idea ever be ſuggeſted by any one of theſe inſtances, ſurveyed in all poſſible lights and poſitions. But there is nothing in a number of inſtances, different from every ſingle inſtance, which is ſuppoſed to be exactly ſimilar; except only, that after a repetition of ſimilar inſtances, the mind is carried by habit, upon the appearance of one event, to expect its uſual attendant, and to believe, that it will exiſt. This connexion, therefore, which we feel in the mind, or cuſtomary tranſition of the imagination from one object to its uſual attendant, is the ſentiment or impreſſion, from which we form the idea of power or neceſſary connexion. Nothing farther is in the caſe. Contemplate the ſubject on all ſides, you will never find any other origin of this idea. This is the ſole difference between one inſtance, from which we never can receive the idea of connexion, and a number of ſimilar inſtances, by which it is ſuggeſted. The firſt time a man ſaw the communication of motion by impulſe, as by the ſhock of two billiard balls, he could not pronounce that the one event was connected; but only that it was conjoined with the other. After he has obſerved ſeveral inſtances of this nature, he then pronounces them to be connected. What alteration has happened to give riſe to this new idea of connexion? Nothing but that he now feels theſe events to be connected in his imagination, and can readily foretel the exiſtence of one from the appearance of the other. When we ſay, therefore, that one object is connected with another, we mean only, that they have acquired a connexion in our thoughts, and give riſe to this inference, by which they become proofs of each other's exiſtence: A concluſion; which is ſomewhat extraordinary; but which ſeems founded on ſufficient evidence. Nor will its evidence be weakned by any general diffidence of the underſtanding, or ſceptical ſuſpicion concerning every concluſion, which is new and extraordinary. No concluſions can be more agreeable to ſcepticiſm than ſuch as make diſcoveries concerning the weakneſs and narrow limits of human reaſon and capacity.

AND what ſtronger inſtance can be produced of the ſurpriſing ignorance and weakneſs of the underſtanding, than the preſent? For ſurely, if there be any relation among objects, which it imports us to know perfectly, 'tis that of cauſe and effect. On this are founded all our reaſonings concerning matter of fact or exiſtence. By means of it alone we attain any aſſurance concerning objects which are removed from the preſent teſtimony of our memory and ſenſes. The only immediate utility of all ſciences, is to teach us, how to control and regulate future events by their cauſes. Our thoughts and inquiries are, therefore, every moment, employed about this relation. And yet ſo imperfect are the ideas which we form concerning it, that 'tis impoſſible to give any juſt definition of cauſe, except what is drawn from ſomething extraneous and foreign to it. Similar objects are always conjoined with ſimilar. Of this we have experience. Suitable to this experience, therefore, we may define a cauſe to be an object, followed by another, and where all the objects, ſimilar to the firſt, are followed by objects ſimilar to the ſecond. Or in other words, where, if the firſt object had not been, the ſecond never had exiſted. The appearance of a cauſe always conveys the mind, by a cuſtomary tranſition, to the idea of the effect. Of this alſo we have experience. We may, therefore, ſuitable to this experience, form another definition of cauſe, and call it, an object followed by another, and whoſe appearance always conveys the thought to that other. But tho' both theſe definitions be drawn from circumſtances foreign to the cauſe, we cannot remedy this inconvenience, or attain any more perfect definition, which may point out that circumſtance in the cauſe, which gives it a connexion with its effect. We have no idea of this connexion; nor even any diſtinct notion what it is we deſire to know, when we endeavour at a conception of it. We ſay, for inſtance, that the vibration of this ſtring is the cauſe of this particular ſound. But what do we mean by that affirmation? We either mean, that this vibration is followed by this ſound, and that all ſimilar vibrations have been followed by ſimilar ſounds: Or, that this vibration is followed by this ſound, and that upon the appearance of one, the mind anticipates the ſenſes, and forms immediately an idea of the other. We may conſider the relation of cauſe and effect in either of theſe two lights; but beyond theſe, we have no idea of it

According to theſe explications and definitions, the idea of power is relative as much as that of cauſe; and both have a reference to an effect, or ſome other event conſtantly conjoined with the former. When we conſider the unknown circumſtance of an object, by which the degree or quantity of its effect is fixed and determined, we call that its power: And accordingly, 'tis allowed by all philoſophers, that the effect is the meaſure of the power. But if they had any idea of power, as it is in itſelf, why could not they meaſure it in itſelf? The diſpute whether the force of a body in motion be as its velocity, or the ſquare of its velocity; this diſpute, I ſay, needed not be decided by comparing its effects in equal or unequal times; but by a direct menſuration and compariſon.

As to the frequent uſe of the words, Force, Power, Energy, &c. which every where occur in common converſation, as well as in philoſophy; that is no proof, that we are acquainted, in any inſtance, with the connecting principle between cauſe and effect, or can account ultimately for the production of one thing by another. Theſe words, as commonly uſed, have very looſe meanings annexed to them; and their ideas are very uncertain and confuſed. No animal can put external bodies in motion without the ſentiment of a niſus or endeavour; and every animal has a ſentiment or feeling from the ſtroke or blow of an external object, that is in motion. Theſe ſenſations, which are merely animal, and from which we can à priori draw no inference, we are apt to transfer to inanimate objects, and to ſuppoſe, that they have ſome ſuch feelings, whenever they transfer or receive motion. With regard to energies, which are exerted, without our annexing to them any idea of communicated motion, we conſider only the conſtant experienced conjunction of the events; and as we feel a cuſtomary connexion between the ideas, we transfer that feeling to the objects; as nothing is more uſual than to apply to external bodies every internal ſenſation, which they occaſion.

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To recapitulate, therefore, the reaſonings of this ſection: Every idea is copied from ſome preceding impreſſion or ſentiment; and where we cannot find any impreſſion, we may be certain that there is no idea. In all ſingle inſtances of the operation of bodies or minds, there is nothing that produces any impreſſion, nor conſequently can ſuggeſt any idea of power or neceſſary connexion. But when many uniform inſtances appear, and the ſame object is always followed by the ſame event; we then begin to entertain the notion of cauſe and connexion. We then feel a new ſentiment or impreſſion, viz. a cuſtomary connexion in the thought or imagination between one object and its uſual attendant; and this ſentiment is the original of that idea which we ſeek for. For as this idea ariſes from a number of ſimilar inſtances, and not from any ſingle inſtance; it muſt ariſe from that circumſtance, in which the number of inſtances differ from every individual inſtance. But this cuſtomary connexion or tranſition of the imagination is the only circumſtance, in which they differ. In every other particular they are alike. The firſt inſtance which we ſaw of motion, communicated by the ſhock of two billiard-balls (to return to this obvious inſtance) is exactly ſimilar to any inſtance that may, at preſent, occur to us; except only, that we could not, at firſt, infer one event from the other; which we are enabled to do at preſent, after ſo long a courſe of uniform experience. I know not, if the reader will readily apprehend this reaſoning. I am afraid, that, ſhould I multiply words about it, or throw it into a greater variety of lights, it would only become more obſcure and intricate. In all abſtract reaſonings, there is one point of view, which, if we can happily hit, we ſhall go farther towards illuſtrating the ſubject, than by all the eloquence and copious expreſſion in the world. This we ſhould endeavour to attain, and reſerve the flowers of rhetoric for ſubjects, which are more adapted to them.

PART I.

IT might reaſonably be expected, in queſtions, which have been canvaſſed and diſputed with great eagerneſs ſince the firſt origin of ſcience and philoſophy, that the meaning of all the terms, at leaſt, ſhould have been agreed upon among the diſputants; and our enquiries, in the courſe of two thouſand years, been able to paſs from words to the true and real ſubject of the controverſy. For how eaſy may it ſeem to give exact definitions of the terms employed in reaſoning, and make theſe definitions, not the mere ſound of words, the object of future ſcrutiny and examination? But if we conſider the matter more narrowly, we ſhall be apt to draw a quite oppoſite concluſion. From that circumſtance alone, that a controverſy has been long kept on foot, and remains ſtill undecided, we may preſume, that there is ſome ambiguity in the expreſſion, and that the diſputants affix different ideas to the terms employed in the controverſy. For as the faculties of the ſoul are ſuppoſed to be naturally alike in every individual; otherwiſe nothing could be more fruitleſs than to reaſon or diſpute together; it were impoſſible, if men affix the ſame ideas to their terms, that they could ſo long form different opinions of the ſame ſubject; eſpecially when they communicate their views, and each party turn themſelves on all ſides, in ſearch of arguments, which may give them the victory over their antagoniſts. 'Tis ture; if men attempt the diſcuſſion of queſtions, which lie entirely beyond the reach of human capacity, ſuch as thoſe concerning the origin of worlds, or the oeconomy of the intellectual ſyſtem or region of ſpirits, they may long beat the air in their fruitleſs conteſts, and never arrive at any determinate concluſion. But if the queſtion regard any ſubject of common life and experience; nothing, one would think, could preſerve the diſpute ſo long undecided, but ſome ambiguous expreſſions, which keep the antagoniſts ſtill at a diſtance, and hinder them from grappling with each other.

THIS has been the caſe in the long diſputed queſtion concerning liberty and neceſſity; and to ſo remarkable a degree, that, if I be not much miſtaken, we ſhall find all mankind, both learned and ignorant, to have been always of the ſame opinion with regard to that ſubject, and that a few intelligible definitions would immediately have put an end to the whole controverſy. I own, that this diſpute has been ſo much canvaſſed, on all hands, and has led philoſophers into ſuch a labyrinth of obſcure ſophiſtry, that 'tis no wonder if a ſenſible and polite reader indulge his eaſe ſo far as to turn a deaf ear to the propoſal of ſuch a queſtion, from which he can expect neither inſtruction nor entertainment. But the ſtate of the argument here propoſed may, perhaps, ſerve to renew his attention; as it has more novelty, promiſes at leaſt ſome deciſion of the controverſy, and will not much diſturb his eaſe, by any intricate or obſcure reaſoning.

I HOPE, therefore, to make it appear, that all men have ever agreed in the doctrines both of neceſſity and of liberty, according to any reaſonable ſenſe, which can be put on theſe terms; and that the whole controverſy has hitherto turned merely upon words. We ſhall begin with examining the doctrine of neceſſity.

'TIS univerſally allowed, that matter, in all its operations, is actuated by a neceſſary force, and that every natural effect is ſo preciſely determined by the energy of its cauſe, that no other effect, in ſuch particular circumſtances, could poſſibly have reſulted from the operation of that cauſe. The degree and direction of every motion is, by the laws of nature, preſcribed with ſuch exactneſs, that a living creature may as ſoon ariſe from the ſhock of two bodies, as motion in any other degree or direction, than what is actually produced by it Would we, therefore, form a juſt and preciſe idea of neceſſity, we muſt conſider, whence that idea ariſes, when we apply it to the operation of bodies.

IT ſeems evident, that, if all the ſcenes of nature were ſhifted continually in ſuch a manner, that no two events bore any reſemblance to each other, but every object was entirely new, without any ſimilitude to whatever had been ſeen before, we ſhould never, in that caſe, have attained the leaſt idea of neceſſity, or of a connexion among theſe objects. We might ſay, upon ſuch a ſuppoſition, that one object or event has followed another; not that one was produced by the other. The relation of cauſe and effect muſt be utterly unknown to mankind. Inference and reaſoning concerning the operations of nature would, from that moment, be at an end; and the memory and ſenſes remain the only canals, by which the knowlege of any real exiſtence could poſſibly have acceſs to the mind. Our idea, therefore, of neceſſity and cauſation ariſes entirely from that uniformity, obſervable in the operations of nature; where ſimilar objects are conſtantly conjoined together, and the mind is determined by cuſtom to infer the one from the appearance of the other. Theſe two circumſtances form the whole of that neceſſity, which we aſcribe to matter. Beyond the conſtant conjunction of ſimilar objects, and the conſequent inference from one to the other, we have no notion of any neceſſity, or connexion.

IF it appear, therefore, that all mankind have ever allowed, without any doubt or heſitation, that theſe two circumſtances take place in the voluntary actions of men, and in the operations of the mind; it muſt follow, that all mankind have ever agreed in the doctrine of neceſſity, and that they have hitherto diſputed, merely for not underſtanding each other.

As to the firſt circumſtance, the conſtant and regular conjunction of ſimilar events; we may poſſibly ſatisfy ourſelves by the following conſiderations. It is univerſally acknowledged, that there is a great uniformity among the actions of men, in all nations and ages, and that human nature remains ſtill the ſame, in its principles and operations. The ſame motives produce always the ſame actions: The ſame events follow from the ſame cauſes. Ambition, avarice, ſelf love, vanity, friendſhip, generoſity, public ſpirit; theſe paſſions, mixed in various degrees, and diſtributed thro' ſociety, have been, from the beginning of the world, and ſtill are, the ſources of all the actions and enterprizes, which have ever been obſerved among mankind. Would you know the ſentiments, inclinations, and courſe of life of the GREEKS and ROMANS? Study well the temper and actions of the FRENCH and ENGLISH. You cannot be much miſtaken in transferring to the former moſt of the obſervations, which you have made with regard to the latter. Mankind are ſo much the ſame, in all times and places, that hiſtory informs us of nothing new or ſtrange in this particular. Its chief uſe if only to diſcover the conſtant and univerſal principles of human nature, by ſhewing men in all varieties of circumſtances and ſituations, and furniſhing us with materials, from which we may form our obſervations, and become acquainted with the regular ſprings of human action and behaviour. Theſe records of wars, intrigues, factions, and revolutions, are ſo many collections of experiments, by which the politician or moral philoſopher fixes the principles of his ſcience; in the ſame manner as the phyſician or natural philoſopher becomes acquainted with the nature of plants, minerals, and other external objects, by the experiments, which he forms concerning them. Nor are the earth, water, and other elements, examined by ARISTOTLE, and HIPPOCRATES, more like to thoſe, which at preſent lie under our obſervation, than the men, deſcribed by POLYBIUS and TACITUS, are to thoſe who now govern the world.

SHOULD a traveller, returning from a far country, bring us an account of men, entirely different from any, with whom we were ever acquainted; men, who were entirely diveſted of avarice, ambition, or revenge; who knew no pleaſure but friendſhip, generoſity, and publick ſpirit; we ſhould immediately, from theſe circumſtances, detect the falſhood, and prove him a liar, with the ſame certainty as if he had ſtuffed his narration with ſtories of centaurs and dragons, miracles and prodigies. And if we would explode any forgery in hiſtory, we cannot make uſe of a more convincing argument; than to prove, that the actions, aſcribed to any perſon, are directly contrary to the courſe of nature, and that no human motives, in ſuch circumſtances, could ever induce him to ſuch a conduct. The veracity of QUINTUS CURTIUS is as ſuſpicious, when he deſcribes the ſupernatural courage of ALEXANDER, by which he was hurried on ſingly to attack multitudes, as when he deſcribes his ſupernatural force and activity, by which he was able to reſiſt them. So readily and univerſally do we acknowlege an uniformity in human motives and actions as well as in the operations of body.

HENCE likewiſe the benefit of that experience, acquired by long life and a variety of buſineſs and company, in order to inſtruct us in the principles of human nature, and regulate our future conduct, as well as ſpeculation. By means of this guide, we mount up to the knowlege of mens inclinations and motives, from their actions, expreſſions, and even geſtures; and again, deſcend to the interpretation of their actions from our knowlege of their motives and inclinations. The general obſervations, treaſured up by a courſe of experience, give us the clue of human nature, and teaches us to unravel all its intricacies. Pretexts and appearances no longer deceive us. Public declarations paſs for the ſpecious colouring of a cauſe. And tho' virtue and honour be allowed their proper weight and authority, that perfect diſintereſtedneſs, ſo often pretended, is never expected in multitudes and parties; ſeldom in their leaders; and ſcarcely even in individuals of any rank or ſtation. But were there no uniformity in human actions, and were every experiment which we could form of this kind irregular and anomolous, it were impoſſible to collect any general obſervations concerning mankind; and no experience, however accurately digeſted by reflection, would ever ſerve to any purpoſe. Why is the antient huſbandman more ſkilful in his calling than the young beginner, but becauſe there is a certain uniformity in the operation of the ſun, rain, and earth, towards the production of vegetables; and experience teaches the old practitioner the rules, by which this operation is governed and directed?

WE muſt not, however, expect, that this uniformity of human actions ſhould be carried to ſuch a length, as that all men in the ſame circumſtances, ſhould always act preciſely in the ſame manner, without any allowance for the diverſity of characters, prejudices, and opinions. Such a uniformity, in every particular is found in no part of nature. On the contrary, from obſerving the variety of conduct in different men, we are enabled to form a greater variety of maxims, which ſtill ſuppoſe a degree of uniformity and regularity.

ARE the manners of men different in different ages and countries? We learn thence the great force of cuſtom and education, which mould the human mind from its infancy, and form it into a fixed and eſtabliſhed character. Is the behaviour and conduct of the one ſex very unlike that of the other? 'Tis from thence we become acquainted with the different characters, which nature has impreſſed upon the ſexes, and which ſhe preſerves with conſtancy and regularity. Are the actions of the ſame perſon much diverſified in the different periods of his life, from infancy to old age? This affords room for many general obſervations concerning the gradual change of our ſentiments and inclinations, and the different maxims, which prevail in the different ages of human creatures. Even the characters which are peculiar to each individual, have an uniformity in their influence, otherwiſe our acquaintance with the perſons, and our obſervation of their conduct could never teach us their diſpoſitions, nor ſerve to direct our behaviour with regard to them.

I GRANT it poſſible to find ſome actions, which ſeem to have no regular connexion with any known motives, and are exceptions to all the meaſures of conduct, which have ever been eſtabliſhed for the government of men. But if we would willingly know, what judgment ſhould be formed of ſuch irregular and extraordinary actions; we may conſider the ſentiments that are commonly entertained with regard to thoſe irregular events, which appear in the courſe of nature, and the operations of external objects. All cauſes are not conjoined to their uſual effects, with like uniformity. An artificer, who handles only dead matter, may be diſappointed of his aim as well as the politician, who directs the conduct of ſenſible and intelligent agents.

THE vulgar, who take things according to their firſt appearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to ſuch an uncertainty in the cauſes as makes the latter often fail of their uſual influence; tho' they meet with no impediment in their operation. But philoſophers, obſerving, that almoſt in every part of nature there is contained a vaſt variety of ſprings and principles, which are hid, by reaſon of their minuteneſs or remoteneſs, find, that 'tis at leaſt poſſible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency in the cauſe, but from the ſecret operation of contrary cauſes. This poſſibility is converted into certainty by farther obſervation, when they remark, that, upon an exact ſcrutiny, a contrariety of effects always betrays a contrariety of cauſes, and proceeds from their mutual oppoſition. A peaſant can give no better reaſon for the ſtopping of any clock or watch than to ſay that it commonly does not not go right: But an artizan eaſily perceives, that the ſame force in the ſpring or pendulum has always the ſame influence on the wheels; but fails of its uſual effect, perhaps by reaſon of a grain of duſt, which puts a ſtop to the whole movement. From the obſervation of ſeveral parallel inſtances, philoſophers form a maxim, that the connexion between all cauſes and effects is equally neceſſary, and that its ſeeming uncertainty in ſome inſtances proceeds from the ſecret oppoſition of contrary cauſes.

THUS for inſtance, in the human body, when the uſual ſymptoms of health or ſickneſs diſappoint our expectation; when medicines operate not with their wonted powers; when irregular events follow from any particular cauſes; the philoſopher and phyſician are not ſurprized at the matter, nor are ever tempted to deny, in general, the neceſſity and uniformity of thoſe principles, by which the animal oeconomy is conducted. They know, that a human body is a mighty complicated machine: That many ſecret powers lurk in it, which are altogether beyond our comprehenſion: That to us it muſt often appear very uncertain in its operations: And that therefore the irregular events, which outwardly diſcover themſelves, can be no proof, that the laws of nature are not obſerved with the greateſt regularity in its internal operations and government.

THE philoſopher, if he be conſiſtent, muſt apply the ſame reaſonings to the actions and volitions of intelligent agents. The moſt irregular and unexpected reſolutions of men may frequently be accounted for by thoſe who know every particular circumſtance of their character and ſituation. A perſon of an obliging diſpoſition gives a peeviſh anſwer: But he has the tooth-ake, or has not dined. A ſtupid fellow diſcovers an uncommon alacrity in his carriage: But he has met with a ſudden piece of good fortune. Or even when an action, as ſometimes happens, cannot be particularly accounted for, either by the perſon himſelf or by others; we know, in general, that the characters of men are, to a certain degree, inconſtant and irregular. This is, in a manner, the conſtant character of human nature; tho' it be applicable, in a more particular manner, to ſome perſons, who have no fixed rule for their conduct, but proceed in a continued courſ of caprice and inconſtancy. The internal principles and motives may operate in an uniform manner, notwithſtanding theſe ſeeming irregularities; in the ſame manner as the winds, rain, clouds, and other variations of the weather are ſuppoſed to be governed by ſteady principles; tho' not eaſily diſcoverable by human ſagacity and enquiry.

THUS it appears, not only that the conjunction between motives and voluntary actions is as regular and uniform, as that between the cauſe and effect in any part of nature; but alſo that this regular conjunction has been univerſally acknowleged among mankind, and has never been the ſubject of diſpute, either in philoſophy or common life. Now as it is from paſt experience, that we draw all inferences concerning the future, and as we conclude, that objects will always be conjoined together, which we find always to have been conjoined; it may ſeem ſuperfluous to prove, that this experienced uniformity in human actions is the ſource of all the inferences, which we form concerning them. But in order to throw the argument into a greater variety of lights, we ſhall alſo inſiſt, tho' briefly, on this latter topic.

THE mutual dependance of men is ſo great, in all ſocieties, that ſcarce any human action is entirely compleat in itſelf, or is performed without ſome reference to the actions of others, which are requiſite to make it anſwer fully the intention of the agent. The pooreſt artificer, who labours alone, expects at leaſt the protection of the magiſtrate, to enſure the enjoyment of the fruits of his labour. He alſo expects, that, when he carries his goods to market, and offers them at a reaſonable price, he ſhall find buyers; and ſhall be able, by the money he acquires, to engage others to ſupply him with thoſe commodities, which are requiſite for his ſubſiſtence. In proportion as men extend their dealings, and render their intercourſe with others more complicated, they always comprehend, in their ſchemes of life, a greater variety of voluntary actions, which they expect, from their proper motives, to co-operate with their own. In all theſe concluſions, they take their meaſures from paſt experience, in the ſame manner as in their reaſonings concerning external objects: and firmly believe, that men, as well as all the elements, are to continue, in their operations, the ſame, which they have ever found them. A manufacturer reckons upon the labour of his ſervants, for the execution of any work, as much as upon the tools, which he employs, and would be equally ſurprized, were his expectations diſappointed. In ſhort, this experimental inference and reaſoning concerning the actions of others enters ſo much into human life, that no man, while awake, is ever a moment without employing it. Have we not reaſon, therefore, to affirm, that all mankind have always agreed in the doctrine of neceſſity, according to the foregoing definition and explication of it?

NOR have philoſophers ever entertained a different opinion from the people in this particular. For not to mention, that almoſt every action of their life ſuppoſes that opinion; there are even few of the ſpeculative parts of learning, to which it is not eſſential. What would become of hiſtory, had we not a dependence on the veracity of the hiſtorian, according to the experience, which we have had of mankind? How could politics be a ſcience, if laws and forms of government had not an uniform influence upon ſociety? Where would be the foundation of morals, if particular characters had no certain nor determinate power to produce particular ſentiments, and if theſe ſentiments had no conſtant operations on actions? And with what pretext could we employ our criticiſm upon any poet or polite author, if we could not pronounce the conduct and ſentiments of his actors, either natural or unnatural, to ſuch characters, and in ſuch circumſtances? It ſeems almoſt impoſſible, therefore, to engage, either in ſcience or action of any kind, without acknowleging the doctrine of neceſſity, and this inference from motives to voluntary actions; from characters to conduct.

AND indeed, when we conſider how aptly natural and moral evidence link together, and form only one chain of argument, we ſhall make no ſcruple to allow, that they are of the ſame nature, and derived from the ſame principles. A priſoner, who has neither money nor intereſt, diſcovers the impoſſibility of his eſcape, as well from the obſtinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars, with which he is ſurrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom, chuſes rather to work upon the ſtone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other. The ſame priſoner, when conducted to the ſcaffold, foreſees his death as certainly from the conſtancy and fidelity of his guards, as from the operation of the ax or wheel. His mind runs along a certain train of ideas: The refuſal of the ſoldiers to conſent to his eſcape; the action of the executioner; the ſeparation of the head and body; bleeding, convulſive motions, and death. Here is a connected chain of natural cauſes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference between them, in paſſing from one link to another: Nor is leſs certain of the future event than if it were connected with the objects preſent to the memory or ſenſes, by a train of cauſes, cemented together by what we are pleaſed to call a phyſical neceſſity. The ſame experienced union has the ſame effect on the mind, whether the united objects be motives, volitions, and actions; or figure and motion. We may change the names of things; but their nature and their operation on the underſtanding never change.

I HAVE frequently conſidered, what could poſſibly be the reaſon, why all mankind, tho' they have ever without heſitation, acknowleged the doctrine of neceſſity, in their whole practice and reaſoning, have yet diſcovered ſuch a reluctance to acknowlege it in words, and have rather ſhewn a propenſity, in all ages, to profeſs the contrary opinion. The matter, I think, may be accounted for, after the following manner. If we examine the operations of bodies and the production of effects from their cauſes, we ſhall find, that all our faculties can never carry us farther in our knowlege of this relation, than barely to obſerve, that particular objects are conſtantly conjoined together, and that the mind is carried, by a cuſtomary tranſition, from the appearance of one to the belief of the other. But tho' this concluſion concerning human ignorance be the reſult of the ſtricteſt ſcrutiny of this ſubject, men ſtill entertain a ſtrong propenſity to believe, that they penetrate farther into the powers of nature, and perceive ſomething like a neceſſary connexion between the cauſe and the effect. When again they turn their reflections towards the operations of their own minds, and feel no ſuch connexion of the motive and the action; they are apt, from thence, to ſuppoſe, that there is a difference between the effects, reſulting from material force, and thoſe which ariſe from thought and intelligence. But being once convinced, that we know nothing farther of cauſation of any kind, than merely the conſtant conjunction of objects, and the conſequent inference of the mind from one to another, and finding, that theſe two circumſtances are univerſally acknowleged to have place in voluntary actions; we may thence be more eaſily led to own the ſame neceſſity common to all cauſes. And tho' this reaſoning may contradict the ſyſtems of many philoſophers, in aſcribing neceſſity to the determinations of the will, we ſhall find, upon reflection, that they diſſent from it in words only, not in their real ſentiments. Neceſſity, according to the ſenſe, in which it is here taken, has never yet been rejected, nor can ever, I think, be rejected by any philoſopher. It may only, perhaps, be pretended, that the mind can perceive, in the operations of matter, ſome farther connexion between the cauſe and effect; and a connexion which has not place in the voluntary actions of intelligent beings. Now whether it be ſo or not, can only appear upon examination; and it is incumbent on theſe philoſophers to make good their aſſertion, by defining or deſcribing that neceſſity, and pointing it out to us, in the operations of material cauſes.

IT would ſeem, indeed, that men begin at the wrong end of this queſtion concerning liberty and neceſſity, when they enter upon it by examining the faculties of the ſoul, the influence of the underſtanding, and the operations of the will. Let them firſt diſcuſs a more ſimple queſtion, viz. the operations of body and of brute unintelligent matter; and try whether they can there form any idea of cauſation and neceſſity, except that of a conſtant conjunction of objects, and ſubſequent inference of the mind from one to another. If theſe circumſtances form, in reality, the whole of that neceſſity, which we can conceive in matter, and if theſe circumſtances be alſo univerſally acknowleged to take place in the operations of the mind, the diſpute is at an end; or, at leaſt, muſt be owned to be thenceforth merely verbal. But as long as we will raſhly ſuppoſe, that we have ſome farther idea of neceſſity and cauſation in the operations of external objects; at the ſame time, that we can find nothing farther, in the voluntary actions of the mind; there is no poſſibility of bringing the diſpute to any determinate iſſue, while we proceed upon ſo erroneous a ſuppoſition. The only method of undeceiving us, is, to mount up higher; to examine the narrow extent of ſcience, when applied to mateiral cauſes; and to convince ourſelves, that all we know of them, is, the conſtant conjunction and inference above-mentioned. We may, perhaps, find, that 'tis with difficulty we are induced to fix ſuch narrow limits to human underſtanding: But we can afterwards find no difficulty, when we come to apply this doctrine to the actions of the will. For as 'tis evident, that theſe have a regular conjunction with motives and circumſtances and characters, and as we always draw inferences from the one to the other, we muſt be obliged to acknowlege, in words, that neceſſity, which we have already avowed, in every deliberation of our lives, and in every ſtep of our conduct and behaviourThe prevalence of the doctrine of liberty may be accounted for, from another cauſe, viz. a falſe ſenſation or ſeeming experience which we have, or may have, of liberty or indifference, in many of our actions. The neceſſity of any action, whether of matter or of mind, is not, properly ſpeaking, a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who may conſider the action; and it conſiſts chiefly in the determination of his thoughts to infer the exiſtence of that action from ſome preceding objects; as liberty, when oppoſed to neceſſity, is nothing but the want of that determination, and a certain looſeneſs or indifference, which we feel, in paſſing, or not paſſing, from the idea of one object to that of any ſucceeding one. Now we may obſerve, that, tho' in reflecting on human actions we ſeldom feel ſuch a looſeneſs or indifference, but are commonly able to infer them with conſiderable certainty from their motives, and from the diſpoſitions of the agent; yet it frequently happens, that, in performing the actions themſelves, we are ſenſible of ſomething like it: And as all reſembling objects are readily taken for each other, this has been employed as a demonſtrative and 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, (or a Velleity, as it is called in the ſchools) even on that ſide, on which it did not ſettle. This image, or faint motion, we perſuade ourſelves, could, at that time, have been compleated into the thing itſelf; becauſe, ſhould that be denied, we find, upon a ſecond trial, that, at preſent, it can. We conſider not, that the fantaſtical deſire of ſhewing liberty, is here the motive of our actions. And it ſeems certain, that however we may imagine we feel a liberty within ourſelves, 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..

BUT to proceed in this reconciling project with regard to the queſtion of liberty and neceſſity; the moſt contentious queſtion, of metaphyſics, the moſt contentious ſcience; it will not require many words to prove, that all mankind have ever agreed in the doctrine of liberty as well as in that of neceſſity, and that the whole diſpute, in this reſpect alſo, has been hitherto merely verbal. For what is meant by liberty, when applied to voluntary actions? We cannot ſurely mean, that actions have ſo little connexion with motives, inclinations, and circumſtances, that the one does not follow with a certain degree of uniformity from the other, and that the one affords no inference, from which we can conclude the exiſtence of the other. For theſe are plain and acknowleged matters of fact. By liberty, then, we can only mean a power of acting or not acting, according to the determinations of the will; that is, if we chuſe to remain at reſt, we may; if we chuſe to move, we alſo may. Now this hypothetical liberty is univerſally allowed to belong to every body, who is not a priſoner and in chains. Here then is no ſubject of diſpute.

WHATEVER definition we may give of liberty, we ſhould be careful to obſerve two requiſite circumſtances; firſt, that it be conſiſtent with plain matter of fact; ſecondly, that it be conſiſtent with itſelf. If we obſerve theſe circumſtances, and render our definition intelligible, I am perſuaded that all mankind will be found of one opinion with regard to it.

'TIS univerſally allowed, that nothing exiſts without a cauſe of its exiſtence, and that chance, when ſtrictly examined, is a mere negative word, and means not any real power, which has, any where, a being in nature. But 'tis pretended that ſome cauſes are neceſſary, and ſome are not neceſſary. Here then is the admirable advantage of definitions. Let any one define a cauſe, without comprehending, as a part of the definition, a neceſſary connexion with its effect; and let him ſhew diſtinctly the origin of the idea, expreſſed by the definition; and I ſhall frankly give up the whole controverſy. But if the foregoing explication of the matter be received, this muſt be abſolutely impracticable. Had not objects a regular conjunction with each other, we ſhould never have entertained any notion of cauſe and effect; and this regular conjunction produces that inference of the underſtanding, which is the only connexion, that we can have any comprehenſion of. Whoever attempts a definition of cauſe, excluſive of theſe circumſtances, will be obliged, either to employ unintelligible terms, or ſuch as are ſynonimous to the term, which he endeavours to defineThus if a cauſe be defined, that which produces any thing; 'tis eaſy to obſerve, that producing is ſynonimous to cauſing. In like manner, if a cauſe be defined, that by which any thing exiſts; this is liable to the ſame objection. For what is meant by theſe words, by which? Had it been ſaid, that a cauſe is that after which any thing conſtantly exiſts; we ſhould have underſtood the terms. For this is, indeed, all we know of the matter. And this conſtancy forms the very eſſence of neceſſity, nor have we any other idea of it.. And if the definition above-mentioned be admitted; liberty, when oppoſed to neceſſity, not to conſtraint, is the ſame thing with chance; which is univerſally allowed to have no exiſtence.

PART II.

THERE is no method of reaſoning more common, and yet none more blameable, than in philoſophical debates, to endeavour the refutation of any hypotheſis, by a pretext of its dangerous conſequences to religion and morality. When any opinion leads into abſurdities, 'tis certainly falſe; but 'tis not certain that an opinion is falſe, becauſe 'tis of dangerous conſequence. Such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be forborne; 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 frankly to an examination of this kind, and ſhall venture to affirm, that the doctrines, both of neceſſity and of liberty, as above explained, are not only conſiſtent with morality and religion, but are abſolutely eſſential to the ſupport of them.

NECESSITY may be defined two ways, conformable to the two definitions of cauſe, of which it makes an eſſential part. It conſiſts either in the conſtant conjunction of like objects, or in the inference of the underſtanding from one object to another. Now neceſſity, in both theſe ſenſes, (which, indeed, are, at bottom, the ſame) has univerſally, tho' tacitly, in the ſchools, in the pulpit, and in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no man has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning human actions, and that thoſe inferences are founded in the experienced union of like actions, with like motives, inclinations, and circumſtances. The only particular, in which any one can differ, is, that either, perhaps, he will refuſe to give the name of neceſſity to this property of human actions: But as long as the meaning is underſtood, I hope the word can do no harm: Or that he will maintain it poſſible to diſcover ſomething farther in the operations of matter. But this, it muſt be acknowleged, can be of no conſequence to morality or religion, whatever it may be to natural philoſophy or metaphyſics. We may here be miſtaken in aſſerting, that there is no idea of any other neceſſity or connexion in the actions of body: But ſurely we aſcribe nothing to the actions of the mind, but what every one does, and muſt readily allow of. We change no circumſtance in the received orthodox ſyſtem with regard to the will, but only in that with regard to material objects and cauſes. Nothing therefore can be more innocent, at leaſt, than this doctrine.

ALL laws being founded on rewards and puniſhments, 'tis ſuppoſed as a fundamental principle, that theſe motives have a regular and uniform 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 'tis uſually conjoined with the action, it muſt be eſteemed a cauſe, and be looked upon as an inſtance of that neceſſity, which we would here eſtabliſh.

THE only proper object of hatred or vengeance, is a perſon or creature, endowed with thought and conſciouſneſs; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that paſſion, 'tis only by their relation to the perſon, or connexion with him. 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 can neither redound to his honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil. The actions themſelves may be blameable; they may be contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: But the perſon is not anſwerable for them; and as they proceeded from nothing in him, that is durable and conſtant, and leave nothing of that nature behind them, 'tis impoſſible he can, upon their account, become the object of puniſhment or vengeance. According to the principle, therefore, which denies neceſſity, and conſequently cauſes, a man is as pure and untainted, after having committed the moſt horrid crime, as at the firſt moment of his birth, nor is his charracter 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.

MEN are not blamed for ſuch actions, as they perform ignorantly and caſually, whatever may be the conſequences. Why? but becauſe the principles of theſe actions are only momentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are leſs blamed for ſuch actions as they perform haſtily and unpremeditately, than for ſuch as proceed from deliberation. For what reaſon? but becauſe a haſty temper, tho' a conſtant cauſe or principle in the mind, operates only by intervals, and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance wipes off every crime, if attended with a 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 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 except upon the doctrine of neceſſity, they never were juſt proofs, and conſequently never were criminal.

IT will be equally eaſy to prove, and from the ſame arguments, that liberty, according to that definition above mentioned, in which all men agree, is alſo eſſential to morality, and that no human actions, where it is wanting, are ſuſceptible of any moral qualities, or can be the objects either of approbation or diſlike. For as actions are objects of our moral ſentiments, ſo far only as they are indications of the internal character, paſſions, and affections; 'tis impoſſible that they can give riſe either to praiſe or blame, where they proceed not from theſe principles, but are derived altogether from external violence.

I PRETEND not to have obviated or removed all objections to this theory, with regard to neceſſity and liberty. I can foreſee other objections, derived from topics, which have not here been treated of. It may be ſaid, for inſtance, that if voluntary actions be ſubjected to the ſame laws of neceſſity with the operations of matter, there is a continued chain of neceſſary cauſes, pre-ordained and pre-determined, reaching from the original cauſe of all, to every ſingle volition of every human creature. No contingency any where in the univerſe; no indifference; no liberty. While we act, we are, at the ſame time, acted upon. The ultimate Author of all our volitions is the Creator of the world, who firſt beſtowed motion on this immenſe machine, and placed all beings in that particular poſition, whence every ſubſequent event, by an inevitable neceſſity, muſt reſult. Human actions, therefore, either can have no moral turpitude at all, as proceeding from ſo good a cauſe; or if they have any turpitude, they muſt involve our Creator in the ſame guilt, while he is acknowleged to be their ultimate cauſe and author. For as a man, who fired a mine, is anſwerable for all the conſequences, whether the train he employed be long or ſhort: ſo wherever a continued chain of neceſſary cauſes are fixed, that Being, either finite or infinite, who produces the firſt, is likewiſe the author of all the reſt, and muſt both bear the blame and acquire the praiſe, which belong to them. Our cleareſt and moſt unalterable ideas of morality eſtabliſh this rule, upon unqueſtionable reaſons, when we examine the conſequences of any human action; and theſe reaſons muſt ſtill have greater force, when applied to the volitions and intentions of a Being, infinitely wiſe and powerful. Ignorance or impotence may be pleaded for ſo limited a creature as man; but thoſe imperfections have no place in our Creator. He foreſaw, he ordained, he intended all thoſe actions of men, which we ſo raſhly pronounce criminal. And we muſt conclude, therefore, either that they are not criminal, or that the Deity, not man, is accountable for them. But as either of theſe poſitions is abſurd and impious, it follows, that the doctrine from which they are deduced, cannot poſſibly be true, as being liable to all the ſame objections. An abſurd conſequence, if neceſſary, proves the original doctrine to be abſurd; in the ſame manner that criminal actions render criminal the original cauſe, if the connexion between them be neceſſary and inevitable.

THIS objection conſiſts of two parts, which we ſhall examine ſeparately; Firſt, that if human actions can be traced up, by a neceſſary chain, to the Deity, they can never be criminal; on account of the infinite perfection of that Being, from whom they are derived, and who can intend nothing but what is altogether good and laudable. Or Secondly, if they be criminal, we muſt retract the attribute of perfection, which we aſcribe to the Deity, and muſt acknowlege him to be the ultimate author of guilt and moral trupitude in all his creatures.

THE anſwer to the firſt objection ſeems obvious and convincing. There are many philoſophers, who, after an exact ſcrutiny of all the phaenomena of nature, conclude, that the WHOLE, conſidered as one ſyſtem, is, in every period of its exiſtence, ordered with perfect benevolence; and that the utmoſt poſſible happineſs will, in the end, reſult to every created being, without any mixture of poſitive or abſolute ill and miſery. Every phyſical ill, ſay they, makes an eſſential part of this benevolent ſyſtem, and could not poſſibly be removed, even by the Deity himſelf, conſidered as a wiſe agent, without giving entrance to greater ill, or excluding greater good, which will reſult from it. From this theory, ſome philoſophers, and the antient Stoics among the reſt, derived a topic of conſolation, under all afflictions, while they taught their pupils, that thoſe ills, under which they laboured, were, in reality, goods to the univerſe; and that to an enlarged view, which could comprehend the whole ſyſtem of nature, every event became an object of joy and exultation. But tho' this topic be ſpecious and ſublime, it was ſoon found in practice weak and ineffectual. You would ſurely more irritate, than appeaſe a man, lying under the racking pains of the gout, by preaching up to him the rectitude of thoſe general laws, which produced the malignant humours in his body, and led them, thro' the proper canals, to the nerves and ſinews, where they now excite ſuch acute torments. Theſe enlarged views may, for a moment, pleaſe the imagination of a ſpeculative man, who is placed in eaſe and ſecurity; but neither can they dwell with conſtancy on his mind, even tho' undiſturbed by the emotions of pain or paſſion; much leſs can they maintain their ground, when attacked by ſuch powerful antagoniſts. The affections take a narrower and more natural ſurvey of their objects, and by an oeconomy, more ſuitable to the infirmity of human minds, regard alone the beings around us, and are actuated by ſuch events as appear good or ill to the private ſyſtem. The caſe is the ſame with moral as with phyſical ill. It cannot reaſonably be ſuppoſed, that thoſe remote conſiderations, which are found of ſo little efficacy with regard to one, will have a more powerful influence with regard to the other. The mind of man is ſo formed by nature, that, upon the appearance of certain characters, diſpoſitions, and actions, it immediately feels the ſentiment of approbation or blame; nor are there any emotions more eſſential to its frame and conſtitution.

THE characters, which engage its approbation, are chiefly ſuch as contribute to the peace and ſecurity of human ſociety; as the characters, which excite blame, are chiefly ſuch as tend to public detriment and diſturbance: Whence we may reaſonably preſume, that the moral ſentiments ariſe, either mediately or immediately, from a reflection on theſe oppoſite intereſts. What tho' philoſophical meditations eſtabliſh a different opinion or conjecture; that every thing is right with regard to the WHOLE, and that the qualities, which diſturb ſociety, are, in the main, as beneficial, and are as ſuitable to the primary intention of nature, as thoſe which more directly promote its happineſs and welfare? Are ſuch remote and uncertain ſpeculations able to counter-balance the ſentiments, which ariſe from the natural and immediate view of the objects? A man, who is robbed of a conſiderable ſum; does he find his vexation for the loſs any way diminiſhed by theſe ſublime reflections? Why then ſhould his moral reſentment againſt the crime be ſuppoſed incompatible with them? Or why ſhould not the acknowlegement of a real diſtinction between vice and virtue be reconcileable to all ſpeculative ſyſtems of philoſophy, as well as that of a real diſtinction between perſonal beauty and deformity? Both theſe diſtinctions are founded in the natural ſentiments of the human mind: And theſe ſentiments are not to be controled nor altered by any philoſophical theory or ſpeculation whatſoever.

THE ſecond objection admits not of ſo eaſy and ſatisfactory an anſwer; nor is it poſſible to explain diſtinctly, how the Deity can be the mediate cauſe of all the actions of men, without being the author of ſin and moral turpitude. Theſe are myſteries, which mere natural and unaſſiſted reaſon is very unfit to handle; and whatever ſyſtem it embraces, it muſt find itſelf involved in inextricable difficulties, and even contradictions, at every ſtep which it takes with regard to ſuch ſubjects. To reconcile the indifference and contingency of human actions with preſcience; or to defend abſolute decrees, and yet free the Deity from being the author of ſin, has been found hitherto to exceed all the ſkill of philoſophy. Happy, if ſhe be thence ſenſible of her temerity, when ſhe pries into theſe ſublime myſteries; and leaving a ſcene ſo full of obſcurities and perplexities, return, with ſuitable modeſty, to her true and proper province, the examination of common life; where ſhe will find difficulties enow to employ her enquiries, without launching into ſo boundleſs an ocean of doubt, uncertainty, and contradiction!

PART I.

THERE is in Dr. TILLOTSON's writings an argument againſt the real preſence, which is as conciſe, and elegant, and ſtrong as any argument can poſſibly be ſuppoſed againſt a doctrine, that is ſo little worthy of a ſerious refutation. 'Tis acknowleged on all hands, ſays that learned prelate, that the authority, either of the ſcripture or of tradition, is founded merely in the teſtimony of the apoſtles, who were eyewitneſſes to thoſe miracles of our Saviour, by which he proved his divine miſſion. Our evidence, then, for the truth of the Chriſtian religion is leſs than the evidence for the truth of our ſenſes; becauſe, even in the firſt authors of our religion, it was no greater; and 'tis evident it muſt diminiſh in paſſing from them to their diſciples; nor can any one be ſo certain of the truth of their teſtimony, as of the immediate object of his ſenſes. But a weaker evidence can never deſtroy a ſtronger; and therefore, were the doctrine of the real preſence ever ſo clearly revealed in ſcripture, it were directly contrary to the rules of juſt reaſoning to give our aſſent to it. It contradicts ſenſe, tho' both the ſcripture and tradition, on which it is ſuppoſed to be built, carry not ſuch evidence with them as ſenſe; when they are conſidered merely as external evidences, and are not brought home to every one's breaſt, by the immediate operation of the Holy Spirit.

NOTHING is ſo convenient as a deciſive argument of this kind, which muſt at leaſt ſilence the moſt arrogant bigotry and ſuperſtition, and free us from their impertinent ſollicitations. I flatter myſelf, that I have diſcovered an argument of a like nature, which, if juſt, will, with the wiſe and learned, be an everlaſting check to all kinds of ſuperſtitious deluſion, and conſequently, will be uſeful as long as the world endures. For ſo long, I preſume, will the accounts of miracles and prodigies be found in all hiſtory, ſacred and profane.

THO' experience be our only guide in reaſoning concerning matters of fact; it muſt be acknowleged, that this guide is not altogether infallible, but in ſome caſes is apt to lead us into errors and miſtakes. One, who, in our climate, ſhould expect better weather in any week of JUNE than in one of DECEMBER, would reaſon juſtly and conformable to experience; but 'tis certain, that he may happen, in the event, to find himſelf miſtaken. However, we may obſerve, that, in ſuch a caſe, he would have no cauſe to complain of experience; becauſe it commonly informs us beforehand of the uncertainty, by that contrariety of events, which we may learn from a diligent obſervation. All effects follow not with like certainty from their ſuppoſed cauſes. Some events are found, in all countries and all ages, to have been conſtantly conjoined together: Others are found to have been more variable, and ſometimes to diſappoint our expectations; ſo that in our reaſonings concerning matter of fact, there are all imaginable degrees of aſſurance, from the higheſt certainty to the loweſt ſpecies of moral evidence.

A WISE man, therefore, proportions his belief to the evidence. In ſuch concluſions as are founded on an infallible experience, he expects the event with the laſt degree of aſſurance, and regards his paſt experience as a full proof of the future exiſtence of that event. In other caſes, he proceeds with more caution: He weighs the oppoſite experiments: He conſiders which ſide is ſupported by the greateſt number of experiments: To that ſide he inclines, with doubt and heſitation; and when at laſt he fixes his judgment▪ the evidence exceeds not what we properly call probability. All probability, then, ſuppoſes an oppoſition of experiments and obſervations; where the one ſide is found to over-balance the other, and to produce a degree of evidence, proportioned to the ſuperiority. An hundred inſtances or experiments on one ſide, and fifty on another, afford a very doubtful expectation of any event; tho' a hundred uniform experiments, with only one that is contradictory, reaſonably beget a pretty ſtrong degree of aſſurance. In all caſes, we muſt balance the oppoſite experiments, where they are oppoſite, and deduct the ſmaller number from the greater, in order to know the exact force of the ſuperior evidence.

TO apply theſe principles to a particular inſtance; we may obſerve, that there is no ſpecies of reaſoning more common, more uſeful, and even neceſſary to human life, than that derived from the teſtimony of men, and the reports of eye-witneſſes and ſpectators. This ſpecies of reaſoning, perhaps, one may deny to be founded on the relation of cauſe and effect. I ſhall not diſpute about a word. It will be ſufficient to obſerve, that our aſſurance in any argument of this kind is derived from no other principle than our obſervation of the veracity of human teſtimony, and of the uſual conformity of facts to the reports of witneſſes. It being a general maxim, that no objects have any diſcoverable connexion together, and that all the inferences, which we can draw from one to another, are founded merely on our experience of their conſtant and regular conjunction; 'tis evident, that we ought not to make an exception to this maxim in favour of human teſtimony, whoſe connexion with any events ſeems, in itſelf, as little neceſſary as any other. Were not the memory tenacious to a certain degree; had not men commonly an inclination to truth and a principle of probity; were they not ſenſible to ſhame, when detected in a falſehood: Were not theſe, I ſay, diſcovered by experience to be qualities, inherent in human nature, we ſhould never repoſe the leaſt confidence in human teſtimony. A man delirious, or noted for falſhood and villainy, has no manner of authority with us.

AND as the evidence, derived from witneſſes and human teſtimony, is founded on paſt experience, ſo it varies with the experience, and is regarded either as a proof or a probability, according as the conjunction between any particular kind of report and any kind of objects, has been found to be conſtant or variable. There are a number of circumſtances to be taken into conſideration in all judgments of this kind; and the ultimate ſtandard, by which we determine all diſputes, that may ariſe concerning them, is always derived from experience and obſervation. Where this experience is not entirely uniform on any ſide, 'tis attended with an unavoidable contrariety in our judgments, and with the ſame oppoſition and mutual deſtruction of arguments as in every other kind of evidence. We frequently heſitate concerning the reports of others. We balance the oppoſite circumſtances, which cauſe any doubt or uncertainty; and when we diſcover a ſuperiority on any ſide, we incline to it; but ſtill with a diminution of aſſurance, in proportion to the forec of its antagoniſt.

THIS contrariety of evidence, in the preſent caſe, may be derived from ſeveral different cauſes; from the oppoſition of contrary teſtimony; from the character or number of the witneſſes; from the manner of their delivering their teſtimony; or from the union of all theſe circumſtances. We entertain a ſuſpicion concerning any matter of fact, when the witneſſes contradict each other; when they are but few, or of a ſuſpicious character; when they have an intereſt in what they affirm; when they deliver their teſtimony with doubt and heſitation, or on the contrary, with too violent aſſeverations. There are many other particulars of the ſame kind, which may diminiſh or deſtroy the force of any argument, derived from human teſtimony.

SUPPOSE, for inſtance, that the fact, which teſtimony endeavours to eſtabliſh, partakes of the extraordinary and the marvellous; in that caſe, the evidence, reſulting from the teſtimony, admits a diminution, greater or leſs, in proportion as the fact is more or leſs unuſual. The reaſon, why we place any credit in witneſſes and hiſtorians is not from any connex on, which we perceive à priori between teſtimony and reality, but becauſe we are accuſtomed to find a conformity between them. But when the fact atteſted is ſuch a one as has ſeldom fallen under our obſervation, here is a conteſt of two oppoſite experiences; of which the one deſtroys the other as far as its force goes, and the ſuperior can only operate on the mind by the force, which remains. The very ſame principle of experience, which gives us a certain degree of aſſurance in the teſtimony of witneſſes, gives us alſo, in this caſe, another degree of aſſurance againſt the fact, which they endeavour to eſtabliſh; from which contradiction there neceſſarily ariſe a counterpoize, and mutual deſtruction of belief and authority.

I ſhould not believe ſuch a ſtory were it told me by CATO; was a proverbial ſaying in ROME, even during the life-time of that philoſophical patriotPLUTARCH, in vita CATONIS.. The incredibility of a fact, it was allowed, might invalidate ſo great an authority.

THE INDIAN prince, who refuſed to believe the firſt relations concerning the effects of froſt, reaſoned juſtly; and it naturally required very ſtrong teſtimony to engage his aſſent to facts, which aroſe from a ſtate of nature, with which he was unacquainted, and bore ſo little analogy to thoſe events, of which he had had conſtant and uniform experience. Tho' they were not contrary to his experience, they were not conformable to itNo INDIAN, 'tis evident, could have experience that water did not freeze in cold climates. This is placing nature in a ſituation quite unknown to him; and 'tis impoſſible for him to tell à priori what will reſult from it. 'Tis making a new experiment, the conſequence of which is always uncertain. One may ſometimes conjecture from analogy what will follow; but ſtill this is but conjecture. And it muſt be confeſt, that, in the preſent caſe of freezing, the event follows contrary to the rules of analogy, and is ſuch as a rational INDIAN would not look for. The operations of cold upon water are not gradual, according to the degrees of cold; but whenever it comes to the freezing point, the water paſſes in a moment, from the utmoſt liquidity to perfect hardneſs. Such an event, therefore, may be denominated extraordinary, and requires a pretty ſtrong teſtimony, to render it credible to people in a warm climate: But ſtill it is not miracalous, nor contrary to uniform experience of the courſe of nature in caſes where all the circumſtances are the ſame. The inhabitants of SUMATRA have always ſeen water liquid in their own climate, and the freezing of their rivers ought to be deemed a prodigy: But they never ſaw water in MUSCOVY during the winter; and therefore they cannot reaſonably be poſitive what would there be the conſequence..

BUT in order to increaſe the probability againſt the teſtimony of witneſſes, let us ſuppoſe that the fact, which they affirm, inſtead of being only marvellous, is really miraculous; and ſuppoſe alſo, that the teſtimony, conſidered apart, and in itſelf, amounts to an entire proof; in that caſe there is proof againſt proof, of which the ſtrongeſt muſt prevail, but ſtill with a diminution of its force, in proportion to that of its antagoniſt.

A MIRACLE is a violation of the laws of nature: and as a firm and unalterable experience has eſtabliſhed theſe laws, the proof againſt a miracle, from the very nature of the fact, is as entire as any argument from experience can poſſibly be imagined. Why is it more than probable, that all men muſt die; that lead cannot, of itſelf, remain ſuſpended in the air; that fire conſumes wood, and is extinguiſhed by water; unleſs it be, that theſe events are found agreeable to the laws of nature, and there is required a violation of theſe laws, or in other words, a miracle to prevent them? Nothing is eſteemed a miracle if it ever happen in the common courſe of nature. 'Tis no miracle that a man in ſeeming good health ſhould die on a ſudden; becauſe ſuch a kind of death, tho' more unuſual than any other, has yet been frequently obſerved to happen. But 'tis a miracle, that a dead man ſhould come to life; becauſe that has never been obſerved, in any age or country. There muſt, therefore, be an uniform experience againſt every miraculous event, otherwiſe the event would not merit that appellation. And as an uniform experience amounts to a proof there is here a direct and full proof, from the nature of the fact, againſt the exiſtence of any miracle; nor can ſuch a proof be deſtroyed, or the miracle rendered credible, but by an oppoſite proof, which is ſuperiorSometimes an event may not, in itſelf, ſeem to be contrary to the laws of nature, and yet, if it were real, it might, by reaſon of ſome circumſtances, be denominated a miracle; becauſe, in fact, it is contrary to theſe laws. Thus if a perſon, claiming a divine authority, ſhould command a ſick perſon to be well, a healthful man to fall down dead, the clouds to pour rain, the winds to blow, in ſhort, ſhould order many natural events, which immediately follow upon his command; theſe might juſtly be eſteemed miracles, becauſe they are really, in this caſe, contrary to the laws of nature. For if any ſuſpicion remain, that the event and command concurred by accident, there is no miracle and no tranſgreſſion of the laws of nature. If this ſuſpicion be removed, there is evidently a miracle, and a tranſgreſſion of theſe laws; becauſe nothing can be more contrary to nature than that the voice or command of a man ſhould have ſuch an influence. A miracle may be accurately defined, a t • angreſſion of a law of nature by a particular volition of the Deity, 〈◊〉 by the interpoſition of ſome inviſible agent. A miracle may either 〈◊〉 diſcoverable by men or not. This alters not its nature and eſſence. The raiſing of a houſe or ſhip into the air is a viſible miracle. The raiſing of a feather, when the wind wants ever ſo little of a force requiſite for that purpoſe, is as real a miracle, tho' not ſo ſenſible with regard to us..

THE plain conſequence is (and 'tis a general maxim worthy of our attention) "That no teſtimony is ſufficient to eſtabliſh a miracle, unleſs the teſtimony be of ſuch a kind, that its falſhood would be more miraculous, than the fact, which it endeavours to eſtabliſh: And even in that caſe, there is a mutual deſtruction of arguments, and the ſuperior only gives us an aſſurance ſuitable to that degree of force, which remains, after deducting the inferior." When any one tells me, that he ſaw a dead man reſtored to life, I immediately conſider with myſelf, whether it be more probable, that this perſon ſhould either deceive or be deceived, or that the fact which he relates, ſhould really have happened. I weigh the one miracle againſt the other, and according to the ſuperiority, which I diſcover, I pronounce my deciſion, and always reject the greater miracle. If the falſhood of his teſtimony would be more miraculous, than the event which he relates; then, and not till then, can he pretend to command my belief or opinion.

IN the foregoing reaſoning we have ſuppoſed, that the teſtimony, upon which a miracle is founded, may poſſibly amount to an intire proof, and that the falſhood of that teſtimony would be a kind of prodigy. But 'tis eaſy to ſhew, that we have been a great deal too liberal in our conceſſions, and that there never was a miraculous event eſtabliſhed on ſo full an evidence.

FOR firſt, there is not to be found, in all hiſtory, any miracle atteſted by a ſufficient number of men, of ſuch unqueſtioned good-ſenſe, education, and learning, as to ſecure us againſt all deluſion in themſelves; of ſuch undoubted integrity, as to place them beyond all ſuſpicion of any deſign to deceive others; of ſuch credit and reputation in the eyes of mankind, as to have a great deal to loſe in caſe of being detected in any falſhood; and at the ſame time atteſting facts, performed in ſuch a public manner, and in ſo celebrated a part of the world, as to render the detection unavoidable: All which circumſtances are requiſite to give us a full aſſurance in the teſtimony of men.

SECONDLY. We may obſerve in human nature a principle, which, if ſtrictly examined, will be found to diminiſh extremely the aſſurance which we might have, from human teſtimony, in any kind of prodigy. The maxim, by which we commonly conduct ourſelves in our reaſonings, is, that the objects, of which we have no experience, reſemble thoſe, of which we have: that what we have ſound to be moſt uſual is always moſt probable; and that where there is an oppoſition of arguments, we ought to give the preference to ſuch of them as are founded on the greateſt number of paſt obſervations. But tho' in proceeding by this rule, we readily reject any fact which is unuſual and incredible in an ordinary degree; yet in advancing farther, the mind obſerves not always the ſame rule; but when any thing is affirmed utterly abſurd and miraculous, it rather the more readily admits ſuch a fact, upon account of that very circumſtance which ought to deſtroy all its authority. The paſſion of ſurprize and wonder, ariſing from miracles, being an agreeable emotion, gives a ſenſible tendency towards the belief of thoſe events from which it is derived. And this goes ſo far, that even thoſe who cannot enjoy this pleaſure immediately, nor can believe thoſe miraculous events, of which they are informed, yet love to partake of the ſatisfaction at ſecond hand or by rebound, and place a pride and delight in exciting the admiration of others.

WITH what greedineſs are the miraculous accounts of travellers received, their deſcriptions of ſea and land monſters, their relations of wonderful adventures, ſtrange men, and uncouth manners? But if the ſpirit of religion join itſelf to the love of wonder, there is an end of common ſenſe; and human teſtimony, in theſe circumſtances, loſes all pretenſions to authority. A religioniſt may be an enthuſiaſt, and imagine he ſees what has no reality: He may know his narration to be falſe, and yet perſevere in it, with the beſt intentions in the world, for the ſake of promoting ſo holy a cauſe: Or even where this deluſion has no place, vanity, excited by ſo ſtrong a temptation, operates on him more powerfully than on the reſt of mankind in any other circumſtances; and ſelf-intereſt with equal force. His auditors may not have, and commonly have not ſufficient judgment to canvaſs his evidence: What judgment they have, they renounce by principle, in theſe ſublime and myſterious ſubjects: Or if they were ever ſo willing to employ it, paſſion and a heated imagination diſturb the regularity of its operations. Their credulity increaſes his impudence: And his impudence over-powers their credulity.

ELOQUENCE, when in its higheſt pitch, leaves little room for reaſon or reflection; but addreſſing itſelf intirely to the fancy or the affections, captivates the willing hearers, and ſubdues their underſtanding. Happily, this pitch it ſeldom attains. But what a CICERO or a DEMOSTHENES could ſcarcely operate over a ROMAN or ATHENIAN audience, every Capuchin, every itinerant or ſtationary teacher can perform over the generality of mankind, and in a higher degree, by touching ſuch groſs and vulgar paſſionsThe many inſtances of forged miracles, and prophecies, and ſupernatural events, which, in all ages, have either been detected by contrary evidence, or which detect themſelves by their abſurdity, mark ſufficiently the ſtrong propenſity of mankind to the extraordinary and the marvellous, and ought reaſonably to beget a ſuſpicion againſt all relations of this kind. This is our natural way of thinking, even with regard to the moſt common and moſt credible events. For inſtance: There is no kind of report, which riſes ſo eaſily, and ſpreads ſo quickly, eſpecially in country places and provincial towns, as thoſe concerning marriages; inſomuch that two young perſons of equal condition never ſee each other twice, but the whole neighbourhood immediately join them together. The pleaſure of telling a piece of news ſo intereſting, of propagating it, and of being the firſt reporters of it, ſpreads the intelligence. And this is ſo well known, that no man of ſenſe gives attention to theſe reports, till he finds them confirmed by ſome greater evidence. Do not the ſame paſſions, and others ſtill ſtronger, incline the generality of mankind to the believing and reporting, with the greateſt vehemence and aſſurance, all religious miracles?.

THIRDLY. It forms a very ſtrong preſumption againſt all ſupernatural and miraculous relations, that they are obſerved chiefly to abound among ignorant and barbarous nations; or if a civilized people has ever given admiſſion to any of them, that people will be found to have received them from ignorant and barbarous anceſtors, who tranſmitted them with that inviolable ſanction and authority, which always attend received opinions. When we peruſe the firſt hiſtories of all nations, we are apt to imagine ourſelves tranſported into ſome new world, where the whole frame of nature is disjointed, and every element performs its operations in a different manner, from what it does at preſent. Battles, revolutions, peſtilences, famines, and death, are never the effects of thoſe natural cauſes, which we experience. Prodigies, omens, oracles, judgments, quite obſcure the few natural events, that are intermingled with them. But as the former grow thinner every page, in proportion as we advance nearer the enlightened ages of ſcience and knowlege, we ſoon learn, that there is nothing myſterious or ſupernatural in the caſe, but that all proceeds from the uſual propenſity of mankind towards the marvellous, and that tho' this inclination may at intervals receive a check from ſenſe and learning, it can never thoroughly be extirpated from human nature.

'Tis ſtrange, a judicious reader is apt to ſay, upon the peruſal of theſe wonderful hiſtorians, that ſuch prodigious events never happen in our days. But 'tis nothing ſtrange, I hope, that men ſhould lie in all ages. You muſt ſurely have ſeen inſtances enow of that frailty. You have yourſelf heard many ſuch marvellous relations ſtarted, which being treated with ſcorn by all the wiſe and judicious, have at laſt been abandoned even by the vulgar. Be aſſured, that thoſe renowned lies, which have ſpread and flouriſhed to ſuch a monſtrous height, aroſe from like beginnings; but being ſown in a more proper ſoil, ſhot up at laſt into prodigies almoſt equal to thoſe which they relate.

'TWAS a wiſe policy in that cunning impoſtor, ALEXANDER, who, tho' now forgotten, was once ſo famous, to lay the firſt ſcene of his impoſtures in PAPHLAGONIA, where, as LUCIAN tells us, the people were extremely ignorant and ſtupid, and ready to ſwallow even the groſſeſt deluſion. People at a diſtance, who are weak enough to think the matter at all worth inquiry, have no opportunity of receiving better information. The ſtories come magnified to them by a hundred circumſtances. Fools are induſtrious to propagate the deluſion; while the wiſe and learned are contented, in general, to deride its abſurdity, without informing themſelves of the particular facts by which it may be diſtinctly refuted. And thus the impoſtor above-mentioned was enabled to proceed, from his ignorant PAPHLAGONIANS, to the inliſting of votaries, even among the GRECIAN philoſophers, and men of the moſt eminent rank and diſtinction in ROME: Nay, could engage the attention of that ſage emperor MARCUS AURELIUS; ſo far as to make him truſt the ſucceſs of a military expedition to his deluſive prophecies.

THE advantages are ſo great of ſtarting an impoſture among an ignorant people, that even tho' the deluſion ſhould be too groſs to impoſe on the generality of them (which, tho' ſeldom, is ſometimes the caſe) it has a much better chance of ſucceeding in remote countries, than if the firſt ſcene had been laid in a city renowned for arts and knowlege. The moſt ignorant and barbarous of theſe barbarians carry the report abroad. None of their countrymen have large enough correſpondence of ſufficient credit and authority to contradict and beat down the deluſion. Mens inclination to the marvellous has full opportunity to diſplay itſelf. And thus a ſtory, which is univerſally exploded in the place where it was firſt ſtarted, ſhall paſs for certain at a thouſand miles diſtance. But had ALEXANDER fixed his reſidence at ATHENS, the philoſophers of that renowned mart of learning had immediately ſpread, thro' the whole ROMAN empire, their ſenſe of the matter, which, being ſupported by ſo great authority, and diſplayed by all the force of reaſon and eloquence, had intirely opened the eyes of mankind. 'Tis true; LUCIAN paſſing by chance thro' PAPHLAGONIA had an opportunity of performing this good office. But, tho' much to be wiſhed, it does not always happen, that every ALEXANDER meets with a LUCIAN, ready to expoſe and detect his impoſturesIt may here, perhaps, be objected, that I proceed raſhly, and form my notions of ALEXANDER merely from the account given of him by LUCIAN, a profeſſed enemy. It were, indeed, to be wiſhed, that ſome of the accounts publiſhed by his followers and accomplices had remained. The oppoſition and contraſt between the character and conduct of the ſame man, as drawn by a friend or an enemy, is as ſtrong, even in common life, much more in theſe religious matters, as that betwixt any two men in the world, betwixt ALEXANDER and St. PAUL, for inſtance. See a letter to GILBERT WEST, Eſq. on the converſion and apoſtleſhip of St. PAUL..

I MAY add as a fourth reaſon, which diminiſhes the authority of prodigies, that there is no teſtimony for any, even thoſe which have not been expreſsly detected, that is not oppoſed by an infinite number of witneſſes; ſo that not only the miracle deſtroys the credit of the teſtimony, but even the teſtimony deſtroys itſelf. To make this the better underſtood, let us conſider that, in matters of religion, whatever is different is contrary, and that 'tis impoſſible the religions of antient ROME, of TURKEY, of SIAM, and of CHINA ſhould, all of them, be eſtabliſhed on any ſolid foundation. Every miracle, therefore, pretended to have been wrought in any of theſe religions (and all of them abound in miracles) as its direct ſcope is to eſtabliſh the particular ſyſtem to which it is attributed; ſo has it the ſame force, tho' more indirectly, to overthrow every other ſyſtem. In deſtroying a rival ſyſtem, it likewiſe deſtroys the credit of thoſe miracles, on which that ſyſtem was eſtabliſhed; ſo that all the prodigies of different religions are to be regarded as contrary facts, and the evidences of theſe prodigies, whether weak or ſtrong, as oppoſite to each other. According to this method of reaſoning, when we believe any miracle of MAHOMET or any of his ſucceſſors, we have for our warrant the teſtimony of a few barbarous ARABIANS: And on the other hand, we are to regard the authority of TITUS LIVIUS, PLUTARCH, TACITUS, and, in ſhort, of all the authors and witneſſes, GRECIAN, CHINESE, and ROMAN CATHOLIC, who have related any miracles in their particular religion; I ſay, we are to regard their teſtimony in the ſame light as if they had mentioned that MAHOMETAN miracle, and had in expreſs terms contradicted it, with the ſame certainty as they have for the miracles they relate. This argument may appear over ſubtile and refined; but is not in reality different from the reaſoning of a judge, who ſuppoſes, that the credit of two witneſſes, maintaining a crime againſt any one, is deſtroyed by the teſtimony of two others, who affirm him to have been two hundred leagues diſtant, at the ſame inſtant when the crime is ſaid to have been committed.

ONE of the beſt atteſted miracles in all prophane hiſtory, is that which TACITUS reports of VESPASIAN, who cured a blind man in ALEXANDRIA, by means of his ſpittle, and a lame man by the mere touch of his foot; in obedience to a viſion of the god SERAPIS, who had enjoined them to have recourſe to the Emperor, for theſe miraculous and extraordinary cures. The ſtory may be ſeen in that fine hiſtorianHiſt. Lib. 5. Cap. 8. SUETONIUS gives the ſame account in vita VESP.; where every circumſtance ſeems to add weight to the teſtimony, and might be diſplayed at large with all the force of argument and eloquence, if any one were now concerned to enforce the evidence of that exploded and idolatrous ſuperſtition. The gravity, ſolidity, age, and probity of ſo great an emperor, who, thro' the whole courſe of his life, converſed in a familiar way with his friends and courtiers, and never affected thoſe extraordinary airs of divinity aſſumed by ALEXANDER and DEMETRIUS. The hiſtorian, a cotemporary writer, noted for candour and veracity, and withal, the greateſt and moſt penetrating genius, perhaps of all antiquity; and ſo free from any tendency to ſuperſtition and credulity, that he even lies under the contrary imputation, of atheiſm and prophaneneſs: The perſons, from whoſe teſtimony he related the miracle, of eſtabliſhed character for judgment and veracity, as we may well preſume; eye-witneſſes of the fact, and confirming their verdict, after the FLAVIAN family were deſpoiled of the empire, and could no longer give any reward, as the price of a lie. Utrumque, qui interfuere, nunc quoque memorant, poſtquam nullum mendacio pretium. To which if we add the public nature of the facts, as related, it will appear, that no evidence can well be ſuppoſed ſtronger for ſo groſs and ſo palpable a falſhood.

THERE is alſo a very memorable ſtory related by Cardinal DE RETZ, and which may well deſerve our conſideration. When that intriguing politician fled into SPAIN, to avoid the perſecution of his enemies, he paſſed thro' SARAGOSSA, the capital of ARRAGON, where he was ſhewn, in the cathedral, a man, who had ſerved twenty years as a door-keeper, and was well known to every body in town, that had ever paid their devotions at that church. He had been ſeen, for ſo long a time, wanting a leg; but recovered that limb by the rubbing of holy oil upon the ſtump; and the cardinal aſſures us that he ſaw him with two legs. This miracle was vouched by all the canons of the church; and the whole company in town were appealed to for a confirmation of the fact; whom the cardinal found, by their zealous devotion, to be thorough believers of the miracle. Here the relater was alſo cotemporary to the ſuppoſed prodigy, of an incredulous and libertine character, as well as of great genius, the miracle of ſo ſingular a nature as could ſcarce admit of a counterfeit, and the witneſſes very numerous, and all of them, in a manner, ſpectators of the fact to which they gave their teſtimony. And what adds mightily to the force of the evidence, and may double our ſurprize on this occaſion, is, that the cardinal himſelf, who relates the ſtory, ſeems not to give any credit to it, and conſequently cannot be ſuſpected of any concurrence in the holy fraud. He conſidered juſtly, that it was not requiſite, in order to reject a fact of this nature, to be able accurately to diſprove the teſtimony, and to trace its falſhood, thro' all the circumſtances of knavery and credulity which produced it. He knew, that as this was commonly altogether impoſſible at any ſmall diſtance of time and place; ſo was it extremely difficult, even where one was immediately preſent, by reaſon of the bigotry, ignorance, cunning and roguery of a great part of mankind. He therefore concluded, like a juſt reaſoner, that ſuch an evidence carried falſhood upon the very face of it, and that a miracle ſupported by any human teſtimony, was more properly a ſubject of deriſion than of argument.

THERE ſurely never was ſo great a number of miracles aſcribed to one perſon, as thoſe, which were lately ſaid to have been wrought in FRANCE upon the tomb of Abbé PARIS, the famous JANSENIST, with whoſe ſanctity the people were ſo long deluded. The curing of the ſick, giving hearing to the deaf, and ſight to the blind, were every where talked of as the uſual effects of that holy ſepulchre. But what is more extraordinary; many of the miracles were immediately proved, upon the ſpot, before judges of unqueſtioned integrity, atteſted by witneſſes of credit and diſtinction, in a learned age, and on the moſt eminent theatre that is now in the world. Nor is this all: A relation of them was publiſhed and diſperſed every where; nor were the Jeſuits, tho' a learned body, ſupported by the civil magiſtrate, and determined enemies to thoſe opinions, in whoſe favour the miracles were ſaid to have been wrought, ever able diſtinctly to refute or detect them

This book was wrote by Monſ. de MONTGERON, counſellor or judge of the parliament of PARIS, a man of figure and character, who was alſo a martyr to the cauſe, and is now ſaid to be ſomewhere in a dungeon on account of his book.

There is another book in three volumes (called Recueil des Miracles de l' Abbé PARIS) giving an account of many of theſe miracles, and accompanied with prefatory diſcourſes, which are very well wrote. There runs, however, thro' the whole of theſe a ridiculous compariſon between the miracles of our Saviour and thoſe of the Abbé; wherein 'tis aſſerted, that the evidence for the latter is equal to that for the former: As if the teſtimony of men could ever be put in the balance with that of God himſelf, who conducted the pen of the inſpired writers. If theſe writers, indeed, were to be conſidered merely as human teſtimony, the FRENCH author is very moderate in his compariſon; ſince he might, with ſome appearance of reaſon, pretend, that the JANSENIST miracles much ſurpaſs the others in evidence and authority. The following circumſtances are drawn from authentic papers, inſerted in the above-mentioned book.

Many of the miracles of Abbé PARIS were proved immediately by witneſſes before the officiality or biſhop's court of PARIS, under the eye of cardinal NOAILLES, whoſe character for integrity and capacity was never conteſted even by his enemies.

His ſucceſſor in the archbiſhopric was an enemy to the JANSENISTS, and for that reaſon promoted to the ſee by the court. Yet 22 rectors or cures of PARIS, with infinite earneſtneſs, preſs him to examine thoſe miracles, which they aſſert to be known to the whole world, and indiſputably certain: But he wiſely forbore.

The MOLINIST party had tried to diſcredit theſe miracles in one inſtance, that of Madamoiſelle de FRANC. But, beſides that their proceedings were in many reſpects the moſt irregular in the world, particularly in citing only a few of the JANSENISTS witneſſes, whom they tampered with: Beſides this, I ſ • y, they ſoon found themſelves overwhelmed by a cloud of new witneſſes, one hundred and twenty in number, moſt of them perſons of credit and ſubſtance in PARIS, who gave oath for the miracle. This was accompanied with a ſolemn and earneſt appeal to the parliament. But the parliament were forbid by authority to meddle in the affair. It was at laſt obſerved that where men are heated by zeal and enthuſiaſm, there is no degree of human teſtimony ſo ſtrong as may not be procured for the greateſt abſurdity: And thoſe who will be ſo ſilly as to examine the affair by that medium, and ſeek particular flaws in the teſtimony, are almoſt ſure to be conſounded. It muſt be a miſerable impoſture, indeed, that does not prevail in that conteſt.

All who have been in FRANCE about that time have heard of the great reputation of Monſ, HERAUT, the lieutenant de Police, whoſe vigilance, penetration, activity, and extenſive intelligence have been much talked of. This magiſtrate, who by the nature of his office is almoſt abſolute, was inveſted with full powers, on purpoſe to ſuppreſs or diſcredit theſe miracles; and he frequently ſeized immediately, and examined the witneſſes and ſubjects of them: But never could reach any thing ſatisfactory againſt them.

In the caſe of Madamoiſelle THIBAUT he ſent the famous De SYLVA to examine her; whoſe evidence is very curious. The phyſician declares, that it was impoſſible ſhe could have been ſo ill as was proved by witneſſes; becauſe it was impoſſible ſhe could, in ſo ſhort a time, have recovered ſo perfectly as he found her. He reaſoned, like a man of ſenſe, from natural cauſes; but the oppoſite party told him, that the whole was a miracle, and that his evidence was the very beſt proof of it.

The MOLINISTS were in a ſad dilemma. They durſt not aſſert the abſolute inſufficiency of human evidence to prove a miracle. They were obliged to ſay, that theſe miracles were wrought by witchcraft and the devil. But they were told, that this was the reſource of the JEWS of old.

No JANSENIST was ever embarraſſed to account for the ceſſation of the miracles, when the church-yard was ſhut up by the king's edict. It was the touch of the tomb, which operated theſe extraordinary effects; and when no one could approach the tomb, no effects could be expected. God, indeed, could have thrown down the walls in a moment; but he is maſter of his own graces and works, and it belongs not to us to account for them. He did not throw down the walls of every city like thoſe of JERICHO, on the ſounding of the rams horns, nor break up the priſon of every apoſtle, like that of St. PAUL.

No leſs a man, than the Duc de CHATILLON, a duke and peer of FRANCE of the higheſt rank and family, gives evidence of a miraculous cure, performed upon a ſervant of his, who had lived ſeveral years in his houſe with a viſible and palpable infirmity.

I ſhall conclude with obſerving, that no clergy are more celebrated for ſtrictneſs of life and manners than the ſecular clergy of FRANCE, particularly the rectors or curés of PARIS, who bear ſuch teſtimony to theſe impoſtures.

The learning, genius, and probity of the gentlemen, and the auſterity of the nuns of PORT-ROYAL, have been much celebrated all over EUROPE. Yet they all give evidence for a miracle, wrought on the niece of the famous PASCHAL, whoſe ſanctity of life, as well as extraordinary capacity, is well known. The famous RACINE gives an account of this miracle in his famous hiſtory of PORT-ROYAL, and fortifies it with all the proofs, which a multitude of nuns, prieſts, phyſicians, and men of the world, all of them of undoubted credit, could beſtow upon it. Several men of letters, particularly the biſhop of TOURNAY, thought this miracle ſo certain, as to employ it in the refutation of atheiſts and free-thinkers. The queen-regent of FRANCE, who was extremely prejudiced againſt the PORT-ROYAL, ſent her own phyſician to examine the miracle, who returned an abſolute convert. In ſhort, the ſupernatural cure was ſo unconteſtable, that it ſaved, for a time, that famous monaſtery from the ruin with which it was threatened by the Jeſuits. Had it been a cheat, it had certainly been detected by ſuch ſagacious and powerful antagoniſts, and muſt have haſtened the ruin of the contrivers. Our divines, who can build up a formidable caſtle from ſuch deſpicable materials; what a prodigious fabric could they have reared from theſe and many other circumſtances, which I have not mentioned! How oft would the great names of PASCHAL, RACINE, ARNAUD, NICOLE, have reſounded in our ears? But if they be wiſe, they had better adopt the miracle, as being more worth, a thouſand times, than all the reſt of their collection. Beſides, it may ſerve very much to their purpoſe. For that miracle was really performed by the touch of an authentic holy prickle of the holy thorn, which compoſed the holy crown, which, &c.

. Where ſhall we find ſuch a number of circumſtances, agreeing to the corroboration of one fact? And what have we to oppoſe to ſuch a cloud of witneſſes, but the abſolute impoſſibility or miraculous nature of the events, which they relate? And this ſurely, in the eyes of all reaſonable people, will alone be regarded as a ſufficient refutation.

IS the conſequence juſt, becauſe ſome human teſtimony has the utmoſt force and authority in ſome caſes, when it relates the battles of PHILIPPI or PHARSALIA, for inſtance; that therefore all kinds of teſtimony muſt, in all caſes, have equal force and authority? Suppoſe that the CAESAREAN and POMPEIAN factions had, each of them, claimed the victory in theſe battles, and that the hiſtorians of each party had uniformly aſcribed the advantage to their own ſide; how could mankind, at this diſtance, have been able to determine between them? The contrariety is equally ſtrong between the miracles related by HERODOTUS or PLUTARCH, and thoſe delivered by MARIANA, BEDE, or any monkiſh hiſtorian.

THE wiſe lend a very academic faith to every report which favours the paſſion of the reporter; whether it magnifies his country, his family, or himſelf, or in any other way ſtrikes in with his natural inclinations and propenſities. But what greater temptation than to appear a miſſionary, a prophet, an ambaſſador from heaven? Who would not encounter many dangers and difficulties, in order to attain ſo ſublime a character? Or if, by the help of vanity and a heated imagination, a man has firſt made a convert of himſelf and entered ſeriouſly into the deluſion; who ever ſcruples to make uſe of pious frauds, in ſupport of ſo holy and meritorious a cauſe?

THE ſmalleſt ſpark may here kindle into the greateſt flame; becauſe the materials are always prepared for it. The avidum genus auricularum LUCRET., the gazing populace receive greedily, without examination, whatever ſooths ſuperſtition, and promotes wonder.

HOW many ſtories of this nature have, in all ages, been detected and exploded in their infancy? How many more have been celebrated for a time, and have afterwards ſunk into neglect and oblivion? Where ſuch reports, therefore, fly about, the ſolution of the phaenomenon is obvious; and we judge in conformity to regular experience and obſervation, when we account for it by the known and natural principles of credulity and deluſion. And ſhall we, rather than have a recourſe to ſo natural a ſolution, allow of a miraculous violation of the moſt eſtabliſhed laws of nature?

I NEED not mention the difficulty of detecting a falſhood in any private or even public hiſtory, at the time and place, where it is ſaid to happen; much more where the ſcene is removed to ever ſo ſmall a diſtance. Even a court of judicature, with all the authority, accuracy, and judgment, which they can employ, find themſelves often at a loſs to diſtinguiſh between truth and falſhood in the moſt recent actions. But the matter never comes to any iſſue, if truſted to the common method of altercation and debate and flying rumours; eſpecially when mens paſſions have taken party on either ſide.

IN the infancy of new religions, the wiſe and learned commonly eſteem the matter too inconſiderable to deſerve their attention or regard. And when afterwards they would willingly detect the cheat, in order to undeceive the deluded multitude, the ſeaſon is now gone, and the records and witneſſes, which might clear up the matter, have periſhed beyond recovery.

NO means of detection remain, but thoſe which muſt be drawn from the very teſtimony itſelf of the reporters: And theſe, tho' always ſufficient with the judicious and knowing, are commonly too fine to fall under the comprehenſion of the vulgar.

UPON the whole, then, it appears, that no teſtimony for any kind of miracle has ever amounted to a probability, much leſs to a proof; and that, even ſuppoſing it amounted to a proof, it would be oppoſed by another proof derived from the very nature of the fact, which it would endeavour to eſtabliſh. 'Tis experience only, which gives authority to human teſtimony; and 'tis the ſame experience, which aſſures us of the laws of nature. When, therefore, theſe two kinds of experience are contrary, we have nothing to do but ſubſtract the one from the other, and embrace an opinion, either on one ſide or the other, with that aſſurance which ariſes from the remainder. But according to the principle here explained, this ſubſtraction, with regard to all popular religions, amounts to an intire annihilation; and therefore we may eſtabliſh it as a maxim, that no human teſtimony can have ſuch force as to prove a miracle, and make it a juſt foundation for any ſuch ſyſtem of religion

I beg the limitations here made may be remarked, when I ſay, that a miracle can never be proved, ſo as to be the foundation of a ſyſtem of religion. For I own, that otherwiſe, there may poſſibly be miracles, or violations of the uſual courſe of nature, of ſuch a kind as to admit of proof from human teſtimony; tho', perhaps, it will be impoſſible to find any ſuch in all the records of hiſtory. Thus, ſuppoſe, all authors, in all languages, agree, that from the firſt of January, 1600, there was a total darkneſs over the whole earth for eight days: Suppoſe that the tradition of this extraordinary event is ſtill ſtrong and lively among the People: That all travellers, who return from foreign countries, bring us accounts of the ſame tradition, without the leaſt variation or contradiction: 'Tis evident, that our preſent philoſophers, inſtead of doubting of that fact, ought to receive it for certain, and ought to ſearch for the cauſes whence it might be derived. The decay, corruption, and diſſolution of nature, is an event rendered probable by ſo many analogies, that any phaenomenon, which ſeems to have a tendency towards that cataſtrophe, comes within the reach of human teſtimony, if that teſtimony be very extenſive, and uniform.

But ſuppoſe, that all the hiſtorians, who treat of ENGLAND, ſhould agree, that on the firſt of JANUARY, 1600, Queen ELIZABETH died; that both before and after her death ſhe was ſeen by her phyſicians and the whole court, as is uſual with perſons of her rank; that her ſucceſſor was acknowleged and proclaimed by the parliament; and that, after being interred a month, ſhe again appeared, took poſſeſſion of the throne, and governed ENGLAND for three years: I muſt confeſs, I ſhould be ſurprized at the concurrence of ſo many odd circumſtances, but ſhould not have the leaſt inclination to believe ſo miraculous an event. I ſhould not doubt of her pretended death, and of thoſe other public circumſtances that followed it: I ſhould only aſſert it to have been pretended, and that it neither was, nor poſſibly could be real. You would in vain object to me the difficulty, and almoſt impoſſibility of deceiving the world in an affair of ſuch conſequence; the wiſdom and integrity of that renowned queen; with the little or no advantage which ſhe could reap from ſo poor an artifice: All this might aſtoniſh me; but I would ſtill reply, that the knavery and folly of men are ſuch common phaenomena, that I ſhould rather believe the moſt extraordinary events to ariſe from their concurrence, than admit ſo ſignal a violation of the laws of nature.

But ſhould this miracle be aſcribed to any new ſyſtem of religion; men, in all ages, have been ſo much impoſed on by ridiculous ſtories of that kind, that this very circumſtance would be a full proof of a cheat, and ſufficient, with all men of ſenſe, not only to make them reject the fact, but even reject it without farther examination. Tho' the Being to whom the miracle is aſcribed, be, in this caſe, Almighty, it does not, upon that account, become a whit more probable; ſince 'tis impoſſible for us to know the attributes or actions of ſuch a being, otherwiſe than from the experience which we have of his productions, in the uſual courſe of nature. This ſtill reduces us to paſt obſervation, and obliges us to compare the inſtances of the violations of truth in the teſtimony of men with thoſe of the violation of the laws of nature by miracles, in order to judge which of them is moſt likely and probable. As the violations of truth are more common in the teſtimony concerning religious miracles, than in that concerning any other matter of fact; this muſt diminiſh very much the authority of the former teſtimony, and make us form a general reſolution, never to lend any attention to it, with whatever ſpecious pretext it may be covered.

My lord BACON ſeems to have embraced the ſame principles of reaſoning. "Facienda enim eſt congeries five hiſtoria naturalis particularis omnium monſtrorum & partuum naturae prodigioſorum; omnis denique novitatis & raritatis & inconſueti in natura. Hoc vero faciendum eſt cum ſeveriſſimo delectu, ut conſtet ſides. Maxime autem habenda ſunt pro ſuſpectis quae pendent quomodocunque ex religione, ut prodigia LIVII: Nec minus quae inveniuntur in ſcriptoribus magiae naturalis, aut etiam alchymiae, & hujuſmodi hominibus; qui tanquam proci ſunt & amatores fabularum." Nov. Organ. Lib. 2. Aph. 29.

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I AM the better pleaſed with this method of reaſoning, as I think it may ſerve to confound thoſe dangerous friends or diſguiſed enemies to the Chriſtian Religion, who have undertaken to defend it by the principles of human reaſon. Our moſt holy religion is founded on Faith, not on reaſon; and 'tis a ſure method of expoſing it to put it to ſuch a trial as it is, by no means, fitted to endure. To make this more evident, let us examine thoſe miracles, related in ſcripture; and not to loſe ourſelves in too wide a field, let us confine ourſelves to ſuch as we find in the Pentateuch, which we ſhall examine, according to the principles of theſe pretended Chriſtians, not as the word or teſtimony of God himſelf, but as the production of a mere human writer and hiſtorian. Here then we are firſt to conſider a book, preſented to us by a barbarous and ignorant people, wrote in an age when they were ſtill more barbarous, and in all probability long after the facts which it relates; corroborated by no concurring teſtimony, and reſembling thoſe fabulous accounts, which every nation gives of its origin. Upon reading this book, we find it full of prodigies and miracles. It gives an account of a ſtate of the world and of human nature intirely different from the preſent: Of our fall from that ſtate: Of the age of man, extended to near a thouſand years: Of the deſtruction of the world by a deluge: Of the arbitrary choice of one people, a the favourites of heaven; and that people, the countrymen of the author: Of their deliverance from bondage by prodigies the moſt aſtoniſhing imaginable: I deſire any one to lay his hand upon his heart, and after ſerious conſideration declare, whether he thinks, that the falſhood of ſuch a book, ſupported by ſuch a teſtimony, would be more extraordinary and miraculous than all the miracles it relates; which is, however, neceſſary to make it be received, according to the meaſures of probability above eſtabliſhed.

WHAT we have ſaid of miracles may be applied, without any variation, to prophecies; and indeed, all prophecies are real miracles, and as ſuch only, can be admitted as proofs of any revelation. If it did not exceed the capacity of human nature to foretel future events, it would be abſurd to employ any prophecy as an argument for a divine miſſion or authority from heaven. So that, upon the whole, we may conclude, that the Chriſtian Religion not only was at firſt attended with miracles, but even at this day cannot be believed by any reaſonable perſon without one. Mere reaſon is inſufficient to convince us of its veracity: And whoever is moved by Faith to aſſent to it is conſcious of a continued miracle in his own perſon, which ſubverts all the principles of his underſtanding, and gives him a determination to believe what is moſt contrary to cuſtom and experience.

PART I.

THERE is not a greater number of philoſophical reaſonings, diſplayed upon any ſubject, than thoſe, which prove the exiſtence of a Deity, and refute the fallacies of Atheiſts; and yet the moſt religious philoſophers ſtill diſpute whether any man can be ſo blinded as to be a ſpeculative atheiſt. How ſhall we reconcile theſe contradictions? The knighterrants, who wandered about to clear the world of dragons and giants, never entertained the leaſt doubt with regard to the exiſtence of theſe monſters.

THE Sceptic is another enemy of religion, who naturally provokes the indignation of all divines and graver philoſophers; tho' 'tis certain, that no man ever met with any ſuch abſurd creature, or converſed with a man, who had no opinion or principle concerning any ſubject, either of action or ſpeculation. This begets a very natural queſtion; What is meant by a ſceptic? And how far it is poſſible to puſh theſe philoſophical principles of doubt and uncertainty?

THERE is a ſpecies of ſcepticiſm, antecedent to all ſtudy and philoſophy, which is much inculcated by DES CARTES and others, as a ſovereign preſervative againſt error and precipitate judgment. It recommends an univerſal doubt, not only of all our former opinions and principles, but alſo of our very faculties; of whoſe veracity, ſay they, we muſt aſſure ourſelves, by a chain of reaſoning, deduced from ſome original principle, which cannot poſſibly be fallacious or deceitful. But neither is there any ſuch original principle, which has a prerogative above others, that are ſelf-evident and convincing: Or if there were, could we advance a ſtep beyond it, but by the uſe of theſe very faculties, of which we are ſuppoſed to be already diffident. The CARTESIAN doubt, therefore, were it ever poſſible to be attained by any human creature (as it plainly is not) would be entirely incurable; and no reaſoning could ever bring us to a ſtate of aſſurance and conviction upon any ſubject.

IT muſt, however, be confeſſed, that this ſpecies of ſcepticiſm, when more moderate, may be underſtood in a very reaſonable ſenſe, and is a neceſſary preparative to the ſtudy of philoſophy, by preſerving a proper impartiality in our judgments, and weaning our mind from all thoſe prejudices, which we may have imbibed from education or raſh opinion. To begin with clear and ſelf-evident principles, to advance by timorous and ſure ſteps, to review frequently our concluſions, and examine accurately all their conſequences; tho' by this means we ſhall make both a ſlow and a ſhort progreſs in our ſyſtems; are the only methods, by which we can ever hope to reach truth, and attain a proper ſtability and certainty in our determinations.

THERE is another ſpecies of ſcepticiſm, conſequent to ſcience and enquiry, where men are ſuppoſed to have diſcovered, either the abſolute fallaciouſneſs of their mental faculties, or their unfitneſs to reach any fixed determination in all thoſe curious ſubjects of ſpeculation, about which they are commonly employed. Even our very ſenſes are brought into diſpute, by a certain ſpecies of philoſophers; and the maxims of common life are ſubjected to the ſame doubt as the moſt profound principles or concluſions of metaphyſics and theology. As theſe paradoxical tenets (if they may be called tenets) are to be met with in ſome philoſophers, and the refutation of them in ſeveral, they naturally excite our curioſity, and make us enquire into the arguments, on which they may be founded.

I NEED not inſiſt upon the more trite topics, employed by the ſceptics in all ages, againſt the evidence of ſenſe; ſuch as thoſe derived from the imperfection and fallaciouſneſs of our organs, on numberleſs occaſions; the crooked appearance of an oar in water; the various aſpects of objects, according to their different diſtances; the double images which ariſe from the preſſing one eye; with many other appearances of a like nature. Theſe ſceptical topics, indeed, are only ſufficient to prove, that the ſenſes alone are not implicitely to be depended on; but that we muſt correct their evidence by reaſon, and by conſiderations, derived from the nature of the medium, the diſtance of the object, and the diſpoſition of the organ, in order to render them, within their ſphere, the proper criteria of truth and falſhood. There are other more profound arguments againſt the ſenſes, which admit not of ſo eaſy a ſolution.

IT ſeems evident, that men are carried, by a natural inſtinct or prepoſſeſſion, to repoſe faith in their ſenſes; and that, without any reaſoning, or even almoſt before the uſe of reaſon, we always ſuppoſe an external univerſe, which depends not on our perception, but would exiſt, tho' we and every ſenſible creature were abſent or annihilated. Even the animal creation are governed by a like opinion, and preſerve this belief of external objects, in all their thoughts, deſigns, and actions.

IT ſeems alſo evident, that when men follow this blind and powerful inſtinct of nature, they always ſuppoſe the very images, preſented by the ſenſes, to be the external objects, and never entertain any ſuſpicion, that the one are nothing but repreſentations of the other. This very table, which we ſee white, and which we feel hard, is believed to exiſt, independent of our perception, and to be ſomething external to our mind, which perceives it. Our preſence beſtows not being on it: Our abſence annihilates it not. It preſerves its exiſtence uniform and entire, independent of the ſituation of intelligent beings, who perceive or contemplate it.

BUT this univerſal and primary opinion of all men is ſoon deſtroyed by the ſlighteſt philoſophy, which teaches us, that nothing can ever be preſent to the mind but an image or perception, and that the ſenſes are only the inlets, thro' which theſe images are received, without being ever able to produce any immediate intercourſe between the mind and the object. The table, which we ſee, ſeems to diminiſh, as we remove farther from it: But the real table which exiſts independent of us, ſuffers no alteration: It was, therefore, nothing but its image, which was preſent to the mind. Theſe are the obvious dictates of reaſon; and no man, who reflects, ever doubted, that the exiſtences, which we conſider, when we ſay, this houſe and that tree are nothing but perceptions in the mind, and fleeting copies or repreſentations of other exiſtences, which remain uniform and independent.

So far, then, are we neceſſitated by reaſoning to contradict or depart from the primary inſtincts of nature, and to embrace a new ſyſtem with regard to the evidences of our ſenſes. But here philoſophy finds itſelf extremely embarraſſed, when it would juſtify this new ſyſtem, and obviate the cavils and objections of the ſceptics. It can no longer plead the infallible and irreſiſtible inſtinct of nature: For that led us to a quite different ſyſtem, which is acknowledged fallible and even erroneous. And to juſtify this pretended philoſophical ſyſtem, by a chain of clear and convincing argument, or even any appearance of argument, exceeds the power of all human capacity.

BY what argument can it be proved, that the perceptions of the mind muſt be cauſed by external objects, entirely different from them, tho' reſembling them (if that be poſſible) and could not ariſe either from the energy of the mind itſelf, or from the ſuggeſtion of ſome inviſible and unknown ſpirit, or from ſome other cauſe ſtill more unknown to us? 'Tis acknowledged, that, in fact, many of theſe perceptions ariſe not from any thing external, as in dreams, madneſs, and other diſeaſes. And nothing can be more inexplicable than the manner, in which body ſhould ſo operate upon mind as ever to convey an image of itſelf to a ſubſtance ſuppoſed of ſo different, and even contrary a nature.

'TIS a queſtion of fact, whether the perceptions of the ſenſes be produced by external objects, reſembling them: How ſhall this queſtion be determined? By experience ſurely; as all other queſtions of a like nature. But here experience is, and muſt be entirely ſilent. The mind has never any thing preſent to it but the perceptions, and cannot poſſibly reach any experience of their connexion with objects. The ſuppoſition of ſuch a connexion is, therefore, without any foundation in reaſoning.

To have recourſe to the veracity of the ſupreme Being, in order to prove the veracity of our ſenſes, is ſurely making a very unexpected circuit. If his veracity were at all concerned in this matter, our ſenſes would be entirely infallible; becauſe it is not poſſible that he can ever deceive. Not to mention, that if the external world be once called in doubt, we ſhall be at a loſs to find arguments, by which we may prove the exiſtence of that Being or any of his attributes.

THIS is a topic, therefore, in which the profounder and more philoſophical ſceptics will always triumph, when they endeavour to introduce an univerſal doubt into all ſubjects of human knowlege and enquiry.

Do you follow the inſtincts and propenſities of nature, may they ſay, in aſſenting to the veracity of ſenſe? But theſe lead you to believe, that the very perception or ſenſible image is the external object. Do you diſclaim this principle, in order to embrace a more rational opinion, that the perceptions are only repreſentations of ſomething external? You here depart from your natural propenſities and more obvious ſentiments; and yet are not able to ſatisfy your reaſon, which can never find any convincing argument from experience to prove, that the perceptions are connected with any external objects.

THERE is another ſceptical topic of a like nature, derived from the moſt profound philoſophy; which might merit our attention, were it requiſite to dive ſo deep, in order to diſcover arguments and reaſonings, which can ſerve ſo little any ſerious purpoſe. 'Tis univerſally allowed by modern enquiers, that all the ſenſible qualities of objects, ſuch as hard, ſoft, hot, cold, white, black, &c. are merely ſecondary, and exiſt not in the objects themſelves, but are perceptions of the mind, without any external archetype or model, which they repreſent. If this be allowed, with regard to ſecondary qualities, it muſt alſo follow with regard to the ſuppoſed primary qualities of extenſion and ſolidity; nor can the latter be any more entitled to that denomination than the former. The idea of extenſion is entirely acquired from the ſenſes of ſight and feeling; and if all the qualities, perceived by the ſenſes, be in the mind, not in the object, the ſame concluſion muſt reach the idea of extenſion, which is wholly dependent on the ſenſible ideas or the ideas of ſecondary qualities. Nothing can ſave us from this concluſion, but the aſſerting, that the ideas of thoſe primary qualities are attained by Abſtraction; which, if we examine accurately, we ſhall find to be unintelligible, and even abſurd. An extenſion, that is neither tangible nor viſible, cannot poſſibly be conceived: And a tangible or viſible extenſion, which is neither hard nor ſoft, black nor white, is equally beyond the reach of human conception. Let any man try to conceive a triangle in general, which is neither Iſoceles, nor Scalenum, nor has any particular length nor proportion of ſides; and he will ſoon perceive the abſurdity of all the ſcholaſtic notions with regard to abſtraction and general ideasThis argument is drawn from Dr. BERKLEY; and ideed moſt of the writings of that very ingenious author form the beſt leſſons of ſcepticiſm, which are to be found either among the antient or modern philoſophers, BAYLE not excepted. He profeſſes, however, in his title-page (and undoubtedly with great truth) to have compoſed his book againſt the ſceptics as well as againſt the atheiſts and free-thinkers. But that all his arguments, tho' otherwiſe intended, are, in reality, merely ſceptical, appears from this, that they admit of no anſwer and produce no conviction. Their only effect is to cauſe that momentary amazement and irreſolution and confuſion, which is the reſult of ſcepticiſm..

THUS the firſt philoſophical objection to the evidence of ſenſe or to the opinion of external exiſtence conſiſts in this, that ſuch an opinion, if reſted on natural inſtinct, is contrary to reaſon, and if referred to reaſon, is contrary to natural inſtinct, and at the ſame time carries no rational evidence with it, to convince an impartial enquirer. The ſecond objection goes farther, and repreſents this opinion as contrary to reaſon; at leaſt, if it be a principle of reaſon, that all ſenſible qualities are in the mind, not in the object.

PART II.

IT may ſeem a very extravagant attempt of the ſceptics to deſtroy reaſon by argument and ratiocination; yet is this the grand ſcope of all their enquiries and diſputes. They endeavour to find objections, both to our abſtract reaſonings, and to thoſe which regard matter of fact and exiſtence.

THE chief objection againſt all abſtract reaſonings is derived from the ideas of ſpace and time; ideas, which, in common life and to a careleſs view, are very clear and intelligible, but when they paſs thro' the ſcrutiny of the profound ſciences (and they are the chief object of theſe ſciences) afford principles which ſeem full of abſurdity and contradiction. No prieſtly dogmas, invented on purpoſe to tame and ſubdue the rebellious reaſon of mankind, ever ſhocked common ſenſe more than the doctrine of the infinite diviſibility of extenſion, with its conſequences; as they are pompouſly diſplayed by all geometricians and metaphyſicians, with a kind of triumph and exultation. A real quantity, infinitely leſs than any finite quantity, containing quantities, infinitely leſs than itſelf, and ſo on, in infinitum; this is an edifice ſo bold and prodigious, that it is too weighty for any pretended demonſtration to ſupport, becauſe it ſhocks the cleareſt and moſt natural principles of human reaſonWhatever diſputes there may be about mathematical points, we muſt allow that there are phyſical points; that is, parts of extenſion, which cannot be divided or leſſened, either by the eye or imagination. Theſe images, then, which are preſent to the fancy or ſenſes, are abſolutely inviſible, and conſequently muſt be allowed by mathematicians to be infinitely leſs than any real part of extenſion; and yet nothing appears more certain to reaſon, than that an infinite number of them compoſes an infinite extenſion. How much more an infinite number of thoſe infinitely ſmall parts of extenſion, which are ſtill ſuppoſed infinitely diviſible.. But what renders the matter more extraordinary, is, that theſe ſeemingly abſurd opinions are ſupported by a chain of reaſoning, the cleareſt and moſt natural; nor is it poſſible for us to allow the premiſes without admitting the conſequences. Nothing can be more convincing and ſatisfactory than all the concluſions concerning the properties of circles and triangles; and yet, when theſe are once received, how can we deny, that the angle of contact between a circle and its tangent is infinitely leſs than any rectilineal angle, that as you may encreaſe the diameter of the circle in infinitum, this angle of contact becomes ſtill leſs, even in infinitum, and that the angle of contact between other curves and their tangents may be infinitely leſs than thoſe between any circle and its tangent, and ſo on, in infinitum? The demonſtration of theſe principles ſeems as unexceptionable as that which proves the three angles of a triangle to be equal to two right ones; tho' the latter opinion be natural and eaſy, and the former big with contradiction and abſurdity. Reaſon here ſeems to be thrown into a kind of amazement and ſuſpence, which, without the ſuggeſtions of any ſceptic, gives her a diffidence of herſelf, and of the ground on which he treads. She ſees a full light, which illuminates certain places; but that light borders upon the moſt profound darkneſs. And between theſe ſhe is ſo dazzled and confounded, that ſhe ſcarce can pronounce with certainty and aſſurance concerning any one object.

THE abſurdity of theſe bold determinations of the abſtract ſciences ſeems to become, if poſſible, ſtill more palpable with regard to time than extenſion. An infinite number of real parts of time, paſſing in ſucceſſion, and exhauſted one after another, appears ſo evident a contradiction, that no man, one ſhould think, whoſe judgment is not corrupted, inſtead of being improved, by the ſciences, would ever be able to admit of it.

YET ſtill reaſon muſt remain reſtleſs and unquiet, even with regard to that ſcepticiſm, to which ſhe is led by theſe ſeeming abſurdities and contradictions. How any clear, diſtinct idea can contain circumſtances, contradictory to itſelf, or to any other clear, diſtinct idea, is abſolutely incomprehenſible; and is, perhaps, as abſurd as any propoſition, which can be formed. So that nothing can be more ſceptical, or more full of doubt and heſitation, than this ſcepticiſm itſelf, which ariſes from ſome of the paradoxical concluſions of geometry or the ſcience of quantityIt ſeems to me not impoſſible to avoid theſe abſurdities and contradictions, if it be admitted, that there is no ſuch thing as abſtract or general ideas, properly ſpeaking; but that all general ideas are, in reality, particular ones, attached to a general term, which recalls, upon occaſion, other particular ones, that reſemble, in certain circumſtances, the idea, preſent to the mind: Thus when the term Horſe, is pronounced, we immediately figure to ourſelves the idea of a black or a white animal, of a particular ſize or figure: But as that term is alſo uſed to be applied to animals of other colours, figures and ſizes, theſe ideas, tho' not actually preſent to the imagination, are eaſily recalled, and our reaſoning and concluſion proceed in the ſame way, as if they were actually preſent. If this be admitted (as ſeems reaſonable) it follows that all the ideas of quantity, upon which mathematicians reaſon, are nothing but particular, and ſuch as are ſuggeſted by the ſenſes and imagination, and conſequently, cannot be infinitely diviſible. 'Tis ſufficient to have dropt this hint at preſent, without proſecuting it any farther. It certainly concerns all lovers of ſcience not to expoſe themſelves to the ridicule and contempt of the ignorant by their concluſions; and this ſeems the readieſt ſolution of theſe difficulties..

THE ſceptical objections to moral evidence, or to the reaſonings concerning matter of fact are either popular or philoſophical. The popular objections are derived from the natural weakneſs of human underſtanding; the contradictory opinions, which have been entertained in different ages and nations; the variations of our judgment in ſickneſs and health, youth and old age, proſperity and adverſity; the perpetual contradiction of each particular man's opinions and ſentiments; with many other topics of that kind. 'Tis needleſs to inſiſt farther on this head. Theſe objections are but weak. For as, in common life, we reaſon every moment concerning fact and exiſtence, and cannot poſſibly ſubſiſt, without continually employing this ſpecies of argument, any popular objections, derived from thence, muſt be inſufficient to deſtroy that evidence. The great ſubverter of Pyrrhoniſm or the exceſſive principles of ſcepticiſm, is action, and employment, and the occupations of common life. Theſe principles may flouriſh and triumph in the ſchools; where it is, indeed, difficult, if not impoſſible, to refute them. But as ſoon as they leave the ſhade, and by the preſence of the real objects, which actuate our paſſions and ſentiments, are put in oppoſition to the more powerful principles of our nature, they vaniſh like ſmoak, and leave the moſt determined ſceptic in the ſame condition as other mortals.

THE ſceptic, therefore, had better keep in his proper ſphere, and diſplay thoſe philoſophical objections, which ariſe from more profound reſearches. Here he ſeems to have ample matter of triumph; while he juſtly inſiſts, that all our evidence for any matter of fact, which lies beyond the teſtimony of ſenſe or memory, is derived entirely from the relation of cauſe and effect; that we have no other idea of this relation than that of two objects, which have been frequently cojoined together; that we have no arguments to convince us, that object, which have, in our experience, been frequently conjoined, will likewiſe, in other inſtances, be conjoined in the ſame manner; and that nothing leads us to this inſerence but cuſtom or a certain inſtinct of our nature; which it is indeed difficult to reſiſt, but which, like other inſtincts, may be fallacious and deceitful. While the ſceptic inſiſts upon theſe topics, he ſhews his force, or rather, indeed, his own and our weakneſs; and ſeems, for the time at leaſt, to deſtroy all aſſurance and conviction. Theſe arguments might be diſplayed at greater length, if any durable good or benefit to ſociety could ever be expected to reſult from them.

FOR here is the chief and moſt confounding objection to exceſſive ſcepticiſm, that no durable good can ever reſult from it; while it remains in its full force and vigour. We need only aſk ſuch a ſceptic, What his meaning is? And what he propoſes by all theſe curious reſearches? He is immediately at a loſs, and knows not what to anſwer. A COPERNICAN or PTOLEMAIC, who ſupports each his different ſyſtem of aſtronomy, may hope to produce a conviction, which will remain, conſtant and durable, with his audience. A STOIC or EPICUREAN diſplays principles, which may not only be durable, but which have a mighty effect on conduct and behaviour. But a PYRRHONIAN cannot propoſe that his philoſophy will have any conſtant influence on the mind: Or if it had, that its influence would be beneficial to ſociety. On the contrary, he muſt acknowlege, if he will acknowlege any thing, that all human life muſt periſh, were his principles univerſally and ſteadily to prevail. All diſcourſe, all action would immediately ceaſe; and men remain in a total lethargy, till the neceſſities of nature, unſatisfied, put an end to their miſerable exiſtence. 'Tis true; ſo fatal an event is very little to be dreaded. Nature is always too ſtrong for principle. And tho' a PYRRHONIAN may throw himſelf or others into a momentary amazement and confuſion by his profound reaſonings; the firſt and moſt trivial event in life will put to flight all his doubts and ſcruples, and leave him the ſame, in every point of action and ſpeculation, with the philoſophers of every other ſect, or with thoſe who never concerned themſelves in any philoſophical reſearches. When he awakes from his dream, he will be the firſt to join in the laugh againſt himſelf, and to confeſs, that all his objections are mere amuſements, and can have no other tendency than to ſhow the whimſical condition of mankind, who muſt act and reaſon and believe; tho' they are not able, by their moſt diligent enquiry, to ſatisfy themſelves concerning the foundation of theſe operations, or to remove the objections, which may be raiſed againſt them.

PART III.

THERE is, indeed, a more mitigated ſcepticiſm or academical philoſophy, which may be both durable and uſeful, and which may, in part, be the reſult of this PYRRHONISM, or exceſſive ſcepticiſm, when its undiſtinguiſhed doubts are, in ſome meaſure, corrected by common ſenſe and reflexion. The greateſt part of mankind are naturally apt to be affirmative and dogmatical in their opinions; and while they ſee objects only on one ſide, and have no idea of any counterpoiſing arguments, they throw themſelves precipitately into the principles, to which they are inclined; nor have they any indulgence for thoſe who entertain oppoſite ſentiments. To heſitate or balance perplexes their underſtandings, checks their paſſion, and ſuſpends their actions. They are, therefore, impatient till they eſcape from a ſtate, which to them is ſo uneaſy; and they think, that they can never remove themſelves far enough from it, by the violence of their affirmations and obſtinacy of their belief. But could ſuch dogmatical reaſoners become ſenſible of the ſtrange infirmities of human underſtanding, even in its moſt perfect ſtate, and when moſt accurate and cautious in its determinations; ſuch a reflection would naturally inſpire them with more modeſty and reſerve, and diminiſh their fond opinion of themſelves, and their prejudice againſt antagoniſts. The illiterate may reflect on the diſpoſition of the learned, who, amidſt all the advantages of ſtudy and reflection, are commonly ſtill diffident in their determinations: And if any of the learned are inclined, from their natural temper, to haughtineſs and obſtinacy, a ſmall tincture of PYRRHONISM may abate their pride, by ſhowing them, that the few advantages, which they may have attained over their fellows, are but inconſiderable, if compared with the univerſal perplexity and confuſion, which is inherent in human nature. In general, there is a degree of doubt, and caution, and modeſty, which, in all kinds of ſcrutiny and deciſion, ought for ever to accompany a juſt reaſoner.

ANOTHER ſpecies of mitigated ſcepticiſm, which may be of advantage to mankind, and which may be the natural reſult of the PYRRHONIAN doubts and ſcruples, is the limitation of our enquiries to ſuch ſubjects as are beſt adapted to the narrow capacity of human underſtanding. The imagination of man is naturally ſublime, delighted with whatever is remote and extraordinary, and running, without controul, into the moſt diſtant parts of ſpace and time, in order to avoid the objects, which cuſtom has rendered too familiar to it. A correct judgment obſerves a contrary method; and avoiding all diſtant and high enquiries, confines itſelf to common life, and to ſuch ſubjects as fall under daily practice and experience; leaving the more ſublime topics to the embelliſhment of poets and orators, or to the arts of prieſts and politicians. To bring us to ſo ſalutary a determination, nothing can be more ſerviceable, than to be once thoroughly convinced of the force of the PYRRHONIAN doubt, and of the impoſſibility that any thing but the ſtrong power of natural inſtinct, could free us from it. Thoſe who have a propenſity to philoſophy, will ſtill continue their reſearches; becauſe they reflect, that beſides the immediate pleaſure, attending ſuch an occupation, philoſophical deciſions are nothing but the reflections of common life, methodized and corrected. But they will never be tempted to go beyond common life, ſo long as they conſider the imperfection of thoſe faculties which they employ, their narrow reach, and their inaccurate operations. While we cannot give a ſatisfactory reaſon, why we believe after a thouſand experiments, that a ſtone will fall, or fire burn; can we ever ſatisfy ourſelves concerning any determinations which we may form with regard to the origin of worlds, and the ſituation of nature, from, and to enternity?

THIS narrow limitation, indeed, of our enquiries, is, in every reſpect, ſo reaſonable, that it ſuffices to make the ſlighteſt examination into the natural powers of the human mind, and to compare them to their objects, in order to recommend it to us. We ſhall then find what are the proper ſubjects of ſcience and enquiry.

IT ſeems to me, that the only objects of the abſtract ſciences or of demonſtration are quantity and number, and that all attempts to extend this more perfect ſpecies of knowlege beyond theſe bounds are mere ſophiſtry and illuſion. As the component parts of quantity and number are entirely ſimilar, their relations become intricate and involved; and nothing can be more curious, as well as uſeful, than to trace, by a variety of mediums, their equality or inequality, thro' their different appearances. But as all other ideas are clearly diſtinct and different from each other, we can never advance farther, by all our ſcrutiny, than to obſerve this diverſity, and, by an obvious reflection, pronounce one thing not to be another. Or if there be any difficulty in theſe deciſions, it proceeds entirely from the undeterminate meaning of words, which is corrected by juſter definitions. That the ſquare of the hypothenuſe is equal to the ſquares of the other two ſides, cannot be known, let the terms be ever ſo exactly defined, without a train of reaſoning and enquiry. But to convince us of this propoſition, that where there is no property, there can be no injuſtice, 'tis only neceſſary to define the terms, and explain injuſtice to be a violation of property. This propoſition is, indeed, nothing but a more imperfect deſinition. 'Tis the ſame caſe with all thoſe pretended ſyllogiſtical reaſonings, which may be found in every other branch of learning, except the ſciences of quantity and number; and theſe may ſafely, I think, be pronounced the only proper objects of knowlege and demonſtration.

ALL other enquiries of men regard only matter of fact and exiſtence; and theſe are evidently incapable of demonſtration. Whatever is may not be. No negation of a fact can involve a contradiction. The non-exiſtence of any being, without exception, is as clear and diſtinct an idea as its exiſtence. The propoſition, which affirms it not to be, however falſe, is no leſs conceivable and intelligible, than that which affirms it to be. The caſe is different with the ſciences, properly ſo called. Every propoſition, which is not true, is there confuſed and unintelligible. That the cube root of 64 is equal to the half of 10, is a falſe propoſition, and can never be diſtinctly conceived. But that CAESAR, or the angel GABRIEL, or any being never exiſted, may be a falſe propoſition, but ſtill is perfectly conceivable, and implies no contradiction.

THE exiſtence, therefore, of any being can only be proved by arguments from its cauſe or its effect; and theſe arguments are founded entirely on experience. If we reaſon à priori, any thing may appear able to produce any thing. The falling of a pebble may, for aught we know, extinguiſh the ſun; or the wiſh of a man controul the planets in their orbits. 'Tis only experience, which teaches us the nature and bounds of cauſe and effect, and enables us to inſer the exiſtence of one object from that of anotherThat impious maxim of the antient philoſophy, Ex nihilo, nihil fit, by which the creation of matter was excluded, ceaſes to be a maxim, according to this philoſophy. Not only the will of the ſupreme Being may create matter; but, for aught we know à priori, the will of any other Being might create it, or any other cauſe, that the moſt whimſical imagination can aſſign.. Such is the foundation of moral reaſoning, which forms the greateſt part of human knowlege, and is the ſource of all human action and behaviour.

MORAL reaſonings are either concerning particular or general facts. All deliberations in life regard the former; as alſo all diſquiſitions in hiſtory, chronology, geography, and aſtronomy.

THE ſciences, which treat of general facts, are polities, natural philoſophy, phyſic, chymiſtry, &c. where the qualities, cauſes, and effects of a whole ſpecies of objects are enquired into.

DIVINITY or Theology, as it proves the exiſtence of a Deity, and the immortality of ſouls, is compoſed partly of reaſonings concerning particular, partly concerning general facts. It has a foundation in reaſon, ſo far as it is ſupported by experience. But its beſt and moſt ſolid foundation is faith and divine revelation.

MORALS and criticiſm are not ſo properly objects of the underſtanding as of taſte and ſentiment. Beauty, whether moral or natural, is felt, more properly than perceived. Or if we reaſon concerning it, and endeavour to fix its ſtandard, we regard a new fact, viz. the general taſte of mankind, or ſome ſuch fact, which may be the object of reaſoning and enquiry.

WHEN we run over libraries, perſuaded of theſe principles, what havoc muſt we make? If we take in our hand any volume; of divinity or ſchool metaphyſics, for inſtance; let us aſk, Does it contain any abſtract reaſonings concerning quantity of number? No. Does it contain any experimental reaſonings concerning matters of fact or exiſtence? No. Commit it then to the flames: For it can contain nothing but ſophiſtry and illuſion.

SECT. I.

1. SOME objects produce immediately an argreeable ſenſation, by the original ſtructure of our organs, and are thence denominated GOOD; as others, from their immediate diſagreeable ſenſation, acquire the appellation of EVIL. Thus moderate warmth is agreeable and good; exceſſive heat painful and evil.

SOME objects again, by being naturally conformable or contrary to paſſion, excite an agreeable or painful ſenſation; and are thence called Good or Evil. The puniſhment of an adverſary, by gratifying revenge, is good; the ſickneſs of a companion, by affecting friendſhip, is evil.

2. ALL good or evil, whence-ever it ariſes, produces various paſſions and affections, according to the light, in which it is ſurveyed.

WHEN good is certain or very 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 one ſide or the other.

DESIRE ariſes from good conſidered ſimply; and AVERSION, from evil. The WILL exerts itſelf, when either the preſence of the good or abſence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.

3. NONE of theſe paſſions ſeem to contain any thing curious or remarkable except Hope and Fear, which, being derived from the probability of any good or evil, are mixed paſſions, that merit our attention.

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 toſſed from one to another, and in one moment is determined to conſider an object as exiſtent, and in another moment as the contrary. The imagination or underſtanding, call it which you pleaſe, fluctuates between the oppoſite views; and tho' perhaps it may be oftener turned to 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 objects in their oppoſite cauſes, finds ſuch a contrariety as utterly deſtroys all certainty or eſtabliſhed opinion.

SUPPOSE, then, that the object, concerning which we are doubtful, produces either deſire or averſion; it is evident, that, according as the mind turns itſelf to 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 think of thoſe cauſes, which produce it; and for the ſame reaſon, excites grief or uneaſineſs from the oppoſite conſideration. So that, as the underſtanding, in probable queſtions, is divided between the contrary points of view, the heart muſt in the ſame manner be divided between oppoſite emotions.

NOW, if we conſider the human mind, we ſhall obſerve, that with regard to the paſſions, it is not like a wind inſtrument of muſic, which, in running over all the notes, immediately loſes the ſound when 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 extremely quick and agile; but the paſſions, in compariſon, are ſlow and reſtive: For which reaſon, when any object is preſented, which affords a variety of views to the one and emotions to the other; tho' 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 mixed and confounded with the other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil, the paſſion of grief or joy predominates in the compoſition; and theſe paſſions being intermingled by means of the contrary views of the imagination, produce by the union the paſſions of hope or fear.

4. As this theory ſeems to carry its own evidence along with it, we ſhall be more conciſe in our proofs.

THE paſſions of fear and hope may ariſe, when the chances are equal on both ſides, and no ſuperiority can be diſcovered in 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 toſt 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, by a contrary operation to that, which encreaſed it, to wit, by diminiſhing the probability on the melancholy ſide; and you will ſee the paſſion clear every moment, 'till it changes inſenſibly into hope; which again runs, by flow degrees, into joy, as you increaſe that part of the compoſition, by the increaſe 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 thro' a priſm, is a compoſition of two others, when as you diminiſh or increaſe the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably, more or leſs, in the compoſition?

5.PROBABILITY is of two kinds; either when the object is itſelf uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, tho' the object be already certain, yet is it uncertain to our judgment, which finds a number of proofs or preſumptions on each ſide of the queſtion. Both theſe kinds of probability cauſe fear and hope; which muſt proceed from that property, in which they agree; to wit, the uncertainty and fluctuation which they beſtow on the paſſion, by that contrariety of views, which is common to both.

6. IT is a probable good or evil, which commonly cauſes hope or fear; becauſe probability, producing an inconſtant and wavering ſurvey of an object, occaſions 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 tho' there be no probability.

AN evil, conceived as barely poſſible, ſometimes produces fear; eſpecially if the evil be very great. A man cannot think of exceſſive pain and torture without trembling, if he runs the leaſt riſque of ſuffering them. The ſmallneſs of the probability is compenſated by the greatneſs of the evil.

BUT even impoſſible evils cauſe fear; as when we tremble on the brink of a precipice, tho' we know ourſelves to be in perfect ſecurity, and have it in our choice, whether we will advance a ſtep farther. The immediate preſence of the evil influences the imagination and produces a ſpecies of belief; but being oppoſed by the reflection on our ſecurity, that belief is immediately retracted, and cauſes the ſame kind of paſſion, as when, from a contrariety of chances, contrary paſſions are produced.

EVILS, which are certain, have ſometimes the ſame effect as the poſſible or impoſſible. A man, in a ſtrong priſon, without the leaſt means of eſcape, trembles at the thoughts of the rack, to which he is ſentenced. The evil is here fixed in itſelf; but the mind has not courage to fix upon it; and this fluctuation gives riſe to a paſſion of a ſimilar appearance with fear.

7. 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. If any one were told that one of his ſons is ſuddenly killed; the paſſion, occaſioned by this event, would not ſettle into grief, 'till he got certain information which of his ſons he had loſt. Tho' each ſide of the queſtion produces here the ſame paſſion; that paſſion cannot ſettle, but receives from the imagination, which is unfixed, a tremulous unſteady motion, reſembling the mixture and contention of grief and joy.

8. THUS all kinds of uncertainty have a ſtrong connexion with fear, even tho' they do not cauſe any oppoſition of paſſions, by the oppoſite views, which they preſent to us. Should I leave a friend in any malady, I ſhould feel more anxiety upon his account, than if he were preſent; tho' perhaps I am not only incapable of giving him aſſiſtance, but likewiſe of judging concerning the event of his ſickneſs. There are a thouſand little circumſtances of his ſituation and condition, which I deſire to know; and the knowlege of them would prevent that fluctuation and uncertainty, ſo nearly allied to fear. HORACE has remarked this phaenomenon.

Ut aſſidens implumibus pullus avis Serpentûm allapſus timet, Magis relictis; non, ut adſit, auxili Latura plus praeſentibus.

A VIRGIN on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and apprehenſions, tho' ſhe expects nothing but pleaſure. The confuſion of wiſhes and joys, the newneſs and greatneſs of the unknown event, ſo embarraſs the mind, that it knows not in what image or paſſion to fix itſelf.

9. CONCERNING the mixture of affections, we may remark, in general, that when contrary paſſions ariſe from objects no way connected together, they take place alternately. Thus when a man is afflicted for the loſs of a law-fuit, 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 between them in a ſtate of indifference.

IT more eaſily attains that calm ſituation, when the ſame event is of a mixed nature, and contains ſomething adverſe and ſomething proſperous in its different circumſtance. For in that caſe, both the paſſions, mingling with each other by means of the relation, often become mutually deſtructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquillity.

BUT ſuppoſe, that the object is not a compound of good and evil, but is conſidered as probable or improbable in any degree; in that caſe the contrary paſſions will both of them be preſent at once in the ſoul, and inſtead of ballancing and tempering each other, will ſubſiſt together, and by their union, produce a third impreſſion or affection, ſuch as hope or fear.

THE influence of the relations of ideas (which we ſhall afterwards explain more fully) is plainly ſeen in this affair. In contrary paſſions, if the objects 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.

THE effect of a mixture of paſſions, when one of them is predominant and ſwallows up the other, ſhall be explained afterwards.

SECT. II.

1. BESIDES thoſe paſſions above-mentioned, which ariſe from a direct purſuit of good and averſion to evil, there are others which are of a more complicated nature, and imply more than one view or conſideration. Thus Pride is a certain ſatisfaction in ourſelves, on account of ſome accompliſhment or poſſeſſion, which we enjoy: Humility, on the other hand, is a diſſatisfaction with ourſelves, on account of ſome defect or infirmity.

LOVE or Friendſhip is a complacency in another, on account of his accompliſhments or ſervices: Hatred, the contrary.

2. IN theſe two ſets of paſſions, there is an obvious diſtinction to be made between the object of the paſſion and its cauſe. The object of pride and humility is ſelf: The cauſe of the paſſion is ſome excellence in the former caſe; ſome fault, in the latter. The object of love and hatred is ſome other perſon: The cauſes, in like manner, are either excellencies or faults.

WITH regard to all theſe paſſions, the cauſes are what excite the emotion; the object is what the mind directs its view to when the emotion is excited. Our merit, for inſtance, raiſes pride; and it is eſſential to pride to turn our view on ourſelf with complacency and ſatisfaction.

NOW as the cauſes of theſe paſſions are very numerous and various, tho' their object be uniform and ſimple; it may be a ſubject of curioſity to conſider, what that circumſtance is, in which all theſe various cauſes agree; or, in other words, what is the real, efficient cauſe of the paſſion. We ſhall begin with pride and humility.

3. IN order to explain the cauſes of theſe paſſions, we muſt reflect on certain properties, which tho' they have a mighty influence on every operation, both of the underſtanding and paſſions, are not commonly much inſiſted on by philoſophers. The firſt of theſe is the aſſociation of ideas, or that principle, by which we make an eaſy tranſition from one idea to another. However uncertain and changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and method in their changes. They uſually paſs with regularity, from one object, to what reſembles it, is contiguous to it, or produced by itSee Enquiry concerning Human Underſtanding, Sect. III.. When one idea is preſent to the imagination; any other, united by theſe relations, naturally follows it, and enters with more facility, by means of that introduction.

THE ſecond property, which I ſhall obſerve in the human mind, is a like aſſociation of impreſſions or emotions. All reſembling impreſſions are connected together; and no ſooner one ariſes, than the reſt naturally follow. Grief and diſappointment give riſe to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and malice to grief again. In like manner, our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itſelf into love, generoſity, courage, pride, and other reſembling affections.

IN the third place, it is obſervable of theſe two kinds of aſſociation, that they very much aſſiſt and forward each other, and that the tranſition is more eaſily made, where they both concur in the ſame object. Thus, a man, who by any injury from another, is very much diſcompoſed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred ſubjects of hatred, diſcontent, impatience, fear, and other uneaſy paſſions, eſpecially if he can diſcover theſe ſubjects in or near the perſon, who was the object of his firſt emotion. Thoſe principles which forward the tranſition of ideas, here concur with thoſe, which operate on the paſſions; and both, uniting in one action, beſtow on the mind a double impulſe.

UPON this occaſion, I may cite a paſſage from an elegant writer, who expreſſes himſelf in the following mannerADDISON, Spectator, No 412.. "As the fancy delights in every thing, that is great, ſtrange, or beautiful, and is ſtill the more pleaſed the more it finds of theſe perfections in the ſame object, ſo it is capable of receiving new ſatisfaction by the aſſiſtance of another ſenſe. Thus, any continual found, as the muſic of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the ſeveral beauties of the place, that lie before him. Thus, if there ariſes a fragrancy of ſmells or perfumes, they heighten the pleaſure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landſcape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both ſenſes recommend each other, and are pleaſanter together than where they enter the mind ſeparately: As the different colours of a picture, when they are well diſpoſed, ſet off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the ſituation." In theſe phaenomena, we may remark the aſſociation both of impreſſions and ideas; as well as the mutual aſſiſtance theſe aſſociations lend to each other.

4. IT ſeems to me, that both theſe ſpecies of relation have place in producing Pride or Humility, and are the real, efficient cauſes of the paſſion.

WITH regard to the firſt relation, that of ideas, there can be no queſtion. Whatever we are proud of, muſt, in ſome manner, belong to us. It is always our knowlege, our ſenſe, beauty, poſſeſſions, family, on which we value ourſelves. Self, which is the object of the paſſion, muſt ſtill be related to that quality or circumſtance, which cauſes the paſſion. There muſt be a connexion between them; an eaſy tranſition of the imagination; or a facility of the conception in paſſing from one to the other. Where this connexion is wanting, no object can either excite pride or humility; and the more you weaken the connexion, the more you weaken the paſſion.

5. THE only ſubject of enquiry is, whether there be a like relation of impreſſions or ſentiments, whereever pride or humility is felt; whether the circumſtance, which cauſes the paſſion, produces antecedently a ſentiment ſimilar to the paſſion; and whether there be an eaſy transfuſion of the one into the other.

THE feeling or ſentiment of pride is agreeable; of humility, painful. An agreeable ſenſation is, therefore, related to the former; a painful, to the latter. And if we find, after examination, that every object, which produces pride, produces alſo a ſeparate pleaſure; and every object, that cauſes humility, excites in like manner a ſeparate uneaſineſs; we muſt allow, in that caſe, that the preſent theory is fully proved and aſcertained. The double relation of ideas and ſentiments will be acknowleged inconteſtable.

6. To begin with perſonal merit and demerit, the moſt obvious cauſes of theſe paſſions; it would be entirely foreign to our preſent purpoſe to examine the foundation of moral diſtinctions. It is ſufficient to obſerve, that the foregoing theory concerning the origin of the paſſions may be defended on any hypotheſis. The moſt probable ſyſtem, which has been advanced to explain the difference between vice and virtue, is, that either from a primary conſtitution of nature, or from a ſenſe of public or private intereſt, certain characters, upon the very view and contemplation, produce uneaſineſs; and others, in like manner, excite pleaſure. The uneaſineſs and ſatisfaction, produced in the ſpectator, are eſſential to vice and virtue. To approve of a character, is to feel a delight upon its appearance. To diſapprove of it, is to be ſenſible of an uneaſineſs. The pain and pleaſure therefore, being, in a manner, the primary ſource of blame or praiſe, muſt alſo be the cauſes of all their effects; and conſequently, the cauſes of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that diſtinction.

BUT ſupposing this theory of morals ſhould not be received; it is ſtill evident that pain and pleaſure, if not the ſources of moral diſtinctions, are at leaſt inſeparable from them. A generous and noble character affords a ſatisfaction even in the ſurvey; and when preſented to us, tho' only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery diſpleaſe from their very nature; nor is it poſſible ever to reconcile us to theſe qualities, either in ourſelves or others. Virtue, therefore, produces always a pleaſure diſtinct from the pride or ſelf-ſatisfaction which attends it: Vice, an uneaſineſs ſeparate from the humility or remorſe.

BUT a high or low conceit of ourſelves ariſes not from thoſe qualities alone of the mind, which, according to common ſyſtems of ethics, have been defined parts of moral duty; but from any other, which have a connexion with pleaſure or uneaſineſs. Nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent of pleaſing by our wit, good-humour, or any other accompliſhment; and nothing gives us a more ſenſible mortification, than a diſappointment in any attempt of that kind. No one has ever been able to tell preciſely, what wit is, and to ſhew why ſuch a ſyſtem of thought muſt be received under that denomination, and ſuch another rejected. It is by taſte alone we can decide concerning it; nor are we poſſeſt of any other ſtandard, by which we can form a judgment of this nature. Now what is this taſte, from which true and falſe wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of theſe denominations? It is plainly nothing but a ſenſation of pleaſure from true wit, and of diſguſt from falſe, without our being able to tell the reaſons of that ſatisfaction or uneaſineſs. The power of exciting theſe oppoſite ſenſations is, therefore, the very eſſence of true or falſe wit; and conſequently, the cauſe of that vanity or mortification, which ariſes from one or the other.

7. BEAUTY of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and ſatisfaction; as deformity produces pain, upon whatever ſubject it may be placed, and whether ſurveyed in an animate or inanimate object. If the beauty or deformity belong to our own face, ſhape, or perſon, this pleaſure or uneaſineſs is converted into pride or humility; as having in this caſe all the circumſtances requiſite to produce a perfect tranſition, according to the preſent theory.

IT would ſeem, that the very eſſence of beauty conſiſts in its power of producing pleaſure. All its effects, therefore, muſt proceed from this circumſtance: And if beauty is ſo univerſally the ſubject of vanity, it is only from its being the cauſe of pleaſure.

CONCERNING all other bodily accompliſhments, we may obſerve in general, that whatever in ourſelves is either uſeful, beautiful, or ſurprizing, is an object of pride; and the contrary, of humility. Theſe qualities agree in producing a ſeparate pleaſure; and agree in nothing elſe.

WE are vain of the ſurprizing adventures which we have met with, the eſcapes which we have made, the dangers to which we have been expoſed; as well as of our ſurprizing ſeats or vigour and activity. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men, without any intereſt, and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, which are either the fictions of their brain; or, if true, have no connexion with themſelves. Their fruitful invention ſupplies them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting, they appropriate ſuch as belong to others, in order to gratify their vanity: For between that paſſion, and the ſentiment of pleaſure, there is always a cloſe connexion.

8. BUT tho' pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, that is, of ſelf, for their natural and more immediate cauſes; we find by experience, that many other objects produce theſe affections. We found vanity upon houſes, gardens, equipage, and other external objects; as well as upon perſonal merit and accompliſhments. This happens when external objects acquire any particular relation to ourſelves, and are aſſociated or connected with us. A beautiful fiſh in the ocean, a well-proportioned animal in a foreſt, and indeed, any thing, which neither belongs nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity; whatever extraordinary qualities it may be endowed with, and whatever degree if ſurprize and admiration it may naturally occaſion. It muſt be ſomeway aſſociated with us, in order to touch our pride. Its idea muſt hang, in a manner, upon that of ourſelves; and the tranſition from one to the other muſt be eaſy and natural.

MEN are vain of the beauty either of their country, or their country, or even of their pariſh. Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleaſure. This pleaſure is related to pride. The object or cauſe of this pleaſure is, by the ſuppoſition, related to ſelf, the object of pride. By this double relation of ſentiments and ideas, a tranſition is made from one to the other.

MEN are alſo vain of the happy temperature of the climate, in which they are born; of the fertility of their native ſoil; of the goodneſs of the wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the ſoftneſs or force of their language, with other particulars of that kind. Theſe objects have plainly a reference to the pleaſures of the ſenſes, and are originally conſidered as agreeable to the feeling, taſte, or hearing. How could they become cauſes of pride, except by means of that tranſition above explained?

THERE are ſome, who diſcover a vanity of an oppoſite kind, and affect to depreciate their own country, in compariſon of thoſe, to which they have travelled. Theſe perſons find, when they are at home, and ſurrounded with their countrymen, that the ſtrong relation between them and their own nation is ſhared with ſo many, that it is in a manner loſt to them; whereas, that diſtant relation to a foreign country, which is formed by their having ſeen it, and lived in it, is augmented by their conſidering how few have done the ſame. For this reaſon, they always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what they met with abroad, above what they find at home.

SINCE we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object, which bears a relation to us; it is no wonder we ſhould be vain of the qualities of thoſe, who are connected with us by blood or friendſhip. Accordingly we find, that any qualities which, when belonging to ourſelf, produce pride, produce alſo, in a leſs degree, the ſame affection, when diſcovered in perſons, related to us. The beauty, addreſs, merit, credit, and honours of their kindred are carefully diſplayed by the proud, and are conſiderable ſources of their vanity.

AS we are proud of riches in ourſelves, we deſire, in order to gratify our vanity, that every one, who has any connexion with us, ſhould likewiſe be poſſeſt of them, and are aſhamed of ſuch as are mean or poor among our friends and relations. Our forefathers being conceived as our neareſt relations; every one naturally affects to be of a good family, and to be deſcended from a long ſucceſſion of rich and honourable anceſtors.

THOSE, who boaſt of the antiquity of their families, are glad when they can join this circumſtance, that their anceſtors, for many generations, have been uninterrupted proprietors of the ſome portion of land, and that their family has never changed its poſſeſſions, or been tranſplanted into any other county or province. It is an additional ſubject of vanity, when they can boaſt, that theſe poſſeſſions have been tranſmitted thro' a deſcent, compoſed entirely of males, and that the honours and fortune have never paſſed thro' any female. Let us endeavour to explain theſe phaenomena from the foregoing theory.

WHEN any one values himſelf on the antiquity of his family the 〈◊〉 of his 〈◊〉 are not merely the 〈…〉 and number 〈◊〉 anceſtors (for in that respect all 〈◊〉 are alike▪ but theſe circumſtances, joined 〈◊〉 ſriches and credit of his anceftors, which are ſuppoſed to reflect a luſtre on himſelf, upon account of his connexion with them. Since therefore the paſſion depends on the connexion, whatever ſtrengthens the connexion muſt alſo encreaſe the paſſion, and whatever weakens the connexion muſt diminiſh the paſſion. But 'tis evident, that the ſameneſs of the poſſeſſions muſt ſtrengthen the relation of ideas, ariſing from blood and kindred, and convey the fancy with greater facility from one generation to another; from the remoteſt anceſtors to their poſterity, who are both their heirs and their deſcendants. By this facility, the ſentiment is tranſmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity.

THE caſe is the ſame with the tranſmiſſion of the honours and fortune, thro' a ſucceſſion of males, without their paſſing thro' any female. It is an obvious quality of human nature, that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and conſiderable; and where two objects are preſented, a ſmall and a great, it uſually leaves the former, and dwells entirely on the latter. This is the reaſon, why children commonly bear their father's name, and are eſteemed to be of a nobler or meaner birth, according to his family. And tho' the mother ſhould be poſſeſt of ſuperior qualities to the father, as often happens, the general rule prevails, notwithſtanding the exception, according to the doctrine, which ſhall be explained afterwards. Nay, even when a ſuperiorty of any kind is ſo great, or when any other reaſons have ſuch an effect, as to make the children rather repreſent the mother's family than the father's, the general rule ſtill retains an efficacy, ſufficient to weaken the relation, and make a kind of breach in the line of anceſtors. The imagination runs not along them with the ſame facility, nor is able to tranfer the honour and credit of the anceſtors to their poſterity of the ſame name and family ſo readily, as when the tranſition is conformable to the general rule, and paſſes thro' the male line, from father to ſon, or from brother to brother.

9. BUT property, as it gives us the fulleſt power and authority over any object, is the relation, which has the greateſt influence on theſe paſſionsThat property is a ſpecies of relation, which produces a connexion between the perſon and the object is evident: The imagination paſſes naturally and eaſily from the conſideration of a field to that of the perſon, whom it belongs to. It may only be aſked, how this relation is reſolveable into any of thoſe three, viz. cauſation, contiguity and reſemblance, which we have affirmed to be the ſole connecting principles among ideas. To be the proprietor of any thing is to be the ſole perſon, who, by the laws of ſociety, has a right to diſpoſe of it, and to enjoy the benefit of it. This right has at leaſt a tendency to procure the perſon the exerciſe of it; and in fact does commonly procure him that advantage. For rights which had no influence, and never took place, would be no rights at all. Now a perſon who diſpoſes of an object, and reaps benefit from it, both produces, or may produce, effects on it, and is affected by it. Property therefore is a ſpecies of cauſation. It enables the perſon to produce alterations on the object, and it ſuppoſes that his condition is improved and altered by it. It is indeed the relation the moſt intereſting of any, and occurs the moſt frequently to the mind..

EVERY thing, belonging to a vain man, is the beſt that is any where to be found. His houſes, equipage, furniture, cloaths, horſes, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and it is eaſy to obſerve, that, from the leaſt advantage in any of theſe, he draws a new ſubject of pride and vanity. His wine, if you will believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquiſite; his table more orderly; his ſervants more expert; the air, in which he lives, more healthful; the ſoil, which he cultivates, more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater perfection: Such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; ſuch another for its antiquity: This is the workmanſhip of a famous artiſt; that belonged once to ſuch a prince or great man. All objects, in a word, which are uſeful, beautiful, or ſurprizing, or are related to ſuch, may, by means of property, give riſe to this paſſion. Theſe all agree in giving pleaſure. This alone is common to them; and therefore muſt be the quality, that produces the paſſion, which is their common effect. As every new inſtance is a new argument, and as the inſtances are here without number; it would ſeem, that this theory is ſufficiently confirmed by experience.

RICHES imply the power of acquiring whatever is agreeable; and as they comprehend many particular objects of vanity, neceſſarily become one of the chief cauſes of that paſſion.

10. OUR opinions of all kinds are ſtrongly affected by ſociety and ſympathy, and it is almoſt impoſſible for us to ſupport any principle or ſentiment, againſt the univerſal conſent of every one, with whom we have any friendſhip or correſpondence. But of all our opinions, thoſe, which we form in our own favour; however lofty or preſuming; are at bottom, the fraileſt, and the moſt eaſily ſhaken by the contradiction and oppoſition of others. Our great concern, in this caſe, makes us ſoon alarmed, and keeps our paſſions upon the watch: Our conſciouſneſs of partiality ſtill makes us dread a miſtake: And the very difficulty of judging concerning an object, which is never ſet at a due diſtance from us, nor is ſeen in a proper point of view, makes us hearken anxiouſly to the opinions of others, who are better qualified to form juſt opinions concerning us. Hence that ſtrong love of fame, with which all mankind are poſſeſt. It is in order to fix and confirm their favourable opinion of themſelves, not from any original paſſion, that they ſeek the applauſes of others. And when a man deſires to be praiſed, it is for the ſame reaſon, that a beauty is pleaſed with ſurveying herſelf in a favourable looking-glaſs, and ſeeing the reflexion of her own charms.

THO' it be difficult in all points of ſpeculation to diſtinguiſh a cauſe, which encreaſes an effect, from one, which ſolely produces it; yet in the preſent caſe the phaenomena ſeem pretty ſtrong and ſatisfactory in confirmation of the foregoing principle.

WE receive a much greater ſatisfaction from the approbation of thoſe whom we ourſelves eſteem and approve of, than of thoſe, whom we contemn and deſpiſe.

WHEN eſteem is obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance, it gratifies our vanity in a peculiar manner.

THE ſuffrage of thoſe, who are ſhy and backward in giving praiſe, is attended with an additional reliſh and enjoyment, if we can obtain it in our favour.

WHERE a great man is nice in his choice of favourites, every one courts with greater earneſtneſs his countenance and protection.

PRAISE never gives us much pleaſure, unleſs it concur with our own opinion, and extol us for thoſe qualities, in which we chiefly excel.

THESE phaenomena ſeem to prove, that the favourable opinions of others are regarded only as authorities, or as confirmations of our own opinion. And if they have more influence on this ſubject than in any other, it is eaſily accounted for from the nature of the ſubject.

11. THUS few objects, however related to us, and whatever pleaſure they produce, are able to excite a great degree of pride or ſelf ſatisfaction; unleſs they be alſo obvious to others, and engage the approbation of the ſpectators. What diſpoſition of mind ſo deſirable as the peaceful, reſigned, contented; which readily ſubmits to all the diſpenſations of providence, and preſerves a conſtant ſerenity amidſt the greateſt misfortunes and diſappointments? Yet this diſpoſition, tho' acknowleged to be a virtue or excellence, is ſeldom the foundation of great vanity or ſelf-applauſe; having no brilliancy or exterior luſtre, and rather cheering the heart, than animating the behaviour and converſation. The caſe is the ſame with many other qualities of the mind, body, or fortune; and this circumſtance, as well as the double relations above mentioned, muſt be admitted to be of conſequence in the production of theſe paſſions.

A SECOND circumſtance, which is of conſequence in this affair, is the conſtancy and duration of the object. What is very caſual and inconſtant, beyond the common courſe of human affairs, gives little joy, and leſs pride. We are not much ſatisfied with the thing itſelf; and are ſtill leſs apt to feel any new degree of ſelf-ſatisfaction upon its account. We foreſee and anticipate its change; which makes us little ſatisfied with the thing itſelf: We compare it to ourſelves, whoſe exiſtence is more durable; by which means its inconſtancy appears ſtill greater. It ſeems ridiculous to make ourſelves the object of a paſſion, on account of a quality or poſſeſſion, which is of ſo much ſhorter duration, and attends us during ſo ſmall a part of our exiſtence.

A THIRD circumſtance, not to be neglected, is, that the objects, in order to produce pride or ſelf-value, muſt be peculiar to us, or at leaſt, common to us with a few others. The advantages of ſun-ſhine, good weather, a happy climate, &c. diſtinguiſh us not from any of our companions, and give us no preference or ſuperiority. The compariſon which we are every moment apt to make, preſents no inference to our advantage; and we ſtill remain, notwithſtanding theſe enjoyments, on a level with all our friends and acquaintance.

AS health and ſickneſs vary inceſſantly to all men, and there is no one, who is ſolely or certainly fixed in either; theſe accidental bleſſings and calamities are in a manner ſeparated from us, and are not conſidered as a foundation for vanity or humiliation. But wherever a malady of any kind is ſo rooted in our conſtitution, that we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it damps our ſelf-conceit, as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the conſideration of their age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as poſſible, to conceal their blindneſs and deafneſs, their rheums and gouts; nor do they ever avow them without reluctance and uneaſineſs. And tho' young men are not aſhamed of every head-ach or cold which they fall into; yet no topic is more proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our lives ſubject to ſuch infirmities. This proves, that bodily pain and ſickneſs are in themſelves proper cauſes of humility; tho' the cuſtom of eſtimating every thing, by compariſon, more than by its intrinſic worth and value, makes us overlook thoſe calamities, which we find incident to every one, and cauſes us to form an idea of our merit and character, independent of them.

WE are aſhamed of ſuch maladies as affect others, and are either dangerous or diſagreeable to them. Of the epilepſy; becauſe it gives a horror to every one preſent: Of the itch; becauſe it is infectious: Of the king's evil; becauſe it often goes to poſterity. Men always conſider the ſentiments of others in their judgment of themſelves.

A FOURTH circumſtance, which has an influence on theſe paſſions, is general rules; by which we form a notion of different ranks of men, ſuitable to the power or riches of which they are poſſeſſed; and this notion is not changed by any peculiarities of the health or temper of the perſons, which may deprive them of all enjoyment in their poſſeſſions. Cuſtom readily carries us beyond the juſt bounds in our paſſions, as well as in our reaſonings.

IT may not be amiſs to obſerve on this occaſion, that the influence of general rules and maxims on the paſſions very much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles or internal mechaniſm, which we here explain. For it ſeems evident, that, if a perſon full grown, and of the ſame nature with ourſelves' were on a ſudden tranſported into our world, he would be very much embarraſſed with every object, and would not readily determine what degree of love or hatred, of pride or humility, or of any other paſſion ſhould be excited by it. The paſſions are often varied by very inconſiderable principles; and theſe do not always play with perfect regularity, eſpecially on the firſt trial. But as cuſtom or practice has brought to light all theſe principles, and has ſettled the juſt value of every thing; this muſt certainly contribute to the eaſy production of the paſſions, and guide us, by means of general eſtabliſhed rules, in the proportions, which we ought to obſerve in prefering one object to another. This remark may, perhaps, ſerve to obviate difficulties, that may ariſe concerning ſome cauſes, which we here aſcribe to particular paſſions, and which may be eſteemed too refined to operate ſo univerſally and certainly, as they are found to do.

SECT. III.

1. IN running over all the cauſes, which produce the paſſion of pride or that of humility; it would readily occur, that the ſame circumſtance, if tansferred from ourſelf to another perſon, would render him the object of love or hatred, eſteem or contempt. The virtue, genius, beauty, family, riches, and authority of others beget favourable ſentiments in their behalf; and their vice, folly, deformity, poverty and meanneſs excite the contrary ſentiments. The double relation of impreſſions and ideas ſtill operates on theſe paſſions of love and hatred; as on the former of pride and humility. Whatever gives a ſeparate pleaſure or pain, and is related to another perſon or connected with him, makes him the object of our affection or diſguſt.

HENCE too injury or contempt is one of the greateſt ſources of hatred; ſervices or eſteem, of friendſhip.

2. SOMETIMES a relation to ourſelf excites affection towards any perſon. But there is always here implied a realtion of ſentiments, without which the other relation would have no influenceThe affection of parents to children ſeems founded on an original inſtinct. The affection towards other relations depends on the principles here explained..

A PERSON, who is related to us, or connected with us, by blood, by ſimilitude of fortune, of adventures, profeſſion, or country, ſoon becomes an agreeable companion to us; becauſe we enter eaſily and familiarly into his ſentiments and conceptions: Nothing is ſtrange or new to us: Our imagination, paſſing from ſelf, which is ever intimately preſent to us, runs ſmoothly along the relation or connexion, and conceives with a full ſympathy the perſon, who is nearly related to ſelf. He renders himſelf immediately acceptable, and is at once on an eaſy ſooting with us: No diſtance, no reſerve has place, where the perſon introduced is ſuppoſed ſo cloſely connected with us.

RELATION has here the ſame influence as cuſtom or acquaintance, in exciting affection; and from like cauſes. The eaſe and ſatisfaction, which, in both caſes, attend our intercourſe or commerce, is the ſource of the friendſhip.

3. The paſſions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather conjoined with, benevolence and anger. It is this conjunction, which chiefly diſtinguiſhes theſe affections, from pride and humility. For pride and humility are pure emotions in the ſoul, unattended with any deſire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred are not compleat within themſelves, nor reſt in that emotion, which they produce; but carry the mind to ſomething farther. Love is always followed by a deſire of happineſs to the perſon beloved, and an averſion to his miſery: As hatred produces a deſire of the miſery, and an averſion to the happineſs of the perſon hated. Theſe oppoſite deſires ſeem to be originally and primarily conjoined with the paſſion of love and hatred. It is a conſtitution of nature, of which we can give no farther explication.

4. COMPASSION frequently ariſes, where there is no preceding eſteem or friendſhip; and compaſſion is an uneaſineſs in the ſufferings of another. It ſeems to ſpring from the intimate and ſtrong conception of his ſufferings; and our imagination proceeds by degrees, from the lively idea, to the real feeling of another's miſery.

MALICE and envy alſo ariſe in the mind without any preceding hatred or injury; tho' their tendency is exactly the ſame with that of anger and ill will. The compariſon of ourſelves with others ſeems the ſource of envy and malice. The more unhappy another is, the more happy do we ourſelves appear in our own conception.

5. THE ſimilar tendency of compaſſion to that of benevolence, and of envy to anger, forms a very cloſe relation between theſe two ſets of paſſions; tho' of a different kind from that inſiſted on above. It is not a reſemblance of feeling or ſentiment, but a reſemblance of tendency or direction. Its effect, however, is the ſame, in producing an aſſociation of paſſions. Compaſſion is ſeldom or never felt without ſome mixture of tenderneſs or friendſhip; and envy is naturally accompanied with anger or ill will. To deſire the happineſs of another, from whatever motive, is a good preparative to affection: and to delight in another's miſery almoſt unavoidably begets averſion towards him.

EVEN where intereſt is the ſource of our concern, it is commonly attended with the ſame conſequences. A partner is a natural object of friendſhip; a rival of enmity.

6. POVERTY, meanneſs, diſappointment, produce contempt and diſlike: But when theſe misfortunes are very great, or are repreſented to us in very ſtrong colours, they excite compaſſion, and tenderneſs, and friendſhip. How is this contradiction to be accounted for? The poverty and meanneſs of another, in their common appearance, gives us uneaſineſs, by a ſpecies of imperfect ſympathy; and this uneaſineſs produces averſion or diſlike, from the reſemblance of ſentiment. But when we enter more intimately into another's concerns, and wiſh for his happineſs, as well as feel his miſery, friendſhip or good-will ariſes, from the ſimilar tendency of the inclinations.

7. IN reſpect, there is a mixture of humility, with the eſteem or affection: In contempt, a mixture of pride.

THE amorous paſſion is uſually compounded of complacency in beauty, a bodily appetite, and friendſhip or affection. The cloſe relation of theſe ſentiments is very obvious, as well as their origin from each other, by means of that relation. Were there no other phaenomenon to reconcile us to the preſent theory, this alone, methinks, were ſufficient.

SECT. IV.

1. THE preſent theory of the paſſions depends entirely on the double relations of ſentiments and ideas, and the mutual aſſiſtance, which theſe relations lend to each other. It may not, therefore, be improper to illuſtrate theſe principles by ſome farther inſtances.

2. THE virtues, talents, accompliſhments, and poſſeſſions of others, make us love and eſteem them: Becauſe theſe objects excite a pleaſant ſenſation, which is related to love; and as they have alſo a relation or connexion with the perſon, this union of ideas forwards the union of ſentiments, according to the foregoing reaſoning.

BUT ſuppoſe, that the perſon, whom we love, is alſo related to us, by blood, country, or friendſhip; it is evident, that a ſpecies of pride muſt alſo be excited by his accompliſhments and poſſeſſions; there being the ſame double relation, which we have all along inſiſted on. The perſon is related to us, or there is an eaſy tranſition of thought from him to us; and the ſentiments, excited by his advantages and virtues, are agreeable, and conſequently related to pride. Accordingly we find, that people are naturally vain of the good qualities or high fortune of their friends and countrymen.

3. BUT it is obſervable, that, if we reverſe the order of the paſſions, the ſame effect does not follow. We paſs eaſily from love and affection to pride and vanity; but not from the latter paſſions to the former, tho' all the relations be the ſame. We love not thoſe related to us on account of our own merit; tho' they are naturally vain on account of our merit. What is the reaſon of this difference? The tranſition of the imagination to ourſelves, from objects related to us, is always very eaſy; both on account of the relation, which facilitates the tranſition, and becauſe we there paſs from remoter objects, to thoſe which are contiguous. But in paſſing from ourſelves to objects, related to us; tho' the former principle forwards the tranſition of thought, yet the latter oppoſes it; and conſequently there is not the ſame eaſy transfuſion of paſſions from pride to love as from love to pride.

4. THE virtues, ſervices, and fortune of one man inſpire us readily with eſteem and affection for another related to him. The ſon of our friend is naturally entitled to our friendſhip: The kindred of a very great man value themſelves, and are valued by others, on account of that relation. The force of the double relation is here fully diſplayed.

5. THE following are inſtances of another kind, where the operation of theſe principles may ſtill be diſcovered. Envy ariſes from a ſuperiority in others; but it is obſervable, that it is not the great diſproportion between us, which excites that paſſion, but on the contrary, our proximity. A great diſproportion cuts off the relation of the ideas, and either keeps us from comparing ourſelves with what is remote from us, or diminiſhes the effects of the compariſon.

A POET is not apt to envy a philoſopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or of a different age. All theſe differences, if they do not prevent, at leaſt weaken the compariſon, and conſequently the paſſion.

THIS too is the reaſon, why all objects appear great or little, merely by a compariſon with thoſe of the ſame ſpecies. A mountain neither magnifies nor diminiſhes a horſe in our eyes: But when a FLEMISH and a WELSH horſe are ſeen together, the one appears greater and the other leſs, than when viewed apart.

FROM the ſame principle we may account for that remark of hiſtorians, that any party, in a civil war, or even factious diviſion, always chooſe to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard rather than ſubmit to their fellow-citizens. GUICCIARDIN applies this remark to the wars in ITALY; where the relations between the different ſtates are, properly ſpeaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. Yet even theſe relations, when joined with ſuperiority, by making the compariſon more natural, make it likewiſe more grievous, and cauſe men to ſearch for ſome other ſuperiority, which may be attended with no relation, and by that means, may have a leſs ſenſible influence on the imagination. When we cannot break the aſſociation, we feel a ſtronger deſire to remove the ſuperiority. This ſeems to be the reaſon, why travellers, tho' commonly laviſh of their praiſes to the CHINESE and PERSIANS, take care to depreciate thoſe neighbouring nations, which may ſtand upon a footing of rivalſhip with their native country.

6. THE fine arts afford us parallel inſtances. Should an author compoſe a treatiſe, of which one part was ſerious and profound, another light and humorous; every one would condemn ſo ſtrange a mixture, and would blame him for the neglect of all rules of art and criticiſm. Yet we accuſe not PRIOR for joining his Alma and Solomon in the ſame volume; though that amiable poet has ſucceeded perfectly in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even ſuppoſe the reader ſhould peruſe theſe two compoſitions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of the paſſions. Why? but becauſe he conſiders theſe performances as entirely different; and by that break in the ideas, breaks the progreſs of the affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other.

AN heroic and burleſque deſign, united in one picture, would be monſtrous; though we place two pictures of ſo oppoſite a character in the ſame chamber, and even cloſe together, without any ſcruple.

7. IT needs be no matter of wonder, that the eaſy tranſition of the imagination ſhould have ſuch an influence on all the paſſions. It is this very circumſtance, which forms all the relations and connexions amongſt objects. We know no real connection between one thing and another. We know only, that the idea of one thing is aſſociated with that of another, and that the imagination makes an eaſy tranſition between them. And as the eaſy tranſition of ideas, and that of ſentiments mutually aſſiſt each other; we might beforehand expect, that this principle muſt have a mighty influence on all our internal movements and affections. And experience ſufficiently confirms the theory.

FOR, not to repeat all the foregoing inſtances: Suppoſe, that I were travelling with a companion through a country, to which we are both utter ſtrangers; it is evident, that, if the proſpects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and the fields finely cultivated; this may ſerve to put me in good humour, both with myſelf and fellow-traveller. But as the country has no connexion with myſelf or friend, it can never be the immediate cauſe either of ſelf-value or of regard to him: And therefore, if I found not the paſſion on ſome other object, which bears to one of us a cloſer relation, my emotions are rather to be conſidered as the overflowings of an elevated or humane diſpoſition, than as an eſtabliſhed paſſion. But ſuppoſing the agreeable proſpect before us to be ſurveyed either from his country-ſeat or from mine; this new connexion of ideas gives a new direction to the ſentiment of pleaſure, proceeding from the proſpect, and raiſes the emotion of regard or vanity, according to the nature of the connection. There is not here, methinks, much room for doubt or difficulty.

SECT. V.

1. IT ſeems evident, that reaſon, in a ſtrict ſenſe, as meaning the judgment of truth and falſehood, can never, of itſelf, be any motive to the will, and can have no influence but ſo far as it touches ſome paſſion or affection. Abſtract relations of ideas are the object of curioſity, not of volition. And matters of fact, where they are neither good nor evil, where they neither excite deſire nor averſion, are totally indifferent; and whether known or unknown, whether miſtaken or rightly apprehended, cannot be regarded as any motive to action.

2. WHAT is commonly, in a popular ſenſe, called reaſon, and is ſo much recommended in moral diſcourſes, is nothing but a general and a calm paſſion, which takes a comprehenſive and a diſtant view of its object, and actuates the will, without exciting any ſenſible emotion. A man, we ſay, is diligent in his profeſſion from reaſon; that is, from a calm deſire of riches and a fortune. A man adheres to juſtice from reaſon; that is, from a calm regard to public good, or to a character with himſelf and others.

3. THE ſame objects, which recommend themſelves to reaſon in this ſenſe of the word, are alſo the objects of what we call paſſion, when they are brought near to us, and acquire ſome other advantages, either of external ſituation, or congruity to our internal temper; and by that means, excite a turbulent and ſenſible emotion. Evil, at a great diſtance, is avoided, we ſay, from reaſon: Evil, near at hand, produces averſion, horror, fear, and is the object of paſſion.

4. 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: It is not therefore the view of the greateſt poſſible good which always influences them. Men often counteract a violent paſſion, in proſecution of their diſtant 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, that there is no perſon ſo conſtantly poſſeſſed of this virtue, as never, on any occaſion, to yield to the ſollicitation of violent affections and deſires. From theſe variations of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the future actions and reſolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of motives and paſſions.

SECT. VI.

1. WE ſhall here enumerate ſome of thoſe circumſtances, which render a paſſion calm or violent, which heighten or diminiſh any emotion.

IT is a property in 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 cauſe a perfect union amongſt paſſions, and make one produce the other, there is always required a double relation, according to the theory above delivered. But 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, that this change will come from the prevailing affection. The connection is in many caſes cloſer between any two paſſions, than between 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 they be, and rather connected with anger and hatred; are yet found, in many inſtances, 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 this curioſity will precipitate him into the paſſion, which they purpoſe to raiſe, and will aſſiſt the object in its influence on the mind. A ſoldier, advancing to 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. Hence in martial diſcipline, the uniformity and luſtre of habit, the regularity of figures and motions, with all the pomp and majeſty of war, encourage ourſelves and our allies; while the ſame objects in the enemy ſtrike terror into us, though agreeable and beautiful in themſelves.

HOPE is, in itſelf, an agreeable paſſion, and allied to friendſhip and benevolence; yet is it able ſometimes to blow up anger, when that is the predominant paſſion. Spes addita ſuſcitat iras. VIRG.

2. 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, beſides its direct paſſion of deſire or averſion, that latter paſſion muſt acquire new force and violence.

3. THIS often happens, when 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 in many inſtances, is obſerved to encreaſe its violence, beyond the pitch, at which it would have arrived, had it met with no oppoſition. Hence we naturally deſire what is forbid, and often take a pleaſure in performing actions, merely becauſe they are unlawful. The notion of duty, when oppoſite to the paſſions, is not always able to overcome them; and when it fails of that influence, is apt rather to increaſe and irritate them, by producing an oppoſition in our motives and principles.

4. THE ſame effect follows, whether the oppoſition ariſes from internal motives or external obſtacles. The paſſion commonly acquires new force in both caſes. The efforts, which the mind makes to ſurmount the obſtacle, excite the ſpirits, and enliven the paſſion.

5. UNCERTAINTY has the ſame effect as oppoſition. The agitation of the thought, the quick turns which it makes from one view to another, the variety of paſſions which ſucceed each other, according to the different views: All theſe produce an emotion in the mind, and this emotion transfuſes itſelf into the predominant paſſion.

SECURITY, on the contrary, diminiſhes the paſſions. The mind, when leſt to itſelf, immediately languiſhes; and in order to preſerve its ardor, muſt be every moment ſupported by a new flow of paſſion. For the ſame reaſon, deſpair, though contrary to ſecurity, has a like influence.

6. NOTHING more powerfully excites 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 ſhows enough to prepoſſeſs 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.

7. AS deſpair and ſecurity, though contrary, produce the ſame effects; ſo abſence is obſerved to have contrary effects, and in different circumſtances, either encreaſes or diminiſhes our affection. ROCHEFOUCAULT has very well remarked, 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 paſſion is ſo ſtrong and lively as to ſupport itſelf, the uneaſineſs, ariſing from abſence, encreaſes the paſſion, and gives it new force and influence.

8. 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 ſpirits moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the ſpirits, it is the ſource of wonder, ſurprize, and of all the emotion, which ariſe from novelty; and is in itſelf, very agreeable, like every thing, which inlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But though ſurpriſe 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. Hence every thing, that is new, is moſt affecting, and gives us either more pleaſure or pain, than what, ſtrictly ſpeaking, ſhould naturally follow from 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 object with greater tranquillity.

9. THE imagination and affections have a cloſe union together. The vivacity of the former, gives force to the latter. Hence the proſpect of any pleaſure, with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any other pleaſure, which we may own 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.

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.

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.

NOTHING is more capable of infuſing any paſſion into the mind, than eloquence, by which objects are repreſented in the ſtrongeſt and moſt lively colours. The bare opinion of another, eſpecially when inforced with paſſion, will cauſe an idea to have an influence upon us, though that idea might otherwiſe have been entirely neglected.

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 on the nature and ſituation of the object.

WHAT is diſtant, either in place or time, has not equal influence with what is near and contiguous.

I PRETEND not here to have exhauſted this ſubject. It is ſufficient for my purpoſe, if I have made it appear, that in the production and conduct of the paſſions, there is a certain regular mechaniſm, which is ſuſceptible of as accurate a diſquiſition, as the laws of motion, optics, hydroſtatics, or any part of natural philoſophy.

END of the THIRD VOLUME.