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THE HARVARD CLASSICS

The Five-Foot Shelf of Books

THE HARVARD CLASSICS
EDITED BY CHARLES W. ELIOT, LL.D.

English Philosophers

OF THE SEVENTEENTH AND
EIGHTEENTH CENTURIES

Locke • Berkeley • Hume

W«VA Introductions and Notes
Volume 37

P. F. Collier & Son Corporation

NEW YORK

Copyright, igio
By p. F. Collier & Son

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CONTENTS

PAGE

Some Thoughts Concerning Education 9

by john locke

Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous in Opposition

TO Sceptics and Atheists 189

by george berkeley

An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding 289

by david hume

I. Of the different Species of Philosophy 289

II. Of the Origin of Ideas 299

III. Of the Association of Ideas 304

IV. Sceptical Doubts concerning the Operations of the Under-

standing 306

V. Sceptical Solution of these Doubts 319

VI. Of Probability 332

VII. Of the Idea of necessary Connexion 335

VIII. Of Liberty and Necessity 351

IX. Of the Reason of Animals 371

X. Of Miracles 375

XI. Of a particular Providence and of a future State .... 393

XII. Of the academical or sceptical Philosophy 407

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

John Locke was born near Bristol, England, on August 29, 1632; and
was educated at Westminster School, where Dryden was his contem-
porary, and at Christ Church, Oxford. Of the discipline then in vogue
in either institution, the future educational theorist had no high opinion,
as may be gathered from allusions in the present treatise; yet, after
taking his master's degree in 1658, he became tutor of his college, and
lecturer in Greek and rhetoric. After a visit to the Continent in 1665,
as secretary to an embassy, he returned to Oxford and took up the study
of medicine. He became attached, as friend and physician, to Lord Ash-
ley, afterward the first Earl of Shaftesbury; and while this nobleman was
Lord Chancellor, Locke held the office of Secretary of Presentations.

Shaftesbury went out of office in 1673, and two years later Locke went
to France in search of health, supporting himself by acting as tutor to
the son of Sir John Banks, and as physician to the wife of the English
Ambassador at Paris. In 1679, Shaftesbury, being again in power, re-
called Locke to England. He reluctantly obeyed, and remained in
attendance on his patron, assisting him in political matters and super-
intending the education of his grandson, the future author of "Char-
acteristics," till Shaftesbury's political fortunes finally collapsed, and both
men took refuge in Holland.

Locke's first two years in Holland were spent in traveling and in inter-
course with scholars; but in 1685 the Dutch Government was asked to
deliver him up to the English as a traitor, and he was forced to go into
hiding till a pardon was granted by James II in 1686, though there is
no evidence of his having been guilty of any crime beyond his friendship
with Shaftesbury.

It was not till now, at the age of fifty-four, that Locke began to pub-
lish the results of a lifetime of study and thought. An epitome of his
great "Essay Concerning Human Understanding" was printed in his
friend Le Clerc's "Bibliotheque Universelle," and the work was finally
published in full in 1690. It was from Holland also that he wrote, as
advice to a friend on the bringing up of his son, those letters which were
later printed as "Thoughts Concerning Education."

During his exile Locke had come into friendly relations with his
future sovereigns, William and Mary; and when the Revolution was
accomplished he came back to England with the Princess in 1689. He
was offered the Ambassadorship to Prussia, but declined on account of

3

4 INTRODUCTION

his weak health and because he thought he was not vaHant enough in
strong drink to be Ambassador at the court of the Elector of Branden-
burg; so he stayed at home and published his "Essay."

The remainder of his life was spent chiefly at the home of his friends,
the Cudworths and Mashams, at Oates in Essex. He held the office of
Commissioner of Appeals, and was for some years a member of the
Council of Trade and Plantations, a position which led to his occupying
himself with problems of economics. At Oates he had the opportunity
of putting his educational theories into practise in the training of the
grandson of his host, and the results confirmed his belief in his methods.
He died at Oates, October 27, 1704.

It has been noted that while at school and at the university Locke
disapproved the educational methods employed; and this independence of
judgment marked him through life. In medicine he denounced the
scholasticism which still survived and which in various branches of learn-
ing had already been attacked by Bacon and Hobbes; and he advocated
the experimental methods adopted by his friend Sydenham, the great
physician of the day. In educational theory and method he held ad-
vanced opinions, insisting especially on the importance of guarding the
formation of habits, and on training in wisdom and virtue rather than
on information as the main object of education. Many of his ideas are
still among the objects aimed at, rather than achieved, by educational
reformers. It will be observed from the following "Thoughts" that they
bear the mark of their original purpose, the individual education of a
gentleman's son, not the formation of a school system.

But it is as a philosopher that Locke's fame is greatest. He was the
ancestor of the English empirical school, and he exercised a profound
influence on philosophic thought throughout Europe. Almost all the
main lines of the intellectual activity of the eighteenth century in Eng-
land lead back to Locke, and the skepticism of Hume is the logical
development of the principles laid down in the "Essay Concerning
Human Understanding."

DEDICATION

To Edward Clarke, of Chipley, Esq.
Sir:

These thoughts concerning education, which now come abroad into
the world, do of right belong to you, being written several years since
for your sake, and are no other than what you have already by you in
my letters. I have so little vary'd any thing, but only the order of what
was sent you at different times, and on several occasions, that the reader
will easily find, in the familiarity and fashion of the stile, that they were
rather the private conversation of two friends, than a discourse design'd
for publick view.

The importunity of friends is the common apology for publications
men are afraid to own themselves forward to. But you know I can truly
say, that if some, who having heard of these papers of mine, had not
press'd to see them, and afterwards to have them printed, they had lain
dormant still in that privacy they were design'd for. But those, whose
judgment I defer much to, telling me, that they were persuaded, that
this rough draught of mine might be of some use, if made more publick,
touch 'd upon what will always be very prevalent with me: for I think
it every man's indispensable duty, to do all the service he can to his
country; and I see not what difference he puts between himself and his
cattle, who lives without that thought. This subject is of so great con-
cernment, and a right way of education is of so general advantage, that
did I find my abilities answer my wishes, I should not have needed
exhortations or importunities from others. However, the meanness of
these papers, and my just distrust of them, shall not keep me, by the
shame of doing so little, from contributing my mite, when there is no
more requir'd of me than my throwing it into the publick receptacle.
And if there be any more of their size and notions, who lik'd them so
well, that they thought them worth printing, I may flatter myself they
will not be lost labour to every body.

I myself have been consulted of late by so many, who profess them-
selves at a loss how to breed their children, and the early corruption of
youth is now become so general a complaint, that he cannot be thought

b DEDICATION

wholly impertinent, who brings the consideration of this matter on the
stage, and offers something, if it be but to excite others, or afford matter
of correction: for errors in education should be less indulg'd than any.
These, like faults in the first concoction, that are never mended in the
second or third, carry their afterwards incorrigible taint with them thro'
all the parts and stations of life.

I am so far from being conceited of any thing I have here offer'd, that
I should not be sorry, even for your sake, if some one abler and fitter
for such a task would in a just treatise of education, suited to our English
gentry, rectify the mistakes I have made in this; it being much more
desirable to me, that young gentlemen should be put into (that which
every one ought to be solicitous about) the best way of being form'd
and instructed, than that my opinion should be receiv'd concerning it.
You will, however, in the mean time bear me witness, that the method
here propos'd has had no ordinary effects upon a gentleman's son it was
not design'd for. I will not say the good temper of the child did not very
much contribute to it; but this I think you and the parents are satisfy'd
of, that a contrary usage, according to the ordinary disciplining of chil-
dren, would not have mended that temper, nor have brought him to be
in love with his book, to take a pleasure in learning, and to desire, as
he does, to be taught more than those about him think fit always to teach
him.

But my business is not to recommend this treatise to you, whose
opinion of it I know already; nor it to the world, either by your opinion
or patronage. The well educating of their children is so much the duty
and concern of parents, and the welfare and prosperity of the nation so
much depends on it, that I would have every one lay it seriously to heart;
and after having well examin'd and distinguish'd what fancy, custom, or
reason advises in the case, set his helping hand to promote every where
that way of training up youth, with regard to their several conditions,
which is the easiest, shortest, and likeliest to produce virtuous, useful,
and able men in their distinct callings; tho' that most to be taken care
of is the gentleman's calling. For if those of that rank are by their educa-
tion once ,se)| right, they will quickly bring all the rest into order.

I know QOt whether I have done more than shewn my good wishes
towards it in this short discourse; such as it is, the world now has it,
and if there be any thing in it worth their acceptance, they owe their
thanks to you for it. My affection to you gave the first rise to it, and I am
pleas'd, that I can leave to posterity this mark of the friendship that has
been between us. For I know no greater pleasure in this life, nor a better

DEDICATION 7

remembrance to be left behind one, than a long continued friendship
with an honest, useful, and worthy man, and lover of his country. I
am, Sir,

Your most humble and most faithful servant,

John Locke.

March 7, 1692 [i.e. 169^].

SOME THOUGHTS
CONCERNING EDUCATION

A"

§ I. y^ SOUND mind in a sound body, is a short, but full de-
scription of a happy state in this world. He that has
these two, has little more to wish for; and he that wants
either of them, will be but litde the better for any thing else. Men's
happiness or misery is most part of their own making. He, whose
mind directs not wisely, will never take the right way; and he, whose
body is crazy and feeble, will never be able to advance in it. I confess,
there are some men's constitutions of body and mind so vigorous, and
well fram'd by nature, that they need not much assistance from
others; but by the strength of their natural genius, they are from their
cradles carried towards what is excellent; and by the privilege of their
happy constitutions, are able to do wonders. But examples of this kind
are but few; and I think I may say, that of all the men we meet with,
nine parts of ten are what they are, good or evil, useful or not, by
their education. 'Tis that which makes the great difference in man-
kind. The little, or almost insensible impressions on our tender in-
fancies, have very important and lasting consequences: and there
'tis, as in the fountains of some rivers, where a gentle application of
the hand turns the flexible waters in channels, that make them take
quite contrary courses; and by this direction given them at first in the
source, they receive different tendencies, and arrive at last at very
remote and distant places.

§ 2. I imagine the minds of children as easily turn'd this or that
way, as water it self: and though this be the principal part, and our
main care should be about the inside, yet the clay<ottage is not to
be neglected. I shall therefore begin with the case, and consider first
the health of the body, as that which perhaps you may rather expect
from that study I have been thought more peculiarly to have apply'd
my self to; and that also which will be soonest dispatch'd, as lying,
if I guess not amiss, in a very little compass.

9

10 JOHN LOCKE

§ 3. How necessary health is to our business and happiness; and
how requisite a strong constitution, able to endure hardships and
fatigue, is to one that will make any figure in the world, is too ob-
vious to need any proof.

§ 4. The consideration I shall here have of health, shall be, not
what a physician ought to do with a sick and crazy child; but what
the parents, without the help of physick, should do for the preserva-
tion and improvement of an healthy, or at least not sickjy constitution
in their children. And this perhaps might be all dispatch'd in this
one short rule, viz. That gentlemen should use their children, as the
honest farmers and substantial yeomen do theirs. But because the
mothers possibly may think this a little too hard, and the fathers too
short, I shall explain my self more particularly; only laying down this
as a general and certain observation for the women to consider, viz.
That most children's constitutions are either spoil'd, or at least
harm'd, by coc\ering and tenderness.

§ 5. The first thing to be taken care of, is, that children be not
too warmly clad or cover d, winter or summer. The face when we
are born, is no less tender than any other part of the body. 'Tis use
alone hardens it, and makes it more able to endure the cold. And
therefore the Scythian philosopher gave a very significant answer to
the Athenian, who wonder'd how he could go naked in frost and
snow. How, said the Scythian, can you endure your face expos' d to
the sharp winter air? My face is us'd to it, said the Athenian. Thin\
me all face, reply'd the Scythian. Our bodies will endure any thing,
that from the beginning they are accustom'd to.

An eminent instance of this, though in the contrary excess of heat,
being to our present purpose, to shew what use can do, I shall set
down in the author's words, as I meet with it in a late ingenious
voyage.

"The heats, says he, are more violent in Malta, than in any part of
Europe: they exceed those of Rome itself, and are perfectly stifling; and
so much the more, because there are seldom any cooling breezes here.
This makes the common people as black as gypsies: but yet the peasants
defy the sun; they work on in the hottest part of the day, without inter-
mission, or sheltering themselves from his scorching rays. This has
convinc'd me, that nature can bring itself to many things, which seem
impossible, provided we accustom ourselves from our infancy. The
Malteses do so, who harden the bodies of their children, and reconcile

FEET II

them to the heat, by making them go stark naked, without shirt,
drawers, or any thing on their heads, from their cradles till they are ten
years old."

Give me leave therefore to advise you not to fence too carefully
against the cold of this our climate. There are those in England,
who wear the same clothes winter and summer, and that without
any inconvenience, or more sense of cold than others find. But if the
mother will needs have an allowance for frost and snow, for fear of
harm, and the father, for fear of censure, be sure let not his winter
clothing be too warm: And amongst other things, remember, that
when nature has so well covered his head with hair, and strengthen'd
it with a year or two's age, that he can run about by day without a
cap, it is best that by night a child should also lie without one; there
being nothing that more exposes to headaches, colds, catarrhs,
coughs, and several other diseases, than keeping the head warm.

§ 6. I have said he here, because the principal aim of my discourse
is, how a young gentleman should be brought up from his infancy,
which in all things will not so perfectly suit the education of daugh-
ters; though where the difference of sex requires different treat-
ment, 'twill be no hard matter to distinguish.

§ 7. I will also advise his feet to be wash'd every day in cold water,
and to have his shoes so thin, that they might leak and let in water,
whenever he comes near it. Here, I fear I shall have the mistress and
maids too against me. One will think it too filthy, and the other
perhaps too much pains, to make clean his stockings. But yet truth
will have it, that his health is much more worth than all such consid-
erations, and ten times as much more. And he that considers how
mischievous and mortal a thing taking wet in the feet is, to those
who have been bred nicely, will wish he had, with the poor people's
children, gone bare-foot, who, by that means, come to be so reconcil'd
by custom to wet in their feet, that they take no more cold or harm
by it, than if they were wet in their hands. And what is it, I pray,
that makes this great difference between the hands and the feet in
others, but only custom ? I doubt not, but if a man from his cradle
had been always us'd to go bare-foot, whilst his hands were con-
stantly wrapt up in warm mittins, and cover'd with hand-shoes, as
the Dutch call gloves; I doubt not, I say, but such a custom would
make taking wet in his hands as dangerous to him, as now taking

12 JOHN LOCKE

wet in their feet is to a great many others. The way to prevent this,
is, to have his shoes made so as to leak water, and his feet wash'd
constantly every day in cold water. It is recommendable for its clean-
liness; but that which I aim at in it, is health; and therefore I limit
it not precisely to any time of the day. I have known it us'd every
night with very good success, and that all the winter, without the
omitting it so much as one night in extreme cold weather; when
thick ice cover'd the water, the child bathed his legs and feet in it,
though he was of an age not big enough to rub and wipe them him-
self, and when he began this custom was puling and very tender.
But the great end being to harden those parts by a frequent and fa-
miliar use of cold water, and thereby to prevent the mischiefs that
usually attend accidental taking wet in the feet in those who are bred
otherwise, I think it may be left to the prudence and convenience
of the parents, to chuse either night or morning. The time I deem
indifferent, so the thing be effectually done. The health and hardi-
ness procured by it, would be a good purchase at a much dearer rate.
To which if I add the preventing of corns, that to some men would
be a very valuable consideration. But begin first in the spring with
luke-warm, and so colder and colder every time, till in a few days
you come to perfectly cold water, and then continue it so winter
and summer. For it is to be observed in this, as in all other altera-
tions from our ordinary way of living, the changes must be made by
gentle and insensible degrees; and so we may bring our bodies to any
thing, without pain, and without danger.

How fond mothers are like to receive this doctrine, is not hard to
foresee. What can it be less, than to murder their tender babes, to
use them thus? What! put their feet in cold water in frost and snow,
when all one can do is little enough to keep them warm ? A little to
remove their fears by examples, without which the plainest reason is
seldom hearken'd to : Seneca tells us of himself, Ep. 53, and 83, that
he used to bathe himself in cold spring-water in the midst of winter.
This, if he had not thought it not only tolerable, but healthy too,
he would scarce have done, in an exorbitant fortune, that could well
have borne the expence of a warm bath, and in an age (for he was
then old) that would have excused greater indulgence. If we think
his stoical principles led him to this severity, let it be so, that this sect

FEET 13

reconciled cold water to his sufferance. What made it agreeable to
his health ? For that was not impair'd by this hard usage. But what
shall we say to Horace, who warm'd not himself with the reputation
of any sect, and least of all affected stoical austerities ? yet he assures
us, he was wont in the winter season to bathe himself in cold water.
But, perhaps, Italy will be thought much warmer than England, and
the chillness of their waters not to come near ours in winter. If the
rivers of Italy are warmer, those of Germany and Poland are much
colder, than any in this our country, and yet in these, the ]ews, both
men and women, bathe all over, at all seasons of the year, without
any prejudice to their health. And every one is not apt to believe it is
miracle, or any peculiar virtue of St. Winifred's Well, that makes the
cold waters of that famous spring do no harm to the tender bodies
that bathe in it. Every one is now full of the miracles done by cold
baths on decay 'd and weak constitutions, for the recovery of health
and strength; and therefore they cannot be impracticable or intol-
erable for the improving and hardening the bodies of those who are
in better circumstances.

If these examples of grown men be not thought yet to reach the
case of children, but that they may be judg'd still to be too tender,
and unable to bear such usage, let them examine what the Germans
of old, and the Irish now, do to them, and they will find, that infants
too, as tender as they are thought, may, without any danger, endure
bathing, not only of their feet, but of their whole bodies, in cold water.
And there are, at this day, ladies in the Highlands of Scotland who
use this discipline to their children in the midst of winter, and find
that cold water does them no harm, even when there is ice in it.

§ 8. I shall not need here to mention swimming, when he is of
an age able to learn, and has any one to teach him. 'Tis that saves
many a man's life; and the Romans thought it so necessary, that they
rank'd it with letters; and it was the common phrase to mark one
ill-educated, and good for nothing, that he had neither learnt to
read nor to swim: Nee literas didicit nee natare. But, besides the
gaining a skill which may serve him at need, the advantages to health
by often bathing in cold water during the heat of summer, are so
many, that I think nothing need be said to encourage it; provided
this one caution be us'd, that he never go into the water when exer-

14 JOHN LOCKE

cise has at all warm'd him, or left any emotion in his blood or pulse.

§ 9. Another thing that is of great advantage to every one's health,
but especially children's, is to be much in the open air, and as little as
may be by the fire, even in winter. By this he will accustom himself
also to heat and cold, shine and rain; all which if a man's body will
not endure, it will serve him to very little purpose in this world;
and when he is grown up, it is too late to begin to use him to it.
It must be got early, and by degrees. Thus the body may be brought
to bear almost any thing. If I should advise him to play in the wind
and sun without a hat, I doubt whether it could be borne. There
would a thousand objections be made against it, which at last would
amount to no more, in truth, than being sun-burnt. And if my
young master be to be kept always in the shade, and never expos'd
to the sun and wind for fear of his complexion, it may be a good way
to make him a beau, but not a man of business. And altho' greater
regard be to be had to beauty in the daughters; yet I will take the
liberty to say, that the more they are in the air, without prejudice to
their faces, the stronger and healthier they will be; and the nearer
they come to the hardships of their brothers in their education, the
greater advantage will they receive from it all the remaining part
of their lives.

§ 10. Playing in the open air has but this one danger in it, that I
know; and that is, that when he is hot with running up and down,
he should sit or he down on the cold or moist earth. This I grant;
and drinking cold drink, when they are hot with labour or exer-
cise, brings more people to the grave, or to the brink of it, by fevers,
and other diseases, than anything I know. These mischiefs are
easily enough prevented whilst he is little, being then seldom out
of sight. And if, during his childhood, he be constantly and rigor-
ously kept from sitting on the ground, or drinking any cold liquor
whilst he is hot, the custom of forbearing, grown into habit, will help
much to preserve him, when he is no longer under his maid's or
tutor's eye. This is all I think can be done in the case: for, as years
increase, liberty must come with them; and in a great many things
he must be trusted to his own conduct, since there cannot always be
a guard upon him, except what you have put into his own mind by
good principles, and establish'd habits, which is the best and surest,

HABITS 15

and therefore most to be taken care of. For, from repeated cautions
and rules, never so often inculcated, you are not to expect any thing
either in this, or any other case, farther than practice has establish'd
them into habits.

§ II. One thing the mention of the girls brings into my mind,
which must not be forgot; and that is, that your son's clothes be
never made strait, especially about the breast. Let nature have scope
to fashion the body as she thinks best. She works of herself a great
deal better and exacter than we can direct her. And if women were
themselves to frame the bodies of their children in their wombs, as
they often endeavour to mend their shapes when they are out, we
should as certainly have no perfect children born, as we have few
well-shap'd that are strait-lac' d, or much tamper 'd with. This con-
sideration should, methinks, keep busy people (I will not say ig-
norant nurses and bodice-makers) from meddling in a matter they
understand not; and they should be afraid to put nature out of her
way in fashioning the parts, when they know not how the least and
meanest is made. And yet I have seen so many instances of children
receiving great harm from strait-lacing, that I cannot but conclude
there are other creatures as well as monkeys, who, little wiser than
they, destroy their young ones by senseless fondness, and too much
embracing.

§ 12. Narrow breasts, short and stinking breath, ill limgs, and
crookedness, are natural and almost constant effects of hard bodice,
and clothes that pinch. That way of making slender wastes, and fine
shapes, serves but the more effectually to spoil them. Nor can there
indeed but be dispropordon in the parts, when the nourishment pre-
pared in the several offices of the body cannot be distributed as nature
designs. And therefore what wonder is it, if, it being laid where it
can, on some part not so braced, it often makes a shoulder or hip
higher or bigger than its just proportion? 'Tis generally known,
that the women of China, (imagining I know not what kind of
beauty in it) by bracing and binding them hard from their infancy,
have very little feet. I saw lately a pair of China shoes, which I was
told were for a grown woman: they were so exceedingly dispropor-
tion'd to the feet of one of the same age among us, that they would
scarce have been big enough for one of our little girls. Besides this,

l6 JOHN LOCKE

'tis observ'd, that their women are also very Uttle, and short-liv'd;
whereas the men are of the ordinary stature of other men, and Uve
to a proportionable age. These defects in the female sex in that coun-
try, are by some imputed to the unreasonable binding of their feet,
whereby the free circulation of the blood is hinder'd, and the growth
and health of the whole body suffers. And how often do we see, that
some small part of the foot being injur'd by a wrench or a blow,
the whole leg or thigh thereby lose their strength and nourishment,
and dwindle away? How much greater inconveniences may we
expect, when the thorax, wherein is placed the heart and seat of life,
is unnaturally compress' d, and hinder'd from its due expansion ?

§ 13. As for his diet, it ought to be very plain and simple; and, if I
might advise, flesh should be forborne as long as he is in coats, or at
least till he is two or three years old. But whatever advantage this
may be to his present and future health and strength, I fear it will
hardly be consented to by parents, misled by the custom of eating
too much flesh themselves, who will be apt to think their children,
as they do themselves, in danger to be starv'd, if they have not flesh
at least twice a-day. This I am sure, children would breed their teeth
with much less danger, be freer from diseases whilst they were little,
and lay the foundations of an healthy and strong constitution much
surer, if they were not cramm'd so much as they are by fond mothers
and foolish servants, and were kept wholly from flesh the first three
or four years of their lives.

But if my young master must needs have flesh, let it be but once
a day, and of one sort at a meal. Plain beef, mutton, veal, &c. without
other sauce than hunger, is best; and great care should be used, that
he eat bread plentifully, both alone and with every thing else; and
whatever he eats that is solid, make him chew it well. We English
are often negligent herein; from whence follow indigestion, and
other great inconveniences.

§ 14. For brea\fast and supper, mil\, mil\-pottage, water-gruel,
flummery, and twenty other things, that we are wont to make in
England, are very fit for children; only, in all these, let care be taken
that they be plain, and without much mixture, and very sparingly
season'd with sug-sf, or rather none at all; especially all spice, and
other things that may heat the blood, are carefully to be avoided.

DIET 17

Be sparing also of salt in the seasoning of all his victuals, and use
him not to high-season'd meats. Our palates grow into a relish and
liking of the seasoning and cookery which by custom they are set to;
and an over-much use of salt, besides that it occasions thirst, and
over-much drinking, has other ill effects upon the body. I should
think that a good piece of well-made and well-bak'd brown bread,
sometimes with, and sometimes without butter or cheese, would be
often the best breakfast for my young master. I am sure 'tis as whole-
some, and will make him as strong a man as greater delicacies; and
if he be used to it, it will be as pleasant to him. If he at any time calls
for victuals between meals, use him to nothing but dry bread. If he
be hungry more than wanton, bread alone will down; and if he be
not hungry, 'tis not fit he should eat. By this you will obtain two
good effects: i. That by custom he will come to be in love with
bread; for, as I said, our palates and stomachs too are pleased with
the things we are used to. 2. Another good you will gain hereby is,
that you will not teach him to eat more nor oftener than nature
requires. I do not think that all people's appetites are alike; some
have naturally stronger, and some weaker stomachs. But this I think,
that many are made gormands and gluttons by custom, that were
not so by nature: and I see in some countries, men as lusty and
strong, that eat but two meals a-day, as others that have set their
stomachs by a constant usage, like larums, to call on them for four
or five. The Romans usually fasted till supper, the only set meal
even of those who eat more than once a-day; and those who us'd
breakfast, as some did, at eight, some at ten, others at twelve of the
clock, and some later, neither eat flesh, nor had any thing made ready
for them. Augustus, when the greatest monarch on the earth, tells
us, he took a bit of dry bread in his chariot. And Seneca, in his 83rd
Epistle, giving an account how he managed himself, even when he
was old, and his age permitted indulgence, says, that he used to eat
a piece of dry bread for his dinner, without the formality of sitting to
it, tho' his estate would as well have paid for a better meal (had
health requir'd it) as any subject's in England, were it doubled.
The masters of the world were bred up with this spare diet; and the
young gentlemen of Rome felt no want of strength or spirit, because
they eat but once a day. Or if it happen'd by chance, that any one

l8 JOHN LOCKE

could not fast so long as till supper, their only set meal, he took noth-
ing but a bit of dry bread, or at most a few raisins, or some such
slight thing with it, to stay his stomach. This part of temperance
was found so necessary both for health and business, that the custom
of only one meal a day held out against that prevailing luxury which
their Eastern conquests and spoils had brought in amongst them;
and those who had given up their old frugal eating, and made feasts,
yet began them not till the evening. And more than one set meal
a-day was thought so monstrous, that it was a reproach as low down
as Ccesar's time, to make an entertainment, or sit down to a full
table, till towards sun-set; and therefore, if it would not be thought
too severe, I should judge it most convenient that my young master
should have nothing but bread too for breakjast. You cannot
inaagine of what force custom is; and I impute a great part of our
diseases in England, to our eating too much jiesh, and too little bread.
§ 15. As to his meals, I should think it best, that as much as it can
be conveniently avoided, they should not be kept constantly to an
hour: for when custom has fix'd his eating to certain stated periods,
his stomach will expect victuals at the usual hour, and grow peevish
if he passes it; either fretting itself into a troublesome excess, or flag-
ging into a downright want of appetite. Therefore I would have no
time kept constantly to for his breakfast, dinner and supper, but
rather vary'd almost every day. And if betwixt these, which I call
meals, he will eat, let him have, as often as he calls for it, good dry
bread. If any one think this too hard and sparing a diet for a child,
let them know, that a child will never starve nor dwindle for want
of nourishment, who, besides flesh at dinner, and spoon-meat, or
some such other thing, at supper, may have good bread and beer
as often as he has a stomach. For thus, upon second thoughts, I
should judge it best for children to be order'd. The morning is gen-
erally design'd for study, to which a full stomach is but an ill prep-
aration. Dry bread, though the best nourishment, has the least
temptation; and no body would have a child cramm'd at breakfast,
who has any regard to his mind or body, and would not have him
dull and unhealthy. Nor let any one think this unsuitable to one of
estate and condition. A gendeman in any age ought to be so bred,
as to be fitted to bear arms, and be a soldier. But he that in this,

MEALS 19

breeds his son so, as if he design'd him to sleep over his Hfe in the
plenty and ease of a full fortune he intends to leave him, little con-
siders the examples he has seen, or the age he lives in.

§ 16. His drin\ should be only small beer; and that too he should
never be suffer'd to have between meals, but after he had eat a piece
of bread. The reasons why I say this are these.

§ 17. I. More fevers and surfeits are got by people's drinking
when they are hot, than by any one thing I know. Therefore, if by
play he be hot and dry, bread will ill go down; and so if he cannot
have drin\ but upon that condition, he will be forced to forbear; for,
if he be very hot, he should by no means dnn\; at least a good piece
of bread first to be eaten, will gain time to warm the beer blood-hot,
which then he may drink safely. If he be very dry, it will go down
so warm'd, and quench his thirst better; and if he will not drink
it so warm'd, abstaining will not hurt him. Besides, this will teach
him to forbear, which is an habit of greatest use for health of body
and mind too.

§ 18. 2. Not being permitted to dnn\ without eating, will pre-
vent the custom of having the cup often at his nose; a dangerous be-
ginning, and preparation to good-fellowship. Men often bring habit-
ual hunger and thirst on themselves by custom. And if you please to
try, you may, though he be wean'd from it, bring him by use to such
a necessity again of drinking in the night, that he will not be able to
sleep without it. It being the lullaby used by nurses to still crying
children, I believe mothers generally find some difficulty to wean
their children from drinking in the night, when they first take them
home. Believe it, custom prevails as much by day as by night; and
you may, if you please, bring any one to be thirsty every hour.

I once liv'd in a house, where, to appease a froward child, they
gave him drink as often as he cry'd; so that he was constantly bib-
bing. And tho' he could not speak, yet he drank more in twenty-four
hours than I did. Try it when you please, you may with small, as
well as with strong beer, drink your self into a drought. The great
thing to be minded in education is, what habits you settle; and there-
fore in this, as all other things, do not begin to make any thing cus-
tomary, the practice whereof you would not have continue and in-
crease. It is convenient for health and sobriety, to drin\ no more than

20 JOHN LOCKE

natural thirst requires; and he that eats not salt meats, nor drinks
strong drink, will seldom thirst between meals, unless he has been
accustom'd to such unseasonable drinking.

§ 19. Above all, take great care that he seldom, if ever, taste any
wine or strong drin/^. There is nothing so ordinarily given children
in England, and nothing so destructive to them. They ought never
to drin\ any strong liquor but when they need it as a cordial, and
the doctor prescribes it. And in this case it is, that servants are most
narrowly to be watch'd and most severely to be reprehended when
they transgress. Those mean sort of people, placing a great part of
their happiness in strong drin\, are always forward to make court
to my young master by offering him that which they love best them-
selves: and finding themselves made merry by it, they foolishly
think 'twill do the child no harm. This you are carefully to have your
eye upon, and restrain with all the skill and industry you can, there
being nothing that lays a surer foundation of mischief, both to body
and mind than children's being us'd to strong drin\, especially to
drink in private with the servants.

§ 20. Fruit makes one of the most difficult chapters in the govern-
ment of health, especially that of children. Our first parents ventur'd
Paradise for it; and 'tis no wonder our children cannot stand the
temptation, tho' it cost them their health. The regulation of this can-
not come under any one general rule; for I am by no means of their
mind, who would keep children almost wholly from fruit, as a thing
totally unwholesome for them: by which strict way, they make them
but the more ravenous after it, and to eat good or bad, ripe or unripe,
all that they can get, whenever they come at it. Melons, peaches,
most sorts of plums, and all sorts of grapes in England, I think
children should be wholly kept from, as having a very tempting
taste, in a very unwholesome juice; so that if it were possible, they
should never so much as see them, or know there were any such
thing. But strawberries, cherries, gooseberries, or currants, when
thorough ripe, I think may be very safely allow'd them, and that
with a pretty liberal hand, if they be eaten with these cautions: i.
Not after meals, as we usually do, when the stomach is already full
of other food: but I think they should be eaten rather before or be-
tween meals, and children should have them for their breakfast.

FRUIT 21

2. Bread eaten with them. 3. Perfectly ripe. If they are thus eaten,
I imagine them rather conducing than hurtful to our health. Sutn-
mer-jruits, being suited to the hot season of the year they come in,
refresh our stomachs, languishing and fainting under it; and there-
fore I should not be altogether so strict in this point, as some are
to their children; who being kept so very short, instead of a moderate
quantity of well-chosen fruit, which being allow'd them would con-
tent them, whenever they can get loose, or bribe a servant to supply
them, satisfy their longing with any trash they can get, and eat to
a surfeit.

Apples and pears too, which are thorough ripe, and have been
gather'd some time, I think may be safely eaten at any time, and in
pretty large quantities, especially apples; which never did any body
hurt, that I have heard, after October.

Fruits also dry'd without sugar, I think very wholesome. But
sweet-meats of all kinds are to be avoided; which whether they do
more harm to the maker or eater, is not easy to tell. This I am sure,
it is one of the most inconvenient ways of expence that vanity hath
yet found out; and so I leave them to the ladies.

§ 21. Of all that looks soft and effeminate, nothing is more to be
indulg'd children, than sleep. In this alone they are to be permitted to
have their full satisfaction; nothing contributing more to the growth
and health of children, than sleep. All that is to be regulated in it, is,
in what part of the twenty-four hours they should take it; which will
easily be resolved, by only saying that it is of great use to accustom
'em to rise early in the morning. It is best so to do, for health; and
he that, from his childhood, has, by a settled custom, made rising
betimes easy and familiar to him, will not, when he is a man, waste
the best and most useful part of his life in drowsiness, and lying
a-bed. If children therefore are to be call'd up early in the morning, it
will follow of course, that they must go to bed betimes; whereby they
will be accustom'd to avoid the unhealthy and unsafe hours of de-
bauchery, which are those of the evenings; and they who keep good
hours, seldom are guilty of any great disorders. I do not say this, as
if your son, when grown up, should never be in company past eight,
nor ever chat over a glass of wine 'till midnight. You are now, by
the accustoming of his tender years, to indispose him to those in-

22 JOHN LOCKE

conveniences as much as you can; and it will be no small advantage,
that contrary practice having made sitting up uneasy to him, it will
make him often avoid, and very seldom propose midnight-revels.
But if it should not reach so far, but fashion and company should
prevail, and make him live as others do above twenty, 'tis worth the
while to accustom him to early rising and early going to bed, between
this and that, for the present improvement of his health and other
advantages.

Though I have said, a large allowance of sleep, even as much as
they will take, should be made to children when they are little; yet
I do not mean, that it should always be continued to them in so large
a proportion, and they suffer'd to indulge a drowsy laziness in their
bed, as they grow up bigger. But whether they should begin to be
restrained at seven or ten years old, or any other time, is impossible
to be precisely determined. Their tempers, strength, and constitu-
tions, must be consider'd. But some time between seven and four-
teen, if they are too great lovers of their beds, I think it may be sea-
sonable to begin to reduce them by degrees to about eight hours,
which is generally rest enough for healthy grown people. If you have
accustom'd him, as you should do, to rise constantly very early in
the morning, this fault of being too long in bed will easily be ref orm'd,
and most children will be forward enough to shorten that time them-
selves, by coveting to sit up with the company at night; tho' if they
be not look'd after, they will be apt to take it out in the morning,
which should by no means be permitted. They should constandy
be call'd up and made to rise at their early hour; but great care should
be taken in waking them, that it be not done hastily, nor with a loud
or shrill voice, or any other sudden violent noise. This often affrights
children, and does them great harm; and sound sleep thus broke off,
with sudden alarms, is apt enough to discompose any one. When
children are to be waken 'd out of their sleep, be sure to begin with a
low call, and some gentle motion, and so draw them out of it by de-
grees, and give them none but kind words and usage, 'till they are
come perfectly to themselves, and being quite dress'd, you are sure
they are thoroughly awake. The being forc'd from their sleep, how
gendy so ever you do it, is pain enough to them; and care should be

SLEEP 23

taken not to add any other uneasiness to it, especially such that may
terrify them.

§ 22. Let his bed be hard, and rather quilts than feathers. Hard
lodging strengthens the parts; whereas being bury'd every night in
feathers melts and dissolves the body, is often the cause of weakness,
and forerunner of an early grave. And, besides the stone, which has
often its rise from this warm wrapping of the reins, several other
indispositions, and that which is the root of them all, a tender
weakly constitution, is very much owing to down-beds. Besides, he
that is used to hard lodging at home, will not miss his sleep (where
he has most need of it) in his travels abroad, for want of his soft bed,
and his pillows laid in order. And therefore, I think it would not be
amiss, to ma\e his bed after different fashions, sometimes lay his head
higher, sometimes lower, that he may not feel every httle change
he must be sure to meet with, who is not design'd to lie always in my
young master's bed at home, and to have his maid lay all things in
print, and tuck him in warm. The great cordial of nature is sleep.
He that misses that, will suffer by it; and he is very unfortunate,
who can take his cordial only in his mother's fine gilt cup, and not in
a wooden dish. He that can sleep soundly, takes the cordial; and it
matters not whether it be on a soft bed or the hard boards. 'Tis sleep
only that is the thing necessary.

§ 23. One thing more there is, which has a great influence upon
the health, and that is, going to stool regularly; people that are very
loose, have seldom strong thoughts, or strong bodies. But the cure
of this, both by diet and medicine, being much more easy than the
contrary evil, there needs not much to be said about it: for if it come
to threaten, either by its violence or duration, it will soon enough,
and sometimes too soon, make a physician be sent for; and if it be
moderate or short, it is commonly best to leave it to nature. On the
other side, costiveness has too its ill effects, and is much harder to be
dealt with by physick; purging medicines, which seem to give relief,
rather increasing them than removing the evil.

§ 24. It being an indisposition I had a particular reason to enquire
into, and not finding the cure of it in books, I set my thoughts on
work, believing that greater changes than that might be made in our

24 JOHN LOCKE

bodies, i£ we took the right course, and proceeded by rational steps.

1. Then I consider'd, that going to stool, was the effect of certain
motions of the body; especially of the peristaltick motion of the guts.

2. I consider'd, that several motions, that were not perfectly volun-
tary, might yet, by use and constant application, be brought to be
habitual, if by an unintermitted custom they were at certain seasons
endeavour'd to be constantly produced.

3. I had observ'd some men, who by taking after supper a pipe of
tobacco, never fail'd of a stool, and began to doubt with myself,
whether it were not more custom, than the tobacco, that gave them
the benefit of nature; or at least, if the tobacco did it, it was rather
by exciting a vigorous motion in the guts, than by any purging
quality; for then it would have had other effects.

Having thus once got the opinion that it was possible to make it
habitual, the next thing was to consider what way and means was the
likeliest to obtain it.

4. Then I guess'd, that if a man, after his first eating in the morn-
ing, would presently solicit nature, and try whether he could strain
himself so as to obtain a stool, he might in time, by constant applica-
tion, bring it to be habitual.

§ 25. The reasons that made me chuse this time, were,

1. Because the stomach being then empty, if it receiv'd any thing
grateful to it (for I would never, but in case of necessity, have any
one eat but what he likes, and when he has an appetite) it was apt to
embrace it close by a strong constriction of its fibres; which constric-
tion, I suppos'd, might probably be continu'd on in the guts, and so
increase their peristaltick motion, as we see in the Ileus, that an in-
verted motion, being begun any where below, continues itself all the
whole length, and makes even the stomach obey that irregular
motion.

2. Because when men eat, they usually relax their thoughts, and the
spirits then, free from other employments, are more vigorously dis-
tributed into the lower belly, which thereby contribute to the same
effect.

3. Because, whenever men have leisure to eat, they have leisure
enough also to make so much court to Madam Cloacina, as would
be necessary to our present purpose; but else, in the variety of human

PHYSIC 25

aflairs and accidents, it was impossible to afSx it to any hour certain,
whereby the custom would be interrupted. Whereas men in health
seldom failing to eat once a day, tho' the hour chang'd, the custom
might still be preserv'd.

§ 26. Upon these grounds the experiment began to be try'd, and
I have known none who have been steady in the prosecution of it,
and taken care to go constantly to the necessary-house, after their
first eating, whenever that happen'd, whether they found themselves
call'd on or no, and there endeavoured to put nature upon her duty,
but in a few months they obtain'd the desired success, and brought
themselves to so regular an habit, that they seldom ever fail'd of a
stool after their first eating, unless it were by their own neglect: for,
whether they have any motion or no, if they go to the place, and do
their part, they are sure to have nature very obedient.

§ 27. I would therefore advise, that this course should be taken
with a child every day presently after he has eaten his breakfast. Let
him be set upon the stool, as if disburthening were as much in his
power as filling his belly; and let not him or his maid know any thing
to the contrary, but that it is so; and if he be forc'd to endeavour, by
being hinder'd from his play or eating again 'till he has been effec-
tually at stool, or at least done his utmost, I doubt not but in a little
while it will become natural to him. For there is reason to suspect,
that children being usually intent on their play, and very heedless
of any thing else, often let pass those motions of nature, when she
calls them but gently; and so they, neglecting the seasonable offers,
do by degrees bring themselves into an habitual costiveness. That by
this method costiveness may be prevented, I do more than guess;
having known by the constant practice of it for some time, a child
brought to have a stool regularly after his breakfast every morning.

§ 28. How far any grown people will think fit to make trial of
it, must be left to them; tho' I cannot but say, that considering the
many evils that come from that defect, of a requisite easing of nature,
I scarce know any thing more conducing to the preservation of health,
than this is. Once in four and twenty hours, I think is enough; and
no body, I guess, will think it too much. And by this means it is to
be obtain'd without physick, which commonly proves very ineffectual
in the cure of a settled and habitual costiveness.

26 JOHN LOCKE

§ 29. This is all I have to trouble you with concerning his manage-
ment in the ordinary course of his health. Perhaps it will be expected
from me, that I should give some directions of physic\, to prevent
diseases; for which I have only this one, very sacredly to be observ'd,
never to give children any physic\ for prevention. The observation
of what I have already advis'd, will, I suppose, do that better than the
ladies' diet-drinks or apothecaries' medicines. Have a great care of
tampering that way, lest, instead of preventing, you draw on diseases.
Nor even upon every little indisposition is physic\ to be given, or
the physician to be call'd to children, especially if he be a busy man,
that will presently fill their windows with gally-pots, and their
stomachs with drugs. It is safer to leave them wholly to nature, than
to put 'em into the hands of one forward to tamper, or that thinks
children are to be cur'd, in ordinary distempers, by any thing but
diet, or by a method very little distant from it: it seeming suitable
both to my reason and experience, that the tender constitutions of
children should have as little done to them as is possible, and as the
absolute necessity of the case requires. A little cold-still'd red poppy-
water, which is the true surfeit-water with ease, and abstinence from
flesh, often puts an end to several distempers in the beginning, which,
by too forward applications, might have been made lusty diseases.
When such a gentle treatment will not stop the growing mischief, nor
hinder it from turning into a form'd disease, it will be time to seek
the advice of some sober and discreet physician. In this part, I hope,
I shall find an easy belief; and no body can have a pretence to doubt
the advice of one who has spent some time in the study of physick,
when he counsels you not to be too forward in making use of physic]^
and physicians.

§ 30. And thus I have done with what concerns the body and
health, which reduces itself to these few and easy observable rules:
plenty of open air, exercise, and sleep, plain diet, no wine or strong
drin\, and very little or no physic\, not too warm and strait clothing,
especially the head and jeet kept cold, and the ]eet often us'd to cold
water, and expos'd to wet.

§ 31. Due care being had to keep the body in strength and vigour,
so that it may be able to obey and execute the orders of the mind;
the next and principal business is, to set the mind right, that on all

EARLY TRAINING 27

occasions it may be dispos'd to consent to nothing but what may be
suitable to the dignity and excellency of a rational creature.

§ 32. If what I have said in the beginning of this discourse be
true, as I do not doubt but it is, viz. That the difference to be found
in the manners and abilities of men is owing more to their education
than to any thing else, we have reason to conclude, that great care
is to be had of the forming children's minds, and giving them that
seasoning early, which shall influence their lives always after: For
when they do well or ill, the praise and blame will be laid there;
and when any thing is done awkwardly, the common saying will
pass upon them, that it's suitable to their breeding,

§ 33. As the strength of the body lies chiefly in being able to
endure hardships, so also does that of the mind. And the great
principle and foundation of all virtue and worth is plac'd in this:
that a man is able to deny himself his own desires, cross his own
inclinations, and purely follow what reason directs as best, tho' the
appetite lean the other way.

§ 34. The great mistake I have observ'd in people's breeding
their children, has been, that this has not been taken care enough
o£ in its due season: that the mind has not been made obedient to
discipline, and pliant to reason, when at first it was most tender,
most easy to be bow'd. Parents being wisely ordain'd by nature
to love their children, are very apt, if reason watch not that natural
affection very warily, are apt, I say, to let it run into fondness. They
love their little ones and it is their duty; but they often, with them,
cherish their faults too. They must not be cross'd, forsooth; they
must be permitted to have their wills in all things; and they being
in their infancies not capable of great vices, their parents think they
may safe enough indulge their irregularities, and make themselves
sport with that pretty perverseness which they think well enough be-
comes that innocent age. But to a fond parent, that would not have his
child corrected for a perverse trick, but excus'd it, saying it was a small
matter, Solon very well reply'd, aye, but custom is a great one.

§ 35. The fondling must be taught to strike and call names, must
have what he cries for, and do what he pleases. Thus parents, by
humouring and cockering them when little, corrupt the principles
of nature in their children, and wonder afterwards to taste the bitter

28 JOHN LOCKE

waters, when they themselves have poison'd the fountain. For when
their children are grown up, and these ill habits with them; when
they are now too big to be dandled, and their parents can no longer
make use of them as play-things, then they complain that the brats
are untoward and perverse; then they are offended to see them wilful,
and are troubled with those ill humours which they themselves
infus'd and fomented in them; and then, perhaps too late, would be
glad to get out those weeds which their own hands have planted,
and which now have taken too deep root to be easily extirpated.
For he that hath been us'd to have his will in every thing, as long as
he was in coats, why should we think it strange, that he should
desire it, and contend for it still, when he is in breeches? Indeed,
as he grows more towards a man, age shews his faults the more;
so that there be few parents then so blind as not to see them, few so
insensible as not to feel the ill effects of their own indulgence. He
had the will of his maid before he could speak or go; he had the
mastery of his parents ever since he could prattle; and why, now he
is grown up, is stronger and wiser than he was then, why now of
a sudden must he be restrain'd and curb'd? Why must he at seven,
fourteen, or twenty years old, lose the privilege, which the parents'
indulgence 'till then so largely allow'd him? Try it in a dog or an
horse or any other creature, and see whether the ill and resty tricks
they have learn'd when young, are easily to be mended when they are
knit; and yet none of those creatures are half so wilful and proud, or
half so desirous to be masters of themselves and others, as man.

§ 36. We are generally wise enough to begin with them when
they are very young, and discipline betimes those other creatures
we would make useful and good for somewhat. They are only our
own offspring, that we neglect in this point; and having made them
ill children, we foolishly expect they should be good men. For if
the child must have grapes or sugar-plums when he has a mind to
them, rather than make the poor baby cry or be out of humour; why,
when he is grown up, must he not be satisfy'd too, if his desires
carry him to wine or women? They are objects as suitable to the
longing of one of more years, as what he cry'd for, when little, was
to the inclinations of a child. The having desires accommodated to
the apprehensions and relish of those several ages, is not the fault;

EARLY TRAINING 29

but the not having them subject to the rules and restraints of
reason: the difference lies not in having or not having appetites,
but in the power to govern, and deny ourselves in them. He that is
not us'd to submit his will to the reason of others when he is young,
will scarce hearken to submit to his own reason when he is of an
age to make use of it. And what kind of a man such an one is like
to prove, is easy to foresee.

§ 37. These are oversights usually committed by those who seem
to take the greatest care of their children's education. But if we
look into the common management of children, we shall have reason
to wonder, in the great dissoluteness of manners which the world
complains of, that there are any footsteps at all left of virtue. I desire
to know what vice can be nam'd, which parents, and those about
children, do not season them with, and drop into 'em the seeds of,
as soon as they are capable to receive them? I do not mean by the
examples they give, and the patterns they set before them, which is
encouragement enough; but that which I would take notice of here
is, the downright teaching them vice, and actual putting them out
of the way of virtue. Before they can go, they principle 'em with
violence, revenge, and cruelty. Give me a blow, that I may beat him,
is a lesson which most children every day hear; and it is thought
nothing, because their hands have not strength to do any mischief.
But I ask, does not this corrupt their mind? Is not this the way of
force and violence, that they are set in? And if they have been
taught when little, to strike and hurt others by proxy, and encourag'd
to rejoice in the harm they have brought upon them, and see them
suffer, are they not prepar'd to do it when they are strong enough to
be felt themselves, and can strike to some purpose?

The coverings of our bodies which are for modesty, warmth and
defence, are by the folly or vice of parents recommended to their
children for other uses. They are made matters of vanity and emu-
lation. A child is set a-longing after a new suit, for the finery of it;
and when the little girl is trick'd up in her new gown and commode,
how can her mother do less than teach her to admire herself, by
calling her, her little queen and her princess? Thus the little ones
are taught to be proud of their clothes before they can put them on.
And why should they not continue to value themselves for their

30 JOHN LOCKE

outside fashionableness of the taylor or tirewoman's making, when
their parents have so early instructed them to do so?

Lying and equivocations, and excuses little different from lying,
are put into the mouths of young people, and commended in ap-
prentices and children, whilst they are for their master's or parents'
advantage. And can it be thought, that he that finds the straining of
truth dispens'd with, and encourag'd, whilst it is for his godly
master's turn, will not make use of that privilege for himself, when
it may be for his own profit?

Those of the meaner sort are hinder' d, by the straitness of their
fortunes, from encouraging intemperance in their children by the
temptation of their diet, or invitations to eat or drink more than
enough; but their own ill examples, whenever plenty comes in their
way, shew, that 'tis not the dislike of drunkenness or gluttony, that
keeps them from excess, but want of materials. But if we look into
the houses of those who are a little warmer in their fortunes, their
eating and drinking are made so much the great business and happi-
ness of life, that children are thought neglected, if they have not
their share of it. Sauces and ragoos, and food disguis'd by all the
arts of cookery, must tempt their palates, when their bellies are full;
and then, for fear the stomach should be overcharg'd, a pretence
is found for t'other glass of wine to help digestion, tho' it only
serves to increase the surfeit.

Is my young master a little out of order, the first question is. What
will my dear eat? What shall I get for thee? Eating and drinking
are instantly press'd; and every body's invention is set on work, to
find out something luscious and delicate enough to prevail over
that want of appetite, which nature has wisely order'd in the begin-
ning of distempers, as a defence against their increase; that being
freed from the ordinary labour of digesting any new load in the
stomach, she may be at leisure to correct and master the peccant
humours.

And where children are so happy in the care of their parents, as
by their prudence to be kept from the excess of their tables, to the
sobriety of a plain and simple diet, yet there too they are scarce to
be preserv'd from the contagion that poisons the mind; though, by
a discreet management whilst they are under tuition, their healths

CRAVING 31

perhaps may be pretty well secure, yet their desires must needs yield
to the lessons which every where will be read to them upon this
part o£ epicurism. The commendation that eating well has every
where, cannot fail to be a successful incentive to natural appetites,
and bring them quickly to the liking and expence of a fashionable
table. This shall have from every one, even the reprovers of vice,
the title of living well. And what shall sullen reason dare to say
against the publick testimony? Or can it hope to be heard, if it
should call that luxury, which is so much own'd and universally
practis'd by those of the best quality?

This is now so grown a vice, and has so great supports, that I
know not whether it do not put in for the name of virtue; and
whether it will not be thought folly, or want of knowledge of the
world, to open one's mouth against it ? And truly I should suspect,
that what I have here said of it, might be censur'd as a little satire
out of my way, did I not mention it with this view, that it might
awaken the care and watchfulness of parents in the education of
their children, when they see how they are beset on every side, not
only with temptations, but instructors to vice, and that, perhaps, in
those they thought places of security.

I shall not dwell any longer on this subject, much less run over
all the particulars that would shew what pains are us'd to corrupt
children, and instil principles of vice into them : but I desire parents
soberly to consider, what irregularity or vice there is which children
are not visibly taught, and whether it be not their duty and wisdom
to provide them other instructions.

§ 38. It seems plain to me, that the principle of all virtue and excel-
lency lies in a power of denying ourselves the satisfaction of our own
desires, where reason does not authorize them. This power is to be
got and improv'd by custom, made easy and familiar by an early
practice. If therefore I might be heard, I would advise, that, con-
trary to the ordinary way, children should be us'd to submit their
desires, and go without their longings, even from their very cradles.
The first thing they should learn to know, should be, that they were
not to have anything because it pleas'd them, but because it was
thought fit for them. If things suitable to their wants were supply'd
to them, so that they were never suffer'd to have what they once

32 JOHN LOCKE

cry'd for, they would learn to be content without it, would never,
with bawling and peevishness, contend for mastery, nor be half so
uneasy to themselves and others as they are, because from the first
beginning they are not thus handled. If they were never suffer'd to
obtain their desire by the impatience they express'd for it, they would
no more cry for another thing, than they do for the moon.

§ 39. I say not this, as if children were not to be indulg'd in any-
thing, or that I expected they should in hanging-sleeves have the
reason and conduct of counsellors. I consider them as children, who
must be tenderly us'd, who must play, and have play-things. That
which I mean, is, that whenever they crav'd what was not fit for
them to have or do, they should not be permitted it because they were
little, and desir'd it: nay, whatever they were importunate for, they
should be sure, for that very reason, to be deny'd. I have seen chil-
dren at a table, who, whatever was there, never ask'd for anything,
but contentedly took what was given them: and at another place, I
have seen others cry for everything they saw; must be serv'd out of
every dish, and that first too. What made this vast difference but
this ? that one was accustom'd to have what they call'd or cry'd for,
the other to go without it. The younger they are, the less I think
are their unruly and disorderly appetites to be comply 'd with; and
the less reason they have of their own, the more are they to be under
the absolute power and restraint of those in whose hands they are.
From which I confess it will follow, that none but discreet people
should be about them. If the world commonly does otherwise, I
cannot help that. I am saying what I think should be; which if it
were already in fashion, I should not need to trouble the world with
a discourse on this subject. But yet I doubt not, but when it is
consider'd, there will be others of opinion with me, that the sooner
this way is begun with children, the easier it will be for them and
their governors too; and that this ought to be observ'd as an in-
violable maxim, that whatever once is deny'd them, they are cer-
tainly not to obtain by crying or importunity, unless one has a mind
to teach them to be impatient and troublesome, by rewarding them
for it when they are so.

§ 40. Those therefore that intend ever to govern their children,
should begin it whilst they are very little, and look that they per-

EARLY TRAINING 33

fectly comply with the will of their parents. Would you have your
son obedient to you when past a child; be sure then to establish the
authority o£ a father as soon as he is capable of submission, and can
understand in whose power he is. If you would have him stand in
awe of you, imprint it in his infancy; and as he approaches more to
a man, admit him nearer to your familiarity; so shall you have him
your obedient subject (as is fit) whilst he is a child, and your affec-
tionate friend when he is a man. For methinks they mightily mis-
place the treatment due to their children, who are indulgent and
familiar when they are little, but severe to them, and keep them at
a distance, when they are grown up: for liberty and indulgence can
do no good to children; their want of judgment makes them stand
in need of restraint and discipline; and on the contrary, imperious-
ness and severity is but an ill way of treating men, who have reason
of their own to guide them; unless you have a mind to make your
children, when grown up, weary of you, and secretly to say within
themselves, When will you die, father?

§ 41. I imagine every one will judge it reasonable, that their
children, when little, should look upon their parents as their lords,
their absolute governors, and as such stand in awe of them; and that
when they come to riper years, they should look on them as their
best, as their only sure friends, and as such love and reverence them.
The way I have mention'd, if I mistake not, is the only one to obtain
this. We must look upon our children, when grown up, to be like
ourselves, with the same passions, the same desires. We would be
thought rational creatures, and have our freedom; we love not to be
uneasy under constant rebukes and brow-beatings, nor can we bear
severe humours and great distance in those we converse with. Who-
ever has such treatment when he is a man, will look out other
company, other friends, other conversation, with whom he can be
at ease. If therefore a strict hand be kept over children /row the
beginning, they will in that age be tractable, and quietly submit to
it, as never having known any other : and if, as they grow up to the
use of reason, the rigour of government be, as they deserve it, gently
relax'd, the father's brow more smooth'd to them, and the distance
by degrees abated, his former restraints will increase their love,
when they find it was only a kindness to them, and a care to make

34 JOHN LOCKE

them capable to deserve the favour of their parents, and the esteem
of everybody else.

§ 42. Thus much for the settling your authority over your children
in general. Fear and awe ought to give you the first power over their
minds, and love and friendship in riper years to hold it: for the
time must come, when they will be past the rod and correction; and
then, if the love of you make them not obedient and dudf ul, if the
love of virtue and reputation keep them not in laudable courses,
I ask, what hold will you have upon them to turn them to it? In-
deed, fear of having a scanty portion if they displease you, may make
them slaves to your estate, but they will be nevertheless ill and wicked
in private; and that restraint will not last always. Every man must
some time or other be trusted to himself and his own conduct; and
he that is a good, a virtuous, and able man, must be made so within.
And therefore what he is to receive from education, what is to sway
and influence his life, must be something put into him betimes;
habits woven into the very principles of his nature, and not a counter-
feit carriage, and dissembled outside, put on by fear, only to avoid
the present anger of a father who perhaps may disinherit him.

§ 43. This being laid down in general, as the course that ought
to be taken, 'tis fit we now come to consider the parts of the discipline
to be us'd, a little more particularly. I have spoken so much of
carrying a strict hand over children, that perhaps I shall be suspected
of not considering enough, what is due to their tender age and
constitutions. But that opinion will vanish, when you have heard me
a little farther: for I am very apt to think, that great severity of
punishment does but very little good, nay, great harm in education;
and I believe it will be found that, cceteris paribus, those children who
have been most chastis'd, seldom make the best men. All that I
have hitherto contended for, is, that whatsoever rigor is necessary,
it is more to be us'd, the younger children are; and having by a due
application wrought its effect, it is to be relax'd, and chang'd into a
milder sort of government.

§ 44. A compliance and suppleness of their wills, being by a steady
hand introduc'd by parents, before children have memories to retain
the beginnings of it, will seem natural to them, and work afterwards
in them as if it were so, preventing all occasions of struggling or

SELF-DENIAL 35

repining. The only care is, that it be begun early, and inflexibly
kept to 'till awe and respect be grown familiar, and there appears not
the least reluctancy in the submission, and ready obedience of their
minds. When this reverence is once thus established, (which it must
be early, or else it will cost pains and blows to recover it, and the
more the longer it is deferr'd) 'tis by it, still mix'd with as much
indulgence as they make not an ill use of, and not by beating, chiding,
or other servile punishments, they are for the future to be govern'd
as they grow up to more understanding.

§ 45. That this is so, will be easily allow'd, when it is but con-
sider'd, what is to be aim'd at in an ingenuous education; and upon
what it turns,

I. He that has not a mastery over his inclinations, he that knows
not how to resist the importunity of present pleasure or pain, for the
sake of what reason tells him is fit to be done, wants the true principle
of virtue and industry, and is in danger never to be good for any-
thing. This temper therefore, so contrary to unguided nature, is to
be got betimes; and this habit, as the true foundation of future
ability and happiness, is to be wrought into the mind as early as may
be, even from the first dawnings of knowledge or apprehension
in children, and so to be confirm'd in them, by all the care and
ways imaginable, by those who have the oversight of their educa-
tion.

§ 46. 2, On the other side, if the mind be curb'd, and humbled too
much in children; if their spirits be abas'd and broken much, by too
strict an hand over them, they lose all their vigour and industry, and
are in a worse state than the former. For extravagant young fellows,
that have liveliness and spirit, come sometimes to be set right, and
so make able and great men; but defected minds, timorous and
tame, and low spirits, are hardly ever to be rais'd, and very seldom
attain to any thing. To avoid the danger that is on either hand, is
the great art; and he that has found a way how to keep up a child's
spirit easy, active, and free, and yet at the same time to restrain him
from many things he has a mind to, and to draw him to things that
are uneasy to him; he, I say, that knows how to reconcile these
seeming contradictions, has, in my opinion, got the true secret of
education.

36 JOHN LOCKE

§ 47. The usual lazy and short way by chastisement and the rod,
which is the only instrument of government that tutors generally
know, or ever think of, is the most unfit of any to be us'd in educa-
tion, because it tends to both those mischiefs; which, as we have
shewn, are the Scylla and Charybdis, which on the one hand or
the other ruin all that miscarry.

§ 48. I. This kind of punishment contributes not at all to the
mastery of our natural propensity to indulge corporal and present
pleasure, and to avoid pain at any rate, but rather encourages it, and
thereby strengthens that in us, which is the root from whence spring
all vicious actions, and the irregularities of life. For what other
motive, but of sensual pleasure and pain, does a child act by, who
drudges at his book against his inclination, or abstains from eating
unwholesome fruit, that he takes pleasure in, only out of fear of
whipping? He in this only prefers the greater corporal pleasure, or
avoids the greater corporal pain. And what is it, to govern his actions,
and direct his conduct by such motives as these? What is it, I say,
but to cherish that principle in him, which it is our business to root
out and destroy ? And therefore I cannot think any correction useful
to a child, where the shame of suffering for having done amiss, does
not work more upon him than the pain.

§ 49. 2. This sort of correction naturally breeds an aversion to that
which 'tis the tutor's business to create a liking to. How obvious is
it to observe, that children come to hate things which were at first
acceptable to them, when they find themselves whipp'd, and chid,
and teas'd about them? And it is not to be wonder'd at in them,
when grown men would not be able to be reconcil'd to any thing
by such ways. Who is there that would not be disgusted with any
innocent recreation, in itself indifferent to him, if he should with
blows or ill language be haled to it, when he had no mind? Or be
constantly so treated, for some circumstances in his application to it ?
This is natural to be so. Offensive circumstances ordinarily infect
innocent things which they are join'd with; and the very sight of a
cup wherein any one uses to take nauseous physick, turns his
stomach, so that nothing will relish well out of it, tho' the cup be
never so clean and well-shap'd, and of the richest materials.

§ 50. 3. Such a sort of slavish discipline makes a slavish temper.

REWAIIDS 37

The child submits, and dissembles obedience, whilst the fear of the
rod hangs over him; but when that is remov'd, and by being out of
sight, he can promise himself impunity, he gives the greater scope
to his natural inclination; which by this way is not at all alter'd, but,
on the contrary, heighten'd and increas'd in him; and after such
restraint, breaks out usually with the more violence; or,

§ 51. 4. If severity carry'd to the highest pitch does prevail, and
works a cure upon the present unruly distemper, it often brings in
the room of it a worse and more dangerous disease, by breaking the
mind; and then, in the place of a disorderly young fellow, you have
a low spirited moap'd creature, who, however with his unnatural
sobriety he may please silly people, who commend tame unactive chil-
dren, because they make no noise, nor give them any trouble; yet at
last, will probably prove as uncomfortable a thing to his friends, as
he will be all his life an useless thing to himself and others.

§ 52. Beating them, and all other sorts of slavish and corporal
punishments, are not the discipline fit to be used in the education of
those we would have wise, good, and ingenuous men; and therefore
very rarely to be apply'd, and that only in great occasions, and cases
of extremity. On the other side, to flatter children by rewards of
things that are pleasant to them, is as carefully to be avoided. He
that will give to his son apples or sugar-plumbs, or what else of this
kind he is most delighted with, to make him learn his book, does
but authorize his love of pleasure, and cocker up that dangerous
propensity, which he ought by all means to subdue and stifle in him.
You can never hope to teach him to master it, whilst you compound
for the check you gave his inclination in one place, by the satis-
faction you propose to it in another. To make a good, a wise, and a
virtuous man, 'tis fit he should learn to cross his appetite, and deny
his inclination to riches, finery, or pleasing his palate, &c. whenever
his reason advises the contrary, and his duty requires it. But when
you draw him to do any thing that is fit by the offer of money, or
reward the pains of learning his book by the pleasure of a luscious
morsel; when you promise him a lace-cravat or a fine new suit, upon
performance of some of his little tasks; what do you by proposing
these as rewards, but allow them to be the good things he should
aim at, and thereby encourage his longing for 'em, and accustom

38 JOHN LOCKE

him to place his happiness in them? Thus people, to prevail with
children to be industrious about their grammar, dancing, or some
other such matter, of no great moment to the happiness or usefulness
of their lives, by misapply'd rewards and punishments, sacrifice their
virtue, invert the order of their education, and teach them luxury,
pride, or covetousness, &c. For in this way, flattering those wrong
inclinations which they should restrain and suppress, they lay the
foundations of those future vices, which cannot be avoided but by
curbing our desires and accustoming them early to submit to reason.

§ 53. I say not this, that I would have children kept from the con-
veniences or pleasures of life, that are not injurious to their health
or virtue. On the contrary, I would have their lives made as pleasant
and as agreeable to them as may be, in a plentiful enjoyment of what-
soever might innocently delight them; provided it be with this cau-
tion, that they have those enjoyments, only as the consequences of
the state of esteem and acceptation they are in with their parents
and governors; but they should never be offer'd or bestow'd on them,
as the rewards of this or that particular performance, that they shew
an aversion to, or to which they would not have apply 'd themselves
without that temptation.

§ 54. But if you take away the rod on one hand, and these little
encouragements which they are taken with, on the other, how then
(will you say) shall children be govern'd ? Remove hope and fear,
and there is an end of all discipline. I grant that good and evil,
reward and punishment, are the only motives to a rational creature:
these are the spur and reins whereby all mankind are set on work,
and guided, and therefore they are to be made use of to children
too. For I advise their parents and governors always to carry this
in their minds, that children are to be treated as rational creatures.

§ 55. Rewards, I grant, and punishments must be proposed to
children, if we intend to work upon them. The mistake I imagine
is, that those that are generally made use of, are ill chosen. The pains
and pleasures of the body are, I think, of ill consequence, when
made the rewards and punishments whereby men would prevail on
their children; for, as I said before, they serve but to increase and
strengthen those incUnations, which 'tis our business to subdue and
master. What principle of virtue do you lay in a child, if you will

REPUTATION 39

redeem his desires of one pleasure, by the proposal o£ another? This
is but to enlarge his appetite, and instruct it to wander. If a child
cries for an unwholesome and dangerous fruit, you purchase his
quiet by giving him a less hurtful sweet-meat. This perhaps may
preserve his health, but spoils his mind, and sets that farther out of
order. For here you only change the object, but flatter still his appe-
tite, and allow that must be satisfy 'd, wherein, as I have shew'd, lies
the root of the mischief; and till you bring him to be able to bear a
denial of that satisfaction, the child may at present be quiet and
orderly, but the disease is not cured. By this way of proceeding, you
foment and cherish in him that which is the spring from whence all
the evil flows, which will be sure on the next occasion to break out
again with more violence, give him stronger longings, and you more
trouble.

§ 56. The rewards and punishments then, whereby we should
keep children in order, are quite of another kind, and of that force,
that when we can get them once to work, the business, I think, is
done, and the difficulty is over. Esteem and disgrace are, of all others,
the most powerful incentives to the mind, when once it is brought
to relish them. If you can once get into children a love of credit,
and an apprehension of shame and disgrace, you have put into 'em
the true principle, which will constantly work and incline them to
the right. But it will be ask'd. How shall this be done ?

I confess it does not at first appearance want some difficulty; but
yet I think it worth our while to seek the ways (and practise them
when found) to attain this, which I look on as the great secret of
education.

§ 57. First, children (earlier perhaps than we think) are very
sensible of praise and commendation. They find a pleasure in being
esteem'd and valu'd, especially by their parents and those whom they
depend on. If therefore the father caress and commend them when
they do well, shew a cold and neglectful countenance to them upon
doing ill, and this accompany'd by a like carriage of the mother and
ail others that are about them, it will, in a little time, make them
sensible of the difference; and this, if constantly observ'd, I doubt not
but will of itself work more than threats or blows, which lose their
force when once grown common, and are of no use when shame does

40 JOHN LOCKE

not attend them; and therefore are to be forborne, and never to be
us'd, but in the case hereafter-mention'd, when it is brought to
extremity.

§ 58. But secondly, to make the sense of esteem or disgrace sink
the deeper, and be of the more weight, other agreeable or disagree-
able things should constantly accompany these different states; not as
particular rewards and punishments of this or that particular action,
but as necessarily belonging to, and constantly attending one, who
by his carriage has brought himself into a state of disgrace or com-
mendation. By which way of treating them, children may as much
as possible be brought to conceive, that those that are commended,
and in esteem for doing well, will necessarily be belov'd and cherish'd
by every body, and have all other good things as a consequence of it;
and on the other side, when any one by miscarriage falls into dis-
esteem, and cares not to preserve his credit, he will unavoidably fall
under neglect and contempt; and in that state, the want of what-
ever might satisfy or delight him will follow. In this way the
objects of their desires are made assisting to virtue, when a setded
experience from the beginning teaches children that the things they
delight in, belong to, and are to be enjoy'd by those only who are in
a state of reputation. If by these means you can come once to shame
them out of their faults, (for besides that, I would willingly have
no punishment) and make them in love with the pleasure of being
well thought on, you may turn them as you please, and they will be
in love with all the ways of virtue.

§ 59. The great difficulty here is, I imagine, from the folly and
perverseness of servants, who are hardly to be hinder'd from crossing
herein the design of the father and mother. Children discoun-
tenanc'd by their parents for any fault, find usually a refuge and
relief in the caresses of those foolish flatterers, who thereby undo
whatever the parents endeavour to establish. When the father or
mother looks sowre on the child, everybody else should put on the
same coldness to him, and nobody give him countenance, 'till for-
giveness ask'd, and a reformation of his fault has set him right again,
and restor'd him to his former credit. If this were constantly ob-
serv'd, I guess there would be little need of blows or chiding: their
own ease and satisfaction would quickly teach children to court

SHAME 41

commendation, and avoid doing that which they found everybody
condemn'd and they were sure to suffer for, without being chid or
beaten. This would teach them modesty and shame; and they would
quickly come to have a natural abhorrence for that which they found
made them slighted and neglected by every body. But how this in-
convenience from servants is to be remedy 'd, I must leave to parents'
care and consideration. Only I think it of great importance; and
that they are very happy who can get discreet people about their
children.

§ 60. Frequent beating or chiding is therefore carefully to be
avoided: because this sort of correction never produces any good,
farther than it serves to raise shame and abhorrence of the miscar-
riage that brought it on them. And if the greatest part of the trouble
be not the sense that they have done amiss, and the apprehension that
they have drawn on themselves the just displeasure of their best
friends, the pain of whipping will work but an imperfect cure. It
only patches up for the present, and skins it over, but reaches not
to the bottom of the sore; ingenuous shame, and the apprehensions
of displeasure, are the only true restraint. These alone ought to hold
the reins, and keep the child in order. But corporal punishments
must necessarily lose that effect, and wear out the sense of shame,
where they frequently return. Shame in children has the same place
that modesty has in women, which cannot be kept and often trans-
gress'd against. And as to the apprehension of displeasure in the
parents, that will come to be very insignificant, if the marks of that
displeasure quickly cease, and a few blows fully expiate. Parents
should well consider what faults in their children are weighty enough
to deserve the declaration of their anger: but when their displeasure
is once declar'd to a degree that carries any punishment with it, they
ought not presently to lay by the severity of their brows, but to re-
store their children to their former grace with some difficulty, and
delay a full reconciliation, 'till their conformity and more than
ordinary merit, make good their amendment. If this be not so
order'd, punishment will, by familiarity, become a mere thing of
course, and lose all its influence; offending, being chastised, and then
forgiven, will be thought as natural and necessary, as noon, night,
and morning following one another.

42 JOHN LOCKE

§ 6i. Concerning reputation, I shall only remark this one thing
more of it, that though it be not the true principle and measure o£
virtue, (for that is the knowledge of a man's duty, and the satisfac-
tion it is to obey his maker, in following the dictates of that light God
has given him, with the hopes of acceptation and reward) yet it is
that which comes nearest to it: and being the testimony and applause
that other people's reason, as it were by a common consent, gives to
virtuous and well-order'd actions, it is the proper guide and encour-
agement of children, 'till they grow able to judge for themselves,
and to find what is right by their own reason.

§ 62. This consideration may direct parents how to manage them-
selves in reproving and commending their children. The rebukes
and chiding, which their faults will sometimes make hardly to be
avoided, should not only be in sober, grave, and unpassionate words,
but also alone and in private: but the commendations children de-
serve, they should receive before others. This doubles the reward, by
spreading their praise; but the backwardness parents shew in divulg-
ing their faults, will make them set a greater value on their credit
themselves, and teach them to be the more careful to preserve the
good opinion of others, whilst they think they have it: but when
being expos'd to shame by publishing their miscarriages, they give it
up for lost, that check upon them is taken off, and they will be the
less careful to preserve others' good thoughts of them, the more they
suspect that their reputation with them is already blemish'd.

§ 63. But if a right course be taken with children, there will
not be so much need of the application of the common rewards and
punishments as we imagine, and as the general practice has estab-
Ush'd. For all their innocent folly, playing and childish actions, are
to be left perfectly free and unrestrain'd, as far as they can consist
with the respect due to those that are present; and that with the
greatest allowance. If these faults of their age, rather than of the
children themselves, were, as they should be, left only to time and
imitation and riper years to cure, children would escape a great deal
of misapply'd and useless correction, which either fails to overpower
the natural disposition of their childhood, and so by an ineffectual
familiarity, makes correction in other necessary cases of less use;
or else if it be of force to restrain the natural gaiety of that age, it

RULES 43

serves only to spoil the temper both of body and mind. If the noise
and bustle of their play prove at any time inconvenient, or unsuitable
to the place or company they are in, (which can only be where their
parents are) a look or a word from the father or mother, if they
have establish'd the authority they should, will be enough either to
remove or quiet them for that time. But this gamesome humour,
which is wisely adapted by nature to their age and temper, should
rather be encourag'd to keep up their spirits, and improve their
strength and health, than curb'd and restrain'd; and the chief art is
to make all that they have to do, sport and play too.

§ 64. And here give me leave to take notice of one thing I think a
fault in the ordinary method of education; and that is, the charging
of children's memories, upon all occasions, with rules and precepts,
which they often do not understand, and constantly as soon forget
as given. It it be some action you would have done, or done other-
wise, whenever they forget, or do it awkwardly, make them do it
over and over again, 'till they are perfect, whereby you will get these
two advantages. First, to see whether it be an action they can do,
or is fit to be expected of them: for sometimes children are bid to do
things which upon trial they are found not able to do, and had need
be taught and exercis'd in before they are requir'd to do them. But
it is much easier for a tutor to command than to teach. Secondly,
another thing got by it will be this, that by repeating the same action
'till it be grown habitual in them, the performance will not depend
on memory or reflection, the concomitant of prudence and age, and
not of childhood, but will be natural in them. Thus bowing to a
gentleman, when he salutes him, and looking in his face, when he
speaks to him, is by constant use as natural to a well-bred man, as
breathing; it requires no thought, no reflection. Having this way
cured in your child any fault, it is cured for ever: and thus one by one
you may weed them out all, and plant what habits you please.

§ 65. I have seen parents so heap rules on their children, that it was
impossible for the poor little ones to remember a tenth part of them,
much less to observe them. However, they were either by words or
blows corrected for the breach of those multiply 'd and often very
impertinent precepts. Whence it naturally foUow'd that the children
minded not what was said to them, when it was evident to them

44 JOHN LOCKE

that no attention they were capable of was sufficient to preserve
them from transgression, and the rebukes which foUow'd it.

Let therefore your rules to your son be as few as possible, and
rather fewer than more than seem absolutely necessary. For if you
burden him with many rules, one of these two things must neces-
sarily follow; that either he must be very often punish'd, which will
be of ill consequence, by making punishment too frequent and fa-
miliar; or else you must let the transgressions of some of your rules
go unpunish'd, whereby they will of course grow contemptible, and
your authority become cheap to him. Make but few laws, but see
they be well observ'd when once made. Few years require but few
laws, and as his age increases, when one rule is by practice well
establish'd, you may add another.

§ 66. But pray remember, children are not to be taught by rules
which will be always slipping out of their memories. What you
think necessary for them to do, settle in them by an indispensable
practice, as often as the occasion returns; and if it be possible, make
occasions. This will beget habits in them which being once estab-
lish'd, operate of themselves easily and naturally, without the assist-
ance of the memory. But here let me give two cautions, i. The
one is, that you keep them to the practice of what you would have
grow into a habit in them, by kind words, and gentle admonitions,
rather as minding them of what they forget, than by harsh rebukes
and chiding, as if they were wilfully guilty. 2. Another thing you
are to take care of, is, not to endeavour to settle too many habits at
once, lest by variety you confound them, and so perfect none. When
constant custom has made any one thing easy and natural to 'em,
and they practise it without reflection, you may then go on to
another.

This method of teaching children by a repeated practice, and the
same action done over and over again, under the eye and direction
of the tutor, 'till they have got the habit of doing it well, and not by
relying on rules trusted to their memories, has so many advantages,
which way soever we consider it, that I cannot but wonder (if ill
customs could be wondered at in any thing) how it could possibly
be so much neglected. I shall name one more that comes now in
my way. By this method we shall see whether what is requir'd

AFFECTATION 45

of him be adapted to his capacity, and any way suited to the child's
natural genius and constitution; for that too much be consider'd
in a right education. We must not hope wholly to change their
original tempers, nor make the gay pensive and grave, nor the melan-
choly sportive, without spoiling them. God has stamp'd certain char-
acters upon men's minds, which like their shapes, may perhaps be
a Httle mended, but can hardly be totally alter'd and transform'd
into the contrary.

He therefore that is about children should well study their natures
and aptitudes, and see by often trials what turn they easily take, and
what becomes them; observe what their native stock is, how it may
be improv'd, and what it is fit for: he should consider what they
want, whether they be capable of having it wrought into them by
industry, and incorporated there by practice; and whether it be
worth while to endeavour it. For in many cases, all that we can do,
or should aim at, is, to make the best of what nature has given, to
prevent the vices and faults to which such a constitution is most
inclin'd, and give it all the advantages it is capable of. Every one's
natural genius should be carry 'd as far as it could; but to attempt the
putting another upon him, will be but labour in vain; and what is so
plaister'd on, will at best sit but untowardly, and have always hang-
ing to it the ungracefulness of constraint and affectation.

Affectation is not, I confess, an early fault of childhood, or the
product of untaught nature. It is of that sort of weeds which grow
not in the wild uncultivated waste, but in garden-plots, under the
negligent hand or unskilful care of a gardener. Management and
instruction, and some sense of the necessity of breeding, are requisite
to make any one capable of affectation, which endeavours to correct
natural defects, and has always the laudable aim of pleasing, though
it always misses it; and the more it labours to put on gracefulness,
the farther it is from it. For this reason, it is the more carefully to be
watch'd, because it is the proper fault of education; a perverted edu-
cation indeed, but such as young people often fall into, either by their
own mistake, or the ill conduct of those about them.

He that will examine wherein that gracefulness lies, which always
pleases, will find it arises from that natural coherence which appears
between the thing done and such a temper of mind as cannot but be

46 JOHN LOCKE

approv'd of as suitable to the occasion. We cannot but be pleas'd with
an humane, friendly,civil temper wherever we meet with it. A mind
free, and master of itself and all its actions, not low and narrow, not
haughty and insolent, not blemish'd with any great defect, is what
every one is taken with. The actions which naturally flow from such
a well-form'd mind, please us also, as the genuine marks of it; and
being as it were natural emanations from the spirit and disposition
within, cannot but be easy and unconstrain'd. This seems to me to
be that beauty which shines through some men's actions, sets off all
that they do, and takes all they come near; when by a constant
practice, they have fashion'd their carriage, and made all those
little expressions of civility and respect, which nature or custom has
establish'd in conversation, so easy to themselves, that they seem not
artificial or studied, but naturally to follow from a sweetness of
mind and a well-turn'd disposition.

On the other side, affectation is an awkward and forc'd imitation
of what should be genuine and easy, wanting the beauty that accom-
panies what is natural; because there is always a disagreement be-
tween the outward action, and the mind within, one of these two
ways: i. Either when a man would outwardly put on a disposition
of mind, which then he really has not, but endeavours by a forc'd
carriage to make shew of; yet so, that the constraint he is under dis-
covers itself : and thus men affect sometimes to appear sad, merry, or
kind, when in truth they are not so.

2. The other is, when they do not endeavour to make shew of
dispositions of mind, which they have not, but to express those they
have by a carriage not suited to them. And such in conversation are
all constrain'd motions, actions, words, or looks, which, though
design'd to shew either their respect or civility to the company, or
their satisfaction and easiness in it, are not yet natural nor genuine
marks of the one or the other, but rather of some defect or mistake
within. Imitation of others, without discerning what is graceful in
them, or what is peculiar to their characters, often makes a great
part of this. But affectation of all kinds, whencesoever it proceeds, is
always offensive; because we naturally hate whatever is counterfeit,
and condemn those who have nothing better to recommend them-
selves by.

MANNERS 47

Plain and rough nature, left to itself, is much better than an arti-
ficial ungracefulness, and such study'd ways of being illfashion'd.
The want of an accomplishment, or some defect in our behaviour,
coming short of the utmost gracefulness, often escapes observation
and censure. But affectation in any part of our carriage is lighting
up a candle to our defects, and never fails to make us be taken notice
of, either as wanting sense, or wanting sincerity. This governors
ought the more diligently to look after, because, as I above observ'd,
'tis an acquir'd ugliness, owing to mistaken education, few being
guilty of it but those who pretend to breeding, and would not be
thought ignorant of what is fashionable and becoming in conversa-
tion; and, if I mistake not, it has often its rise from the lazy admoni-
tions of those who give rules, and propose examples, without joining
practice with their instructions and making their pupils repeat the
action in their sight, that they may correct what is indecent or con-
strain'd in it, till it be perfected into an habitual and becoming
easiness.

§ 67. Manners, as they call it, about which children are so often
perplex'd, and have so many goodly exhortations made them by their
wise maids and governesses, I think, are rather to be learnt by
example than rules; and then children, if kept out of ill company,
will take a pride to behave themselves prettily, after the fashion of
others, perceiving themselves esteem'd and commended for it. But
if by a little negligence in this part, the boy should not pull off his
hat, nor make legs very gracefully, a dancing-master will cure that
defect, and wipe off all that plainness of nature, which the a-la-mode
people call clownishness. And since nothing appears to me to give
children so much becoming confidence and behaviour, and so to
raise them to the conversation of those above their age, as dancing,
I think they should be taught to dance as soon as they are capable
of learning it. For tho' this consist only in outward gracefulness of
motion, yet, I know not how, it gives children manly thoughts and
carriage, more than any thing. But otherwise, I would not have
little children much tormented about punctilio's or niceties of
breeding.

Never trouble your self about those faults in them, which you
know age will cure: and therefore want of well-fashion'd civiUty in

48 JOHN LOCKE

the carriage, whilst civility is not wanting in the mind, (for there
you must take care to plant it early) should be the parents' least care,
whilst they are young. If his tender mind be fill'd with a veneration
for his parents and teachers, which consists of love and esteem, and
a fear to offend them: and with respect and good will to all people;
that respect will of itself teach those ways of expressing it, which he
observes most acceptable. Be sure to keep up in him the principles
of good nature and kindness; make them as habitual as you can, by
credit and commendation, and the good things accompanying that
state: and when they have taken root in his mind, and are settled
there by a continued practice, fear not, the ornaments of conversa-
tion, and the outside of fashionable manners, will come in their due
time; if when they are remov'd out of their maid's care, they are
put into the hands of a well-bred man to be their governor.

Whilst they are very young, any carelessness is to be borne with
in children, that carries not with it the marks of pride or ill nature;
but those, whenever they appear in any action, are to be corrected
immediately by the ways above-mention'd. What I have said con-
cerning manners, I would not have so understood, as if I meant
that those who have the judgment to do it, should not gently fashion
the motions and carriage of children, when they are very young. It
would be of great advantage, if they had people about them from
their being first able to go, that had the skill, and would take the
right way to do it. That which I complain of, is the wrong course
that is usually taken in this matter. Children, who were never taught
any such thing as behaviour, are often (especially when strangers
are present) chid for having some way or other fail'd in good man-
ners, and have thereupon reproofs and precepts heap'd upon them,
concerning putting off their hats, or making of legs, &c. Though
in this, those concern'd pretend to correct the child, yet in truth, for
the most part, it is but to cover their own shame; and they lay the
blame on the poor little ones, sometimes passionately enough, to
divert it from themselves, for fear the by-standers should impute to
their want of care and skill the child's ill behaviour.

For, as for the children themselves, they are never one jot better'd
by such occasional lectures. They at other times should be shewn
what to do, and by reiterated actions be fashion'd beforehand into

MANNERS 49

the practice of what is fit and becoming, and not told and talk'd to
do upon the spot, of what they have never been accustom'd nor know
how to do as they should. To hare and rate them thus at every turn,
is not to teach them, but to vex and torment them to no purpose.
They should be let alone, rather than chid for a fault which is none
of theirs, nor is in their power to mend for speaking to. And it were
much better their natural childish negligence or plainness should be
left to the care of riper years, than that they should frequently have
rebukes misplac'd upon them, which neither do nor can give them
graceful motions. If their minds are well-dispos'd, and principled
with inward civility, a great part of the roughness which sticks to
the outside for want of better teaching, time and observation will
rub off, as they grow up, if they are bred in good company; but if in
ill, all the rules in the world, all the correction imaginable, will not
be able to polish them. For you must take this for a certain truth,
that let them have what instructions you will, and ever so learned
lectures of breeding daily inculcated into them, that which will
most influence their carriage will be the company they converse
with, and the fashion of those about them. Children (nay, and men
too) do most by example. We are all a sort of camelions, that still
take a tincture from things near us; nor is it to be wonder'd at in
children, who better understand what they see than what they hear.

§ 68. I mention'd above one great mischief that came by servants
to children, when by their flatteries they take off the edge and force
of the parents' rebukes, and so lessen their authority: and here is
another great inconvenience which children receive from the ill
examples which they meet with amongst the meaner servants.

They are wholly, if possible, to be kept from such conversation;
for the contagion of these ill precedents, both in civility and virtue,
horribly infects children, as often as they come within reach of it.
They frequently learn from unbred or debauch'd servants such lan-
guage, untowardly tricks and vices, as otherwise they possibly would
be ignorant of all their lives.

§ 69. 'Tis a hard matter wholly to prevent this mischief. You will
have very good luck, if you never have a clownish or vicious servant,
and if from them your children never get any infection : but yet as
much must be done towards it as can be, and the children kept as

50 JOHN LOCKE

much as may be Hn the company of their parents, and those to whose
care they are committed. To this purpose, their being in their pres-
ence should be made easy to them; they should be allow'd the liberties
and freedoms suitable to their ages, and not be held under unneces-
sary restraints, when in their parents' or governor's sight. If it be a
prison to them, 'tis no wonder they should not like it. They must
not be hinder'd from being children, or from playing, or doing as
children, but from doing ill; all other liberty is to be allow'd them.
Next, to make them in love with the company of their parents, they
should receive all their good things there, and from their hands.
The servants should be hinder'd from making court to them by
giving them strong drink, wine, fruit, playthings, and other such
matters, which may make them in love with their conversation.

§ 70. Having nam'd company, I am almost ready to throw away
my pen, and trouble you no farther on this subject: for since that
does more than all precepts, rules and instructions, methinks 'tis
almost wholly in vain to make a long discourse of other things, and
to talk of that almost to no purpose. For you will be ready to say,
what shall I do with my son? If I keep him always at home, he will
be in danger to be my young master; and if I send him abroad, how
is it possible to keep him from the contagion of rudeness and vice,
which is every where so in fashion? In my house he will perhaps
be more innocent, but more ignorant too of the world; wanting there
change of company, and being us'd constantly to the same faces, he
will, when he comes abroad, be a sheepish or conceited creature.

I confess both sides have their inconveniences. Being abroad, 'tis
true, will make him bolder, and better able to bustle and shift among
boys of his own age; and the emulation of school-fellows often puts
life and industry into young lads. But still you can find a school,
wherein it is possible for the master to look after the manners of his
scholars, and can shew as great effects of his care of forming their
minds to virtue, and their carriage to good breeding, as of forming
their tongues to the learned languages, you must confess, that you
have a strange value for words, when preferring the languages of
the antient Greeks and Romans to that which made 'em such brave

' Hotv much the Romans thought the education of their children a business that
properly belong'd to the parents themselves, see in Suetonius, August. § 64. Plu-
tarch in vita Catonis Censoris, Diodorus Siculus, /. 2, cap. 3.

COMPANY 51

men, you think it worth while to hazard your son's innocence and
virtue for a httle Gree\ and Latin. For, as for that boldness and spirit
which lads get amongst their play-fellows at school, it has ordi-
narily such a mixture of rudeness and ill-turn'd confidence, that
those misbecoming and disingenuous ways of shifting in the world
must be unlearnt, and all die tincture wash'd out again, to make
way for better principles, and such manners as make a truly worthy
man. He that considers how diametrically opposite the skill of Uving
well, and managing, as a man should do, his affairs in the world,
is to that mal-pertness, tricking, or violence learnt amongst school-
boys, will think the faults of a privater education infinitely to be
preferr'd to such improvements, and will take care to preserve his
child's innocence and modesty at home, as being nearer of kin, and
more in the way of those qualities which make an useful and able
man. Nor does any one find, or so much as suspect, that that retire-
ment and bashfulness which their daughters are brought up in,
makes them less knowing, or less able women. Conversation, when
they come into the world, soon gives them a becoming assurance;
and whatsoever, beyond that, there is of rough and boisterous, may
in men be very well spar'd too; for courage and steadiness, as I take
it, lie not in roughness and ill breeding.

Virtue is harder to be got than a knowledge of the world; and
if lost in a young man, is seldom recover'd. Sheepishness and ig-
norance of the world, the faults imputed to a private education, are
neither the necessary consequences of being bred at home, nor if
they were, are they incurable evils. Vice is the more stubborn, as
well as the more dangerous evil of the two; and therefore in the
first place to be fenced against. If that sheepish softness which often
enervates those who are bred like fondlings at home, be carefully
to be avoided, it is principally so for virtue's sake; for fear lest such
a yielding temper should be too susceptible of vicious impressions,
and expose the novice too easily to be corrupted. A young man before
he leaves the shelter of his father's house, and the guard of a tutor,
should be fortify'd with resolution, and made acquainted with men,
to secure his virtues, lest he should be led into some ruinous course,
or fatal precipice, before he is sufficiently acquainted with the dan-
gers of conversation, and has steadiness enough not to yield to every

52 JOHN LOCKE

temptation. Were it not for this, a young man's bashfulness and
ignorance in the world, would not so much need an early care. Con-
versation would cure it in a great measure; or if that will not do it
early enough, it is only a stronger reason for a good tutor at home.
For if pains be to be taken to give him a manly air and assurance
betimes, it is chiefly as a fence to his virtue when he goes into the
world under his own conduct.

It is preposterous therefore to sacrifice his innocency to the attain-
ing of confidence and some little skill of bustling for himself among
others, by his conversation with ill-bred and vicious boys; when the
chief use of that sturdiness, and standing upon his own legs, is only
for the preservation of his virtue. For if confidence or cunning come
once to mix with vice, and support his miscarriages, he is only the
surer lost; and you must undo again, and strip him of that he has
got from his companions, or give him up to ruin. Boys will unavoid-
ably be taught assurance by conversation with men, when they are
brought into it; and that is time enough. Modesty and submission,
till then, better fits them for instruction; and therefore there needs
not any great care to stock them with confidence beforehand. That
which requires most time, pains, and assiduity, is, to work into them
the principles and practice of virtue and good breeding. This is the
seasoning they should be prepar'd with, so as not easily to be got out
again. This they had need to be well provided with, for conversation,
when they come into the world, will add to their knowledge and
assurance, but be too apt to take from their virtue; which therefore
they ought to be plentifully stor'd with, and have that tincture sunk
deep into them.

How they should be fitted for conversation, and enter'd into the
world, when they are ripe for it, we shall consider in another place.
But how any one's being put into a mix'd herd of unruly boys, and
there learning to wrangle at trap, or rook at span-farthing, fits him
for civil conversation or business, I do not see. And what qualities
are ordinarily to be got from such a troop of play-fellows as schools
usually assemble together from parents of all kinds, that a father
should so much covet, is hard to divine. I am sure, he who is able
to be at the charge of a tutor at home, may there give his son a more
genteel carriage, more manly thoughts, and a sense of what is worthy

COMPANY 53

and becoming, with a greater proficiency in learning into the bar-
gain, and ripen him up sooner into a man, than any at school can
do. Not that I blame the schoolmaster in this, or think it to be
laid to his charge. The difference is great between two or three
pupils in the same house, and three or four score boys lodg'd up and
down : for let the master's industry and skill be never so great, it is
impossible he should have fifty or an hundred scholars under his
eye, any longer than they are in the school together: Nor can it be
expected, that he should instruct them successfully in any thing but
their books; the forming of their minds and manners requiring a
constant attention, and particular application to every single boy,
which is impossible in a numerous flock, and would be wholly in
vain (could he have time to study and correct every one's particular
defects and wrong inclinations) when the lad was to be left to him-
self, or the prevailing infection of his fellows, the greatest part of
the four and twenty hours.

But fathers, observing that fortune is often most successfully
courted by bold and bustling men, are glad to see their sons pert
and forward betimes; take it for an happy omen that they will be
thriving men, and look on the tricks they play their school-fellows,
or learn from them, as a proficiency in the art of living, and making
their way through the world. But I must take the liberty to say, that
he that lays the foundation of his son's fortune in virtue and good
breeding, takes the only sure and warrantable way. And 'tis not the
waggeries or cheats practis'd amongst school-boys, 'tis not their
roughness one to another, nor the well-laid plots of robbing an
orchard together, that make an able man; but the principles of
justice, generosity, and sobriety, join'd with observation and industry,
qualities which I judge school-boys do not learn much of one another.
And if a young gentleman bred at home, be not taught more of them
than he could learn at school, his father has made a very ill choice
of a tutor. Take a boy from the top of a grammar-school, and one
of the same age bred as he should be in his father's family, and bring
them into good company together, and then see which of the two
will have the more manly carriage, and address himself with the
more becoming assurance to strangers. Here I imagine the school-
boy's confidence will either fail or discredit him; and if it be such as

54 JOHN LOCKE

fits him only for the conversation of boys, he were better to be
without it.

Vice, if we may beheve the general complaint, ripens so fast now-
a-days, and runs up to seed so early in young people, that it is im-
possible to keep a lad from the spreading contagion, if you will
venture him abroad in the herd, and trust to chance or his own
inclination for the choice of his company at school. By what fate
Vice has so thriven amongst us these years past, and by what hands
it has been nurs'd up into so uncontroul'd a dominion, I shall leave
to others to enquire. I wish that those who complain of the great
decay of Christian piety and virtue every where, and of learning and
acquir'd improvements in the gentry of this generation, would con-
sider how to retrieve them in the next. This I am sure, that if the
foundation of it be not laid in the education and principling of the
youth, all other endeavours will be in vain. And if the innocence,
sobriety, and industry of those who are coming up, be not taken
care of and preserv'd, 'twill be ridiculous to expect, that those who are
to succeed next on the stage, should abound in that virtue, ability,
and learning, which has hitherto made England considerable in the
world. I was going to add courage too, though it has been look'd
on as the natural inheritance of Englishmen. What has been talk'd
of some late actions at sea, of a kind unknown to our ancestors, gives
me occasion to say, that debauchery sinks the courage of men; and
when dissoluteness has eaten out the sense of true honour, bravery
seldom stays long after it. And I think it impossible to find an
instance of any nation, however renown'd for their valour, who ever
kept their credit in arms, or made themselves redoubtable amongst
their neighbours, after corruption had once broke through and
dissolv'd the restraint of discipline, and vice was grown to such an
head, that it durst shew itself barefac'd without being out of
countenance.

'Tis virtue then, direct virtue, which is the hard and valuable part
to be aim'd at in education, and not a forward pertness, or any little
arts of shifting. All other considerations and accomplishments
should give way and be postpon'd to this. This is the solid and sub-
stantial good which tutors should not only read lectures, and talk
of, but the labour and art of education should furnish the mind with,

VIRTUE 55

and fasten there, and never cease till the young man had a true relish
of it, and plac'd his strength, his glory, and his pleasure in it.

The more this advances, the easier way will be made for other
accomplishments in their turns. For he that is brought to submit to
virtue, will not be refractory, or resty, in any thing that becomes
him; and therefore I cannot but prefer breeding of a young gentle-
man at home in his father's sight, under a good governour, as much
the best and safest way to this great and main end of education, when
it can be had, and is order'd as it should be. Gentlemen's houses
are seldom without variety of company. They should use their sons
to all the strange faces that come here, and engage them in conversa-
tion with men of parts and breeding, as soon as they are capable of
it. And why those who live in the country should not take them with
them, when they make visits of civility to their neighbours, I know
not. This I am sure, a father that breeds his son at home, has the
opportunity to have him more in his own company, and there give
him what encouragement he thinks fit, and can keep him better from
the taint of servants and the meaner sort of people, than is possible
to be done abroad. But what shall be resolv'd in the case, must in
great measure be left to the parents, to be determin'd by their cir-
cumstances and conveniences; only I think it the worst sort of good
husbandry for a father not to strain himself a little for his son's
breeding; which, let his condition be what it will, is the best portion
he can leave him. But if, after all, it shall be thought by some, that
the breeding at home has too little company, and that at ordinary
schools, not such as it should be for a young gentleman, I think
there might be ways found out to avoid the inconveniences on the
one side and the other.

§ 71. Having under consideration how great the influence of
company is, and how prone we are all, especially children, to imita-
tion, I must here take the liberty to mind parents of this one thing,
viz. That he that will have his son have a respect for him and his
orders, must himself have a great reverence for his son. Maxima
debetur pueris reverentia. You must do nothing before him, which
you would not have him imitate. If any thing escape you, which you
would have pass for a fault in him, he will be sure to shelter himself
under your example, and shelter himself so as that it will not be easy

56 JOHN LOCKE

to come at him, to correct it in him the right way. If you punish
him for what he sees you practise yourself, he will not think that
severity to proceed from kindness in you, careful to amend a fault
in him; but will be apt to interpret it the peevishness and arbitrary
imperiousness of a father, who, without any ground for it, would
deny his son the liberty and pleasures he takes himself. Or if you
assume to yourself the liberty you have taken, as a privilege belong-
ing to riper years, to which a child must not aspire, you do but add
new force to your example, and recommend the action the more
powerfully to him. For you must always remember, that children
affect to be men earlier than is thought; and they love breeches, not
for their cut or ease, but because the having them is a mark or step
towards manhood. What I say of the father's carriage before his
children, must extend itself to all those who have any authority over
them, or for whom he would have them have any respect.

§ 72. But to return to the business of rewards and punishments.
All the actions of childishness, and unfashionable carriage, and what-
ever time and age will of itself be sure to reform, being (as I have
said) exempt from the discipline of the rod, there will not be so
much need of beating children as is generally made use of. To which
if we add learning to read, write, dance, foreign language, &c. as
under the same privilege, there will be but very rarely an occasion
for blows or force in an ingenuous education. The right way to
teach them those things, is, to give them a liking and inclination to
what you suppose to them to be learn'd, and that will engage their
industry and application. This I think no hard matter to do, if chil-
dren be handled as they should be, and the rewards and punishments
above-mention'd be carefully apply'd, and with them these few
rules observ'd in the method of instructing them.

§ 73. I. None of the things they are to learn, should ever be made
a burthen to them, or impos'd on them as a tasl{. Whatever is so
propos'd, presently becomes irksome; the mind takes an aversion
to it, though before it were a thing of delight or indifferency. Let a
child but be order'd to whip his top at a certain time every day,
whether he has or has not a mind to it; let this be but requir'd of
him as a duty, wherein he must spend so many hours morning and
afternoon, and see whether he will not soon be weary of any play

PUNISHMENT 57

at this rate. Is it not so with grown men? What they do chearfuUy
of themselves, do they not presently grow sick of, and can no more
endure, as soon as they find it is expected of them as a duty? Chil-
dren have as much a mind to shew that they are free, that their own
good actions come from themselves, that they are absolute and inde-
pendent, as any of the proudest of you grown men, think of them
as you please.

§ 74. 2. As a consequence of this, they should seldom be put about
doing even those things you have got an inclination in them to, but
when they have a mind and disposition to it. He that loves reading,
writing, musick, &c. finds yet in himself certain seasons wherein those
things have no relish to him; and if at that time he forces himself
to it, he only pothers and wearies himself to no purpose. So it is with
children. This change of temper should be carefully observ'd in
them, and the favourable seasons of aptitude and inclination be heed-
fully laid hold of: and if they are not often enough forward of them-
selves, a good disposition should be talk'd into them, before they be
set upon any thing. This I think no hard matter for a discreet tutor
to do, who has study'd his pupil's temper, and will be at a little pains
to fill his head with suitable ideas, such as may make him in love
with the present business. By this means a great deal of time and
tiring would be sav'd: for a child will learn three times as much when
he is in tune, as he will with double the time and pains when he
goes awkwardly or is dragg'd unwillingly to it. If this were minded
as it should, children might be permitted to weary themselves with
play, and yet have time enough to learn what is suited to the ca-
pacity of each age. But no such thing is consider'd in the ordinary
way of education, nor can it well be. That rough discipline of the
rod is built upon other principles, has no attraction in it, regards not
what humour children are in, nor looks after favourable seasons of
inclination. And indeed it would be ridiculous, when compulsion
and blows have rais'd an aversion in the child to his task, to expect
he should freely of his own accord leave his play, and with pleasure
court the occasions of learning; whereas, were matters order'd right,
learning anything they should be taught might be made as much a
recreation to their play, as their play is to their learning. The pains
are equal on both sides. Nor is it that which troubles them; for they

58 JOHN LOCKE

love to be busy, and the change and variety is that which naturally
delights them. The only odds is, in that which we call play they
act at liberty, and employ their pains (whereof you may observe
them never sparing) freely; but what they are to learn is forc'd upon
them, they are call'd, compell'd, and driven to it. This is that, that
at first entrance balks and cools them; they want their liberty. Get
them but to ask their tutor to teach them, as they do often their play-
fellows, instead of his calling upon them to learn, and they being satis-
fy'd that they act as freely in this as they do in other things, they will
go on with as much pleasure in it, and it will not differ from their
other sports and play. By these ways, carefully pursu'd, a child may
be brought to desire to be taught any thing you have a mind he
should learn. The hardest part, I confess, is with the first or eldest;
but when once he is set right, it is easy by him to lead the rest whither
one will.

§ 75. Though it be past doubt, that the fittest time for children to
learn any thing, is, when their minds are in tune, and well dispos'd
to it; when neither flagging of spirit, nor intentness of thought upon
something else, makes them awkward and averse; yet two things are
to be taken care of: i. That these seasons either not being warily
observ'd, and laid hold on as often as they return, or else, not return-
ing as often as they should, the improvement of the child be not
thereby neglected, and so he be let grow into an habitual idleness,
and confirm'd in this disposition: 2. That though other things are
ill learn'd, when the mind is either indispos'd, or otherwise taken up;
yet it is of great moment, and worth our endeavours, to teach the
mind to get the mastery over itself, and to be able, upon choice, to
take itself off from the hot pursuit of one thing, and set itself upon
another with facility and delight, or at any time to shake off its slug-
gishness, and vigorously employ itself about what reason, or the ad-
vice of another shall direct. This is to be done in children, by trying
them sometimes, when they are by laziness unbent, or by avocation
bent another way, and endeavouring to make them buckle to the
thing propos'd. If by this means the mind can get an habitual
dominion over itself, lay by ideas or business as occasion requires,
and betake itself to new and less acceptable employments without
reluctancy or discomposure, it will be an advantage of more conse-

DISPOSITION 59

quence than Latin or logick or most of those things children are
usually requir'd to learn.

§ 76. Children being more active and busy in that age, than in any
other part of their life, and being indifferent to any thing they can
do, so they may be but doing, dancing and Scotch-hoppers would be
the same thing to them, were the encouragements and discourage-
ments equal. But to things we would have them learn, the great and
only discouragement I can observe, is, that they are call'd to it, 'tis
made their business, they are teaz'd and chid about it, and do it with
trembling and apprehension; or, when they come willingly to it, are
kept too long at it, till they are quite tir'd: all which intrenches too
much on that natural freedom they extremely affect. And it is that
hberty alone which gives the true relish and delight to their ordinary
play-games. Turn the tables, and you will find they will soon change
their application; especially if they see the examples of others whom
they esteem and think above themselves. And if the things which
they observe others to do, be order'd so, that they insinuate them-
selves into them as the privilege of an age or condition above theirs;
then ambition, and the desire still to get forward and higher, and
to be like those above them, will set them on work, and make them
go on with vigour and pleasure; pleasure in what they have begun by
their own desire, in which way the enjoyment of their dearly beloved
freedom will be no small encouragement to them. To all which, if
there be added the satisfaction of credit and reputation, I am apt to
think there will need no other spur to excite their applicadon and
assiduity, as much as is necessary. I confess, there needs patience
and skill, gentleness and attention, and a prudent conduct to attain this
at first. But why have you a tutor, if there needed no pains? But
when this is once establish'd, all the rest will follow, more easily than
in any more severe and imperious discipline. And I think it no hard
matter to gain this point; I am sure it will not be, where children
have no ill examples set before them. The great danger therefore,
I apprehend, is only from servants, and other ill-order'd children, or
such other vicious or foolish people, who spoil children both by the
ill pattern they set before them in their own ill manners, and by
giving them together the two things they should never have at
once; I mean vicious pleasures and commendation.

60 JOHN LOCKE

§ 77. As children should very seldom be corrected by blows, so I
think frequent, and especially passionate chiding o£ almost as ill
consequence. It lessens the authority of the parents, and the respect
of the child; for I bid you still remember, they distinguish early be-
twixt passion and reason: and as they cannot but have a reverence
for what comes from the latter, so they quickly grow into a contempt
of the former; or if it causes a present terror, yet it soon wears off, and
natural inclination will easily learn to slight such scare-crows which
make a noise, but are not animated by reason. Children being to be
restrain'd by the parents only in vicious (which, in their tender years,
are only a few) things, a look or nod only ought to correct them
when they do amiss; or, if words are sometimes to be us'd, they
ought to be grave, kind, and sober, representing the ill or unbecom-
ingness of the faults, rather than a hasty rating of the child for it;
which makes him not sufficiently distinguish, whether your dislike
be not more directed to him than his fault. Passionate chiding usually
carries rough and ill language with it, which has this farther ill effect,
that it teaches and justifies it in children: and the names that their
parents or preceptors give them, they will not be asham'd or back-
ward to bestow on others, having so good authority for the use of
them.

§ 78. I foresee here it will be objected to me, what then, will you
have children never beaten nor chid for any fault? This will be to
let loose the reins to all kind of disorder. Not so much, as is
imagin'd, if a right course has been taken in the first seasoning of
their minds, and implanting that awe of their parents above men-
tioned. For beating, by constant observation, is found to do little
good, where the smart of it is all the punishment is fear'd or felt in
it; for the influence of that quickly wears out, with the memory of it.
But yet there is one, and but one fault, for which, I think, children
should be beaten, and that is, obstinacy or rebellion. And in this too,
I would have it order'd so, if it can be, that the shame of the whip-
ping, and not the pain, should be the greatest part of the punishment.
Shame of doing amiss, and deserving chastisement, is the only true
restraint belonging to virtue. The smart of the rod, if shame accom-
panies it not, soon ceases, and is forgotten, and will quickly by use
lose its terror. I have known the children of a person of quaUty kept

OBSTINACY 6l

in awe by the fear of having their shoes pull'd off, as much as others
by apprehensions of a rod hanging over them. Some such punish-
ment I think better than beating; for 'tis shame of the fault, and the
disgrace that attends it, that they should stand in fear of, rather
than pain, if you would have them have a temper truly ingenuous.
But stubbornness, and an obstinate disobedience, must be master'd
with force and blows; for this there is no other remedy. Whatever
particular action you bid him do, or forbear, you must be sure to see
your self obey'd; no quarter in this case, no resistance: for when once
it comes to be a trial of skill, a contest for mastery betwixt you, as it
is if you command and he refuses, you must be sure to carry it, what-
ever blows it costs, if a nod or words will not prevail; unless, for ever
after, you intend to live in obedience to your son. A prudent and
kind mother of my acquaintance, was, on such an occasion, forc'd
to whip her little daughter, at her first coming home from nurse,
eight times successively the same morning, before she could master
her stubbornness, and obtain a compliance in a very easy and in-
different matter. If she had left off sooner, and stopp'd at the seventh
whipping, she had spoil'd the child for ever, and, by her unprevailing
blows, only confirm'd her refractoriness, very hardly afterwards to be
cur'd : but wisely persisting till she had bent her mind, and suppled
her will, the only end of correction and chastisement, she establish'd
her authority thoroughly in the very first occasions, and had ever
after a very ready compliance and obedience in all things from her
daughter; for as this was the first time, so I think it was the last too
she ever struck her.

The pain of the rod, the first occasion that requires it, continu'd
and increas'd, without leaving oil till it has throughly prevail'd,
should first bend the mind, and settle the parent's authority; and
then gravity, mix'd with kindness, should for ever after keep it.

This, if well reflected on, would make people more wary in the use
of the rod and the cudgel, and keep them from being so apt to think
beating the safe and universal remedy to be apply'd at random on all
occasions. This is certain, however, if it does no good, it does great
harm; if it reaches not the mind, and makes not the will supple, it
hardens the offender; and whatever pain he has suffer'd for it, does
but endear him to his beloved stubbornness, which has got him this

62 JOHN LOCKE

time the victory, and prepares him to contest, and hope for it for the
future. This I doubt not but by ill-order'd correction many have been
taught to be obstinate and refractory who otherwise would have been
very pliant and tractable. For if you punish a child so, as if it were
only to revenge the past fault, which has rais'd your choler, what
operation can this have upon his mind, which is the part to be
amended? If there were no sturdy humor or wilfulness mix'd with
his fault, there was nothing in it that requir'd the severity of blows.
A kind or grave admonition is enough to remedy the slips of frailty,
forgetfulness, or inadvertency, and is as much as they will stand in
need of. But if there were a perverseness in the will, if it were a de-
sign'd, resolv'd disobedience, the punishment is not to be measur'd
by the greatness or smallness of the matter wherein it appear'd, but
by the opposition it carries, and stands in, to that respect and submis-
sion is due to the father's orders; which must always be rigorously
exacted, and the blows by pauses laid on, till they reach the mind,
and you perceive the signs of a true sorrow, shame, and purpose
of obedience.

This, I confess, requires something more than setting children a
task, and whipping them without any more a-do if it be not done,
and done to our fancy. This requires care, attention, observation,
and a nice study of children's tempers, and weighing their faults
well, before we come to this sort of punishment. But is not that better
than always to have the rod in hand as the only instrument of gov-
ernment? And by frequent use of it on all occasions, misapply and
render inefficacious this last and useful remedy, where there is need
of it? For what else can be expected, when it is promiscuously us'd
upon every little slip ? When a mistake in concordance, or a wrong
position in verse, shall have the severity of the lash, in a well-temper'd
and industrious lad, as surely as a wilful crime in an obstinate and
perverse offender; how can such a way of correction be expected to
do good on the mind, and set that right? Which is the only thing to
be look'd after; and when set right, brings all the rest that you can
desire along with it.

§ 79. Where a wrong bent of the will wants not amendment, there
can be no need of blows. All other faults, where the mind is rightly
dispos'd, and refuses not the government and authority of the father

OBSTINACY 63

or tutor, are but mistakes, and may often be overlook'd; or when
they are taken notice of, need no other but the gentle remedies of
advice, direction, and reproof, till the repeated and wilful neglect of
those, shews the fault to be in the mind, and that a manifest perverse-
ness of the will lies at the root of their disobedience. But whenever
obstinacy, which is an open defiance, appears, that cannot be wink'd
at or neglected, but must, in the first instance, be subdu'd and mas-
ter'd; only care must be had, that we mistake not and we must
be sure it is obstinacy and nothing else.

§ 80. But since the occasions of punishment, especially beating,
are as much to be avoided as may be, I think it should not be often
brought to this point. If the awe I spoke of be once got, a look will
be sufficient in most cases. Nor indeed should the same carriage,
seriousness, or application be expected from young children as from
those of riper growth. They must be permitted, as I said, the foolish
and childish actions suitable to their years, without taking notice of
them. Inadvertency, carelessness, and gayety, is the character of
that age. I think the severity I spoke of is not to extend itself to such
unseasonable restraints. Nor is that hastily to be interpreted obstin-
acy or wilfulness, which is the natural product of their age or temper.
In such miscarriages they are to be assisted, and help'd towards
an amendment, as weak people under a natural infirmity; which,
though they are warn'd of, yet every relapse must not be counted a
perfect neglect, and they presently treated as obstinate. Faults of
frailty, as they should never be neglected, or let pass without mind-
ing, so, unless the will mix with them, they should never be exag-
gerated, or very sharply reprov'd; but with a gentle hand set right,
as time and age permit. By this means, children will come to see
what 'tis in any miscarriage that is chiefly offensive, and so learn to
avoid it. This will encourage them to keep their wills right; which
is the great business, when they find that it preserves them from any
great displeasure, and that in all their other failings they meet with
the kind concern and help, rather than the anger and passionate re-
proaches of their tutor and parents. Keep them from vice and vicious
dispositions, and such a kind of behaviour in general will come with
every degree of their age, as is suitable to that age and the company
they ordinarily converse with; and as they grow in years, they will

64 JOHN LOCKE

grow in attention and application. But that your words may always
carry weight and authority with them, if it shall happen, upon any
occasion, that you bid him leave off the doing of any even childish
things, you must be sure to carry the point, and not let him have the
mastery. But yet, I say, I would have the father seldom interpose his
authority and command in these cases, or in any other, but such as
have a tendency to vicious habits. I think there are better ways of
prevailing with them: and a gentle persuasion in reasoning, (when
the first point of submission to your will is got) will most times do
much better.

§ 81. It will perhaps be wonder 'd, that I mention reasoning with
children; and yet I cannot but think that the true way of dealing
with them. They understand it as early as they do language; and,
if I misobserve not, they love to be treated as rational creatures,
sooner than is imagin'd. 'Tis a pride should be cherish'd in them,
and, as much as can be, made the greatest instrument to turn
them by.

But when I talk of reasoning, I do not intend any other but such as
is suited to the child's capacity and apprehension. No body can think
a boy of three or seven years old should be argu'd with as a grown
man. Long discourses, and philosophical reasonings, at best, amaze
and confound, but do not instruct children. When I say, therefore,
that they must be treated as rational creatures, I mean that you
should make them sensible, by the mildness of your carriage, and the
composure even in your correction of them, that what you do is
reasonable in you, and useful and necessary for them; and that it is
not out of caprichio, passion or fancy, that you command or forbid
them any thing. This they are capable of understanding; and there
is no virtue they should be excited to, nor fault they should be kept
from, which I do not think they may be convinced of; but it must
be by such reasons as their age and understandings are capable of,
and those propos'd always in very fetv and plain words. The founda-
tions on which several duties are built, and the fountains of right and
wrong from which they spring, are not perhaps easily to be let into
the minds of grown men, not us'd to abstract their thoughts from
common receiv'd opinions. Much less are children capable of rea-
sonings from remote principles. They cannot conceive the force of

REASONING 65

long deductions. The reasons that move them must be obvious, and
level to their thoughts, and such as may (if I may so say) be felt
and touch'd. But yet, if their age, temper, and inclination be con-
sider'd, there will never want such motives as may be sufficient to
convince them. If there be no other more particular, yet these will
always be intelligible, and of force, to deter them from any fault fit
to be taken notice of in them, {viz.) That it will be a discredit and
disgrace to them, and displease you.

§ 82. But of all the ways whereby children are to be instructed,
and their manners formed, the plainest, easiest, and most efficacious,
is, to set before their eyes the examples of those things you would
have them do, or avoid; which, when they are pointed out to them,
in the practice of persons within their knowledge, with some reflec-
tions on their beauty and unbecomingness, are of more force to draw
or deter their imitation, than any discourses which can be made to
them. Virtues and vices can by no words be so plainly set before
their understandings as the actions of other men will shew them,
when you direct their observation, and bid them view this or that
good or bad quality in their practice. And the beauty or uncomeli-
ness of many things, in good and ill breeding, will be better learnt,
and make deeper impressions on them, in the examples of others,
than from any rules or instructions can be given about them.

This is a method to be us'd, not only whilst they are young, but to be
continu'd even as long as they shall be under another's tuition or
conduct; nay, I know not whether it be not the best way to be us'd
by a father, as long as he shall think fit, on any occasion, to reform
any thing he wishes mended in his son; nothing sinking so gently,
and so deep, into men's minds, as example. And what ill they either
overlook or indulge in themselves, they cannot but dislike and be
asham'd of, when it is set before them in another.

§ 83. It may be doubted, concerning whipping, when as the last
remedy, it comes to be necessary, at what times, and by whom it
should be done; whether presently upon the committing the fault,
whilst it is yet fresh and hot ; and whether parents themselves should
beat their children. As to the first, I think it should not be done
presently, lest passion mingle with it; and so, though it exceed the
just proportion, yet it lose of its due weight: for even children dis-

66 JOHN LOCKE

cern when we do things in passion. But, as I said before, that has
most weight with them, that appears sedately to come from their
parents' reason; and they are not without this distinction. Next, if
you have any discreet servant capable of it, and has the place of gov-
erning your child (for if you have a tutor, there is no doubt) I think
it is best the smart should come immediately from another's hand,
though by the parent's order, who should see it done; whereby the
parent's authority will be preserv'd, and the child's aversion, for the
pain it suffers, rather to be turn'd on the person that immediately
inflicts. For I would have a father seldom stride his child, but upon
very urgent necessity, and as the last remedy; and then perhaps it
will be fit to do it so that the child should not quickly forget it.

§ 84. But, as I said before, beating is the worst, and therefore the
last means to be us'd in the correction of children, and that only in
cases of extremity, after all gentle ways have been try'd, and prov'd
unsuccessful; which, if well observ'd, there will be very seldom any
need of blows. For, it not being to be imagin'd that a child will often,
if ever, dispute his father's present command in any particular in-
stance, and the father not interposing his absolute authority, in per-
emptory rules, concerning either childish or indifferent actions,
wherein his son is to have his liberty, or concerning his learning or
improvement, wherein there is no compulsion to be us'd: there re-
mains only the prohibition of some vicious actions, wherein a child is
capable of obstinacy, and consequently can deserve beating; and so
there will be but very few occasions of that discipline to be us'd
by any one who considers well and orders his child's education as it
should be. For the first seven years, what vices can a child be guilty
of, but lying or some ill-natur'd tricks; the repeated commission
whereof, after his father's direct command against it, shall bring
him into the condemnation of obstinacy, and the chastisement of the
rod ? If any vicious inclination in him be, in the first appearance and
instances of it, treated as it should be, first with your wonder, and
then, if returning again, a second time discountenanc'd with the
severe brow of a father, tutor, and all about him, and a treatment
suitable to the state of discredit before-mention'd; and this continu'd
till he be made sensible and asham'd of his fault, I imagine there
will be no need of any other correction, nor ever any occasion to come

WHIPPING 67

to blows. The necessity of such chastisement is usually the conse-
quence only of former indulgences or neglects: If vicious inclinations
were watch'd from the beginning, and the first irregularities which
they cause, corrected by those gentler ways, we should seldom have
to do with more than one disorder at once; which would be easily
set right without any stir or noise, and not require so harsh a dis-
cipline as beating. Thus one by one as they appear'd, they might all
be weeded out, without any signs or memory that ever they had been
there. But we letting their faults (by indulging and humouring our
little ones) grow up, till they are sturdy and numerous, and the
deformity of them makes us asham'd and uneasy, we are fain to
come to the plough and the harrow ; the spade and the pick-ax must
go deep to come at the roots; and all the force, skill, and diligence we
can use, is scarce enough to cleanse the vitiated seed-plat, overgrown
with weeds, and restore us the hopes of fruits, to reward our pains
in its season.

§ 85. This course, if observ'd, will spare both father and child the
trouble of repeated injunctions, and multiply 'd rules of doing and
forbearing. For I am of opinion, that of those actions which tend to
vicious habits, (which are those alone that a father should interpose
his authority and commands in) none should be forbidden children
till they are found guilty of them. For such untimely prohibitions,
if they do nothing worse, do at least so much towards teaching and
allowing 'em, that they suppose that children may be guilty of them,
who would possibly be safer in the ignorance of any such faults.
And the best remedy to stop them, is, as I have said, to shew wonder
and amazement at any such action as hath a vicious tendency, when
it is first taken notice of in a child. For example, when he is first
found in a lie, or any ill-natur'd trick, the first remedy should be, to
talk to him of it as a strange monstrous matter, that it could not be
imagin'd he would have done, and so shame him out of it.

§ 86. It will be ('tis like) objected, that whatsoever I fancy of the
tractableness of children, and the prevalency of those softer ways
of shame and commendation; yet there are many who will never
apply themselves to their books, and to what they ought to learn,
unless they are scourg'd to it. This, I fear, is nothing but the language
of ordinary schools and fashion, which have never sufEer'd the ofher

68 JOHN LOCKE

to be try'd as it should be, in places where it could be taken notice
of. Why, else, does the learning of Latin and Greek need the rod,
when French and Italian need it not? Children learn to dance and
fence without whipping; nay, Arithmetick, drawing, &c. they apply
themselves well enough to without beating: which would make one
suspect, that there is something strange, unnatural, and disagreeable
to that Age, in the things required in grammar-schools, or in the
methods us'd there, that children cannot be brought to, without the
severity o£ the lash, and hardly with that too; or else, that it is a
mistake, that those tongues could not be taught them without
beating.

§ 87. But let us suppose some so negligent or idle, that they will
not be brought to learn by the gentle ways propos'd, (for we must
grant, that there will be children found of all tempers,) yet it does
not thence follow, that the rough discipline of the cudgel is to be
us'd to all. Nor can any one be concluded unmanageable by the
milder methods of government, till they have been thoroughly try'd
upon him; and if they will not prevail with him to use his en-
deavours, and do what is in his power to do, we make no excuses
for the obstinate. Blows are the proper remedies for those; but blows
laid on in a way different from the ordinary. He that wilfully neg-
lects his book, and stubbornly refuses any thing he can do, requir'd of
him by his father, expressing himself in a positive serious command,
should not be corrected with two or three angry lashes, for not per-
forming his task, and the same punishment repeated again and again
upon every the like default; but when it is brought to that pass, that
wilfulness evidently shews itself, and makes blows necessary, I think
the chastisement should be a little more sedate, and a little more
severe, and the whipping (mingled with admonition between) so
continu'd, till the impressions of it on the mind were found legible
in the face, voice, and submission of the child, not so sensible of the
smart as of the fault he has been guilty of, and melting in true sorrow
under it. If such a correction as this, try'd some few times at fit dis-
tances, and carry 'd to the utmost severity, with the visible displeasure
of the father all the while, will not work the effect, turn the mind,
and produce a future compliance, what can be hop'd from blows,
and to what purpose should they be any more us'd.? Beating, when

TUTOR 69

you can expect no good from it, will look more like the fury of an
enrag'd enemy, than the good-will of a compassionate friend; and
such chastisement carries with it only provocation, without any pros-
pect of amendment. If it be any father's misfortune to have a son thus
perverse and untractable, I know not what more he can do but
pray for him. But, I imagine, if a right course be taken with children
from the beginning, very few will be found to be such; and when
there are any such instances, they are not to be the rule for the
education of those who are better natur'd, and may be manag'd with
better usage.

§ 88. If a tutor can be got, that, thinking himself in the father's
place, charg'd with his care, and relishing these things, will at the
beginning apply himself to put them in practice, he will afterwards
find his work very easy; and you will, I guess, have your son in a
Uttle time a greater proficient in both learning and breeding than per-
haps you imagine. But let him by no means beat him at any time
without your consent and direction; at least till you have experience
of his discretion and temper. But yet, to keep up his authority with
his pupil, besides concealing that he has not the power of the rod,
you must be sure to use him with great respect yourself, and cause
all your family to do so too: for you cannot expect your son should
have any regard for one whom he sees you, or his mother, or others
slight. If you think him worthy of contempt, you have chosen amiss;
and if you shew any contempt of him, he will hardly escape it from
your son : and whenever that happens, whatever worth he may have
in himself, and abilities for this employment, they are all lost to your
child, and can afterwards never be made useful to him.

§ 89. As the father's example must teach the child respect for his
tutor, so the tutor's example must lead the child into those actions
he would have him do. His practice must by no means cross his
precepts, unless he intend to set him wrong. It will be to no purpose
for the tutor to talk of the restraint of the passions whilst any of his
own are let loose; and he will in vain endeavour to reform any vice
or indecency in his pupil, which he allows in himself. Ill patterns
are sure to be follow'd more than good rules; and therefore he must
always carefully preserve him from the influence of ill precedents,
especially the most dangerous of all, the examples of the servants;

70 JOHN LOCKE

from whose company he is to be kept, not by prohibitions, for that
will but give him an itch after it, but by other ways I have mention'd.
§ 90. In all the whole business of education, there is nothing like
to be less hearken'd to, or harder to be well observ'd, than what I am
now going to say; and that is, that children should, from their first
beginning to talk, have some discreet, sober, nay, wise person about
them, whose care it should be to fashion them aright, and keep them
from all ill, especially the infection of bad company. I think this
province requires great sobriety, temperance, tenderness, diligence,
and discretion; qualities hardly to be found united in persons that
are to be had for ordinary salaries, nor easily to be found any where.
As to the charge of it, I think it will be the money best laid out that
can be, about our children; and therefore, though it may be expen-
sive more than is ordinary, yet it cannot be thought dear. He that at
any rate procures his child a good mind, well-principled, temper'd
to virtue and usefulness, and adorn'd with civility and good breed-
ing, makes a better purchase for him than if he laid out the money
for an addition of more earth to his former acres. Spare it in toys
and play-games, in silk and ribbons, laces, and other useless ex-
penses, as much as you please; but be not sparing in so necessary a
part as this. 'Tis not good husbandry to make his fortune rich, and
his mind poor. I have often with great admiration seen people lavish
it profusely in tricking up their children in fine clothes, lodging and
feeding them sumptuously, allowing them more than enough of
useless servants, and yet at the same time starve their minds, and
not take sufficient care to cover that which is the most shameful
nakedness, viz. their natural wrong inclinations and ignorance. This
I can look on as no other than a sacrificing to their own vanity, it
shewing more their pride than true care of the good of their
children; whatsoever you employ to the advantage of your son's
mind, will shew your true kindness, tho' it be to the lessening of his
estate. A wise and good man can hardly want either the opinion or
reality of being great and happy; but he that is foolish or vicious,
can be neither great nor happy, what estate soever you leave him:
and I ask you whether there be not men in the world, whom you had
rather have your son be with five hundred pounds per annum, than
some other you know with five thousand pounds.

GOVERNOR 71

§ 91. The consicleradon o£ charge ought not therefore to deter
those who are able. The great difficuhy will be where to find a
proper person: for those of small age, parts, and virtue, are unfit for
this employment, and those that have greater, will hardly be got to
undertake such a charge. You must therefore look out early, and
enquire every where; for the world has people of all sorts. And I
remember, Montaigne says in one of his essays, that the learned
Castalio was fain to make trenchers at Basle, to keep himself from
starving, when his father would have given any money for such a
tutor for his son, and Castalio have willingly embrac'd such an em-
ployment upon very reasonable terms; but this was for want of
intelligence.

§ 92. If you find it difficult to meet with such a tutor as we desire,
you are not to wonder. I only can say, spare no care nor cost to get
such an one. All things are to be had that way: and I dare assure
you, that if you can get a good one, you will never repent the charge;
but will always have the satisfaction to think it the money of all
other the best laid out. But be sure take no body upon friends, or
charity, no, nor upon great commendations. Nay, if you will do as
you ought, the reputation of a sober man, with a good stock of
learning, (which is all usually requir'd in a tutor) will not be enough
to serve your turn. In this choice be as curious as you would be in
that of a wife for him; for you must not think of trial or changing
afterwards: This will cause great inconvenience to you, and greater
to your son. When I consider the scruples and lautions I here lay
in your way, methinks it looks as if I advis'd you to something which
I would have offer'd at, but in effect not done. But he that shall con-
sider how much the business of a tutor, rightly employ 'd, lies out of
the road, and how remote it is from the thoughts of many, even of
those who propose to themselves this employment, will perhaps be of
my mind, that one fit to educate and form the mind of a young gen-
tleman is not everywhere to be found, and that more than ordinary
care is to be taken in the choice of him, or else you may fail of your
end.

§ 93. The character of a sober man and a scholar is, as I have above
observ'd, what every one expects in a tutor. This generally is thought
enough, and is all that parents commonly look for: But when such

72 JOHN LOCKE

an one has empty'd out into his pupil all the Latin and logick he has
brought from the university, will that furniture make him a fine
gentleman? Or can it be expected, that he should be better bred,
better skill'd in the world, better principled in the grounds and
foundations of true virtue and generosity, than his young tutor is?

To form a young gentleman as he should be, 'tis fit his governor
should himself be well-bred, understanding the ways of carriage and
measures of civility in all the variety of persons, times, and places;
and keep his pupil, as much as his age requires, constantly to the
observation of them. This is an art not to be learnt nor taught by
books. Nothing can give it but good company and observation join'd
together. The taylor may make his clothes modish, and the dancing-
master give fashion to his motions; yet neither of these, tho' they set
off well, make a well-bred gentleman: no, tho' he have learning to
boot, which, if not well manag'd, makes him more impertinent and
intolerable in conversation. Breeding is that which sets a gloss upon
all his other good qualities, and renders them useful to him, in pro-
curing him the esteem and good-will of all that he comes near.
Without good breeding his other accomplishments make him pass
but for proud, conceited, vain, or foolish.

Courage in an ill-bred man has the air and escapes not the opinion
of brutality: Learning becomes pedantry; wit, buffoonery; plainness,
rusticity; good nature, fawning. And there cannot be a good quality
in him, which want of breeding will not warp and disfigure to his
disadvantage. Nay, virtue and parts, though they are allow'd their
due commendation, yet are not enough to procure a man a good
reception, and make him welcome wherever he comes. No body
contents himself with rough diamonds, and wears them so, who
would appear with advantage. When they are polish'd and set, then
they give a lustre. Good qualities are the substantial riches of the
mind, but 'tis good breeding sets them off: and he that will be ac-
ceptable, must give beauty, as well as strength, to his actions. Solidity,
or even usefulness, is not enough: a graceful way and fashion in
every thing, is that which gives the ornament and liking. And in
most cases, the manner of doing is of more consequence than the
thing done; and upon that depends the satisfaction or disgust where-
with it is receiv'd. This therefore, which lies not in the putting off

TUTOR 73

the hat, nor making of compUments, but in a due and free com-
posure of language, looks, motion, posture, place, &c. suited to per-
sons and occasions, and can be learn'd only by habit and use, though
it be above the capacity of children, and little ones should not be
perplex'd about it, yet it ought to be begun and in a good measure
learn'd by a young gentleman whilst he is under a tutor, before he
comes into the world upon his own legs: for then usually it is too
late to hope to reform several habitual indecencies, which lie in
little things. For the carriage is not as it should be, till it is become
natural in every part, falling, as skilful musicians' fingers do, into
harmonious order without care and without thought. If in conversa-
tion a man's mind be taken up with a solicitous watchfulness about
any part of his behaviour; instead of being mended by it, it will be
constrain'd, uneasy, and ungraceful.

Besides, this part is most necessary to be form'd by the hand and
care of a governor, because, though the errors committed in breed-
ing are the first that are taken notice of by others, yet they are the
last that any one is told of; not but that the malice of the world is
forward enough to tattle of them; but it is always out of his hearing,
who should make profit of their judgment and reform himself
by their censure. And indeed, this is so nice a point to be meddled
with, that even those who are friends, and wish it were mended,
scarce ever dare mention it, and tell those they love that they are
guilty in such or such cases of ill breeding. Errors in other things may
often with civility be shewn another; and 'tis no breach of good
manners or friendship to set him right in other mistakes; but good
breeding itself allows not a man to touch upon this, or to insinuate
to another that he is guilty of want of breeding. Such information
can come only from those who have authority over them; and from
them too it comes very hardly and harshly to a grown man; and
however soften'd, goes but ill down with any one who has liv'd ever
so little in the world. Wherefore it is necessary that this part should
be the governor's principal care, that an habitual gracefulness, and
politeness in all his carriage, may be settled in his charge, as much as
may be, before he goes out of his hands; and that he may not need
advice in this point when he has neither time nor disposition to
receive it, nor has any body left to give it him. The tutor therefore

74 JOHN LOCKE

ought in the first place to be well-bred: and a young gentleman, who
gets this one qualification from his governor, sets out with great
advantage, and will find that this one accomplishment will more open
his way to him, get him more friends, and carry him farther in the
world, than all the hard words or real knowledge he has got from the
liberal arts, or his tutor's learned encyclopaedia: not that those should
be neglected, but by no means preferr'd, or sufler'd to thrust out
the other.

§ 94. Besides being well-bred, the tutor should know the world
well; the ways, the humours, the follies, the cheats, the faults of the
age he is fallen into, and particularly of the country he lives in.
These he should be able to shew to his pupil, as he finds him capable;
teach him skill in men, and their manners; pull off the mask which
their several callings and pretences cover them with, and make his
pupil discern what lies at the bottom under such appearances, that
he may not, as unexperienc'd young men are apt to do if they are
unwarn'd, take one thing for another, judge by the outside, and give
himself up to shew, and the insinuation of a fair carriage, or an
obliging application. A governor should teach his scholar to guess
at and beware of the designs of men he hath to do with, neither
with too much suspicion, nor too much confidence; but as the young
man is by nature most inclin'd to either side, rectify him, and bend
him the other way. He should accustom him to make, as much as is
possible, a true judgment of men by those marks which serve best
to shew what they are, and give a prospect into their inside, which
often shows itself in little things, especially when they are not in
parade, and upon their guard. He should acquaint him with the true
state of the world, and dispose him to think no man better or worse,
wiser or foolisher, than he really is. Thus, by safe and insensible
degrees, he will pass from a boy to a man; which is the most
hazardous step in all the whole course of life. This therefore should
be carefully watch'd, and a young man with great diligence handed
over it; and not as now usually is done, be taken from a governor's
conduct, and all at once thrown into the world under his own, not
without manifest dangers of immediate spoiling; there being nothing
more frequent than instances of the great looseness, extravagancy,
and debauchery, which young men have run into as soon as they

TUTOR 75

have been let loose from a severe and strict education: Which I think
may be chiefly imputed to their wrong way of breeding, especially in
this part; for having been bred up in a great ignorance of what the
world truly is, and finding it a quite other thing, when they come
into it, than what they were taught it should be, and so imagin'd it
was, are easily persuaded, by other kind of tutors, which they are
sure to meet with, that the discipline they were kept under, and the
lectures read to them, were but the formalities of education and the
restraints of childhood; that the freedom belonging to men is to take
their swing in a full enjoyment of what was before forbidden them.
They shew the young novice the world full of fashionable and glit-
tering examples of this every where, and he is presently dazzled
with them. My young master failing not to be willing to shew him-
self a man, as much as any of the sparks of his years, lets himself
loose to all the irregularities he finds in the most debauch'd; and
thus courts credit and manliness in the casting off the modesty and
sobriety he has till then been kept in; and thinks it brave, at his first
setting out, to signalize himself in running counter to all the rules
of virtue which have been preach'd to him by his tutor.

The shewing him the world as really it is, before he comes wholly
into it, is one of the best means, I think, to prevent this mischief.
He should by degrees be informed of the vices in fashion, and warned
of the applications and designs of those who will make it their busi-
ness to corrupt him. He should be told the arts they use, and the
trains they lay; and now and then have set before him the tragical
or ridiculous examples of those who are ruining or ruin'd this way.
The age is not like to want instances of this kind, which should be
made land-marks to him, that by the disgraces, diseases, beggary,
and shame of hopeful young men thus brought to ruin, he may be
precaution'd, and be made see, how those join in the contempt and
neglect of them that are undone, who, by pretences of friendship and
respect, lead them to it, and help to prey upon them whilst they were
undoing; that he may see, before he buys it by a too dear experience,
that those who persuade him not to follow the sober advices he has
receiv'd from his governors, and the counsel of his own reason, which
they call being govern'd by others, do it only that they may have the
government of him themselves; and make him believe, he goes

76 JOHN LOCKE

like a man of himself, by his own conduct, and for his own pleasure,
when in truth he is wholly as a child led by them into those vices
which best serve their purposes. This is a knowledge which, upon
all occasions, a tutor should endeavour to instil, and by all methods
try to make him comprehend, and thoroughly relish.

I know it is often said, that to discover to a young man the vices
of the age is to teach them him. That, I confess, is a good deal so,
according as it is done; and therefore requires a discreet man of
parts, who knows the world, and can judge of the temper, inclina-
tion, and weak side of his pupil. This farther is to be remember'd,
that it is not possible now (as perhaps formerly it was) to keep a
young gentleman from vice by a total ignorance of it, unless you
will all his life mew him up in a closet, and never let him go into
company. The longer he is kept thus hoodwink'd, the less he will
see when he comes abroad into open daylight, and be the more
expos'd to be a prey to himself and others. And an old boy, at his first
appearance, with all the gravity of his ivy-bush about him, is sure
to draw on him the eyes and chirping of the whole town volery;
amongst which there will not be wanting some birds of prey, that
will presently be on the wing for him.

The only fence against the world, is, a thorough knowledge of it,
into which a young gentleman should be enter'd by degrees, as he
can bear it; and the earlier the better, so he be in safe and skilful
hands to guide him. The scene should be gently open'd, and his
entrance made step by step, and the dangers pointed out that at-
tend him from the several degrees, tempers, designs, and clubs of
men. He should be prepar'd to be shock'd by some, and caress'd by
others; warn'd who are like to oppose, who to mislead, who to under-
mine him, and who to serve him. He should be instructed how to
know and distinguish them; where he should let them see, and
when dissemble the knowledge of them and their aims and work-
ings. And if he be too forward to venture upon his own strength
and skill, the perplexity and trouble of a misadventure now and then,
that reaches not his innocence, his health, or reputation, may not be
an ill way to teach him more caution.

This, I confess, containing one great part of wisdom, is not the
product of some superficial thoughts, or much reading; but the effect

TUTOR 77

of experience and observation in a man who has liv'd in the world
with his eyes open, and convers'd with men of all sorts. And there-
fore I think it of most value to be instill'd into a young man upon all
occasions which offer themselves, that when he comes to launch into
the deep himself, he may not be like one at sea without a line, com-
pass or sea-chart; but may have some notice before-hand of the rocks
and shoals, the currents and quick-sands, and know a little how to
steer, that he sink not before he get experience. He that thinks not
this of more moment to his son, and for which he more needs a
governor, than the languages and learned sciences, forgets of how
much more use it is to judge right of men, and manage his affairs
wisely with them, than to speak Gree\ and Latin, or argue in mood
and figure; or to have his head fill'd with the abstruse speculations of
natural philosophy and metaphy sicks; nay, than to be well vers'd in
Greeks and Roman writers, though that be much better for a gentle-
man than to be a good Peripatetick or Cartesian, because those
antient authors observ'd and painted mankind well, and give the
best light into that kind of knowledge. He that goes into the eastern
parts of Asia, will find able and acceptable men without any of these;
but without virtue, knowledge of the world, and civility, an accom-
plish'd and valuable man can be found no where.

A great part of the learning now in fashion in the schools of
Europe, and that goes ordinarily into the round of education, a gen-
tleman may in a good measure be unfurnish'd with, without any
great disparagement to himself or prejudice to his affairs. But pru-
dence and good breeding are in all the stations and occurrences of
life necessary; and most young men suffer in the want of them, and
come rawer and more awkward into the world than they should,
for this very reason, because these qualities, which are of all other
the most necessary to be taught, and stand most in need of the assis-
tance and help of a teacher, are generally neglected and thought but
a slight or no part of a tutor's business. Latin and learning make all
the noise; and the main stress is laid upon his proficiency in things a
great part whereof belong not to a gentleman's calling; which is to
have the knowledge of a man of business, a carriage suitable to his
rank, and to be eminent and useful in his country, according to his
station. Whenever either spare hours from that, or an inclination

yS JOHN LOCKE

to perfect himself in some parts o£ knowledge, which his tutor did
but just enter him in, set him upon any study, the first rudiments of
it, which he learn'd before, will open the way enough for his own
industry to carry him as far as his fancy will prompt, or his parts
enable him to go. Or, if he thinks it may save his time and pains
to be help'd over some difficulties by the hand of a master, he may
then take a man that is perfectly well skilled in it, or chuse such an
one as he thinks fittest for his purpose. But to initiate his pupil in
any part of learning, as far as is necessary for a young man in the
ordinary course of his studies, an ordinary skill in the governor is
enough. Nor is it requisite that he should be a thorough scholar, or
possess in perfection all those sciences which 'tis convenient a young
gentleman should have a taste of in some general view, or short
system. A gentleman that would penetrate deeper must do it by his
own genius and industry afterwards: For no body ever went far in
knowledge, or became eminent in any of the sciences, by the dis-
cipline and constraint of a master.

The great work of a governor, is to fashion the carriage, and form
the mind; to settle in his pupil good habits and the principles of
virtue and wisdom; to give him by Uttle and httle a view of man-
kind, and work him into a love and imitation of what is excellent
and praise-worthy; and, in the prosecution of it, to give him vigour,
activity, and industry. The studies which he sets him upon, are but
as it were the exercises of his faculties, and employment of his time,
to keep him from sauntering and idleness, to teach him application,
and accustom him to take pains, and to give him some little taste
of what his own industry must perfect. For who expects, that under
a tutor a young gentleman should be an accomplish'd critick, orator,
or logician ? go to the bottom of metaphysicks, natural philosophy, or
mathematicks ? or be a master in history or chronology? though
something of each of these is to be taught him : But it is only to open
the door, that he may look in, and as it were begin an acquaintance,
but not to dwell there: And a governor would be much blam'd that
should keep his pupil too long, and lead him too far in most of them.
But of good breeding, knowledge of the world, virtue, industry, and
a love of reputation, he cannot have too much : And if he have these,
he will not long want what he needs or desires of the other.

TUTOR 79

And since it cannot be hop'd he should have time and strength to
learn all things, most pains should be taken about that which is most
necessary; and that principally look'd after which will be of most
and frequentest use to him in the world.

Seneca complains of the contrary practice in his time; and yet the
Burgursdicius's and the Scheiblers did not swarm in those days as
they do now in these. What would he have thought if he had liv'd
now, when the tutors think it their great business to fill the studies
and heads of their pupils with such authors as these? He would
have had much more reason to say, as he does, non vitce sed scholce
discimus, we learn not to live, but to dispute; and our education fits
us rather for the university than the world. But 'tis no wonder if
those who make the fashion suit it to what they have, and not to
what their pupils want. The fashion being once establish'd, who can
think it strange, that in this, as well as in all other things, it should
prevail ? And that the greatest part of those, who find their account
in an easy submission to it, should be ready to cry out, Heresy, when
any one departs from it? 'Tis nevertheless matter of astonishment
that men of quality and parts should suffer themselves to be so far
misled by custom and implicit faith. Reason, if consulted with,
would advise, that their children's time should be spent in acquiring
what might be useful to them when they come to be men, rather than
to have their heads stuff'd with a deal of trash, a great part whereof
they usually never do ('tis certain they never need to) think on again
as long as they live: and so much of it as does stick by them they are
only the worse for. This is so well known, that I appeal to parents
themselves, who have been at cost to have their young heirs taught
it, whether it be not ridiculous for their sons to have any tincture of
that sort of learning, when they come abroad into the world? whether
any appearance of it would not lessen and disgrace them in com-
pany ? And that certainly must be an admirable acquisition, and de-
serves well to make a part in education, which men are asham'd of
where they are most concern'd to shew their parts and breeding.

There is yet another reason why politeness of manners, and knowl-
edge of the world should principally be look'd after in a tutor; and
that is, because a man of parts and years may enter a lad far enough
in any of those sciences, which he has no deep insight into himself.

8o JOHN LOCKE

Books in these will be able to furnish him, and give him light and
precedency enough to go before a young follower : but he will never
be able to set another right in the knowledge of the world, and above
all in breeding, who is a novice in them himself.

This is a knowledge he must have about him, worn into him by
use and conversation and a long forming himself by what he has
observ'd to be practis'd and allow'd in the best company. This, if he
has it not of his own, is no where to be borrowed for the use of his
pupil; or if he could find pertinent treatises of it in books that would
reach all the particulars of an English gentleman's behaviour, his
own ill-fashion'd example, if he be not well-bred himself, would
spoil all his lectures; it being impossible, that any one should come
forth well-fashion'd out of unpolish'd, ill-bred company.

I say this, not that I think such a tutor is every day to be met with,
or to be had at the ordinary rates; but that those who are able, may
not be sparing of enquiry or cost in what is of so great moment; and
that other parents, whose estates will not reach to greater salaries,
may yet remember what they should principally have an eye to in
the choice of one to whom they would commit the education of
their children; and what part they should chiefly look after them-
selves, whilst they are under their care, and as often as they come
within their observation; and not think that all lies in Latin and
French or some dry systems of logick and philosophy.

§ 95. But to return to our method again. Though I have men-
tion'd the severity of the father's brow, and the awe settled thereby
in the mind of children when young, as one main instrument
whereby their education is to be manag'd; yet I am far from being
of an opinion that it should be continu'd all along to them, whilst
they are under the discipline and government of pupilage; I think
it should be relax'd, as fast as their age, discretion and good behaviour
could allow it; even to that degree, that a father will do well, as his
son grows up, and is capable of it, to tal\ familiarly with him; nay,
asl(^ his advice, and consult with him about those things wherein he
has any knowledge or understanding. By this, the father will gain
two things, both of great moment. The one is, that it will put serious
considerations into his son's thoughts, better than any rules or advices
he can give him. The sooner you treat him as a man, the sooner he

FAMILIARITY 8 1

will begin to be one: and if you admit hinv into serious discourses
sometimes with you, you will insensibly raise his mind above the
usual amusements of youth, and those trifling occupations which it
is commonly wasted in. For it is easy to observe, that many young
men continue longer in the thought and conversation of school-boys
than otherwise they would, because their parents keep them at that
distance, and in that low rank, by all their carriage to them.

§ 96. Another thing of greater consequence, which you will obtain
by such a way of treating him, will be his friendship. Many fathers,
though they proportion to their sons liberal allowances, according to
their age and condition, yet they keep the knowledge of their es-
tates and concerns from them with as much reservedness as if they
were guarding a secret of state from a spy or an enemy. This, if it
looks not like jealousy, yet it wants those marks of kindness and
intimacy which a father should shew to his son, and no doubt often
hinders or abates that chearfulness and satisfaction wherewith a son
should address himself to and rely upon his father. And I cannot
but often wonder to see fathers who love their sons very well, yet so
order the matter by a constant stiffness and a mien of authority and
distance to them all their lives, as if they were never to enjoy, or have
any comfort from those they love best in the world, till they had lost
them by being remov'd into another. Nothing cements and estab-
lishes friendship and good-will so much as confident communication
of concernments and affairs. Other kindnesses, without this, leave
still some doubts: but when your son sees you open your mind to
him, when he finds that you interest him in your affairs, as things
you are willing should in their turn come into his hands, he will be
concern'd for them as for his own, wait his season with patience, and
love you in the mean time, who keep him not at the distance of a
stranger. This will also make him see, that the enjoyment you have,
is not without care; which the more he is sensible of, the less will
he envy you the possession, and the more think himself happy under
the management of so favourable a friend and so careful a father.
There is scarce any young man of so little thought, or so void of
sense, that would not be glad of a sure friend, that he might have
recourse to, and freely consult on occasion. The reservedness and
distance that fathers keep, often deprive their sons of that refuge

82 JOHN LOCKE

which would be of more advantage to them than an hundred re-
bukes and chidings. Would your son engage in some frolick, or take
a vagary, were it not much better he should do it with, than without
your knowledge? For since allowances for such things must be made
to young men, the more you know of his intrigues and designs, the
better will you be able to prevent great mischiefs; and by letting him
see what is like to follow, take the right way of prevailing with him
to avoid less inconveniences. Would you have him open his heart
to you, and ask your advice? you must begin to do so with him first,
and by your carriage beget that confidence.

§ 97. But whatever he consults you about, unless it lead to some
fatal and irremediable mischief, be sure you advise only as a friend
of more experience; but with your advice mingle nothing of com-
mand or authority, nor more than you would to your equal or a
stranger. That would be to drive him for ever from any farther de-
manding, or receiving advantage from your counsel. You must con-
sider that he is a young man, and has pleasures and fancies which
you are pass'd. You must not expect his inclination should be just
as yours, nor that at twenty he should have the same thoughts you
have at fifty. All that you can wish, is, that since youth must have
some liberty, some outleaps, they might be with the ingenuity of a
son, and under the eye of a father, and then no very great harm can
come of it. The way to obtain this, as I said before, is (according
as you find him capable) to talk with him about your affairs, propose
matters to him familiarly, and ask his advice; and when he ever
lights on the right, follow it as his; and if it succeed well, let him have
the commendation. This will not at all lessen your authority, but
increase his love and esteem of you. Whilst you keep your estate,
the staff will be in your own hands; and your authority the surer,
the more it is strengthen'd with confidence and kjndness. For you
have not that power you ought to have over him, till he comes to be
more afraid of offending so good a friend than of losing some part of
his future expectation.

§ 98. Familiarity of discourse, if it can become a father to his son,
may much more be condescended to by a tutor to his pupil. All their
time together should not be spent in reading of lectures, and magis-
terially dictating to him what he is to observe and follow. Hearing

FAMILIARITY 83

him in his turn, and using him to reason about what is propos'd,
will make the rules go down the easier and sink the deeper, and will
give him a liking to study and instruction: And he will then begin to
value knowledge, when he sees that it enables him to discourse, and
he finds the pleasure and credit of bearing a part in the conversation,
and of having his reasons sometimes appro v'd and hearken'd to; par-
ticularly in morality, prudence, and breeding, cases should be put to
him, and his judgment ask'd. This opens the understanding better
than maxims, how well soever explain'd, and settles the rules better
in the memory for practice. This way lets things into the mind
which stick there, and retain their evidence with them; whereas
words at best are faint representations, being not so much as the true
shadows of things, and are much sooner forgotten. He will better
comprehend the foundations and measures of decency and justice,
and have livelier, and more lasting impressions of what he ought to
do, by giving his opinion on cases propos'd, and reasoning with his
tutor on fit instances, than by giving a silent, negligent, sleepy au-
dience to his tutor's lectures; and much more than by captious logical
disputes, or set declamations of his own, upon any question. The one
sets the thoughts upon wit and false colours, and not upon truth;
the other teaches fallacy, wrangling, and opiniatry; and they are both
of them things that spoil the judgment, and put a man out of the
way of right and fair reasoning; and therefore carefully to be avoided
by one who would improve himself, and be acceptable to others.

§ 99. When by making your son sensible that he depends on you,
and is in your power, you have established your authority; and by
being inflexibly severe in your carriage to him when obstinately per-
sisting in any ill-natur'd trick which you have forbidden, especially
lying, you have imprinted on his mind that awe which is necessary;
and, on the other side, when (by permitting him the full liberty due
to his age, and laying no restraint in your presence to those childish
actions and gaiety of carriage, which, whilst he is very young, is as
necessary to him as meat or sleep) you have reconcil'd him to your
company, and made him sensible of your care and love of him, by
indulgence and tenderness, especially caressing him on all occasions
wherein he does any thing well, and being kind to him after a thou-
sand fashions suitable to his age, which nature teaches parents better

84 JOHN LOCKE

than I can: When, I say, by these ways of tenderness and affection,
which parents never want for their children, you have also planted in
him a particular affection for you; he is then in the state you could
desire, and you have form'd in his mind that true reverence which is
always afterwards carefully to be continu'd, and maintain'd in both
parts of it, love, and ^ear, as the great principles whereby you will
always have hold upon hini, to turn his mind to the ways of virtue
and honour.

§ 100. When this foundation is once well lay'd, and you find this
reverence begin to work in him, the next thing to be done, is care-
fully to consider his temper, and the particular constitution of his
mind. Stubbornness, lying, and ill-natur'd actions, are not (as has
been said) to be permitted in him from the beginning, whatever his
temper be. Those seeds of vices are not to be suffer'd to take any
root, but must be carefully weeded out, as soon as ever they begin
to shew themselves in him; and your authority is to take place and
influence his mind, from the very dawning of any knowledge in
him, that it may operate as a natural principle, whereof he never
perceiv'd the beginning, never knew that it was, or could be other-
wise. By this, if the reverence he owes you be establish'd early, it will
always be sacred to him, and it will be as hard for him to resist as
the principles of his nature.

§ 101. Having thus very early set up your authority, and by the
gentler applications of it sham'd him out of what leads towards an
immoral habit, as soon as you have observ'd it in him, (for I would
by no means have chiding us'd, much less blows, till obstinacy and
incorrigibleness make it absolutely necessary) it will be fit to consider
which way the natural make of his mind inclines him. Some men
by the unalterable frame of their constitutions, are stout, others
timorous, some confident, others modest, tractable, or obstinate,
curious or careless, quic\ or slotv. There are not more differences in
men's faces, and the outward lineaments of their bodies, than there
are in the makes and tempers of their minds; only there is this differ-
ence, that the distinguishing characters of the face, and the linea-
ments of the body, grow more plain and visible with time and age;
but the peculiar physiognomy of the mind is most discernible in
children, before art and cunning have taught them to hide their de-

TEMPER 85

formities, and conceal their ill inclinations under a dissembled
outside.

§' 102. Begin therefore betimes nicely to observe your son's tem-
per;' and that, when he is under least restraint, in his play, and as he
thinks out of your sight. See what are his predominate passions and
prevailing inclinations; whether he be fierce or mild, bold or bashful,
compassionate o£ cruel, open or reserv'd, &c. For as these are different
in him, so are your methods to be different, and your authority must
hence take measures to apply itself different ways to him. These
native propensities, these prevalencies of constitution, are not to be
cur'd by rules, or a direct contest, especially those of them that are the
humbler and meaner sort, which proceed from fear, and lowness of
spirit; though with art they may be much mended, and turn'd to
good purposes. But this, be sure, after all is done, the byass will al-
ways hang on that side that nature first plac'd it: And if you care-
fully observe the characters of his mind, now in the first scenes of
his life, you will ever after be able to judge which way his thoughts
lean, and what he aims at even hereafter, when, as he grows up, the
plot thickens, and he puts on several shapes to act it.

§ 103. I told you before, that children love liberty; and therefore
they should be brought to do the things are lit for them, without
feeling any restraint laid upon them. I now tell you, they love some-
thing more; and that is dominion: And this is the first original of
most vicious habits, that are ordinary and natural. This love of
power and dominion shews itself very early, and that in these two
things.

§ 104. I. We see children, as soon almost as they are born (I am
sure long before they can speak) cry, grow peevish, sullen, and out of
humour, for nothing but to have their wills. They would have their
desires submitted to by others; they contend for a ready compliance
from all about them, especially from those that stand near or beneath
them in age or degree, as soon as they come to consider others with
those distinctions.

§ 105. 2. Another thing wherein they shew their love of dominion,
is, their desire to have things to be theirs: They would have pro-
priety and possession, pleasing themselves with the power which that
seems to give, and the right they thereby have, to dispose of them as

86 JOHN LOCKE

they please. He that has not observ'd these two humours working
very betimes in children, has taken little notice o£ their actions: And
he who thinks that these two roots of almost all the injustice and
contention that so disturb human life, are not early to be weeded out,
and contrary habits introduc'd, neglects the proper season to lay the
foundations of a good and worthy man. To do this, I imagine these
following things may somewhat conduce.

§ 1 06. I. That a child should never be sufler'd to have what he
craves, much less what he cries for, I had said, or so much as speaks
jor: But that being apt to be misunderstood, and interpreted as if I
meant a child should never speak to his parents for any thing, which
will perhaps be thought to lay too great a curb on the minds of
children, to the prejudice of that love and affection which should be
between them and their parents; I shall explain my self a little more
particularly. It is fit that they should have liberty to declare their
wants to their parents, and that with all tenderness they should be
hearken'd to, and supply'd, at least whilst they are very little. But
'tis one thing to say, I am hungry, another to say, I would have roast-
meat. Having declar'd their wants, their natural wants, the pain
they feel from hunger, thirst, cold, or any other necessity of nature,
'tis the duty of their parents and those about them to relieve them:
But children must leave it to the choice and ordering of their parents,
what they think properest for them, and how much; and must not
be permitted to chuse for themselves, and say, I would have wine, or
white-bread; the very naming of it should make them lose it.

§ 107. That which parents should take care of here, is to dis-
tinguish between the wants of fancy, and those of nature; which
Horace has well taught them to do in this verse:

Quels humana sibi doleat natura negatis.

Those are truly natural wants, which reason alone, without some
other help, is not able to fence against, nor keep from disturbing us.
The pains of sickness and hurts, hunger, thirst, and cold, want of
sleep and rest or relaxation of the part weary'd with labour, are what
all men feel and the best dispos'd minds cannot but be sensible of
their uneasiness; and therefore ought, by fit applications, to seek their
removal, though not with impatience, or over great haste, upon the

CRAVING 87

first approaches of them, where delay does not threaten some irrep-
arable harm. The pains that come from the necessities of nature,
are monitors to us to beware of greater mischiefs, which they are
the forerunners of; and therefore they must not be wholly neglected,
nor strain'd too far. But yet the more children can be inur'd to hard-
ships of this kind, by a wise care to make them stronger in body and
mind, the better it will be for them. I need not here give any caution
to keep within the bounds of doing them good, and to take care, that
what children are made to suffer, should neither break their spirits,
nor injure their health, parents being but too apt of themselves to
incline more than they should to the softer side.

But whatever compliance the necessities of nature may require, the
wants of fancy children should never be gratify'd in, nor suffered to
mention. The very spea/{ing for any such thing should make them
lose it. Clothes, when they need, they must have; but if they speaf(^
for this stuff or that colour, they should be sure to go without it.
Not that I would have parents purposely cross the desires of their
children in matters of indifferency; on the contrary, where their car-
riage deserves it, and one is sure it will not corrupt or effeminate their
minds, and make them fond of trifles, I think all things should be
contriv'd, as much as could be, to their satisfaction, that they may find
the ease and pleasure of doing well. The best for children is that
they should not place any pleasure in such things at all, nor regulate
their delight by their fancies, but be indifferent to all that nature has
made so. This is what their parents and teachers should chiefly
aim at; but till this be obtain'd, all that I oppose here, is the liberty
of asf(tng, which in these things of conceit ought to be restrain'd by a
constant forfeiture annex'd to it.

This may perhaps be thought a Httle too severe by the natural in-
dulgence of tender parents; but yet it is no more than necessary:
For since the method I propose is to banish the rod, this restraint of
their tongues will be of great use to setde that awe we have else-
where spoken of, and to keep up in them the respect and reverence
due to their parents. Next, it will teach to keep in, and so master
their inchnations. By this means they will be brought to learn the
art of stifling their desires, as soon as they rise up in them, when they
are easiest to be subdu'd. For giving vent, gives life and strength to

88 JOHN LOCKE

our appetites; and he that has the confidence to turn his wishes
into demands, will be but a little way from thinking he ought to
obtain them. This, I am sure, every one can more easily bear a denial
from himself, than from any body else. They should therefore be
accustom'd betimes to consult, and make use of their reason, before
they give allowance to their inclinations. 'Tis a great step towards
the mastery of our desires, to give this stop to them, and shut them
up in silence. This habit got by children, of staying the forwardness
of their fancies, and deliberating whether it be fit or no, before they
spea\, will be of no small advantage to them in matters of greater
consequence, in the future course of their lives. For that which I can-
not too often inculcate, is, that whatever the matter be about which
it is conversant, whether great or small, the main (I had almost said
only) thing to be consider'd in every action of a child, is, what in-
fluence it will have upon his mind; what habit it tends to, and is like
to settle in him; how it will become him when he is bigger; and if it
be encourag'd, whither it will lead him when he is grown up.

My meaning therefore is not, that children should purposely be
made uneasy. This would relish too much of inhumanity and ill-
nature,and be apt to infect them with it. They should be brought to
deny their appetites; and their minds, as well as bodies, be made
vigorous, easy, and strong, by the custom of having their inclina-
tions in subjection, and their bodies exercis'd with hardships: But
all this, without giving them any mark or apprehension of ill-will
towards them. The constant loss of what they crav'd or carv'd to
themselves, should teach them modesty, submission, and a power
to forbear: But the rewarding their modesty, and silence, by giving
them what they lik'd, should also assure them of the love of those
who rigorously exacted this obedience. The contenting themselves
now in the want of what they wish'd for, is a virtue that another time
should be rewarded with what is suited and acceptable to them;
which should be bestow'd on them as if it were a natural consequence
of their good behaviour, and not a bargain about it. But you will
lose your labour, and what is more, their love and reverence too, if
they can receive from others what you deny them. This is to be
kept very staunch, and carefully to be watch'd. And here the servants
come again my way.

RECREATION 89

§ 108. If this be begun betimes, and they accustom themselves
early to silence their desires, this useful habit will settle them; and as
they come to grow up in age and discretion, they may be allow'd
greater liberty, when reason comes to speak in 'em, and not passion :
For whenever reason would speak, it should be hearken'd to. But
as they should never be heard, when they speak for any particular
thing they would have, unless it be first propos'd to them; so they
should always be heard, and fairly and kindly answer'd, when they
ask after any thing they would \now, and desire to be inform'd
about. Curiosity should be as carefully cherish' d in children, as other
appetites suppress'd.

However strict an hand is to be kept upon all desires of fancy, yet
there is one case wherein fancy must be permitted to speak, and be
hearken'd to also. Recreation is as necessary as labour or food. But
because there can be no recreation without delight, which depends
not always on reason, but oftner fancy, it must be permitted children
tiot only to divert themselves, but to do it after their own fashion,
provided it be innocently, and without prejudice to their health; and
therefore in this case they should not be deny'd, if they proposed any
particular kind of recreation. The' I think in a well-order'd educa-
tion, they will seldom be brought to the necessity of asking any such
liberty. Care should be taken, that what is of advantage to them,
they should always do with delight; and before they are weary'd with
one, they should be timely diverted to some other useful employment.
But if they are not yet brought to that degree of perfection, that one
way of improvement can be made a recreation to them, they must
be let loose to the childish play they fancy; which they should be
wean'd from by being made to surfeit of it: But from things of use,
that they are employ'd in, they should always be sent away with an
appetite; at least be dismiss'd before they are tir'd, and grow quite sick
of it, that so they may return to it again, as to a pleasure that diverts
them. For you must never think them set right, till they can find de-
light in the practice of laudable things; and the useful exercises of
the body and mind, taking their turns, make their lives and im-
provement pleasant in a continu'd train of recreations, wherein the
weary'd part is constantly reliev'd and refresh'd. Whether this can
be done in every temper, or whether tutors and parents will be at

9© JOHN LOCKE

the pains, and have the discretion and patience to bring them to this,
I know not; but that it may be done in most children, if a right
course be taken to raise in them the desire of credit, esteem, and
reputation, I do not at all doubt. And when they have so much true
life put into them, they may freely be talk'd with about what most
delights them, and be directed or let loose to it; so that they may per-
ceive that they are belov'd and cherish'd, and that those under whose
tuition they are, are not enemies to their satisfaction. Such a man-
agement will make them in love with the hand that directs them,
and the virtue they are directed to.

This farther advantage may be made by a free liberty permitted
them in their recreations, that it will discover their natural tempers,
shew their inclinations and aptitudes, and thereby direct wise parents
in the choice both of the course of life and employment they shall de-
sign them for, and of fit remedies, in the mean time, to be apply'd
to whatever bent of nature they may observe most likely to mislead
any of their children.

§ 109. 2. Children who live together, often strive for mastery,
whose wills shall carry it over the rest: whoever begins the contest,
should be sure to be cross'd in it. But not only that, but they should
be taught to have all the deference, complaisance, and civility one
for the other imaginable. This, when they see it procures them re-
spect, love and esteem, and that they lose no superiority by it, they
will take more pleasure in, than in insolent domineering; for so
plainly is the other.

The accusations of children one against another, which usually
are but the clamours of anger and revenge desiring aid, should not
be favourably received, nor hearken'd to. It weakens and effeminates
their minds to suffer them to complain; and if they endure some-
times crossing or pain from others without being permitted to think
it strange or intolerable, it will do them no harm to learn sufferance,
and harden them early. But though you give no countenance to the
complaints of the querulous, yet take care to curb the insolence and
ill nature of the injurious. When you observe it yourself, reprove it
before the injur'd party: but if the complaint be of something really
worth your notice, and prevention another time, then reprove the
offender by himself alone, out of sight of him that complain'd and

JUSTICE 91

make him go and ask pardon, and make reparation: which coming
thus, as it were from himself, will be the more chearf uUy performed,
and more kindly receiv'd, the love strengthen'd between them, and a
custom of civility grow familiar amongst your children.

§ no. 3. As to the having and possessing of things, teach them to
part with what they have, easily and freely to their friends, and let
them find by experience that the most liberal has always the most
plenty, with esteem and commendation to boot, and they will
quickly learn to practise it. This I imagine, will make brothers and
sisters kinder and civiller to one another, and consequently to others,
than twenty rules about good manners, with which children are or-
dinarily perplex'd and cumber'd. Covetousness, and the desire of
having in our possession, and under our dominion, more than we
have need of, being the root of all evil, should be early and carefully
weeded out, and the contrary quality of a readiness to impart to
others, implanted. This should be encourag'd by great commenda-
tion and credit, and constandy taking care that he loses nothing by
his liberality. Let all the instances he gives of such freeness be always
repay 'd, and with interest; and let him sensibly perceive, that the
kindness he shews to others, is no ill husbandry for himself; but that
it brings a return of kindness both from those that receive it, and
those who look on. Make this a contest among children, who shall
out-do one another this way : and by this means, by a constant prac-
tice, children having made it easy to themselves to part with what
they have, good nature may be settled in them into an habit, and they
may take pleasure, and pique themselves in being l^ind, liberal and
civil, to others.

If liberality ought to be encourag'd certainly great care is to be
taken that children transgress not the rules of Justice: and whenever
they do, they should be set right, and if there be occasion for it,
severely rebuk'd.

Our first actions being guided more by self-love than reason or
reflection, 'tis no wonder that in children they should be very apt
to deviate from the just measures of right and wrong; which are in
the mind the result of improv'd reason and serious meditation. This
the more they are apt to mistake, the more careful guard ought to
be kept over them; and every the least shp in this great social virtue

92 JOHN LOCKE

taken notice o£, and rectify'd; and that in things of the least weight
and moment, both to instruct their ignorance, and prevent ill habits;
which from small beginnings in pins and cherry-stones, will, if let
alone, grow up to higher frauds, and be in danger to end at last
in downright harden'd dishonesty. The first tendency to any injus-
tice that appears, must be suppress'd with a shew of wonder and
abhorrence in the parents and governors. But because children
cannot well comprehend what injustice is, till they understand
property, and how particular persons come by it, the safest way to
secure honesty, is to lay the foundations of it early in liberality, and
an easiness to part with to others whatever they have or like them-
selves. This may be taught them early, before they have language
and understanding enough to form distinct notions of property, and
to know what is theirs by a peculiar right exclusive of others. And
since children seldom have any thing but by gift, and that for the
most part from their parents, they may be at first taught not to take
or keep any thing but what is given them by those, whom they take
to have power over it. And as their capacities enlarge, other rules
and cases of justice, and rights concerning Meum and Tuutn, may
be propos'd and inculcated. If any act of injustice in them appears
to proceed, not from mistake, but a perverseness in their wills, when
a gentle rebuke and shame will not reform this irregular and covet-
ous inclination, rougher remedies must be apply'd: And 'tis but
for the father and tutor to take and keep from them something that
they value and think their own, or order somebody else to do it; and
by such instances, make them sensible what little advantage they are
like to make by possessing themselves unjustly of what is another's,
whilst there are in the world stronger and more men than they. But
if an ingenuous detestation of this shameful vice be but carefully
and early instill'd into 'em, as I think it may, that is the true and
genuine method to obviate this crime, and will be a better guard
against dishonesty than any considerations drawn from interest;
habits working more constantly, and with greater facility, than
reason, which, when we have most need of it, is seldom fairly con-
sulted, and more rarely obey'd.

§ III. Crying is a fault that should not be tolerated in children;
not only for the unpleasant and unbecoming noise it fills the house

CRYING 93

with, but for more considerable reasons, in reference to the children
themselves; which is to be our aim in education.

Their crying is of two sorts; either stubborn and domineering,
or querulous and whining.

I. Their crying is very often a striving for mastery, and an open
declaration of their insolence or obstinacy; when they have not the
power to obtain their desire, they will, by their clamour and sobbing,
maintain their title and right to it. This is an avow'd continuing their
claim, and a sort of remonstrance against the oppression and in-
justice of those who deny them what they have a mind to.

§ 112. 2. Sometimes their crying is the effect of pain, or true
sorrow, and a bemoaning themselves under it.

These two, if carefully observ'd, may, by the mien, looks, actions,
and particularly by the tone of their crying be easily distinguished;
but neither of them must be suffer'd, much less encourag'd.

I. The obstinate or stomachful crying should by no means be per-
mitted, because it is but another way of flattering their desires, and
encouraging those passions which 'tis our main business to subdue:
and if it be, as often it is, upon the receiving any correction, it quite
defeats all the good effects of it; for any chastisement which leaves
them in this declar'd opposition, only serves to make them worse.
The restraints and punishments laid on children are all misapply'd
and lost, as far as they do not prevail over their wills, teach them to
submit their passions, and make their minds supple and pliant to
what their parents' reason advises them now, and so prepare them
to obey what their own reason shall advise hereafter. But if in
any thing wherein they are cross'd, they may be suffer'd to go away
crying, they confirm themselves in their desires, and cherish the ill
humour, with a declaration of their right, and a resolution to satisfy
their incHnation the first opportunity. This therefore is another
argument against the frequent use of blows: for, whenever you come
to that extremity, 'tis not enough to whip or beat them, you must do
it, till you find you have subdu'd their minds, till with submission
and patience they yield to the correction; which you shall best dis-
cover by their crying, and their ceasing from it upon your bidding.
Without this, the beating of children is but a passionate tyranny over
them; and it is mere cruelty, and not correction, to put their bodies

94 JOHN LOCKE

in pain, without doing their minds any good. As this gives us a
reason why children should seldom be corrected, so it also prevents
their being so. For if, whenever they are chastis'd, it were done thus
without passion, soberly, and yet effectually too, laying on the blows
and smart not furiously, and all at once, but slowly, with reasoning
between, and with observation how it wrought, stopping when it
had made them pliant, penitent and yielding; they would seldom
need the like punishment again, being made careful to avoid the
fault that deserv'd it. Besides, by this means, as the punishment
would not be lost for being too little, and not effectual, so it would
be kept from being too much, if we gave off as soon as we perceiv'd
that it reach'd the mind, and that was better'd. For since the chiding
or beating of children should be always the least that possibly may be,
that which is laid on in the heat of anger, seldom observes that
measure, but is commonly more than it should be, though it prove
less than enough.

§ 113. 2. Many children are apt to cry, upon any little pain they
suffer, and the least harm that befalls them puts them into complaints
and bawling. This few children avoid: for it being the first and
natural way to declare their sufferings or wants, before they can
speak, the compassion that is thought due to that tender age foolishly
encourages, and continues it in them long after they can speak. 'Tis
the duty, I confess, of those about children, to compassionate them,
whenever they suffer any hurt; but not to shew it in pitying them.
Help and ease them the best you can, but by no means bemoan them.
This softens their minds, and makes them yield to the little harms
that happen to them; whereby they sink deeper into that part which
alone feels, and makes larger wounds there, than otherwise they
would. They should be harden'd against all sufferings, especially of
the body, and have no tenderness but what rises from an ingenuous
shame, and a quick sense of reputation. The many inconveniences
this life is expos'd to, require we should not be too sensible of every
little hurt. What our minds yield not to, makes but a slight impres-
sion, and does us but very little harm. 'Tis the suffering of our spirits
that gives and continues the pain. This brawniness and insensibility
of mind, is the best armour we can have against the common evils
and accidents of life; and being a temper that is to be got by exercise

CRYING 95

and custom, more than any other way, the practice of it should be
begun betimes; and happy is he that is taught it early. That effemi-
nacy of spirit, which is to be prevented or cured, as nothing that I
know so much increases in children as crying; so nothing, on the
other side, so much checks and restrains, as their being hinder'd from
that sort of complaining. In the little harms they suffer from knocks
and falls, they should not be pitied for falling, but bid do so again;
which besides that it stops their crying, is a better way to cure their
heedlessness, and prevent their tumbling another time, than either
chiding or bemoaning them. But, let the hurts they receive be what
they will, stop their crying, and that will give them more quiet and
ease at present, and harden them for the future.

§ 114. The former sort of crying requires severity to silence it; and
where a look, or a positive command will not do it, blows must: for
it proceeding from pride, obstinacy, and stomach, the will, where the
fault lies, must be bent, and made to comply, by a rigour sufficient to
master it. But this latter being ordinarily from softness of mind,
a quite contrary cause, ought to be treated with a gentler hand. Per-
suasion, or diverting the thoughts another way, or laughing at their
whining, may perhaps be at first the proper method: but for this,
the circumstances of the thing, and the particular temper of the
child, must be considered. No certain unvariable rules can be given
about it; but it must be left to the prudence of the parents or tutor.
But this, I think, I may say in general, that there should be a con-
stant discountenancing of this sort of crying also; and that the father,
by his authority, should always stop it, mixing a greater degree of
roughness in his looks or words, proportionately as the child is of
a greater age, or a sturdier temper: But always let it be enough to
silence their whimpering, and put an end to the disorder.

§ 115. Cowardice and courage are so nearly related to the fore-
mention'd tempers, that it may not be amiss here to take notice of
them. Fear is a passion that, if rightly governed, has its use. And
though self-love seldom fails to keep it watchful and high enough
in us, yet there may be an excess on the daring side; fool-hardiness
and insensibility of danger being as little reasonable, as trembling
and shrinking at the approach of every little evil. Fear was given
us as a monitor to quicken our industry, and keep us upon our

96 JOHN LOCKE

guard against the approaches of evil; and therefore to have no ap-
prehension of mischief at hand, not to make a just estimate of the
danger, but heedlessly to run into it, be the hazard what it will, with-
out considering of what use or consequence it may be, is not the reso-
lution of a rational creature, but brutish fury. Those who have
children of this temper, have nothing to do, but a little to awaken
their reason, which self-preservation will quickly dispose them to
hearken to, unless (which is usually the case) some other passion
hurries them on head-long, without sense and without consideration.
A dislike of evil is so natural to mankind, that nobody, I think, can
be without fear of it: fear being nothing but an uneasiness under
the apprehension of that coming upon us, which we dislike. And
therefore, whenever any one runs into danger, we may say, 'tis
under the conduct of ignorance, or the command of some more
imperious passion, nobody being so much an enemy to himself, as
to come within the reach of evil, out of free choice, and court danger
for danger's sake. If it be therefore pride, vain-glory, or rage, that
silences a child's fear, or makes him not hearken to its advice, those
are by fit means to be abated, that a little consideration may allay
his heat, and make him bethink himself, whether this attempt be
worth the venture. But this being a fault that children are not so
often guilty of, I shall not be more particular in its cure. Weakness
of spirit is the more common defect, and therefore will require the
greater care.

Fortitude is the guard and support of the other virtues; and with-
out courage a man will scarce keep steady to his duty, and fill up the
character of a truly worthy man.

Courage, that makes us bear up against dangers that we fear and
evils that we feel, is of great use in an estate, as ours is in this life,
expos'd to assaults on all hands: and therefore it is very advisable to
get children into this armour as early as we can. Natural temper,
I confess, does here a great deal: but even where that is defective,
and the heart is in itself weak and timorous, it may by a right man-
agement, be brought to a better resolution. What is to be done to
prevent breaking children's spirits by frightful apprehensions
instill'd into them when young, or bemoaning themselves under
every little suffering, I have already taken notice; how to harden

COURAGE 97

their tempers, and raise their courage, if we find them too much
subject to fear, is farther to be consider'd.

True fortitude, I take to be the quiet possession of a man's self,
and an undisturb'd doing his duty, whatever evil besets, or danger
lies in his way. This there are so few men attain to, that we are not
to expect it from children. But yet something may be done: and a
wise conduct by insensible degrees may carry them farther than
one expects.

The neglect of this great care of them, whilst they are young, is
the reason, perhaps, why there are so few that have this virtue in
its full latitude when they are men. I should not say this in a nation
so naturally brave, as ours is, did I think that true fortitude required
nothing but courage in the field, and a contempt of life in the face
of an enemy. This, I confess, is not the least part of it, nor can be
denied the laurels and honours always justly due to the valour of
those who venture their lives for their country. But yet this is not
all. Dangers attack us in other places besides the field of battle; and
though death be the king of terrors, yet pain, disgrace and poverty,
have frightful looks, able to discompose most men whom they seem
ready to seize on: and there are those who contemn some of these,
and yet are heartily frighted with the other. True fortitude is pre-
par'd for dangers of all kinds, and unmoved, whatsoever evil it
be that threatens. I do not mean unmoved with any fear at all.
Where danger shews it self, apprehension cannot, without stupidity,
be wanting; where danger is, sense of danger should be; and so much
fear as should keep us awake, and excite our attention, industry, and
vigour; but not disturb the calm use of our reason, nor hinder the
execution of what that dictates.

The first step to get this noble and manly steadiness, is, what I
have above mentioned, carefully to keep children from frights of
all kinds, when they are young. Let not any fearful apprehensions be
talk'd into them, nor terrible objects surprise them. This often so
shatters and discomposes the spirits, that they never recover it again;
but during their whole life, upon the first suggestion or appearance
of any terrifying idea, are scatter'd and confounded; the body is
enervated, and the mind disturb'd, and the man scarce himself, or
capable of any composed or rational action. Whether this be from

98 JOHN LOCKE

an habitual motion of the animal spirits, introduc'd by the first strong
impression, or from the alteration of the constitution by some more
unaccountable way, this is certain, that so it is. Instances of such who
in a weak timorous mind, have borne, all their whole lives through,
the effects of a fright when they were young, are every where to be
seen, and therefore as much as may be to be prevented.

The next thing is by gentle degrees to accustom children to those
things they are too much afraid of. But here great caution is to be
used, that you do not make too much haste, nor attempt this cure
too early, for fear lest you increase the mischief instead of remedying
it. Litde ones in arms may be easily kept out of the way of terrifying
objects, and till they can talk and understand what is said to them,
are scarce capable of that reasoning and discourse which should be
used to let them know there is no harm in those frightful objects,
which we would make them familiar with, and do, to that purpose
by gentle degrees bring nearer and nearer to them. And therefore
'tis seldom there is need of any application to them of this kind,
till after they can run about and talk. But yet, if it should happen
that infants should have taken offence at any thing which cannot
be easily kept out of their way, and that they shew marks of terror
as often as it comes in sight; all the allays of fright, by diverting their
thoughts, or mixing pleasant and agreeable appearances with it, must
be used, till it be grown familiar and inoffensive to them.

I think we may observe, that, when children are first born, ail
objects of sight that do not hurt the eyes, are indifferent to them; and
they are no more afraid of a blackamoor or a lion, than of their
nurse or a cat. What is it then, that afterwards, in certain mixtures
of shape and colour, comes to affright them? Nothing but the
apprehensions of harm that accompanies those things. Did a child
suck every day a new nurse, I make account it would be no more
affrighted with the change of faces at six months old, than at sixty.
The reason then why it will not come to a stranger, is, because having
been accustomed to receive its food and kind usage only from one
or two that are about it, the child apprehends, by coming into the
arms of a stranger, the being taken from what delights and feeds
it and every moment supplies its wants, which it often feels, and
therefore fears when the nurse is away.

TIMOROUSNESS 99

The only thing we naturally are afraid of is pain, or loss of pleas-
ure. And because these are not annexed to any shape, colour, or size
of visible objects, we are frighted with none of them, till either we
have felt pain from them, or have notions put into us that they will
do us harm. The pleasant brightness and lustre of flame and fire so
delights children, that at first they always desire to be handling of
it: but when constant experience has convinced them, by the exquisite
pain it has put them to, how cruel and unmerciful it is, they are afraid
to touch it, and carefully avoid it. This being the ground of fear,
'tis not hard to find whence it arises, and how it is to be cured in all
mistaken objects of terror. And when the mind is confirm'd against
them, and has got a mastery over it self and its usual fears in lighter
occasions, it is in good preparation to meet more real dangers. Your
child shrieks, and runs away at the sight of a frog; let another catch
it, and lay it down at a good distance from him: at first accustom
him to look upon it; when he can do that, then to come nearer to it,
and see it leap without emotion; then to touch it lightly, when it is
held fast in another's hand; and so on, till he can come to handle it
as confidently as a butterfly or a sparrow. By the same way any other
vain terrors may be remov'd; if care be taken, that you go not too
fast, and push not the child on to a new degree of assurance, till he
be thoroughly confirm'd in the former. And thus the young soldier
is to be train'd on to the warfare of life; wherein care is to be taken,
that more things be not represented as dangerous than really are so;
and then, that whatever you observe him to be more frighted at than
he should, you be sure to tole him on to by insensible degrees, till
he at last, quitting his fears, masters the difficulty, and comes off
with applause. Successes of this kind, often repeated, will make him
find, that evils are not always so certain or so great as our fears
represent them; and that the way to avoid them, is not to run away,
or be discompos'd, dejected, and deterr'd by fear, where either our
credit or duty requires us to go on.

But since the great foundation of fear in children is pain, the way
to harden and fortify children against fear and danger is to accustom
them to suffer pain. This 'tis possible will be thought, by kind
parents, a very unnatural thing towards their children; and by most,
unreasonable, to endeavour to reconcile any one to the sense of pain,

100 JOHN LOCKE

by bringing it upon him. 'Twill be said: 'It may perhaps give the
child an aversion for him that makes him suffer; but can never rec-
ommend to him suffering itself. This is a strange method. You will
not have children whipp'd and punish'd for their faults, but you
would have them tormented for doing well, or for tormenting sake.'
I doubt not but such objections as these will be made, and I shall be
thought inconsistent with my self, or fantastical, in proposing it. I
confess, it is a thing to be managed with great discretion, and there-
fore it falls not out amiss, that it will not be receiv'd or relish'd, but
by those who consider well, and look into the reason of things. I
vi^ould not have children much beaten for their faults, because I
would not have them think bodily pain the greatest punishment: and
I would have them, when they do well, be sometimes put in pain, for
the same reason, that they might be accustom'd to bear it, without
looking on it as the greatest evil. How much education may recon-
cile young people to pain and suflerence, the examples of Sparta do
sufficiently shew: and they who have once brought themselves not
to think bodily pain the greatest of evils, or that which they ought
to stand most in fear of, have made no small advance towards virtue.
But I am not so foolish to propose the Lacedcemonian discipline in
our age or constitution. But yet I do say, that inuring children gently
to suffer some degrees of pain without shrinking, is a way to gain
firmness to their minds, and lay a foundation for courage and reso-
lution in the future part of their lives.

Not to bemoan them, or permit them to bemoan themselves, on
every little pain they suffer, is the first step to be made. But of this I
have spoken elsewhere.

The next thing is, sometimes designedly to put them in pain: but
care must be taken that this be done when the child is in good
humour, and satisfied of the good-will and kindness of him that
hurts him, at the time that he does it. There must no marks of anger
or displeasure on the one side, nor compassion or repenting on the
other, go along with it: and it must be sure to be no more than the
child can bear without repining or taking it amiss, or for a punish-
ment. Managed by these degrees, and with such circumstances, I
have seen a child run away laughing with good smart blows of a
wand on his back, who would have cried for an unkind word, and

HARDINESS lOI

have been very sensible of the chastisement of a cold look, from the
same person. Satisfy a child by a constant course of your care and
kindness, that you perfectly love him, and he may by degrees be
accustom'd to bear very painful and rough usage from you, without
flinching or complaining: and this we see children do every day in
play one with another. The softer you find your child is, the more
you are to seek occasions, at fit times, thus to harden him. The great
art in this is, to begin with what is but very little painful, and to
proceed by insensible degrees, when you are playing, and in good
humour with him, and speaking well of him: and when you have
once got him to think himself made amends for his suffering by the
praise is given him for his courage; when he can take a pride in
giving such marks of his manliness, and can prefer the reputation of
being brave and stout, to the avoiding a little pain, or the shrinking
under it; you need not despair in time and by the assistance of his
growing reason, to master his timorousness, and mend the weakness
of his constitution. As he grows bigger, he is to be set upon bolder
attempts than his natural temper carries him to; and whenever he is
observ'd to flinch from what one has reason to think he would come
off well in, if he had but courage to undertake, that he should be
assisted in at first, and by degrees sham'd to, till at last practice has
given more assurance, and with it a mastery; which must be re-
warded with great praise, and the good opinion of others, for his
performance. When by these steps he has got resolution enough not
to be deterr'd from what he ought to do, by the apprehension of
danger; when fear does not, in sudden or hazardous occurrences,
discompose his mind, set his body a-trembling, and make him unfit
for action, or run away from it, he has then the courage of a rational
creature: and such an hardiness we should endeavour by custom and
use to bring children to, as proper occasions come in our way.

§ ii6. One thing I have frequently observ'd in children, that when
they have got possession of any poor creature, they are apt to use it
ill: they often torment, and treat very roughly, young birds, butter-
flies, and such other poor animals which fall into their hands, and
that with a seeming kind of pleasure. This I think should be watched
in them, and if they incline to any such cruelty, they should be taught
the contrary usage. For the custom of tormenting and killing of

I02 JOHN LOCKE

beasts, will, by degrees, harden their minds even towards men; and
they who dehght in the suffering and destruction of inferior crea-
tures, will not be apt to be very compassionate or benign to those
©f their own kind. Our practice takes notice of this in the exclusion
of butchers from juries of life and death. Children should from the
beginning be bred up in an abhorrence of \illing or tormenting any
living creature; and be taught not to spoil or destroy any thing,
unless it be for the preservation or advantage of some other that is
nobler. And truly, if the preservation of all mankind, as much as in
him lies, were every one's persuasion, as indeed it is every one's duty,
and the true principle to regulate our religion, politicks and morality
by, the world would be much quieter, and better natur'd than it is.
But to return to our present business; I cannot but commend both the
kindness and prudence of a mother I knew, who was wont always
to indulge her daughters, when any of them desired dogs, squirrels,
birds, or any such things as young girls use to be delighted with:
but then, when they had them, they must be sure to keep them well,
and look diligently after them, that they wanted nothing, or were
not ill used. For if they were negligent in their care of them, it was
counted a great fault, which often forfeited their possession, or at
least they fail'd not to be rebuked for it; whereby they were early
taught diligence and good nature. And indeed, I think people should
be accustomed, from their cradles, to be tender to all sensible crea-
tures, and to spoil or waste nothing at all.

This delight they take in doing of mischief, whereby I mean spoil-
ing of any thing to no purpose, but more especially the pleasure they
take to put any thing in pain, that is capable of it; I cannot persuade
my self to be any other than a foreign and introduced disposition,
an habit borrowed from custom and conversation. People teach chil-
dren to strike, and laugh when they hurt or see harm come to
others : and they have the examples of most about them, to confirm
them in it. All the entertainment and talk of history is nothing
almost but fighting and killing: and the honour and renown that
is bestowed on conquerors (who for the most part are but the great
butchers of mankind) farther mislead growing youth, who by this
means come to think slaughter the laudable business of mankind,
and the most heroick of virtues. By these steps unnatural cruelty is

CRUELTY 103

planted in us; and what humanity abhors, custom reconciles and
recommends to us, by laying it in the way to honour. Thus, by fash-
ion and opinion, that comes to be a pleasure, which in itself neither is,
nor can be any. This ought carefully to be watched, and early reme-
died; so as to settle and cherish the contrary and more natural temper
of benignity and compassion in the room of it; but still by the same
gentle methods which are to be applied to the other two faults before
mention'd. It may not perhaps be unreasonable here to add this
farther caution, viz., That the mischiefs or harms that come by play,
inadvertency, or ignorance, and were not known to be harms, or
design'd for mischief's sake, though they may perhaps be sometimes
of considerable damage, yet are not at all, or but very gently, to be
taken notice of. For this, I think, I cannot too often inculcate, that
whatever miscarriage a child is guilty of, and whatever be the conse-
quence of it, the thing to be regarded in taking notice of it, is only
what root it springs from, and what habit it is Hke to establish: and
to that the correction ought to be directed, and the child not to suf-
fer any punishment for any harm which may have come by his play
or inadvertency. The faults to be amended lie in the mind; and if
they are such as either age will cure, or no ill habits will follow
from, the present action, whatever displeasing circumstances it may
have, is to be passed by without any animadversion.

§ 117. Another way to instill sentiments of humanity, and to keep
them lively in young folks, will be, to accustom them to civility in
their language and deportment towards their inferiors and the
meaner sort of people, particularly servants. It is not unusual to
observe the children in gendemen's families treat the servants of
the house with domineering words, names of contempt, and an
imperious carriage; as if they were of another race and species be-
neath them. Whether ill example, the advantage of fortune, or their
natural vanity, inspire this haughtiness, it should be prevented,
or weeded out; and a gentle, courteous, affable carriage towards the
lower ranks of men, placed in the room of it. No part of their
superiority will be hereby lost; but the distinction increased, and
their authority strengthen'd ; when love in inferiors is join'd to
outward respect, and an esteem of the person has a share in their
submission: and domesticks will pay a more ready and chearful

104 JOHN LOCKE

service, when they find themselves not spurn'd because fortune has
laid them below the level of others at their master's feet. Children
should not be sufler'd to lose the consideration of human nature in
the shufflings of outward conditions. The more they have, the better
humor'd they should be taught to be, and the more compassionate
and gentle to those of their brethren who are placed lower, and have
scantier portions. If they are suffer'd from their cradles to treat men
ill and rudely, because, by their father's title, they think they have a
little power over them, at best it is ill-bred; and if care be not taken,
will by degrees nurse up their natural pride into an habitual contempt
of those beneath them. And where will that probably end but in
oppression and cruelty?

§ ii8. Curiosity in children (which I had occasion just to men-
tion § 108) is but an appetite after knowledge; and therefore ought
to be encouraged in them, not only as a good sign, but as the great
instrument nature has provided to remove that ignorance they were
born with; and which, without this busy inquisitiveness, will make
them dull and useless creatures. The ways to encourage it, and keep
it active and busy, are, I suppose, these following:

I. Not to check or discountenance any enquiries he shall make,
nor suffer them to be laugh'd at; but to answer all his questions, and
explain the matter he desires to know, so as to make them as much
intelligible to him as suits the capacity of his age and knowledge.
But confound not his understanding with explications or notions that
are above it; or with the variety or number of things that are not
to his present purpose. Mark what 'tis his mind aims at in the
question, and not what words he expresses it in: and when you have
informed and satisfied him in that, you shall see how his thoughts
will enlarge themselves, and how by fit answers he may be led on
farther than perhaps you could imagine. For knowledge is grateful
to the understanding, as light to the eyes: children are pleased and
delighted with it exceedingly, especially if they see that their en-
quiries are regarded, and that their desire of knowing is encouraged
and commended. And I doubt not but one great reason why many
children abandon themselves wholly to silly sports, and trifle away
all their time insipidly, is, because they have found their curiosity
baulk'd, and their enquiries neglected. But had they been treated

CURIOSITY 105

with more kindness and respect, and their questions answered, as
they should, to their satisfaction; I doubt not but they would have
taken more pleasure in learning, and improving their knowledge,
wherein there would be still newness and variety, which is what
they are delighted with, than in returning over and over to the
same play and play-things.

§ 119. 2. To this serious answering their questions, and inform-
ing their understandings, in what they desire, as if it were a matter
that needed it, should be added some peculiar ways of commenda-
tion. Let others whom they esteem, be told before their faces of the
knowledge they have in such and such things; and since we are all,
even from our cradles, vain and proud creatures, let their vanity be
flatter 'd with things that will do them good; and let their pride set
them on work on something which may turn to their advantage.
Upon this ground you shall find, that there cannot be a greater spur
to the attaining what you would have the eldest learn, and know
himself, than to set him upon teaching it his younger brothers and
sisters.

§ 120. 3. As children's enquiries are not to be slighted; so also
great care is to be taken, that they never receive deceitful and elud-
ing answers. They easily perceive when they are slighted or deceived;
and quickly learn the trick of neglect, dissimulation and falsehood,
which they observe others to make use of. We are not to intrench
upon truth in any conversation, but least of all with children; since
if we play false with them, we not only deceive their expectation, and
hinder their knowledge, but corrupt their innocence, and teach them
the worst of vices. They are travellers newly arrived in a strange
country, of which they know nothing; we should therefore make
conscience not to mislead them. And though their questions seem
sometimes not very material, yet they should be seriously answer'd;
for however they may appear to us (to whom they are long since
known) enquiries not worth the making; they are of moment to
those who are wholly ignorant. Children are strangers to all we
are acquainted with; and all the things they meet with, are at first
unknown to them, as they once were to us: and happy are they who
meet with civil people, that will comply with their ignorance, and
help them to get out of it.

I06 JOHN LOCKE

If you or I now should be set down in Japan, with all our prudence
and knowledge about us, a conceit whereof makes us, perhaps, so
apt to slight the thoughts and enquiries of children; should we, I
say, be set down in Japan, we should, no doubt (if we would inform
our selves of what is there to be known) ask a thousand questions,
which, to a supercilious or inconsiderate Japaner, would seem very
idle and impertinent; though to us they would be very material and
of importance to be resolved; and we should be glad to find a man so
complaisant and courteous, as to satisfy our demands, and instruct
our ignorance.

When any new thing comes in their way, children usually
ask the common question of a stranger: What is it? Whereby
they ordinarily mean nothing but the name; and therefore to tell
them how it is call'd, is usually the proper answer to that demand.
And the next question usually is. What is it for? And to this it
should be answered truly and directly: The use of the thing should
be told, and the way explained, how it serves to such a purpose,
as far as their capacities can comprehend it. And so of any other
circumstances they shall ask about it; not turning them going, till
you have given them all the satisfaction they are capable of; and so
leading them by your answers into farther questions. And perhaps
to a grown man, such conversation will not be altogether so idle and
insignificant as we are apt to imagine. The native and untaught
suggestions of inquisitive children do often offer things, that may set
a considering man's thoughts on work. And I think there is fre-
quently more to be learn'd from the unexpected questions of a child,
than the discourses of men, who talk in a road, according to the
notions they have borrowed, and the prejudices of their education.

§ 121. 4. Perhaps it may not sometimes be amiss to excite their
curiosity by bringing strange and new things in their way, on pur-
pose to engage their enquiry, and give them occasion to inform
themselves about them: and if by chance their curiosity leads them
to ask what they should not know, it is a great deal better to tell
them plainly, that it is a thing that belongs not to them to know,
than to pop them off with a falsehood of a frivolous answer.

§ 122. Pertness, that appears sometimes so early, proceeds from
a principle that seldom accompanies a strong constitution of body,

SAUNTERING IO7

or ripens into a strong judgment of mind. If it were desirable to
have a child a more brisk talker, I believe there might be ways
found to make him so: But I suppose a wise father had rather that
his son should be able and useful, when a man, than pretty company,
and a diversion to others, whilst a child: though if that too were
to be consider 'd, I think I may say, there is not so much pleasure to
have a child prattle agreeably, as to reason well. Encourage therefore
his inquisitiveness all you can, by satisfying his demands, and inform-
ing his judgment, as far as it is capable. When his reasons are any
way tolerable, let him find the credit and commendation of it:
and when they are quite out of the way, let him, without being
laugh'd at for his mistake be gently put into the right; and if he shew
a forwardness to be reasoning about things that come in his way,
take care, as much as you can, that no body check this inclination
in him, or mislead it by captious or fallacious ways of talking with
him. For when all is done, this, as the highest and most important
faculty of our minds, deserves the greatest care and attention in
cultivating it : the right improvement, and exercise of our reason be-
ing the highest perfection that a man can attain to in this life.

§ 123. Contrary to this busy inquisitive temper, there is some-
times observable in children, a listless carelessness, a want of regard
to any thing, and a sort of trifling even at their business. This
sauntring humour I look on as one of the worst qualities can appear
in a child, as well as one of the hardest to be cured, where it is
natural. But it being liable to be mistaken in some cases, care must
be taken to make a right judgment concerning that trifling at their
books or business, which may sometimes be complained of in a
child. Upon the first suspicion a father has, that his son is of a
sauntring temper, he must carefully observe him, whether he be
listless and indifferent in all in his actions, or whether in some things
alone he be slow and sluggish, but in others vigorous and eager.
For tho' we find that he does loiter at his book, and let a good deal
of the time he spends in his chamber or study, run idly away;
he must not presently conclude, that this is from a sauntring humour
in his temper. It may be childishness, and a preferring something to
his study, which his thoughts run on : and he dislikes his book, as is
natural, because it is forced upon him as a task. To know this per-

I08 JOHN LOCKE

fectly, you must watch him at play, when he is out of his place and
time of study, following his own inclination; and see there whether
he be stirring and active; whether he designs any thing, and with
labour and eagerness pursues it, till he has accomplished what he
aimed at, or whether he lazily and listlessly dreams away his time.
If this sloth be only when he is about his book, I think it may be
easily cured. If it be in his temper, it will require a little more pains
and attention to remedy it.

§ 124. If you are satisfied by his earnestness at play, or any thing
else he sets his mind on, in the intervals between his hours of busi-
ness, that he is not of himself inclined to laziness, but that only
want of relish of his book makes him negligent and sluggish in his
application to it; the first step is to try by talking to him kindly of
the folly and inconvenience of it, whereby he loses a good part of his
time, which he might have for his diversion: but be sure to talk
calmly and kindly, and not much at first, but only these plain reasons
in short. If this prevails, you have gain'd the point in the most
desirable way, which is that of reason and kindness. If this softer
application prevails not, try to shame him out of it, by laughing at
him for it, asking every day, when he comes to table, if there be no
strangers there, how long he was that day about his business: And
if he has not done it in the time he might be well supposed to have
dispatched it, expose and turn him into ridicule for it; but mix
no chiding, only put on a pretty cold brow towards him, and keep
it till he reform; and let his mother, tutor, and all about him do so
too. If this work not the effect you desire, then tell him he shall be
no longer troubled with a tutor to take care of his education, you
will not be at the charge to have him spend his time idly with him;
but since he prefers this or that [whatever play he delights in] to
his book, that only he shall do; and so in earnest set him to work on
his beloved play, and keep him steadily, and in earnest, to it morn-
ing and afternoon, till he be fully surfeited, and would, at any rate,
change it for some hours at his book again. But when you thus
set him his task of play, you must be sure to look after him your self,
or set somebody else to do it, that may constantly see him employed
in it, and that he be not permitted to be idle at that too. I say, your
self look after him; for it is worth a father's while, whatever business

SAUNTERING IO9

he has, to bestow two or three days upon his son, to cure so great a
mischief as his sauntring at his business.

§ 125. This is what I propose, if it be idleness, not from his general
temper, but a pecuhar or acquir'd aversion to learning, which you
must be careful to examine and distinguish. But though you have
your eyes upon him, to watch what he does with the time which he
has at his own disposal, yet you must not let him perceive that you or
any body else do so; for that may hinder him from following his
own inclination, which he being full of, and not daring, for fear of
you, to prosecute what his head and heart are set upon, he may neg-
lect ail other things, which then he relishes not, and so may seem to
be idle and listless, when in truth it is nothing but being intent on
that, which the fear of your eye or knowledge keeps him from execut-
ing. To be clear in this point, the observation must be made when
you are out of the way, and he not so much as under the restraint of
a suspicion that any body has an eye upon him. In those seasons of
perfect freedom, let some body you can trust mark how he spends his
time, whether he unactively loiters it away, when without any check
he is left to his own inchnation. Thus, by his employing of such
times of liberty, you will easily discern, whether it be listlessness
in his temper, or aversion to his book, that makes him saunter away
his time of study.

§ 126. If some defect in his constitution has cast a damp on his
mind, and he be naturally listless and dreaming, this unpromising
disposition is none of the easiest to be dealt with, because, generally
carrying with it an unconcernedness for the future, it wants the two
great springs of action, foresight and desire; which how to plant and
increase, where nature has given a cold and contrary temper, will be
the question. As soon as you are satisfied that this is the case, you
must carefully enquire whether there be nothing he delights in;
Inform your self what it is he is most pleased with; and if you can
find any particular tendency his mind hath, increase it all you can,
and make use of that to set him on work, and to excite his industry.
If he loves praise, or play, or fine clothes, &c. or, on the other side,
dreads pain, disgrace, or your displeasure, &c., whatever it be that
he loves most, except it be sloth (for that will never set him on
work) let that be made use of to quicken him, and make him bestir

no JOHN LOCKE

himself. For in this listless temper, you are not to fear an excess
of appetite (as in all other cases) by cherishing it. 'Tis that which
you want, and therefore must labour to raise and increase; for
where there is no desire, there will be no industry.

§ 127. If you have not hold enough upon him this way, to stir up
vigour and activity in him, you must employ him in some constant
bodily labour, whereby he may get an habit of doing something. The
keeping him hard to some study were the better way to get him an
habit of exercising and applying his mind. But because this is an in-
visible attention, and no body can tell when he is or is not idle at it,
you must find bodily employments for him, which he must be con-
stantly busied in, and kept to; and if they have some little hardship
and shame in them, it may not be the worse, that they may the sooner
weary him, and make him desire to return to his book. But be sure,
when you exchange his book for his other labour, set him such a
task, to be done in such a time as may allow him no opportunity to be
idle. Only after you have by this way brought him to be attentive
and industrious at his book, you may, upon his dispatching his study
within the time set him, give him as a reward some respite from his
other labour; which you may diminish as yOu find him grow more
and more steady in his application, and at last wholly take off when
his sauntring at his book is cured.

§ 128. We formerly observed, that variety and freedom was that
that delighted children, and recommended their plays to them; and
that therefore their book or any thing we would have them learn,
should not be enjoined them as business. This their parents, tutors,
and teachers are apt to forget; and their impatience to have them
busied in what is fit for them to do, suffers them not to deceive them
into it: but by the repeated injunctions they meet with, children
quickly distinguish between what is required of them, and what not.
When this mistake has once made his book uneasy to him, the cure
is to be applied at the other end. And since it will be then too late
to endeavour to make it a play to him, you must take the contrary
course: observe what play he is most delighted with; enjoin that,
and make him play so many hours every day, not as a punishment
for playing, but as if it were the business required of him. This, if I
mistake not, will in a few days make him so weary of his most be-

PLAY-GAMES III

loved sport, that he will prefer his book, or any thing to it, especially
if it may redeem him from any part of the task of play is set him,
and he may be suffered to employ some part of the time destined to
his tas\ of play in his book, or such other exercise as is really useful
to him. This I at least think a better cure than that forbidding,
(which usually increases the desire) or any other punishment should
be made use of to remedy it: for when you have once glutted his
appetite (which may safely be done in all things but eating and
drinking) and made him surfeit of what you would have him
avoid, you have put into him a principle of aversion, and you need
not so much fear afterwards his longing for the same thing again.

§ 129. This I think is sufficiently evident, that children generally
hate to be idle. All the care then is, that their busy humour should
be constantly employ'd in something of use to them; which, if you
will attain, you must make what you would have them do a recrea-
tion to them, and not a business. The way to do this, so that they
may not perceive you have any hand in it, is this proposed here; viz.
To make them weary of that which you would not have them do,
by enjoining and making them under some pretence or other do it,
till they are surfeited. For example: Does your son play at top and
scourge too much? Enjoin him to play so many hours every day,
and look that he do it; and you shall see he will quickly be sick of it,
and willing to leave it. By this means making the recreations you
dislike a business to him, he will of himself with delight betake him-
self to those things you would have him do, especially if they be
proposed as rewards for having performed his tasl^ in that play which
is commanded him. For if he be ordered every day to whip his top
so long as to make him sufficiently weary, do you not think he will
apply himself with eagerness to his book, and wish for it, if you
promise it him as a reward of having whipped his top lustily, quite
out all the time that is set him ? Children, in the things they do, if
they comport with their age, find litde difference so they may be
doing: the esteem they have for one thing above another they bor-
row from others; so that what those about them make to be a reward
to them, will really be so. By this art it is in their governor's choice,
whether scotchhoppers shall reward their dancing, or dancing their
scotchhoppers; whether peg-top, or reading; playing at trap, or study-

112 JOHN LOCKE

ing the globes, shall be more acceptable and pleasing to them; all
that they desire being to be busy, and busy, as they imagine, in things
of their own choice, and which they receive as favours from their
parents or others for whom they have respect and with whom they
would be in credit. A set of children thus ordered and kept from the
ill example of others, would all of them, I suppose, with as much
earnestness and delight, learn to read, write, and what else one would
have them, as others do their ordinary plays: and the eldest being
thus entered, and this made the fashion of the place, it would be as
impossible to hinder them from learning the one, as it is ordinarily
to keep them from the other.

§ 130. Play-things, I think, children should have, and of divers
sorts; but still to be in the custody of their tutors or some body else,
whereof the child should have in his power but one at once, and
should not be suffered to have another but when he restored that.
This teaches them betimes to be careful of not losing or spoiling the
things they have; whereas plenty and variety in their own keeping,
makes them wanton and careless, and teaches them from the begin-
ning to be squanderers and wasters. These, I confess, are little things,
and such as will seem beneath the care of a governor; but nothing
that may form children's minds is to be overlooked and neglected,
and whatsoever introduces habits, and settles customs in them, de-
serves the care and attention of their governors, and is not a small
thing in its consequences.

One thing more about children's play-things may be worth their
parents' care. Though it be agreed they should have of several
sorts, yet, I think, they^ should have none bought for them. This will
hinder that great variety they are often overcharged with, which
serves only to teach the mind to wander after change and superfluity,
to be unquiet, and perpetually stretching itself after something more
still, though it knows not what, and never to be satisfied with what
it hath. The court that is made to people of condition in such kind
of presents to their children, does the little ones great harm. By it
they are taught pride, vanity and covetousness, almost before they
can speak: and I have known a young child so distracted with the
number and variety of his play-games, that he tired his maid every
day to look them over; and was so accustomed to abundance, that he

PLAY-GAMES II3

never thought he had enough, but was always asking, What more ?
What more? What new thing shall I have? A good introduction
to moderate desires, and the ready way to make a contented happy
man!

"How then shall they have the play-games you allow them, if none
must be bought for them?" I answer, they should make them them-
selves, or at least endeavour it, and set themselves about it; till then
they should have none, and till then they will want none of any great
artifice. A smooth pebble, a piece of paper, the mother's bunch of
keys, or any thing they cannot hurt themselves with, serves as much
to divert little children as those more chargeable and curious toys
from the shops, which are presently put out of order and broken.
Children are never dull, or out of humour, for want of such play-
things, unless they have been used to them; when they are little,
whatever occurs serves the turn; and as they grow bigger, if they are
not stored by the expensive folly of others, they will make them them-
selves. Indeed, when they once begin to set themselves to work about
any of their inventions, they should be taught and assisted; but should
have nothing whilst they lazily sit still, expecting to be furnish'd from
other hands, without employing their own. And if you help them
where they are at a stand, it will more endear you to them than any
chargeable toys you shall buy for them. Play-things which are above
their skill to make, as tops, gigs, battledores, and the like, which are to
be used with labour, should indeed be procured them. These 'tis con-
venient they should have, not for variety but exercise; but these too
should be given them as bare as might be. If they had a top, the
scourge-stick and leather-strap should be left to their own making
and fitting. If they sit gaping to have such things drop into their
mouths, they should go without them. This will accustom them to
seek for what they want, in themselves and in their own endeavours}
whereby they will be taught moderation in their desires, application,
industry, thought, contrivance, and good husbandry; qualities that
will be useful to them when they are men, and therefore cannot be
learned too soon, nor fixed too deep. All the plays and diversions of
children should be directed towards good and useful habits, or else
they will introduce ill ones. Whatever they do, leaves some impres-
sion on that tender age, and from thence they receive a tendency to

114 JOHN LOCKE

good or evil: and whatever hath such an influence, ought not to be
neglected.

§ 131. Lying is so ready and cheap a cover for any miscarriage,
and so much in fashion among all sorts of people, that a child can
hardly avoid observing the use is made of it on all occasions, and so
can scarce be kept without great care from getting into it. But it is so
ill a quality, and the mother of so many ill ones that spawn from it,
and take shelter under it, that a child should be brought up in the
greatest abhorrence of it imaginable. It should be always (when oc-
casionally it comes to be mention'd) spoke of before him with the
utmost detestation, as a quality so wholly inconsistent with the name
and character of a gentleman, that no body of any credit can bear the
imputation of a lie; a mark that is judg'd the utmost disgrace, which
debases a man to the lowest degree of a shameful meanness, and
ranks him with the most contemptible part of mankind and the ab-
horred rascality; and is not to be endured in any one who would con-
verse with people of condition, or have any esteem or reputation in
the world. The first time he is found in a lie, it should rather be
wondered at as a monstrous thing in him, than reproved as an ordi-
nary fault. If that keeps him not from relapsing, the next time he must
be sharply rebuked, and fall into the state of great displeasure of his
father and mother and all about him who take notice of it. And if
this way work not the cure, you must come to blows; for after he has
been thus warned, a premeditated lie must always be looked upon as
obstinacy, and never be permitted to escape unpunished.

§ 132. Children, afraid to have their faults seen in their naked
colours, will, like the rest of the sons of Adam, be apt to make
excuses. This is a fault usually bordering upon, and leading to un-
truth, and is not to be indulged in them; but yet it ought to be cured
rather with shame than roughness. If therefore, when a child is
questioned for any thing, his first answer be an excuse, warn him
soberly to tell the truth; and then if he persists to shuffle it off with
a falsehood, he must be chastised; but if he directly confess, you must
commend his ingenuity, and pardon the fault, be it what it will; and
pardon it so, that you never so much as reproach him with it, or men-
tion it to him again: for if you would have him in love with in-
genuity, and by a constant practice make it habitual to him, you

THE FOUR REQUISITES II 5

must take care that it never procure him the least inconvenience; but
on the contrary, his own confession bringing always with it perfect
impunity, should be besides encouraged by some marks of approba-
tion. If his excuse be such at any time that you cannot prove it to
have any falsehood in it, let it pass for true, and be sure not to shew
any suspicion of it. Let him keep up his reputation with you as high
as is possible; for when once he finds he has lost that, you have lost
a great, and your best hold upon him. Therefore let him not think
he has the character of a liar with you, as long as you can avoid it
without flattering him in it. Thus some slips in truth may be over-
looked. But after he has once been corrected for a lie, you must be
sure never after to pardon it in him, whenever you find and take
notice to him that he is guilty of it : for it being a fault which he has
been forbid, and may, unless he be wilful, avoid, the repeating of it
is perfect perverseness, and must have the chastisement due to that
offence.

§ 133. This is what I have thought concerning the general method
of educating a young gentleman; which, though I am apt to suppose
may have some influence on the whole course of his education, yet I
am far from imagining it contains all those particulars which his
growing years or peculiar temper may require. But this being pre-
mised in general, we shall in the next place, descend to a more
particular consideration of the several parts of his education.

§ 134. That which every gentleman (that takes any care of his
education) desires for his son, besides the estate he leaves him, is
contain'd (I suppose) in these four things, virtue, wisdom, breeding
and learning. I will not trouble my self whether these names do not
some of them sometimes stand for the same thing, or really include
one another. It serves my turn here to follow the popular use of
these words, which, I presume, is clear enough to make me be under-
stood, and I hope there will be no difficulty to comprehend my
meaning.

§ 135. I place virtue as the first and most necessary of those en-
dowments that belong to a man or a gentleman; as absolutely
requisite to make him valued and beloved by others, acceptable or
tolerable to himself. Without that, I think, he will be happy neither
in this nor the other world.

Il6 JOHN LOCKE

§ 136. As the foundation of this, there ought very early to be
imprinted on his mind a true notion of God, as of the independent
Supreme Being, Author and Maker of all things, from Whom
we receive all our good, Who loves us, and gives us all things. And
consequent to this, instil into him a love and reverence of this Su-
preme Being. This is enough to begin with, without going to ex-
plain this matter any farther; for fear lest by talking too early to him
of spirits, and being unseasonably forward to make him understand
the incomprehensible nature of that Infinite Being, his head be either
fiU'd with false, or perplex'd with unintelligible notions of Him.
Let him only be told upon occasion, that God made and governs
all things, hears and sees every thing, and does all manner of good
to those that love and obey Him; you will find, that being told of
such a God, other thoughts will be apt to rise up fast enough in his
mind about Him; which, as you observe them to have any mistakes,
you must set right. And I think it would be better if men generally
rested in such an idea of God, without being too curious in their
notions about a Being which all must acknowledge incompre-
hensible; whereby many, who have not strength and clearness of
thought to distinguish between what they can, and what they can-
not know, run themselves in superstitions or atheism, making God
like themselves, or (because they cannot comprehend any thing else)
none at all. And I am apt to think, the keeping children constantly
morning and evening to acts of devotion to God, as to their Maker,
Preserver and Benefactor, in some plain and short form of prayer,
suitable to their age and capacity, will be of much more use to them
in religion, knowledge, and virtue, than to distract their thoughts
with curious enquiries into His inscrutable essence and being.

§ 137. Having by gentle degrees, as you find him capable of it,
settled such an idea of God in his mind, and taught him to p-ay to
Him, and praise Him as the Author of his being, and of all the good
he does or can enjoy; forbear any discourse of other spirits, till the
mention of them coming in his way, upon occasion hereafter to be
set down, and his reading the scripture-history, put him upon that
enquiry.

§ 138. But even then, and always whilst he is young, be sure to
preserve his tender mind from all impressions and notions of spirits

GOBLINS 117

and goblins, or any fearful apprehensions in the dark. This he will
be in danger of from the indiscretion of servants, whose usual
method is to awe children, and keep them in subjection, by telling
them of raw-head and bloody-bones, and such other names as carry
with them the ideas of something terrible and hurtful, which they
have reason to be afraid of when alone, especially in the dark. This
must be carefully prevented: for though by this foolish way, they
may keep them from little faults, yet the remedy is much worse than
the disease; and there are stamped upon their imaginations ideas that
follow them with terror and affrightment. Such bug-bear thoughts
once got into the tender minds of children, and being set on with a
strong impression from the dread that accompanies such apprehen-
sions, sink deep, and fasten themselves so as not easily, if ever, to be
got out again; and whilst they are there, frequently haunt them with
strange visions, making children dastards when alone, and afraid of
their shadows and darkness all their lives after. I have had those
complain to me, when men, who had been thus used when young;
that though their reason corrected the wrong ideas they had taken
in, and they were satisfied that there was no cause to fear invisible
beings more in the dark than in the light, yet that these notions were
apt still upon any occasion to start up first in their prepossessed fan-
cies, and not to be removed without some pains. And to let you see
how lasting and frightful images are, that take place in the mind
early, I shall here tell you a pretty remarkable but true story. There
was in a town in the west a man of a disturbed brain, whom the boys
used to teaze when he came in their way: this fellow one day seeing
in the street one of those lads, that used to vex him, stepped into a
cutler's shop he was near, and there seizing on a naked sword, made
after the boy; who seeing him coming so armed, betook himself to
his feet, and ran for his life, and by good luck had strength and heels
enough to reach his father's house before the mad-man could get up
to him. The door was only latch'd; and when he had the latch in his
hand, he turn'd about his head, to see how near his pursuer was, who
was at the entrance of the porch, with his sword up ready to strike;
and he had just time to get in, and clap to the door to avoid the blow,
which, though his body escaped, his mind did not. This frightening
idea made so deep an impression there, that it lasted many years, if

Il8 JOHN LOCKE

not all his life after. For, telling this story when he was a man, he
said, that after that time till then, he never went in at that door
(that he could remember) at any time without looking back, what-
ever business he had in his head, or how little soever before he came
thither he thought of this mad-man.

If children were let alone, they would be no more afraid in the
dark, than in broad sun-shine; they would in their turns as much
welcome the one for sleep as the other to play in. There should be
no distinction made to them by any discourse of more danger or
terrible things in the one than the other: but if the folly of any one
about them should do them this harm, and make them think there is
any difference between being in the dark and winking, you must get
it out of their minds as soon as you can; and let them know, that God,
who made all things good for them, made the night that they
might sleep the better and the quieter; and that they being under his
protection, there is nothing in the dark to hurt them. What is to be
known more of God and good spirits, is to be deferr'd till the time
we shall hereafter mention; and of evil spirits, 'twill be well if you
can keep him from wrong fancies about them till he is ripe for
that sort of knowledge.

§ 139. Having laid the foundations of virtue in a true notion of a
God, such as the creed wisely teaches, as far as his age is capable, and
by accustoming him to pray to Him; the next thing to be taken care
of is to keep him exactly to speaking of truth, and by all the ways
imaginable inclining him to be good-natur'd. Let him know that
twenty faults are sooner to be forgiven than the straining of truth to
cover any one by an excuse. And to teach him betimes to love and
be good-natur'd to others, is to lay early the true foundation of an
honest man; all injustice generally springing from too great love
of ourselves and too little of others.

This is all I shall say of this matter in general, and is enough for
laying the first foundations of virtue in a child: as he grows up, the
tendency of his natural inclination must be observed; which, as it
inclines him more than is convenient on one or t'other side from the
right path of virtue, ought to have proper remedies applied. For
few of Adam's children are so happy, as not to be born with some
byass in their natural temper, which it is the business of education

WISDOM 119

either to take off, or counterbalance. But to enter into particiolars of
this, would be beyond the design of this short treatise of education. I
intend not a discourse of all the virtues and vices, how each virtue
is to be attained, and every particular vice by its peculiar remedies
cured: though I have mentioned some of the most ordinary faults,
and the ways to be used in correcting them.

§ 140. Wisdom I take in the popular acceptation, for a man's
managing his business ably and with foresight in this world. This
is the product of a good natural temper, application of mind, and ex-
perience together, and so above the reach of children. The greatest
thing that in them can be done towards it, is to hinder them, as much
as may be, from being cunning; which, being the ape of wisdom, is
the most distant from it that can be: and as an ape for the likeness
it has to a man, wanting what really should make him so, is by so
much the uglier; cunning is only the want of understanding, which
because it cannot compass its ends by direct ways, would do it by a
trick and circumvention; and the mischief of it is, a cunning trick
helps but once, but hinders ever after. No cover was ever made so
big or so fine as to hide it self: no body was ever so cunning as to
conceal their being so: and when they are once discovered, every body
is shy, every body distrustful of crafty men; and all the world for-
Kardly join to oppose and defeat them; whilst the open, fair, wise
man has every body to make way for him, and goes directly to his
business. To accustom a child to have true notions of things, and
not to be satisfied till he has them; to raise his mind to great and
worthy thoughts, and to keep him at a distance from falsehood and
cunning, which has always a broad mixture of falsehood in it; is
the fittest preparation of a child for wisdom. The rest, which is to be
learn'd from time, experience, and observation, and an acquaint-
ance with men, their tempers and designs, is not to be expected in
the ignorance and inadvertency of childhood, or the inconsiderate
heat and unweariness of youth: all that can be done towards it, dur-
ing this unripe age, is, as I have said, to accustom them to truth and
sincerity; to a submission to reason; and as much as may be, to
reflection on their own actions.

§ 141. The next good quality belonging to a gentleman, is good
breeding. There are two sorts of ill-breeding: the one a sheepish

120 JOHN LOCKE

bashfulness, and the other a mis-becoming negligence and disrespect
in our carriage; both which are avoided by duly observing this one
rule, not to thin\ meanly of ourselves, and not to thinf{ meanly
of others.

§ 142. The first part of this rule must not be understood in opposi-
tion to humility, but to assurance. We ought not to think so well of
our selves, as to stand upon our own value; and assume to our selves
a preference before others, because of any advantage we may imagine
we have over them; but modestly to take what is offered, when it is
our due. But yet we ought to think so well of our selves, as to per-
form those actions which are incumbent on, and expected of us, with-
out discomposure or disorder, in whose presence soever we are; keep-
ing that respect and distance which is due to every one's rank and
quality. There is often in people, especially children, a clownish
shamefacedness before strangers or those above them: they are con-
founded in their thoughts, words, and looks; and so lose themselves
in that confusion as not to be able to do any thing, or at least not to do
it with that freedom and gracefulness which pleases, and makes them
be acceptable. The only cure for this, as for any other miscarriage,
is by use to introduce the contrary habit. But since we cannot accus-
tom ourselves to converse with strangers and persons of quality
without being in their company, nothing can cure this part of ill-
breeding but change and variety of company, and that of persons
above us.

§ 143. As the before-mentioned consists in too great a concern
how to behave ourselves towards others; so the other part of ill-
breeding lies in the appearance of too little care of pleasing or shew-
ing respect to those we have to do with. To avoid this these two
things are requisite: first, a disposition of the mind not to offend
others; and secondly, the most acceptable and agreeable way of ex-
pressing that disposition. From the one men are called civil; from
the other well-fashion d. The latter of these is that decency and
gracefulness of looks, voice, words, motions, gestures, and of all the
whole outward demeanour, which takes in company, and makes those
with vs'hom we may converse, easy and well pleased. This is, as it
were, the language whereby that internal civility of the mind is ex-
pressed; which, as other languages are, being very much governed

CONTEMPT 121

by the fashion and custom of every country, must, in the rules and
practice of it, be learn'd chiefly from observation, and the carriage
of those who are allow'd to be exactly well-bred. The other part,
which lies deeper than the outside, is that general good-will and
regard for all people, which makes any one have a care not to shew in
his carriage any contempt, disrespect, or neglect of them; but to ex-
press, according to the fashion and way of that country, a respect
and value for them according to their rank and condition. It is a
disposition of the mind that shews it self in the carriage, whereby a
man avoids making any one uneasy in conversation.

I shall take notice of four qualities, that are most directly opposite
to this first and most taking of all the social virtues. And from some
one of these four it is, that incivility commonly has its rise. I shall set
them down, that children may be preserv'd or recover'd from their
ill influence.

1. The first is, a natural roughness, which makes a man unccm-
plaisant to others, so that he has no deference for their inclinadons,
tempers, or conditions. 'Tis the sure badge of a clown, not to mind
what pleases or displeases those he is with; and yet one may often
find a man in fashionable clothes give an unbounded swing to his
own humour, and suffer it to justle or over-run any one that stands
in its way, with a perfect indifferency how they take it. This is a
brutality that every one sees and abhors, and nobody can be easy
with: and therefore this finds no place in any one who would be
thought to have the least tincture of good-breeding. For the very end
and business of good-breeding is to supple the natural stiffness, and
so soften men's tempers, that they may bend to a compliance, and
accommodate themselves to those they have to do with.

2. Contempt, or want of due respect, discovered either in looks,
words, or gesture: this, from whomsoever it comes, brings always un-
easiness with it. For nobody can contentedly bear being slighted.

3. Censoriousness, and finding fault with others, has a direct
opposition to civility. Men, whatever they are or are not guilty of,
would not have their faults display'd and set in open view and broad
day-hght, before their own or other people's eyes. Blemishes affixed
to any one always carry shame with them : and the discovery, or even
bare imputation of any defect is not borne without some uneasiness.

122 JOHN LOCKE

Raillery is the most refined way of exposing the faults of others: but,
because it is usually done with wit and good language, and gives
entertainment to the company, people are led into a mistake, that
where it keeps within fair bounds there is no incivility in it. And so
the pleasantry of this sort of conversation often introduces it amongst
people of the better rank; and such talkers are favourably heard and
generally applauded by the laughter of the bystanders on their side.
But they ought to consider, that the entertainment of the rest of the
company is at the cost of that one who is set out in their burlesque col-
ours, who therefore is not without uneasiness, unless the subject for
which he is rallied be really in itself matter of commendation. For
then the pleasant images and representations which make the raillery
carrying praise as well as sport with them, the rallied person also
finds his account, and takes part in the diversion. But because the
right management of so nice and ticklish a business, wherein a little
slip may spoil all, is not every body's talent, I think those who would
secure themselves from provoking others, especially all young people,
should carefully abstain from raillery, which by a small mistake or
any wrong turn, may leave upon the mind of those who are made
uneasy by it, the lasting memory of having been piquantly, tho' wit-
tily, taunted for some thing censurable in them.

Besides raillery, contradiction is a sort of censoriousness wherein
ill-breeding often shews it self. Complaisance does not require that
we should always admit all the reasonings or relations that the com-
pany is entertain'd with, no, nor silently to let pass all that is vented
in our hearing. The opposing the opinions, and rectifying the mis-
takes of others, is what truth and charity sometimes require of us, and
civility does not oppose, if it be done with due caution and care of
circumstances. But there are some people, that one may observe,
possessed as it were with the spirit of contradiction, that steadily, and
without regard to right or wrong, oppose some one, or, perhaps, every
one of the company, whatever they say. This is so visible and out-
rageous a way of censuring, that nobody can avoid thinking himself
injur'd by it. All opposition to what another man has said, is so
apt to be suspected of censoriousness, and is so seldom received with-
out some sort of humiliation, that it ought to 'be made in the
gentlest manner, and softest words can be found, and such as with

CAPTIOUSNESS 1 23

the whole deportment may express no forwardness to contradict.
All marks of respect and good will ought to accompany it, that whilst
we gain the argument, we may not lose the esteem of those that
hear us.

4. Captiousness is another fault opposite to civiHty; not only be-
cause it often produces misbecoming and provoking expressions and
carriage; but because it is a tacit accusation and reproach of some
incivility taken notice of in those whom we are angry with. Such a
suspicion or intimation cannot be borne by any one without uneasi-
ness. Besides, one angry body discomposes the whole company, and
the harmony ceases upon any such jarring.

The happiness that all men so steadily pursue consisting in pleas-
ure, it is easy to see why the civil are more acceptable than the useful.
The ability, sincerity, and good intention of a man of weight and
worth, or a real friend, seldom atones for the uneasiness that is pro-
duced by his grave and solid representations. Power and riches, nay
virtue itself, are valued only as conducing to our happiness. And
therefore he recommends himself ill to another as aiming at his
happiness, who, in the services he does him, makes him imeasy in
the manner of doing them. He that knows how to make those he
converses with easy, without debasing himself to low and servile
flattery, has found the true art of living in the world, and being both
welcome and valued every where. Civility therefore is what in the
first place should with great care be made habitual to children and
young people.

§ 144. There is another fault in good manners, and that is excess
of ceremony, and an obstinate persisting to force upon another what
is not his due, and what he cannot take without folly or shame. This
seems rather a design to expose than oblige: or at least looks like a
contest for mastery, and at best is but troublesome, and so can be no
part of good-breeding, which has no other use or end but to make
people easy and satisfied in their conversation with us. This is a
fault few young people are apt to fall into; but yet if they are ever
guilty of it, or are suspected to incline that way, they should be told
of it, and warned of this mistaken civility. The thing they should
endeavour and aim at in conversation, should be to shew respect,
esteem, and good-will, by paying to every one that common cere-

124 JOHN LOCKE

mony and regard which is in civility due to them. To do this without
a suspicion of flattery, dissimulation, or meanness, is a great skill,
which good sense, reason, and good company can only teach; but is
of so much use in civil life that it is well worth the studying.

§ 145. Though the managing ourselves well in this part of our
behaviour has the name of good-breeding, as if peculiarly the effect
of education; yet, as I have said, young children should not be much
perplexed about it; I mean, about putting off their hats, and making
legs modishly. Teach them humility, and to be good-natur'd, if you
can, and this sort of manners will not be wanting; civility being in
truth nothing but a care not to shew any slighting or contempt of
any one in conversation. What are the most allow'd and esteem'd
ways of expressing this, we have above observ'd. It is as peculiar and
different, in several countries of the world, as their languages; and
therefore, if it be rightly considered, rules and discourses made to
children about it, are as useless and impertinent, as it would be now
and then to give a rule or two of the Spanish tongue to one that con-
verses only with Englishmen. Be as busy as you please with dis-
courses of civility to your son, such as is his company, such will be
his manners. A plough-man of your neighbourhood that has never
been out of his parish, read what lectures you please to him, will be
as soon in his language as his carriage a courtier; that is, in neither
will be more polite than those he uses to converse with: and there-
fore, of this no other care can be taken till he be of an age to have
a tutor put to him, who must not fail to be a well-bred man. And,
in good earnest, if I were to speak my mind freely, so children do
nothing out of obstinacy, pride, and ill-nature, 'tis no great matter
how they put off their hats or make legs. If you can teach them to
love and respect other people, they will, as their age requires it, find
ways to express it acceptably to every one, according to the fashions
they have been used to : and as to their motions and carriage of their
bodies, a dancing-master, as has been said, when it is fit, will teach
them what is most becoming. In the mean time, when they are
young, people expect not that children should be over-mindful of
these ceremonies; carelessness is allow'd to that age, and becomes
them as well as compliments do grown people: or, at least, if some
very nice people will think it a fault, I am sure it is a fault that should

INTERRUPTION 1 25

be over-look'd, and left to time, a tutor and conversation to cure.
And therefore I think it not worth your while to have your son (as I
often see children are) molested or chid about it: but where there
is pride or ill-nature appearing in his carriage, there he must be per-
suaded or shamed out of it.

Though children, when little, should not be much perplexed with
rules and ceremonious parts of breeding, yet there is a sort of unman-
nerliness very apt to grow up with young people, if not early re-
strained, and that is, a forwardness to interrupt others that are speak-
ing; and to stop them with some contradiction. Whether the custom
of disputing, and the reputation of parts and learning usually given
to it as if it were the only standard and evidence of knowledge, make
young men so forward to watch occasions to correct others in their
discourse, and not to slip any opportunity of shewing their talents:
so it is, that 1 have found scholars most blamed in this point. There
cannot be a greater rudeness, than to interrupt another in the current
of his discourse; for if there be not impertinent folly in answering a
man before we know what he will say, yet it is a plain declaration,
that we are weary to hear him talk any longer, and have a dis-
esteem of what he says; which we judging not fit to entertain the
company, desire them to give audience to us, who have something to
produce worth their attention. This shews a very great disres{>ect,
and cannot but be offensive: and yet this is what almost all inter-
ruption constantly carries with it. To which, if there be added, as is
usual, a correcting of any mistake, of a contradiction of what has been
said, it is a mark of yet greater pride and self-conceitedness, when we
thus intrude our selves for teachers, and take upon us either to set
another right in his story, or shew the mistakes of his judgment.

I do not say this, that I think there should be no difference of
opinions in conversation, nor opposition in men's discourses: this
would be to take away the greatest advantage of society, and the im-
provements are to be made by ingenious company; where the light
is to be got from the opposite arguings of men of parts, shewing
the different sides of things and their various aspects and probabili-
ties, would be quite lost, if every one were obliged to assent to, and
say after the first speaker. 'Tis not the owning one's dissent from
another, that I speak against, but the manner of doing it. Young

126 JOHN LOCKE

men should be taught not to be forward to interpose their opinions,
unless asked, or when others have done, and are silent; and then only
by way of enquiry, not instruction. The positive asserting, and the
magisterial air should be avoided; and when a general pause of the
whole company affords an opportunity, they may modestly put in
their question as learners.

This becoming decency will not cloud their parts, nor weaken the
strength of their reason; but bespeak the more favourable attention,
and give what they say the greater advantage. An ill argument, or
ordinary observation, thus introduc'd, with some civil preface of
deference and respect to the opinions of others, will procure them
more credit and esteem than the sharpest wit, or profoundest science,
wdth a rough, insolent, or noisy management, which always shocks
the hearers, leaves an ill opinion of the man, though he get the better
of it in the argument.

This therefore should be carefully watched in young people, stopp'd
in the beginning, and the contrary habit introduced in all their
conversation. And the rather, because forwardness to talk, frequent
interruptions in arguing, and loud wrangling, are too often observ-
able amongst grown people, even of rank, amongst us. The Indians,
whom we call barbarous, observe much more decency and civility
in their discourses and conversation, giving one another a fair silent
hearing tiU they have quite done; and then answering them calmly,
and without noise or passion. And if it be not so in this civiliz'd
part of the world, w- must impute it to a neglect in education, which
has not yet reform'd this antient piece of barbarity amongst us.
Was it not, think you, an entertaining spectacle, to see two ladies of
quality accidentally seated on the opposite sides of a room, set round
with company, fall into a dispute, and grow so eager in it, that in the
heat of the controversy, edging by degrees their chairs forwards, they
were in a little time got up close to one another in the middle of
the room; where they for a good while managed the dispute as
fiercely as two game-cocks in the pit, without minding or taking any
notice of the circle, which could not all the while forbear smiling?
This I was told by a person of quality, who was present at the com-
bat, and did not omit to reflect upon the indecencies that warmth in
dispute often runs people into; which, since custom makes too fre-

COMPANY 127

quent, education should take the more care of. There is no body but
condemns this in others, though they overlook it in themselves; and
many who are sensible of it in themselves, and resolve against it,
cannot yet get rid of an ill custom, which neglect in their education
has sufler'd to settle into an habit.

§ 146. What has been above said concerning company, would per-
haps, if it were well reflected on, give us a larger prospect, and let us
see how much farther its influence reaches. 'Tis not the modes of
civility alone, that are imprinted by conversation: the tincture of
company sinks deeper than the out-side; and possibly, if a true esti-
mate were made of the morality and religions of the world, we
should find that the far greater part of mankind received even those
opinions, and ceremonies they would die for, rather from the fashions
of their countries, and the constant practice of those about them, than
from any conviction of their reasons. I mention this only to let you
see of what moment I think company is to your son in all the parts
of his life, and therefore how much that one part is to be weighed
and provided for; it being of greater force to work upon him, than
all you can do besides.

§ 147. You will wonder, perhaps, that I put learning last, especially
if I tell you I think it the least part. This may seem strange in the
mouth of a bookish man; and this making usually the chief, if not
only bustle and stir about children, this being almost that alone
which is thought on, when people talk of education, makes it the
greater paradox. When I consider, what ado is made about a little
Latin and Greel{, how many years are spent in it, and what a noise
and business it makes to no purpose, I can hardly forbear thinking
that the parents of children still live in fear of the school-master's
rod, which they look on as the only instrument of education; as a
language or two to be its whole business. How else is it possible that
a child should be chain'd to the oar seven, eight, or ten of the best
years of his life, to get a language or two, which, I think, might be
had at a great deal cheaper rate of pains and time, and be learn'd
almost in playing?

Forgive me therefore if I say, I cannot with patience think, that
a young gentleman should be put into the herd, and be driven with
a whip and scourge, as if he were to run the gandet through the

128 JOHN LOCKE

several classes, ad capiendum ingenii cultum. What then? say you,
would you not have him write and read ? Shall he be more ignorant
than the clerk of our parish, who takes Hop\ins and Sternhold for
the best poets in the world, whom yet he makes worse than they are
by his ill reading? Not so, not so fast, I beseech you. Reading and
writing and learning I allow to be necessary, but yet not the chief
business. I imagine you would think him a very foolish fellow, that
should not value a virtuous or a wise man infinitely before a great
scholar. Not but that I think learning a great help to both in well-
dispos'd minds; but yet it must be confess'd also, that in others not
so dispos'd, it helps them only to be the more foolish, or worse men.
I say this, that when you consider the breeding of your son, and are
looking out for a school-master or a tutor, you would not have (as
is usual) Latin and logic\ only in your thoughts. Learning must be
had, but in the second place, as subservient only to greater qualities.
Seek out somebody that may know how discreetly to frame his
manners: place him in hands where you may, as much as possible,
secure his innocence, cherish and nurse up the good, and gently cor-
rect and weed out any bad inclinations, and settle in him good habits.
This is the main point, and this being provided for, learning may be
had into the bargain, and that, as I think, at a very easy rate, by
methods that may be thought on.

§ 148. When he can talk, 'tis time he should begin to learn to read.
But as to this, give me leave here to inculcate again, what is very apt
to be forgotten, viz. That great care is to be taken, that it be never
made as a business to him, nor he look on it as a task. We naturally,
as I said, even from our cradles, love liberty, and have therefore an
aversion to many things for no other reason but because they are
enjoin'd us. I have always had a fancy that learning might be made
a play and recreation to children: and that they might be brought to
desire to be taught, if it were proposed to them as a thing of honour,
credit, delight, and recreation, or as a reward for doing something
else; and if they were never chid or corrected for the neglect of it.
That which confirms me in this opinion is, that amongst the Portu-
guese, 'tis so much a fashion and emulation amongst their children,
to learn to read and write, that they cannot hinder them from it: they
will learn it one from another, and are as intent on it, as if it were
forbidden them. I remember that being at a friend's house, whose

READING 129

younger son, a child in coats, was not easily brought to his book
(being taught to read at home by his mother) I advised to try
another way, than requiring it of him as his duty ; we therefore, in a
discourse on purpose amongst our selves, in his hearing, but without
taking any notice of him, declared, that it was the privilege and ad-
vantage of heirs and elder brothers, to be scholars; that this made
them fine gentlemen, and beloved by every body: and that for
younger brothers, 'twas a favour to admit them to breeding; to be
taught to read and write, was more than came to their share; they
might be ignorant bumpkins and clowns, if they pleased. This so
wrought upon the child, that afterwards he desired to be taught;
would come himself to his mother to learn, and would not let his
maid be quiet till she heard him his lesson. I doubt not but some way
like this might be taken with other children; and when their tempers
are found, some thoughts be instill'd into them, that might set them
upon desiring of learning, themselves, and make them seek it as an-
other sort of play or recreation. But then, as I said before, it must
never be imposed as a task, nor made a trouble to them. There may
be dice and play-things, with the letters on them to teach children the
alphabet by playing; and twenty other ways may be found, suitable
to their particular tempers, to make this kind of learning a sport to
them.

§ 149. Thus children may be cozen'd into a knowledge of the let-
ters; be taught to read, without perceiving it to be any thing but a
sport, and play themselves into that which others are whipp'd for.
Children should not have any thing like work, or serious, laid on
them; neither their minds, nor bodies will bear it. It injures their
healths; and their being forced and tied down to their books in an
age at enmity with all such restraint, has, I doubt not, been the rea-
son, why a great many have hated books and learning all their lives
after. 'Tis like a surfeit, that leaves an aversion behind not to be
removed.

§ 150. I have therefore thought, that if play-things were fitted to
this purpose, as they are usually to none, contrivances might be made
to teach children to read, whilst they thought they were only playing.
For example, what if an ivory-ball were made like that of the royal-
oak lottery, with thirty two sides, or one rather of twenty four or
twenty five sides; and upon several of those sides pasted on an A,

130 JOHN LOCKE

upon several others B, on others C, and on others DPI would have
you begin with but these four letters, or perhaps only two at first; and
when he is perfect in them, then add another; and so on till each side
having one letter, there be on it the whole alphabet. This I would
have others play with before him, it being as good a sort of play to lay
a stake who shall first throw an A or B, as who upon dice shall throw
six or seven. This being a play amongst you, tempt him not to it, lest
you make it business; for I would not have him understand 'tis any
thing but a play of older people, and I doubt not but he will take to
it of himself. And that he may have the more reason to think it is a
play, that he is sometimes in favour admitted to, when the play is
done the ball should be laid up safe out of his reach, that so it may
not, by his having it in his keeping at any time, grow stale to him.

§ 151. To keep up his eagerness to it, let him think it a game be-
longing to those above him: and when, by this means, he knows
the letters, by changing them into syllables, he may learn to read,
without knowing how he did so, and never have any chiding or trou-
ble about it, nor fall out with books because of the hard usage and
vexation they have caus'd him. Children, if you observe them, take
abundance of pains to learn several games, which, if they should be
enjoined them, they would abhor as a task and business. I know a
person of great quality (more yet to be honoured for his learning and
virtue than for his rank and high place) who by pasting on the six
vowels (for in our language Y is one) on the six sides of a die, and
the remaining eighteen consonants on the sides of three other dice,
has made this a play for his children, that he shall win who, at one
cast, throws most words on these four dice; whereby his eldest son,
yet in coats, has play'd himself into spelling, with great eagerness,
and without once having been chid for it or forced to it.

§ 152. I have seen little girls exercise whole hours together and take
abundance of pains to be expert at dibstones as they call it. Whilst
I have been looking on, I have thought it wanted only some good
contrivance to make them employ all that industry about something
that might be more useful to them; and methinks 'tis only the fault
and negligence of elder people that it is not so. Children are much
less apt to be idle than men; and men are to be blamed if some part
of that busy humour be not turned to useful things; which might be
made usually as delightful to them as those they are employed in.

READING 131

if men would be but half so forward to lead the way, as these little
apes would be to follow. I imagine some wise Portuguese heretofore
began this fashion amongst the children of his country, where I have
been told, as I said, it is impossible to hinder the children from learn-
ing to read and write: and in some parts of France they teach one
another to sing and dance from the cradle.

§ 153. The letters pasted upon the sides of the dice, or polygon,
were best to be of the size of those of the folio Bible, to begin with,
and none of them capital letters; when once he can read what is
printed in such letters, he will not long be ignorant of the great
ones: and in the beginning he should not be perplexed with variety.
With this die also, you might have a play just like the royal oak,
which would be another variety, and play for cherries or apples, &c.

§ 154. Besides these, twenty other plays might be invented de-
pending on letters, which those who like this way, may easily con-
trive and get made to this use if they will. But the four dice above-
mention'd I think so easy and useful, that it will be hard to find any
better, and there will be scarce need of any other.

§ 155. Thus much for learning to read, which let him never be
driven to, nor chid for; cheat him into it if you can, but make it not
a business for him. 'Tis better it be a year later before he can read,
than that he should this way get an aversion to learning. If you have
any contest with him, let it be in matters of moment, of truth, and
good nature; but lay no task on him about ABC. Use your skill to
make his will supple and pliant to reason: teach him to love credit
and commendation; to abhor being thought ill or meanly of, espe-
cially by you and his mother, and then the rest will come all easily.
But I think if you will do that, you must not shackle and tie him up
with rules about indifferent matters, nor rebuke him for every little
fault, or perhaps some that to others would seem great ones; but of
this I have said enough already.

§ 156. When by these gentle ways he begins to read, some easy
pleasant book, suited to his capacity, should be put into his hands,
wherein the entertainment that he finds might draw him on, and re-
ward his pains in reading, and yet not such as should fill his head
with perfectly useless trumpery, or lay the principles of vice and
folly. To this purpose, I think Msop's Fables the best, whick being
stories apt to delight and entertain a child, may yet afford useful re-

132 JOHN LOCKE

flections to a grown man; and if his memory retain them all his life
after, he will not repent to find them there, amongst his manly
thoughts and serious business. If his /Esop has pictures in it, it will
entertain him much the better, and encourage him to read, when it
carries the increase of knowledge with it: for such visible objects
children hear talked of in vain and without any satisfaction whilst
they have no ideas of them; those ideas being not to be had from
sounds, but from the things themselves or their pictures. And there-
fore I think as soon as he begins to spell, as many pictures of animals
should be got him as can be found, with the printed names to them,
which at the same time will invite him to read, and afford him
matter of enquiry and knowledge. Reynard the Fox is another book
I think may be made use of to the same purpose. And if those about
him will talk to him often about the stories he has read, and hear him
tell them, it will, besides other advantages, add encouragement and
delight to his reading, when he finds there is some use and pleasure
in it. These baits seem wholly neglected in the ordinary method;
and 'tis usually long before learners find any use or pleasure in read-
ing, which may tempt them to it, and so take books only for fashion-
able amusements, or impertinent troubles, good for nothing.

§ 157. The Lord's Prayer, the Creeds, and Ten Commandments,
'tis necessary he should learn perfectly by heart; but, I think, not by
reading them himself in his primer, but by somebody's repeating
them to him, even before he can read. But learning by heart, and
learning to read, should not I think be mix'd, and so one made to
clog the other. But his learning to read should be made as little
trouble or business to him as might be.

What other books there are in English of the kind of those above-
mentioned, fit to engage the liking of children, and tempt them to
read, I do not know: but am apt to think, that children being gen-
erally delivered over to the method of schools, where the fear of
the rod is to inforce, and not any pleasure of the employment to in-
vite them to learn, this sort of useful books, amongst the number of
silly ones that are of all sorts, have yet had the fate to be neglected;
and nothing that I know has been considered of this kind out of the
ordinary road of the horn-book, primer, psalter, Testament, and
Bible.

READING 133

§ 158. As for the Bible, which children are usually employ'd in to
exercise and improve their talent in reading, I think the promiscuous
reading of it through by chapters as they lie in order, is so far from
being of any advantage to children, either for the perfecting their
reading, or principling their religion, that perhaps a vi^orse could not
be found. For what pleasure or encouragement can it be to a child
to exercise himself in reading those parts of a book where he under-
stands nothing? And how little are the law of Moses, the song of
Solomon, the prophecies in the Old, and the Epistles and Apocalypse
in the New Testament, suited to a child's capacity ? And though the
history of the Evangelists and the Acts have something easier, yet,
taken altogether, it is very disproportional to the understanding of
childhood. I grant that the principles of religion are to be drawn
from thence, and in the words of the scripture; yet none should be
propos'd to a child, but such as are suited to a child's capacity and no-
tions. But 'tis far from this to read through the whole Bible, and
that for reading's sake. And what an odd jumble of thoughts must
a child have in his head, if he have any at all, such as he should have
concerning religion, who in his tender age reads all the parts of the
Bible indifferently as the word of God without any other distinction!
I am apt to think, that this in some men has been the very reason
why they never had clear and distinct thoughts of it all their lifetime.

§ 159. And now I am by chance fallen on this subject, give me
leave to say, that there are some parts of the Scripture which may
be proper to be put into the hands of a child to engage him to read;
such as are the story of Joseph and his brethren, of David and Go-
liath, of David and Jonathan, &c. and others that he should be made
to read for his instruction, as that. What you tvould have others do
unto you, do you the same unto them; and such other easy and plain
moral rules, which being fitly chosen, might often be made use of,
both for reading and instruction together; and so often read till they
are throughly fixed in the memory; and then afterwards, as he
grows ripe for them, may in their turns on fit occasions be inculcated
as the standing and sacred rules of his life and actions. But the read-
ing of the whole Scripture indifferently, is what I think very incon-
venient for children, till after having been made acquainted with the
plainest fundamental parts of it, they have got some kind of general

134 JOHN LOCKE

view of what they ought principally to believe and practise; which
yet, I think, they ought to receive in the very words of the scripture,
and not in such as men prepossess'd by systems and analogies are apt
in this case to make use of and force upon them. Dr, Worthington, to
avoid this, has made a catechism, which has all its answers in the
precise words of the Scripture; a thing of good example, and such a
sound form of words as no Christian can except against as not fit for
his child to learn. Of this, as soon as he can say the Lord's Prayer,
Creed, the Ten Commandments, by heart, it may be fit for him to
learn a question every day, or every week, as his understanding is
able to receive and his memory to retain them. And when he has this
catechism perfectly by heart, so as readily and roundly to answer to
any question in the whole book, it may be convenient to lodge in his
mind the remaining moral rules scatter'd up and down in the Bible,
as the best exercise of his memory, and that which may be always a
rule to him, ready at hand, in the whole conduct of his life.

§ i6o. When he can read English well, it will be seasonable to
enter him in writing: and here the first thing should be taught him is
to hold his pen right; and this he should be perfect in before he
should be suffered to put it to paper: For not only children but any
body else that would do any thing well, should never be put upon too
much of it at once, or be set to perfect themselves in two parts of an
action at the same time, if they can possibly be separated. I think
the Italian way of holding the pen between the thumb and the fore-
finger alone, may be best; but in this you may consult some good
writing-master, or any other person who writes well and quick.
When he has learn'd to hold his pen right, in the next place he should
learn how to lay his paper, and place his arm and body to it. These
practices being got over, the way to teach him to write without much
trouble, is to get a plate graved with the characters of such a hand
as you like best: but you must remember to have them a pretty deal
bigger than he should ordinarily write; for every one naturally comes
by degrees to write a less hand than he at first was taught, but never
a bigger. Such a plate being graved, let several sheets of good writ-
ing-paper be printed off with red ink, which he has nothing to do but
go over with a good pen fill'd with black ink, which will quickly
bring his hand to the formation of those characters, being at first

LATIN 135

shewed where to begin, and how to form every letter. And when he
can do that well, he must then exercise on fair paper; and so may
easily be brought to write the hand you desire.

§ 161. When he can write well and quick, I think it may be con-
venient not only to continue the exercise of his hand in writing, but
also to improve the use of it farther in drawing; a thing very useful
to a gentleman in several occasions; but especially if he travel, as that
which helps a man often to express, in a few lines well put together,
what a whole sheet of paper in writing would not be able to repre-
sent and make intelligible. How many buildings may a man see,
how many machines and habits meet with, the ideas whereof would
be easily retain'd and communicated by a little skill in drawing;
which being committed to words, are in danger to be lost, or at best
but ill retained in the most exact descriptions? I do not mean that
I would have your son a perfect painter; to be that to any tolerable
degree, will require more time than a young gentleman can spare
from his other improvements of greater moment. But so much
insight into perspective and skill in drawing, as will enable him to
represent tolerably on paper any thing he sees, except faces, may, I
think, be got in a little time, especially if he have a genius to it;
but where that is wanting, unless it be in the things absolutely
necessary, it is better to let him pass them by quietly, than to vex him
about them to no purpose: and therefore in this, as in all other things
not absolutely necessary, the rule holds, nil invita Minerva.

% I. Short-hand, an art, as I have been told, known only in Eng-
land, may perhaps be thought worth the learning, both for dispatch
in what men write for their own memory, and concealment of what
they would not have he open to every eye. For he that has once
learn'd any sort of character, may easily vary it to his own private use
or fancy, and with more contraction suit it to the business he would
employ it in. Mr. Rich's, the best contriv'd of any I have seen, may, as
I think, by one who knows and considers grammar well, be made
much easier and shorter. But for the learning this compendious way
of writing, there will be no need hastily to look out a master;
it will be early enough when any convenient opportunity offers itself
at any time, after his hand is well settled in fair and quick writing.
For boys have but little use of short hand, and should by no means

136 JOHN LOCKE

practise it till they write perfectly well, and have throughly fixed
the habit of doing so.

§ 162. As soon as he can speak English, 'tis time for him to learn
some other language. This no body doubts of, when French is
propos'd. And the reason is, because people are accustomed to the
right way of teaching that language, which is by talking it into
children in constant conversation, and not by grammatical rules.
The Latin tongue would easily be taught the same way, if his tutor,
being constantly with him, would talk nothing else to him, and make
him answer still in the same language. But because French is a
living language, and to be used more in speaking, that should be
first learned, that the yet pliant organs of speech might be accustomed
to a due formation of those sounds, and he get the habit of pro-
nouncing French well, which is the harder to be done the longer it
is delay 'd.

§ 163. When he can speak and read French well, which in this
method is usually in a year or two, he should proceed to Latin, which
'tis a wonder parents, when they have had the experiment in
French, should not think ought to be learned the same way, by talk-
ing and reading. Only care is to be taken whilst he is learning these
foreign languages, by speaking and reading nothing else with his
tutor, that he do not forget to read English, which may be preserved
by his mother or some body else hearing him read some chosen parts
of the scripture or other English book every day.

§ 164. Latin I look upon as absolutely necessary to a gentleman;
and indeed custom, which prevails over every thing, has made it so
much a part of education, that even those children are whipp'd to it,
and made spend many hours of their precious time uneasily in Latin,
who after they are once gone from school, are never to have more
to do with it as long as they live. Can there be any thing more ridicu-
lous, than that a father should waste his own money and his son's
time in setting him to learn the Roman language, when at the same
time he designs him for a trade, wherein he having no use of Latin,
fails not to forget that little which he brought from school, and which
'tis ten to one he abhors for the ill usage it procured him? Could
it be believed, unless we had every where amongst us examples of
it, that a child should be forced to learn the rudiments of a language

LATIN 137

which he is never to use in the course of life that he is designed to,
and neglect all the while the writing a good hand and casting ac-
counts, which are of great advantage in all conditions of life, and to
most trades indispensably necessary? But though these qualifica-
tions, requisite to trade and commerce and the business of the world,
are seldom or never to be had at grammar-schools, yet thither not
only gentlemen send their younger sons, intended for trades, but
even tradesmen and farmers fail not to send their children, though
they have neither intention nor ability to make them scholars. If you
ask them why they do this, they think it as strange a question as if
you should ask them, why they go to church. Custom serves for
reason, and has, to those who take it for reason, so consecrated this
method, that it is almost religiously observed by them, and they stick
to it, as if their children had scarce an orthodox education unless
they learned Lilly's grammar.

§ 165. But how necessary soever Latin be to some, and is thought
to be to others to whom it is of no manner of use and service; yet the
ordinary way of learning it in a grammar-school is that which having
had thoughts about I cannot be forward to encourage. The reasons
against it are so evident and cogent, that they have prevailed with
some intelligent persons to quit the ordinary road, not without suc-
cess, though the method made use of was not exactly what I imagine
the easiest, and in short is this. To trouble the child with no grammar
at all, but to have Latin, as English has been, without the perplexity
of rules, talked into him; for if you will consider it, Latin is no more
unknown to a child, when he comes into the world, than English:
and yet he learns English without master, rule, or grammar; and so
might he Latin too, as Tully did, if he had some body always to talk
to him in this language. And when we so often see a French woman
teach an English girl to speak and read French perfectly in a year
or two, without any rule of grammar, or any thing else but prattling
to her, I cannot but wonder how gentlemen have overseen this way
for their sons, and thought them more dull or incapable than their
daughters.

§ 166. If therefore a man could be got, who himself speaking good
Latin, would always be about your son, talk constantly to him, and
suffer him to speak or read nothing else, this would be the true

138 JOHN LOCKE

and genuine way, and that which I would propose, not only as the
easiest and best, wherein a child might, without pains or chiding,
get a language, which others are wont to be whipt for at school six
or seven years together: but also as that, wherein at the same time
he might have his mind and manners formed, and he be instructed
to boot in several sciences, such as are a good part of geography,
astronomy, chronology, anatomy, besides some parts of history, and
all other parts of knowledge of things that fall under the senses and
require litde more than memory. For there, if we would take the
true way, our knowledge should begin, and in those things be laid
the foundation; and not in the abstract notions of logic\ and meta-
physic]{s, which are fitter to amuse than inform the understanding
in its first setting out towards knowledge. When young men have
had their heads employ'd a while in those abstract speculations
without finding the success and improvement, or that use of them,
which they expected, they are apt to have mean thoughts either of
learning or themselves; they are tempted to quit their studies, and
throw away their books as containing nothing but hard words and
empty sounds; or else, to conclude, that if there be any real knowl-
edge in them, they themselves have not understandings capable
of it. That this is so, perhaps I could assure you upon my own
experience. Amongst other things to be learned by a young gen-
tleman in this method, whilst others of his age are wholly taken
up with Latin and languages, I may also set down geometry for
one; having known a young gentleman, bred something after
this way, able to demonstrate several propositions in Euclid before
he was thirteen.

§ 167. But if such a man cannot be got, who speaks good Latin,
and being able to instruct your son in all these parts of knowledge,
will undertake it by this method; the next best is to have him taught
as near this way as may be, which is by taking some easy and pleas-
ant book, such as ^sop's Fables, and writing the English translation
(made as literal as it can be) in one line, and the Latin words which
answer each of them, just over it in another. These let him read every
day over and over again, till he perfectly understands the Latin;
and then go on to another fable, till he be also perfect in that, not
omitting what he is already perfect in, but sometimes reviewing that,

LATIN 139

to keep it in his memory. And when he comes to write, let these
be set him for copies, which with the exercise of his hand will also
advance him to Latin. This being a more imperfect way than by
talking Latin unto him; the formation of the verbs first, and after-
wards the declensions of the nouns and pronouns perfectly learned by
heart, may facilitate his acquaintance with the genius and manner
of the Latin tongue, which varies the signification of verbs and
nouns, not as the modern languages do by particles prefix'd, but by
changing the last syllables. More than this of grammar, I think he
need not have, till he can read himself Sanctii Minerva, with Sciop-
pius and Perizonius's notes.

In teaching of children, this too, I think, is to be observed, that in
most cases where they stick, they are not to be farther puzzled by
putting them upon finding it out themselves; as by asking such
questions as these, {viz.) which is the nominative case, in the sen-
tence they are to construe; or demanding what aufero signifies, to
lead them to the knowledge what abstlere signifies, &c., when they
cannot readily tell. This wastes time only in disturbing them; for
whilst they are learning, and apply themselves with attention, they
are to be kept in good humour, and every thing made easy to them,
and as pleasant as possible. Therefore, wherever they are at a stand,
and are willing to go forwards, help them presendy over the diffi-
culty, without any rebuke or chiding, remembering, that where
harsher ways are taken, they are the effect only of pride and peevish-
ness in the teacher, who expects children should instandy be mas-
ters of as much as he knows; whereas he should rather consider, that
his business is to settle in them habits, not angrily to inculcate rules,
which serve for little in the conduct of our lives; at least are of no
use to children, who forget them as soon as given. In sciences where
their reason is to be exercised, I will not deny but this method may
sometimes be varied, and difficulties proposed on purpose to excite
industry, and accustom the mind to employ its own strength and
sagacity in reasoning. But yet, I guess, this is not to be done to
children, whilst very young, nor at their entrance upon any sort of
knowledge: then every thing of itself is difficult, and the great use
and skill of a teacher is to make all as easy as he can: but particularly
in learning of languages there is least occasion for posing of chil-

140 JOHN LOCKE

dren. For languages being to be learned by rote, custom and mem-
ory, are then spoken in greatest perfection, when all rules of gram-
mar are utterly forgotten. I grant the grammar of a language is
sometimes very carefully to be studied, but it is not to be studied but
by a grown man, when he applies himself to the understanding of
any language critically, yvhich is seldom the business of any but
professed scholars. This I think will be agreed to, that if a gentle-
man be to study any language, it ought to be that of his own country,
that he may understand the language which he has constant use of,
with the utmost accuracy.

There is yet a further reason, why masters and teachers should raise
no difficulties to their scholars; but on the contrary should smooth
their way, and readily help them forwards, where they find them
stop. Children's minds are narrow and weak, and usually susceptible
but of one thought at once. Whatever is in a child's head, fills it for
the time, especially if set on with any passion. It should therefore
be the skill and art of the teacher to clear their heads of all other
thoughts whilst they are learning of any thing, the better to make
room for what he would instill into them, that it may be received
with attention and application, without which it leaves no impres-
sion. The natural temper of children disposes their minds to wan-
der. Novelty alone takes them; whatever that presents, they are
presently eager to have a taste of, and are as soon satiated with it.
They quickly grow weary of the same thing, and so have almost
their whole delight in change and variety. It is a contradiction to the
natural state of childhood for them to fix their fleeting thoughts.
Whether this be owing to the temper of their brains, or the quick-
ness or instability of their animal spirits, over which the mind has
not yet got a full command; this is visible, that it is a pain to children
to keep their thoughts steady to any thing. A lasting continued at-
tention is one of the hardest tasks can be imposed on them; and
therefore, he that requires their application, should endeavour to
make what he proposes as grateful and agreeable as possible; at
least he ought to take care not to join any displeasing or frightful
idea with it. If they come not to their books with some kind of liking
and relish, 'tis no wonder their thoughts should be perpetually shift-

LATIN 141

ing from what disgusts them; and seek better entertainment in more
pleasing objects, after which they will unavoidably be gadding.

'Tis, I know, the usual method of tutors, to endeavour to procure
attention in their scholars, and to fix their minds to the business in
hand, by rebukes and corrections, if they find them ever so litde
wandering. But such treatment is sure to produce the quite con-
trary effect. Passionate words or blows from the tutor fill the child's
mind with terror and affrightment, which immediately takes it
wholly up, and leaves no room for other impressions. I believe there
is nobody that reads this, but may recollect what disorder hasty
or imperious words from his parents or teachers have caused in his
thoughts; how for the time it has turned his brains, so that he scarce
knew what was said by or to him. He presently lost the sight of
what he was upon, his mind was filled with disorder and confusion,
and in that state was no longer capable of attention to any thing else.

'Tis true, parents and governors ought to settle and establish their
authority by an awe over the minds of those under their tuition; and
to rule them by that: but when they have got an ascendant over them,
they should use it with great moderation, and not make themselves
such scare-crows that their scholars should always tremble in their
sight. Such an austerity may make their government easy to them-
selves, but of very little use to their pupils. 'Tis impossible children
should learn any thing whilst their thoughts are possessed and dis-
turbed with any passion, especially fear, which makes the strongest
impression on their yet tender and weak spirits. Keep the mind in
an easy calm temper, when you would have it receive your instruc-
tions or any increase of knowledge. 'Tis as impossible to draw
fair and regular characters on a trembHng mind as on a shaking
paper.

The great skill of a teacher is to get and keep the attention of his
scholar; whilst he has that, he is sure to advance as fast as the learn-
er's abilities will carry him; and without that, all his bustle and
pother will be to little or no purpose. To attain this, he should make
the child comprehend (as much as may be) the usefulness of what
he teaches him, and let him see, by what he has learnt, that he can
do something which he could not do before; something, which gives

142 JOHN LOCKE

him some power and real advantage above others who are ignorant
of it. To this he should add sweetness in all his instructions, and by
a certain tenderness in his whole carriage, make the child sensible
that he loves him and designs nothing but his good, the only way to
beget love in the child, which will make him hearken to his lessons,
and relish what he teaches him.

Nothing but obstinacy should meet with any imperiousness or
rough usage. All other faults should be corrected with a gentle hand;
and kind engaging words will work better and more effectually upon
a willing mind, and even prevent a good deal of that perverseness
which rough and imperious usage often produces in well disposed
and generous minds. 'Tis true, obstinacy and wilful neglects must
be mastered, even though it cost blows to do it: but I am apt to
think perverseness in the pupils is often the effect of frowardness in
the tutor; and that most children would seldom have deserved blows,
if needless and misapplied roughness had not taught them ill-nature,
and given them an aversion for their teacher and all that comes
from him.

Inadvertency, forgetfulness, unsteadiness, and wandering of
thought, are the natural faults of childhood; and therefore, where
they are not observed to be wilful, are to be mention'd softly, and
gain'd upon by time. If every slip of this kind produces anger and
rating, the occasions of rebuke and corrections will return so often,
that the tutor will be a constant terror and uneasiness to his pupils.
Which one thing is enough to hinder their profiting by his lessons,
and to defeat all his methods of instruction.

Let the awe he has got upon their minds be so tempered with the
constant marks of tenderness and good will, that affection may spur
them to their duty, and make them find a pleasure in complying
with his dictates. This will bring them with satisfaction to their
tutor; make them hearken to him, as to one who is their friend,
that cherishes them, and takes pains for their good: this will keep
their thoughts easy and free whilst they are with him, the only tem-
per wherein the mind is capable of receiving new informations, and
of admitting into itself those impressions, which, if not taken and
retain'd, all that they and their teachers do together is lost labour;
there is much uneasiness and little learning.

LATIN 143

§ 168. When by this way of interUning Latin and English one
with another, he has got a moderate knowledge of the Latin tongue,
he may then be advanced a httle farther to the reading of some other
easy Latin-hoo\i, such as Justin or Eutropius; and to make the read-
ing and understanding of it the less tedious and difficult to him, let
him help himself if he pleases with the English translation. Nor
let the objection that he will then know it only by rote, fright any
one. This, when well consider'd, is not of any moment against, but
plainly for this way of learning a language. For languages are only
to be learned by rote; and a man who does not speak English or
Latin perfectly by rote, so that having thought of the thing he would
speak of, his tongue of course, without thought of rule or grammar,
falls into the proper expression and idiom of that language, does not
speak it well, nor is master of it. And I would fain have any one
name to me that tongue, that any one can learn, or speak as he should
do, by the rules of grammar. Languages were made not by rules or
art, but by accident, and the common use of the people. And he that
will speak them well, has no other rule but that; nor any thing to
trust to, but his memory, and the habit of speaking after the fashion
learned from those, that are allowed to speak properly, which in
other words is only to speak by rote.

It will possibly be asked here, is grammar then of no use.f" and
have those who have taken so much pains in reducing several
languages to rules and observations; who have writ so much about
declensions and conjugations, about concords and syntaxis, lost their
labour, and been learned to no purpose? I say not so; grammar has
its place too. But this I think I may say, there is more stir a great
deal made with it than there needs, and those are tormented about
it, to whom it does not at all belong; I mean children, at the age
wherein they are usually perplexed with it in grammar-schools.

There is nothing more evident, than that languages learnt by rote
serve well enough for the common affairs of life and ordinary com-
merce. Nay, persons of quality of the softer sex, and such of them
as have spent their time in well-bred company, shew us, that this
plain natural way, without the least study or knowledge of grammar,
can carry them to a great degree of elegancy and politeness in their
language: and there are ladies who, without knowing what tenses

144 JOHN LOCKE

and participles, adverbs and prepositions are, speak as properly and
as correcdy (they might take it for an ill compliment if I said as
any country school-master) as most gentlemen who have been bred
up in the ordinary methods of grammar-schools. Grammar there-
fore we see may be spared in some cases. The question then will be,
to whom should it be taught, and when? To this I answer:

1. Men learn languages for the ordinary intercourse of society
and communication of thoughts in common life, without any farther
design in the use of them. And for this purpose, the original way of
learning a language by conversation not only serves well enough,
but is to be preferred as the most expedite, proper and natural.
Therefore, to this use of language one may answer, that grammar is
not necessary. This so many of my readers must be forced to allow,
as understand what I here say, and who conversing with others,
understand them without having ever been taught the grammar of
the English tongue. Which I suppose is the case of incomparably
the greatest part of English men, of whom I have never yet known
any one who learned his mother-tongue by rules.

2. Others there are, the greatest part of whose business in this
world is to be done with their tongues and with their pens; and to
these it is convenient, if not necessary, that they should speak
properly and correctly, whereby they may let their thoughts into
other men's minds the more easily, and with the greater impression.
Upon this account it is, that any sort of speaking, so as will make
him be understood, is not thought enough for a gentleman. He
ought to study grammar amongst the other helps of speaking well,
but it must be the grammar of his own tongue, of the language he
uses, that he may understand his own country speech nicely, and
speak it properly, without shocking the ears of those it is addressed
to, with solecisms and offensive irregularities. And to this purpose
grammar is necessary; but it is the grammar only of their own proper
tongues, and to those only who would take pains in cultivating their
language, and in perfecting their stiles. Whether all gentlemen
should not do this, I leave to be considered, since the want of pro-
priety and grammatical exactness is thought very misbecoming one
of that rank, and usually draws on one guilty of such faults the cen-

LATIN 145

sure of having had a lower breeding and worse company than suits
with his quahty. If this be so, (as I suppose it is) it will be matter
of wonder why young gentlemen are forced to learn the grammars
of foreign and dead languages, and are never once told of the gram-
mar of their own tongues, they do not so much as know there is
any such thing, much less is it made their business to be instructed
in it. Nor is their own language ever proposed to them as worthy
their care and cultivating, though they have daily use of it, and are
not seldom, in the future course of their lives, judg'd of by their
handsome or awkward way of expressing themselves in it. Whereas
the languages whose grammars they have been so much employed in,
are such as probably they shall scarce ever speak or write; or if, upon
occasion, this should happen, they should be excused for the mis-
takes and faults they make in it. Would not a Chinese who took
notice of this way of breeding, be apt to imagine that all our young
gentlemen were designed to be teachers and professors of the dead
languages of foreign countries, and not to be men of business in
their own?

3. There is a third sort of men, who apply themselves to two or
three foreign, dead, and (which amongst us are called the) learned
languages, make them their study, and pique themselves upon their
skill in them. No doubt, those who propose to themselves the learn-
ing of any language with this view, and would be critically exact
in it, ought carefully to study the grammar of it. I would not be
mistaken here, as if this were to undervalue Gree\ and Latin. I grant
these are languages of great use and excellency, and a man can have
no place among the learned in this part of the world, who is a
stranger to them. But the knowledge a gentleman would ordinarily
draw for his use out of the Roman and Gree\ writers, I think he
may attain without studying the grammars of those tongues, and by
bare reading, may come to understand them sufficiently for all his
purposes. How much farther he shall at any time be concerned to
look into the grammar and critical niceties of either of these tongues,
he himself will be able to determine when he comes to propose to
himself the study of any thing that shall require it. Which brings me
to the other part of the enquiry, viz.

146 JOHN LOCKE

When Grammar should be taught?

To which, upon the premised grounds, the answer is obvious, viz.

That if grammar ought to be taught at any time, it must be to one
that can speak the language already; how else can he be taught the
grammar of it? This at least is evident from the practice of the wise
and learned nations amohgst the antients. They made it a part of
education to cultivate their own, not foreign tongues. The Gree\s
counted all other nations barbarous, and had a contempt for their
languages. And tho' the Gree\ learning grew in credit amongst the
Romans, towards the end of their commonwealth, yet it was the
Roman tongue that was made the study of their youth: their own
language they were to make use of, and therefore it was their own
language they were instructed and exercised in.

But, more particularly to determine the proper season for gram-
mar, I do not see how it can reasonably be made any one's study,
but as an introduction to rhetorick; when it is thought time to put
any one upon the care of polishing his tongue, and of speaking better
than the illiterate, then is the time for him to be instructed in the rules
of grammar, and not before. For grammar being to teach men not
to speak, but to speak correctly and according to the exact rules o£
the tongue, which is one part of elegancy, there is little use of the
one to him that has no need of the other; where rhetorick is not
necessary, grammar may be spared. I know not why any one should
waste his time, and beat his head about the Latin grammar, who
does not intend to be a critick, or make speeches and write dis-
patches in it. When any one finds in himself a necessity or disposi-
tion to study any foreign language to the bottom, and to be nicely
exact in the knowledge of it, it will be time enough to take a gram-
matical survey of it. If his use of it be only to understand some books
writ in it, without a critical knowledge of the tongue itself, reading
alone, as I have said, will attain this end, without charging the mind
with the multiplied rules and intricacies of grammar.

§ 169. For the exercise of his writing, let him sometimes translate
Latin into English: but the learning of Latin being nothing but the
learning of words, a very unpleasant business both to young and old,
join as much other real knowledge with it as you can, beginning

THEMES 147

Still with that which lies most obvious to the senses; such as is the
knowledge of minerals, plants and animals, and particularly timber
and fruit-trees, their parts, and ways of propagation, wherein a great
deal may be taught a child which will not be useless to the man: but
more especially geography, astronomy, and anatomy. But whatever
you are teaching him, have a care still that you do not clog him with
too much at once; or make anything his business but downright
virtue, or reprove him for any thing but vice, or some apparent
tendency to it.

§ 170. But if after all his fate be to go to school to get the Latin
tongue, 'twill be in vain to talk to you concerning the method I think
best to be observ'd in schools; you must submit to that you find there,
not expect to have it changed for your son; but yet by all means ob-
tain, if you can, that he be not employed in making Latin themes and
declamations, and least of all, verses of any kind. You may insist
on it, if it will do any good, that you have no design to make him
either a Latin orator or poet, but barely would have him under-
stand perfectly a Latin author; and that you observe, those who teach
any of the modern languages, and that with success, never amuse
their scholars to make speeches or verses either in French or Italian,
their business being language barely, and not invention.

§ 171. But to tell you a little more fully why I would not have
him exercised in making of themes and verses, i. As to themes, they
have, I confess, the pretence of something useful, which is to teach
people to speak handsomely and well on any subject; which, if it
could be attained this way, I own would be a great advantage, there
being nothing more becoming a gentleman, nor more useful in all the
occurrences of life, than to be able, on any occasion, to speak well and
to the purpose. But this I say, that the making of themes, as is usual
at schools, helps not one jot towards it: for do but consider what it is,
in making a theme, that a young lad is employed about; it is to make
a speech on some Latin saying; as Omnia vincit amor; or Non licet
in Bella bis peccare, O'c. And here the poor lad, who wants knowl-
edge of those things he is to speak of, which is to be had only from
time and observation, must set his invention on the rack, to say
something where he knows nothing; which is a sort of Egyptian
tyranny, to bid them make bricks who have not yet any of the mate-

148 JOHN LOCKE

rials. And therefore it is usual in such cases for the poor children
to go to those of higher forms with this petition, Pray give me a little
sense; which, whether it be more reasonable or more ridiculous, it is
not easy to determine. Before a man can be in any capacity to speak
on any subject, 'tis necessary he be acquainted with it; or else it is as
foolish to set him to discourse of it, as to set a blind man to talk of
colours, or a deaf man of musick. And would you not think him a
little crack'd, who would require another to make an argument on
a moot point, who understands nothing of our laws? And what, I
pray, do school-boys understand concerning those matters which
are used to be proposed to them in their themes as subjects to dis-
course on, to whet and exercise their fancies?

§ 172. In the next place, consider the language that their themes
are made in : 'tis Latin, a language foreign in their country, and long
since dead every where: a language which your son, 'tis a thousand
to one, shall never have an occasion once to make a speech in as long
as he lives after he comes to be a man; and a language wherein the
manner of expressing one's self is so far different from ours, that to
be perfect in that would very little improve the purity and facility
of his English stile. Besides that, there is now so little room or use
for set speeches in our own language in any part of our English
business, that I can see no pretence for this sort of exercise in our
schools, unless it can be supposed, that the making of set Latin
speeches should be the way to teach men to speak well in English
extempore. The way to that, I should think rather to be this: that
there should be propos'd to young gentlemen rational and useful
questions, suited to their age and capacities, and on subjects not
wholly unknown to them nor out of their way: such as these, when
they are ripe for exercises of this nature, they should extempore, or
after a little meditation upon the spot, speak to, without penning of
any thing: for I ask, if we will examine the effects of this way of
learning to speak well, who speak best in any business, when occa-
sion calls them to it upon any debate, either those who have accus-
tomed themselves to compose and write down beforehand what they
would say; or those, who thinking only of the matter, to under-
stand that as well as they can, use themselves only to speak extem-
pore? And he that shall judge by this, will be little apt to think, that

VERSES 149

the accustoming him to studied speeches and set compositions, is the
way to fit a young gentleman for business.

§ 173. But perhaps we shall be told, 'tis to improve and perfect
them in the Latin tongue. 'Tis true, that is their proper business at
school; but the making of themes is not the way to it: that perplexes
their brains about invention of things to be said, not about the sig-
nification of words to be learn'd; and when they are making a
theme, tis thoughts they search and sweat for, and not language.
But the learning and mastery of a tongue being uneasy and un-
pleasant enough in itself, should not be cumbred with any other
difficulties, as is done in this way of proceeding. In fine, if boys' in-
vention be to be quicken'd by such exercise, let them make themes in
English, where they have facility and a command of words, and will
better see what kind of thoughts they have, when put into their own
language. And if the Latin tongue be to be learned, let it be done
the easiest way, without toiling and disgusting the mind by so uneasy
an employment as that of making speeches joined to it.

§ 174. If these may be any reasons against children's making Latin
themes at school, I have much more to say, and of more wfeight,
against their making verses; verses of any sort : for if he has no genius
to poetry, 'tis the most unreasonable thing in the world to torment
a child and waste his time about that which can never succeed; and
if he have a poetick vein, 'tis to me the strangest thing in the world
that the father should desire or suffer it to be cherished or improved.
Methinks the parents should labour to have it stifled and suppressed
as much as may be; and I know not what reason a father can have
to wish his son a poet, who does not desire to have him bid defiance
to all other callings and business; which is not yet the worst of the
case; for if he proves a successful rhymer, and gets once the reputa-
tion of a wit, I desire it may be considered what company and places
he is like to spend his time in, nay, and estate too: for it is very
seldom seen, that any one discovers mines of gold or silver in Par-
nassus. 'Tis a pleasant air, but a barren soil; and there are very few
instances of those who have added to their patrimony by any thing
they have reaped from thence. Poetry and gaming, which usually
go together, are alike in this too, that they seldom bring any advantage
but to those who have nothing else to live on. Men of estates almost

150 JOHN LOCKE

constantly go away losers; and 'tis well if they escape at a cheaper
rate than their whole estates, or the greatest part of them. If there-
fore you would not have your son the fiddle to every jovial com-
pany, without whom the sparks could not relish their wine nor know
how to pass an afternoon idly; if you would not have him to waste
his time and estate to divert others, and contemn the dirty acres left
him by his ancestors, I do not think you will much care he should be
a poet, or that his school-master should enter him in versifying. But
yet, if any one will think poetry a desirable quaUty in his son, and
that the study of it would raise his fancy and parts, he must needs
yet confess, that to that end reading the excellent Gree\ and Roman
poets is of more use than making bad verses of his own, in a lan-
guage that is not his own. And he whose design it is to excel in
English poetry, would not, I guess, think the way to it were to make
his first essays in Latin verses.

§ 175. Another thing very ordinary in the vulgar method of gram-
mar-schools there is, of which I see no use at all, unless it be to
baulk young lads in the way to learning languages, which, in my
opinion, should be made as easy and pleasant as may be; and that
which was painful in it, as much as possible quite removed. That
which I mean, and here complain of, is, their being forced to learn
by heart, great parcels of the authors which are taught them; wherein
I can discover no advantage at all, especially to the business they are
upon. Languages are to be learned only by reading and talking, and
not by scraps of authors got by heart; which when a man's head is
stuffed with, he has got the just furniture of a pedant, and 'tis the
ready way to make him one; than which there is nothing less be-
coming a gentleman. For what can be more ridiculous, than to mix
the rich and handsome thoughts and sayings of others with a deal
of poor stuff of his own; which is thereby the more exposed, and has
no other grace in it, nor will otherwise recommend the speaker, than
a thread-bare russet coat would, that was set off with large patches of
scarlet and glittering brocade. Indeed, where a passage comes in the
way, whose matter is worth remembrance, and the expression of it
very close and excellent, (as there are many such in the antient
authors) it may not be amiss to lodge it in the mind of young schol-
ars, and with such admirable strokes of those great masters some-

MEMORITER I5I

times exercise the memories of school-boys. But their learning of their
lessons by heart, as they happen to fall out in their books, without
choice or distinction, I know not what it serves for, but to misspend
their time and pains, and give them a disgust and aversion to their
books, wherein they find nothing but useless trouble.

§ 176. I hear it is said, that children should be employ'd in getting
things by heart, to exercise and improve their memories. I could wish
this were said with as much authority of reason, as it is with for-
wardness of assurance, and that this practice were established upon
good observation more than old custom: for it is evident, that
strength of memory is owing to an happy constitution, and not to
any habitual improvement got by exercise. 'Tis true, what the mind
is intent upon, and, for fear of letting it slip, often imprints afresh
on itself by frequent reflection, that it is apt to retain, but still ac-
cording to its own natural strength of retention. An impression
made on bees-wax or lead, will not last so long as on brass or steel.
Indeed, if it be renew'd often, it may last the longer; but every new
reflecting on it is a new impression; and 'tis from thence one is to
reckon, if one would know how long the mind retains it. But the
learning pages of Latin by heart, no more fits the memory for reten-
tion of any thing else, than the graving of one sentence in lead makes
it the more capable of retaining firmly any other characters. If such
a sort of exercise of the memory were able to give it strength, and
improve our parts, players of all other people must needs have the
best memories and be the best company. But whether the scraps they
have got into their heads this way, make them remember other things
the better; and whether their parts be improved proportionably to
the pains they have taken in getting by heart others' sayings, expe-
rience will shew. Memory is so necessary to all parts and conditions
of life, and so little is to be done without it, that we are not to fear
it should grow dull and useless for want of exercise, if exercise would
make it grow stronger. But I fear this faculty of the mind is not
capable of much help and amendment in general by any exercise or
endeavour of ours, at least not by that used upon this pretence in
grammar-schools. And if Xerxes was able to call every common
soldier by name in his army that consisted of no less than an hundred
thousand men, I think it may be guessed, he got not this wonderful

152 JOHN LOCKE

ability by learning his lessons by heart when he was a boy. This
method of exercising and improving the memory by toilsome repeti-
tions without book of what they read, is, I think, little used in the
education of princes, which if it had that advantage is talked of,
should be as little neglected in them as in the meanest school-boys:
princes having as much need of good memories as any men living,
and have generally an equal share in this faculty with other men;
though it has never been taken care of this way. What the mind is
intent upon and careful of, that it remembers best, and for the reason
above-mentioned: to which, if method and order be joined, all is
done, I think, that can be, for the help of a weak memory; and he
that will take any other way to do it, especially that of charging it
with a train of other peoples' words, which he that learns cares not
for, will, I guess, scarce find the profit answer half the time and
pains employ'd in it.

I do not mean hereby, that there should be no exercise given to
children's memories. I think their memories should be employ'd, but
not in learning by rote whole pages out of books, which, the lesson
being once said, and that task over, are delivered up again to oblivion
and neglected for ever. This mends neither the memory nor the
mind. What they should learn by heart out of authors, I have above
mentioned: and such wise and useful sentences being once given in
charge to their memories, they should never be suffer'd to forget
again, but be often called to account for them: whereby, besides the
use those sayings may be to them in their future life, as so many
good rules and observations, they will be taught to reflect often,
and bethink themselves what they have to remember, which is the
only way to make the memory quick and useful. The custom of
frequent reflection will keep their minds from running adrift, and
call their thoughts home from useless unattentive roving: and there-
fore I think it may do well, to give them something every day to
remember, but something still, that is in itself worth the remember-
ing, and what you would never have out of mind, whenever you call,
or they themselves search for it. This will oblige them often to turn
their thoughts inwards, than which you cannot wish them a better
intellectual habit.

LATIN 153

§ 177. But under whose care soever a child is put to be taught dur-
ing the tender and flexible years of his life, this is certain, it should
be one who thinks Latin and language the least part of education;
one who knowing how much virtue and a well-temper'd soul is to
be preferred to any sort of learning or language, makes it his chief
business to form the mind of his scholars, and give that a right dis-
position; which if once got, though all the rest should be neglected,
would in due time produce all the rest; and which, if it be not got
and settled so as to keep out ill and vicious habits, languages and
sciences and all the other accomplishments of education, will be to
no purpose but to make the worse or more dangerous man. And
indeed whatever stir there is made about getting of Latin as the
great and difficult business, his mother may teach it him herself, if
she will but spend two or three hours in a day with him, and make
him read the Evangelists in Latin to her: for she need but buy a
Latin Testament, and having got some body to mark the last syl-
lable b'lt one where it is long in words above two syllables, (which
is enough to regulate her pronunciation, and accenting the words)
read daily in the Gospels, and then let her avoid understanding
them in Latin if she can. And when she understands the Evange-
lists in Latin, let her, in the same manner, read JEsop's Fables, and
so proceed on to Eutropius, Justin, and other such books. I do not
mention this, as an imagination of what I fancy may do, but as of a
thing I have known done, and the Latin tongue with ease got this
way.

But, to return to what I was saying: he that takes on him the
charge of bringing up young men, especially young gentlemen,
should have something more in him than Latin, more than even a
knowledge in the liberal sciences: he should be a person of eminent
virtue and prudence, and with good sense, have good humour, and
the skill to carry himself with gravity, ease and kindness, in a con-
stant conversation with his pupils. But of this I have spoken at
large in another place.

§ 178. At the same time that he is learning French and Latin, a
child, as has been said, may also be enter'd in Arithmetic^, Geog-
raphy, Chronology, History and Geometry too. For if these be

154 JOHN LOCKE

taught him in French or Latin, when he begins once to understand
either of these tongues, he will get a knowledge in these sciences,
and the language to boot.

Geography I think should be begun with: for the learning of the
figure of the globe, the situation and boundaries of the four parts of
the world, and that of particular kingdoms and countries, being only
an exercise of the eyes and memory, a child with pleasure will learn
and retain them. And this is so certain, that I now live in the house
with a child whom his mother has so well instructed this way in
geography, that he knew the limits of the four parts of the world,
could readily point, being ask'd, to any country upon the globe, or
any county in the map of England; knew all the great rivers, prom-
ontories, straits and bays in the world, and could find the longitude
and latitude of any place, before he was six years old. These things,
that he will thus learn by sight, and have by rote in his memory, are
not all, I confess, that he is to learn upon the globes. But yet it is a
good step and preparation to it, and will make the remainder much
easier, when his judgment is grown ripe enough for it: besides that,
it gets so much time now; and by the pleasure of knowing things,
leads him on insensibly to the gaining of languages.

§ 179. When he has the natural parts of the globe well fix'd in his
memory, it may then be time to begin arithmetic^. By the natural
parts of the globe, I mean the several positions of the parts of the
earth and sea, under different names and distinctions of countries,
not coming yet to those artificial and imaginary lines which have
been invented, and are only suppos'd for the better improvement of
that science.

§ 180. Arithmetic^ is the easiest, and consequently the first sort
of abstract reasoning, which the mind commonly bears or accustoms
itself to: and is of so general use in all parts of life and business, that
scarce any thing is to be done without it. This is certain, a man can-
not have too much of it, nor too perfectly: he should therefore be-
gin to be exercis'd in counting, as soon, and as far, as he is capable of
it; and do something in it every day, till he is master of the art of
numbers'. When he understands addition and subtraction, he then
may be advanced farther in geography, after he is acquainted with
the poleSf zones, parallel circles, and meridians, be taught longitude

ARITHMETICK 1 55

and latitude, and by them be made to understand the use of maps,
and by the numbers placed on their sides, to know the respective
situation of countries, and how to find them out on the terrestrial
globe. Which when he can readily do, he may then be entered in the
celestial; and there going over all the circles again, with a more par-
ticular observation of the Ecliptick, or Zodiack, to fix them all very
clearly and distinctly in his mind, he may be taught the figure and
position of the several constellations, which may be shewed him
first upon the globe, and then in the heavens.

When that is done, and he knows pretty well the constellations of
this our hemisphere, it may be time to give him some notions of this
our planetary world; and to that purpose, it may not be amiss to
make him a draught of the Copernican system, and therein explain
to him the situation of the planets, their respective distances from the
sun, the centre of their revolutions. This will prepare him to under-
stand the motion and theory of the planets, the most easy and natural
way. For since astronomers no longer doubt of the motion of the
planets about the sun, it is fit he should proceed upon that hypoth-
esis, which is not only the simplest and least perplexed for a learner,
but also the likeliest to be true in itself. But in this, as In all other
parts of instruction, great care must be taken with children, to begin
with that which is plain and simple, and to teach them as little as can
be at once, and settle that well in their heads before you proceed to
the next, or any thing new in that science. Give them first one simple
idea, and see that they take it right, and perfectly comprehend it be-
fore you go any farther, and then add some other simple idea which
lies next in your way to what you aim at; and so proceeding by gentle
and insensible steps, children without confusion and amazement will
have their understandings opened and their thoughts extended
farther than could have been expected. And when any one has
learn'd any thing himself, there is no such way to fix it in his mem-
ory, and to encourage him to go on, as to set him to teach it others.

§ i8i. When he has once got such an acquaintance with the globes,
as is above mentioned, he may be fit to be tried in a litde geometry;
wherein I think the first six books of Euclid enough for him to be
taught. For I am in some doubt, whether more to a man of business
be necessary or useful. At least, if he have a genius and inclination

156 JOHN LOCKE

to it, being enter'd so far by his tutor, he will be able to go on of
himself without a teacher.

The globes therefore must be studied, and that diligently; and I
think may be begun betimes, if the tutor will be but careful to dis-
tinguish what the child is capable of knowing, and what not; for
which this may be a rule that perhaps will go a pretty way, viz.
that children may be taught anything that falls under their senses,
especially their sight, as far as their memories only are exercised:
and thus a child very young may learn, which is the Mquator,
which the Meridian, &c. which Europe, and which England, upon
the globes, as soon almost as he knows the rooms of the house he lives
in, if care be taken not to teach him too much at once, nor to set him
upon a new part, till that which he is upon be perfectly learned and
fixed in his memory.

§ 182. With geography, chronology ought to go hand in hand. I
mean the general part of it, so that he may have in his mind a view of
the whole current of time, and the several considerable epochs that
are made use of in history. Without these two, history, which is the
great mistress of prudence and civil knowledge, and ought to be the
proper study of a gentleman, or man of business in the world; with-
out geography and chronology, I say, history will be very ill retain'd,
and very little useful; but be only a jumble of matters of fact, con-
fusedly heaped together without order or instruction. 'Tis by these
two that the actions of mankind are ranked into their proper places
of time and countries, under which circumstances they are not only
much easier kept in the memory, but in that natural order, are only
capable to afford those observations which make a man the better
and the abler for reading them.

§ 183. When I speak of chronology as a science he should be per-
fect in, I do not mean the little controversies that are in it. These are
endless, and most of them of so little importance to a gentleman, as
not to deserve to be enquir'd into, were they capable of an easy de-
cision. And therefore all that learned noise and dust of the chronol-
ogist is wholly to be avoided. The most useful book I have seen in
that part of learning, is a small treatise of Strauchius, which is printed
in twelves, under the title of Breviarium Chronologicum, out of
which may be selected all that is necessary to be taught a young

LAW 157

gentleman concerning chronology; for all that is in that treatise a
learner need not be cumbred with. He has in him the most remark-
able or useful epochs reduced all to that of the Julian Period, which
is the easiest and plainest and surest method that can be made use
of in chronology. To this treatise of Strauchius, Helvicus's tables
may be added, as a book to be turned to on all occasions.

§ 184. As nothing teaches, so nothing delights more than history.
The first of these recommends it to the study of grown men, the lat-
ter makes me think it the fittest for a young lad, who as soon as he is
instructed in chronology, and acquainted with the several epochs
in use in this part of the world, and can reduce them to the Julian
Period, should then have some Latin history put into his hand. The
choice should be directed by the easiness of the stile; for wherever
he begins, chronology will keep it from confusion; and the pleasant-
ness of the subject inviting him to read, the language will insensibly
be got without that terrible vexation and uneasiness which children
suffer where they are put into books beyond their capacity; such as
are the Roman orators and poets, only to learn the Roman language.
When he has by reading master'd the easier, such perhaps as Justin,
Eutropius, Quintius Curtius, Cc. the next degree to these will give
him no great trouble : and thus by a gradual progress from the plain-
est and easiest historians, he may at last come to read the most diffi-
cult and sublime of the Latin authors, such as are Tully, Virgil, and
Horace.

§ 185. The knowledge of virtue, all along from the beginning, in
all the instances he is capable of, being taught him more by practice
than rules; and the love of reputation, instead of satisfying his appe-
tite, being made habitual in him, I know not whether he should read
any other discourses of morality but what he finds in the Bible; or
have any system of ethicks put into his hand till he can read Tally's
Offices not as a school-boy to learn Latin, but as one that would be
informed in the principles and precepts of virtue for the conduct of
his life.

§ 186. When he has pretty well digested Tally's Offices, and
added to it, Puffendorf de Officio Hominis C Civis, it may be sea-
sonable to set him upon Grotius de Jure Belli C Pads, or, which
perhaps is the better of the two, Puffendorf de Jure naturali C Gen-

158 JOHN LOCKE

tium; wherein he will be instructed in the natural rights of men, and
the original and foundations of society, and the duties resulting from
thence. This general part of civil-law and history, are studies which
a gentleman should not barely touch at, but constantly dwell upon,
and never have done with. A virtuous and well-behaved young man,
that is well-versed in the general part of the civil-law (which con-
cerns not the chicane of private cases, but the affairs and intercourse
of civilized nations in general, grounded upon principles of reason)
understands hatin well, and can write a good hand, one may turn
loose into the world with great assurance that he will find em-
ployment and esteem every where.

§ 187. It would be strange to suppose an English gentleman should
be ignorant of the law of his country. This, whatever station he is in,
is so requisite, that from a Justice of the Peace to a Minister of State
I know no place he can well fill without it. I do not mean the
chicane or wrangling and captious part of the law: a gentleman,
whose business is to seek the true measures of right and wrong, and
not the arts how to avoid doing the one, and secure himself in doing
the other, ought to be as far from such a study of the law, as he is
concerned diligently to apply himself to that wherein he may be
serviceable to his country. And to that purpose, I think the right
way for a gentleman to study our law, which he does not design for
his calling, is to take a view of our English constitution and govern-
ment in the antient books of the common-law, and some more mod-
ern writers, who out of them have given an account of this govern-
ment. And having got a true idea of that, then to read our history,
and with it join in every king's reign the laws then made. This will
give an insight into the reason of our statutes, and shew the true
ground upon which they came to be made, and what weight they
ought to have.

§ 188. Rhetoric^ and logic/(^ being the arts that in the ordinary
method usually follow immediately after grammar, it may perhaps
be wondered that I have said so little of them. The reason is, because
of the little advantage young people receive by them : for I have sel-
dom or never observed any one to get the skill of reasoning well, or
speaking handsomely, by studying those rules which pretend to reach
it: and therefore I would have a young gentleman take a view of

STYLE 159

them in the shortest systems could be found, without dweUing long
on the contemplation and study of those formalities. Right reason-
ing is founded on something else than the predicaments and predi-
cables, and does not consist in talking in mode and figure it self. But
'tis beside my present business to enlarge upon this speculation. To
come therefore to what we have in hand; if you would have your
son reason well, let him read Chillingworth; and if you would have
him speak well, let him be conversant in Tully, to give him the true
idea of eloquence; and let him read those things that are well writ
in English, to perfect his style in the purity of our language.

§ 189. If the use and end of right reasoning be to have right no-
tions and a right judgment of things, to distinguish betwixt truth
and falsehood, right and wrong, and to act accordingly; be sure not to
let your son be bred up in the art and formality of disputing, either
practising it himself, or admiring it in others; unless instead of an
able man, you desire to have him an insignificant wrangler, opini-
ator in discourse, and priding himself in contradicting others; or,
which is worse, questioning every thing, and thinking there is no
such thing as truth to be sought, but only victory, in disputing. There
cannot be any thing so disingenuous, so misbecoming a gentleman or
any one who pretends to be a rational creature, as not to yield to plain
reason and the conviction of clear arguments. Is there any thing
more consistent with civil conversation, and the end of all debate,
than not to take an answer, though never so full and satisfactory,
but still to go on with the dispute as long as equivocal sounds can
furnish (a medius terminus) a term to wrangle with on the one
side, or a distinction on the other; whether pertinent or impertinent,
sense or nonsense, agreeing with or contrary to what he had said be-
fore, it matters not. For this, in short, is the way and perfection of
logical disputes, that the opponent never takes any answer, nor the
respondent ever yields to any argument. This neither of them must
do, whatever becomes of truth or knowledge, unless he will pass for
a poor baffled wretch, and lie under the disgrace of not being able
to maintain whatever he has once affirm'd, which is the great aim
and glory in disputing. Truth is to be found and supported by a ma-
ture and due consideration of things themselves, and not by artificial
terms and ways of arguing: these lead not men so much into the

l6o JOHN LOCKE

discovery o£ truth, as into a captious and fallacious use of doubtful
words, which is the most useless and most offensive way of talking,
and such as least suits a gentleman or a lover of truth of any thing
in the world.

There can scarce be a greater defect in a gentleman than not to ex-
press himself well either in writing or speaking. But yet I think I may
ask my reader, whether he doth not know a great many, who live
upon their estates, and so with the name should have the qualities
of gentlemen, who cannot so much as tell a story as they should,
much less speak clearly and persuasively in any business. This I
think not to be so much their fault, as the fault of their education;
for I must, without partiality, do my countrymen this right, that where
they apply themselves, I see none of their neighbours outgo them.
They have been taught rhetoric\, but yet never taught how to ex-
press themselves handsomely with their tongues or pens in the lan-
guage they are always to use; as if the names of the figures that
embellish'd the discourses of those who understood the art of speak-
ing, were the very art and skill of speaking well. This, as all other
things of practice, is to be learn'd not by a few or a great many rules
given, but by exercise and application according to good rules, or
rather patterns, till habits are got, and a facility of doing it well.

Agreeable hereunto, perhaps it might not be amiss to make chil-
dren, as soon as they are capable of it, often to tell a story of any
thing they know; and to correct at first the most remarkable fault
they are guilty of in their way of putting it together. When that
fault is cured, then to shew them the next, and so on, till one after
another, all, at least the gross ones, are mended. When they can tell
tales pretty well, then it may be the time to make them write them.
The Fables of ALsop, the only book almost that I know fit for chil-
dren, may afford them matter for this exercise of writing English,
as well as for reading and translating, to enter them in the Latin
tongue. When they have got past the faults of grammar, and can
join in a continued coherent discourse the several parts of a story,
without bald and unhandsome forms of transition (as is usual) often
repeated, he that desires to perfect them yet farther in this, which is
the first step to speaking well and needs no invention, may have re-
course to Tully, and by putting in practice those rules which that

LETTERS l6l

master of eloquence gives in his first book de inventione, § 20, make
tliem know wherein the skill and graces of an handsome narrative,
according to the several subjects and designs of it, lie. Of each of
which rules fit examples may be found out, and therein they may be
shewn how others have practised them. The antient classick authors
afford plenty of such examples, which they should be made not only
to translate, but have set before them as patterns for their daily imi-
tation.

When they understand how to write English with due connexion,
propriety and order, and are pretty well masters of a tolerable narra-
tive style, they may be advanced to writing of letters; wherein they
should not be put upon any strains of wit or compliment, but taught
to express their own plain easy sense, without any incoherence, con-
fusion or roughness. And when they are perfect in this, they may,
to raise their thoughts, have set before them the examples of Voitures,
for the entertainment of their friends at a distance, with letters of
compliment, mirth, raillery or diversion; and Tully's Epistles, as the
best pattern whether for business or conversation. The writing of
letters has so much to do in ail the occurrences of human life, that
no gentleman can avoid shewing himself in this kind of writing.
Occasions will daily force him to make this use of his pen, which, be-
sides the consequences that, in his affairs, his well or ill managing of
it often draws after it, always lays him open to a severer examination
of his breeding, sense, and abilities, than oral discourses; whose tran-
sient faults dying for the most part with the sound that gives them
life, and so not subject to a strict review, more easily escape observa-
tion and censure.

Had the methods of education been directed to their right end,
one would have thought this so necessary a part could not have been
neglected whilst themes and verses in Latin, of no use at all, were
so constantly every where pressed, to the racking of children's in-
ventions beyond their strength and hindering their chearful progress
in learning the tongues by unnatural difficulties. But custom has
so ordain'd it, and who dares disobey ? And would it not be very un-
reasonable to require of a learned country school-master (who has
all the tropes and figures in Farnaby's Rhetoric\ at his fingers'
ends) to teach his scholar to express himself handsomely in English,

1 62 JOHN LOCKE

when it appears to be so little his business or thought, that the boy's
mother (despised, 'tis like, as illiterate for not having read a system
of logic]{ and rhetoric ^0 outdoes him in it?

To write and speak correctly gives a grace and gains a favourable
attention to what one has to say: and since 'tis English that an Eng-
lish gentleman will have constant use of, that is the language he
should chiefly cultivate, and wherein most care should be taken to
polish and perfect his style. To speak or write better Latin than
English, may make a man be talk'd of, but he would find it more
to his purpose to express himself well in his own tongue, that he uses
every moment, than to have the vain commendation of others for
a very insignificant quality. This I find universally neglected, and no
care taken any where to improve young men in their own language,
that they may thoroughly understand and be masters of it. If any one
among us have a facility or purity more than ordinary in his mother
tongue, it is owing to chance, or his genius, or any thing rather than
to his education or any care of his teacher. To mind what English
his pupil speaks or writes, is below the dignity of one bred up
amongst Gree\ and Latin, though he have but little of them him-
self. These are the learned languages fit only for learned men to
meddle with and teach; English is the language of the illiterate vul-
gar: tho' yet we see the polity of some of our neighbours hath not
thought it beneath the publick care to promote and reward the im-
provement of their own language. Polishing and enriching their
tongue is no small business amongst them; it hath colleges and
stipends appointed it, and there is raised amongst them a great am-
bition and emulation of writing correctly: and we see what they are
come to by it, and how far they have spread one of the worst lan-
guages possibly in this part of the world, if we look upon it as it
was in some few reigns backwards, whatever it be now. The great
men among the Romans were daily exercising themselves in their
own language; and we find yet upon record the names of orators,
who taught some of their emperors Latin, though it were their
mother tongue.

'Tis plain the Greeks were yet more nice in theirs. All other
speech was barbarous to them but their own, and no foreign lan-
guage appears to have been studied or valued amongst that learned

NATURAL PHILOSOPHY 1 63

and acute people; tho' it be past doubt that they borrowed their
learning and philosophy from abroad.

I am not here speaking against Gree\ and Latin; I think they
ought to be studied, and the Latin at least understood well by every
gentleman. But whatever foreign languages a young man meddles
with (and the more he knows the better) that which he should
critically study, and labour to get a facility, clearness and elegancy
to express himself in, should be his own; and to this purpose he
should daily be exercised in it.

§ 190. Natural philosophy, as a speculative science, I imagine we
have none, and perhaps I may think I have reason to say we never
shall be able to make a science of it. The works of nature are con-
trived by a wisdom, and operate by ways too far surpassing our
faculties to discover or capacities to conceive, for us ever to be able to
reduce them into a science. Natural philosophy being the knowl-
edge of the principles, properties and operations of things as they
are in themselves, I imagine there are two parts of it, one compre-
hending spirits, with their nature and qualities, and the other
bodies. The first of these is usually referred to metaphysickj: but
under what title soever the consideration of spirits comes, I think it
ought to go before the study of matter and body, not as a science
that can be methodized into a system, and treated of upon prin-
ciples of knowledge; but as an enlargement of our minds towards
a truer and fuller comprehension of the intellectual world to which
we are led both by reason and revelation. And since the clearest and
largest discoveries we have of other spirits, besides God and our own
souls, is imparted to us from heaven by revelation, I think the in-
formation that at least young people should have of them, should
be taken from that revelation. To this purpose, I conclude, it would
be well, if there were made a good history of the Bible, for young
people to read; wherein if every thing that is fit to be put into it,
were laid down in its due order of time, and several things omitted
which are suited only to riper age, that confusion which is usually
produced by promiscuous reading of the Scripture, as it lies now
bound up in our Bibles, would be avoided. And also this other
good obtained, that by reading of it constantly, there would be in-
stilled into the minds of children a notion and belief of spirits, they

164 JOHN LOCKE

having so much to do in all the transactions of that history, which
will be a good preparation to the study o£ bodies. For without the
notion and allowance of spirit, our philosophy will be lame and de-
fective in one main part of it, when it leaves out the contemplation
of the most excellent and powerful part of the creation.

§ 191. Of this History of the Bible, I think too it would be well if
there were a short and plain epitome made, containing the chief
and most material heads, for children to be conversant in as soon as
they can read. This, though it will lead them early into some
notion of spirits, yet it is not contrary to what I said above, that I
would not have children troubled, whilst young, with notions
of spirits; whereby my meaning was, that I think it inconvenient
that their yet tender minds should receive early impressions of
goblins, spectres, and apparitions, wherewith their maids and those
about them are apt to fright them into a compliance with their
orders, which often proves a great inconvenience to them all their
lives after, by subjecting their minds to frights, fearful apprehen-
sions, weakness and superstition; which when coming abroad into
the world and conversation they grow weary and ashamed of, it not
seldom happens, that to make, as they think, a thorough cure, and
ease themselves of a load which has sat so heavy on them, they throw
away the thoughts of all spirits together, and so run into the other,
but worse, extream.

§ 192. The reason why I would have this premised to the study
of bodies, and the Doctrine of the Scriptures well imbibed before
young men be entered in natural philosophy, is, because matter,
being a thing that all our senses are constantly conversant with, it
is so apt to possess the mind, and exclude all other beings but matter,
that prejudice, grounded on such principles, often leaves no room
for the admittance of spirits, or the allowing any such things as im-
material beings in rerum natura; when yet it is evident that by mere
matter and motion none of the great phenomena of nature can be
resolved, to instance but in that common one of gravity, which I
think impossible to be explained by any natural operation of matter,
or any other law of motion, but the positive will of a superior being
so ordering it. And therefore since the deluge cannot be well ex-
plained without admitting something out of the ordinary course of

NATURAL PHILOSOPHY 1 65

nature, I propose it to be considered whether God's altering the
centre of gravity in the earth for a time (a thing as intelUgible as
gravity it self, which perhaps a little variation of causes unknown
to us would produce) will not more easily account for Noah's flood
than any hypothesis yet made use of to solve it. I hear the great
objection to this, is, that it would produce but a partial deluge. But
the alteration of the centre of gravity once allowed, 'tis no hard
matter to conceive that the divine power might make the centre of
gravity, plac'd at a due distance from the centre of the earth, move
round it in a convenient space of time, whereby the flood would
become universal, and, as I think, answer all the phaenomena of the
deluge as delivered by Moses, at an easier rate than those many hard
suppositions that are made use of to explain it. But this is not a place
for that argument, which is here only mentioned by the bye, to shew
the necessity of having recourse to something beyond bare matter
and its motion in the explication of nature; to which the notions of
spirits and their power, as delivered in the Bible, where so much is
attributed to their operation, may be a fit preparative, reserving
to a fitter opportunity a fuller explication of this hypothesis, and the
application of it to all the parts of the deluge, and any difficulties can
be supposed in the history of the flood, as recorded in the scripture.
§ 193. But to return to the study of natural philosophy. Tho' the
world be full of systems of it, yet I cannot say, I know any one which
can be taught a young man as a science wherein he may be sure to
find truth and certainty, which is what all sciences give an expecta-
tion of. I do not hence conclude, that none of them are to be read.
It is necessary for a gentleman in this learned age to look into some
of them to fit himself for conversation: but whether that of Des
Cartes be put into his hands, as that which is most in fashion, or it
be thought fit to give him a short view of that and several others also,
I think the systems of natural philosophy that have obtained in this
part of the world, are to be read more to know the hypotheses, and
to understand the terms and ways of talking of the several sects, than
with hopes to gain thereby a comprehensive, scientifical and satis-
factory knowledge of the works of nature. Only this may be said,
that the modern Corpuscularians talk in most things more intelligibly
than the Peripatetic/^s, who possessed the schools immediately before

1 66 JOHN LOCKE

them. He that would look further back, and acquaint himself with
the several opinions of the antients, may consult Dr. Cudworth's
Intellectual System, wherein that very learned author hath with
such accurateness and judgment collected and explained the opin-
ions of the Gree\ philosophers, that what principles they built on,
and what were the chief hypotheses that divided them, is better to
be seen in him than any where else that I know. But I would not
deter any one from the study of nature because all the knowledge
we have or possibly can have of it cannot be brought into a science.
There are very many things in it that are convenient and necessary
to be known to a gentleman; and a great many other that will
abundantly reward the pains of the curious with delight and ad-
vantage. But these, I think, are rather to be found amongst such
writers as have employed themselves in making rational experi-
ments and observations than in starting barely speculative systems.
Such writings therefore, as many of Mr. Boyle's are, with others that
have writ of husbandry, planting, gardening, and the like, may be
fit for a gentleman, when he has a little acquainted himself with
some of the systems of the natural philosophy in fashion.

§ 194. Though the systems of physic\s that I have met with,
afford little encouragement to look for certainty or science in any
treatise which shall pretend to give us a body of natural philosophy
from the first principles of bodies in general, yet the incomparable
Mr. Newton has shewn, how far mathematicks applied to some parts
of nature may, upon principles that matter of fact justify, carry
us in the knowledge of some, as I may so call them, particular
provinces of the incomprehensible universe. And if others could
give us so good and clear an account of other parts of nature, as
he has of this our planetary world, and the most considerable
phaenomena observable in it, in his admirable book. Philosophies
naturalis Principia Mathematica, we might in time hope to be
furnished with more true and certain knowledge in several parts
of this stupendous machine, than hitherto we could have expected.
And though there are very few that have mathematicks enough
to understand his demonstrations, yet the most accurate mathe-
maticians who have examin'd them allowing them to be such,
his book will deserve to be read, and give no small light and pleasure

GREEK 167

to those, who, wilUng to understand the motions, properties, and
operations of the great masses of matter, in this our solar system, will
but carefully mind his conclusions, which may be depended on as
propositions well proved.

§ 195. This is, in short, what I have thought concerning a young
gentleman's studies; wherein it will possibly be wonder'd that I
should omit Greel{, since amongst the Grecians is to be found the
original as it were, and foundation of all that learning which we
have in this part of the world. I grant it so; and will add, that no
man can pass for a scholar that is ignorant of the Gree\ tongue.
But I am not here considering the education of a profess'd scholar,
but of a gentleman, to whom Latin and French, as the world now
goes, is by every one acknowledg'd to be necessary. When he comes
to be a man, if he has a mind to carry his studies farther, and look
into the Gree\ learning, he will then easily get that tongue himself:
and if he has not that inclination, his learning of it under a tutor will
be but lost labour, and much of his time and pains spent in that
which will be neglected and thrown away as soon as he is at liberty.
For how many are there of an hundred, even amongst scholars
themselves, who retain the Greef^ they carried from school; or ever
improve it to a familiar reading and perfect understanding of Gree\
authors?

To conclude this part, which concerns a young gentleman's studies,
his tutor should remember, that his business is not so much to teach
him all that is knowable, as to raise in him a love and esteem of
knowledge; and to put him in the right way of knowing and im-
proving himself when he has a mind to it.

The thoughts of a judicious author on the subject of languages, I
shall here give the reader, as near as I can, in his own way of ex-
pressing them: he says, "One can scarce burden children too much
with the knowledge of languages. They are useful to men of all
conditions, and they equally open them the entrance, either to the
most profound, or the more easy and entertaining parts of learning.
If this irksome study be put off to a little more advanced age, young
men either have not resolution enough to apply it out of choice or
steadiness to carry it on. And if any one has the gift of perseverance,
it is not without the inconvenience of spending that time upon Ian-

1 68 JOHN LOCKE

guages, which is destined to other uses: and he confines to the
study of words that age of his life that is above it, and requires
things; at least it is the losing the best and beautifullest season of
one's life. This large foundation of languages cannot be well laid
but when every thing makes an easy and deep impression on the
mind; when the memory is fresh, ready, and tenacious; when the
head and heart are as yet free from cares, passions, and designs;
and those on whom the child depends have authority enough to keep
him close to a long continued application. I am persuaded that the
small number of truly learned, and the multitude of superficial pre-
tenders, is owing to the neglect of this."

I think every body will agree with this observing gentleman, that
languages are the proper study of our first years. But 'tis to be con-
sider'd by the parents and tutors, what tongues 'tis fit the child should
learn. For it must be confessed, that it is fruidess pains and loss of
time, to learn a language which in the course of life that he is de-
signed to, he is never like to make use of, or which one may guess
by his temper he will wholly neglect and lose again, as soon as an
approach to manhood, setting him free from a governor, shall put
him into the hands of his own inclination, which is not likely to
allot any of his time to the cultivating the learned tongues, or dis-
pose him to mind any other language but what daily use or some
particular necessity shall force upon him.

But yet for the sake of those who are designed to be scholars, I
will add what the same author subjoins to make good his foregoing
remark. It will deserve to be considered by all who desire to be truly
learned, and therefore may be a fit rule for tutors to inculcate and
leave with their pupils to guide their future studies.

"The study, says he, of the original text can never be sufficiently
recommended. 'Tis the shortest, surest, and most agreeable way to
all sorts of learning. Draw from the spring-head, and take not things
at second hand. Let the writings of the great masters be never laid
aside, dwell upon them, settle them in your mind, and cite them
upon occasion; make it your business throughly to understand
them in their full extent and all their circumstances: acquaint your-
self fully with the principles of original authors; bring them to a

METHOD 169

consistency, and then do you yourself make your deductions. In this
state were the first commentators, and do not you rest till you bring
yourself to the same. Content not yourself with those borrowed
lights, nor guide yourself by their views but where your own fails
you and leaves you in the dark. Their explications are not your's, and
will give you the slip. On the contrary, your own observations are
the product of your own mind, where they will abide and be ready
at hand upon all occasions in converse, consultation, and dispute.
Lose not the pleasure it is to see that you are not stopp'd in your
reading but by difficulties that are invincible; where the com-
mentators and scholiasts themselves are at a stand and have nothing
to say. Those copious expositors of other places, who with a vain
and pompous overflow of learning poured out on passages plain and
easy in themselves, are very free of their words and pains, where
there is no need. Convince yourself fully by this ordering your
studies, that 'tis nothing but men's laziness which hath encouraged
pedantry to cram rather than enrich libraries, and to bury good
authors under heaps of notes and commentaries, and you will per-
ceive that sloth herein hath acted against itself and its own interest
by multiplying reading and enquiries, and encreasing the pains it
endeavoured to avoid."

This, tho' it may seem to concern none but direct scholars, is of so
great moment for the right ordering of their education and studies,
that I hope I shall not be blamed for inserting of it here; especially
if it be considered, that it may be of use to gentlemen too, when at
any time they have a mind to go deeper than the surface, and get to
themselves a solid, satisfactory, and masterly insight in any part of
learning.

Order and constancy are said to make the great difference between
one man and another: this I am sure, nothing so much clears a
learner's way, helps him so much on in it, and makes him go so easy
and so far in any enquiry, as a good method. His governor should
take pains to make him sensible of this, accustom him to order, and
teach him method in all the applications of his thoughts; shew him
wherein it lies, and the advantages of it; acquaint him with the sev-
eral sorts of it, either from general to particulars, or from par-

170 JOHN LOCKE

ticulars to what is more general; exercise him in both o£ them, and
make him see in what cases each different method is most proper,
and to what ends it best serves.

In history the order of time should govern, in philosophical en-
quiries that of nature, which in all progression is to go from the
place one is then in, to that which joins and lies next to it; and so it
is in the mind, from the knowledge it stands possessed of already,
to that which lies next, and is coherent to it, and so on to what it
aims at, by the simplest and most uncompounded parts it can divide
the matter into. To this purpose, it will be of great use to his pupil
to accustom him to distinguish well, that is, to have distinct notions,
whereever the mind can find any real difference; but as carefully to
avoid distinctions in terms, where he has not distinct and different
clear ideas.

§ 196. Besides what is to be had from study and books, there are
other accomplishments necessary for a gentleman, to be got by
exercise, and to which time is to be allowed, and for which masters
must be had.

Dancing being that which gives graceful motions all the life, and
above all things manliness, and a becoming confidence to young
children, I think it cannot be learned too early, after they are once
of an age and strength capable of it. But you must be sure to have
a good master, that knows, and can teach, what is graceful and be-
coming, and what gives a freedom and easiness to all the motions of
the body. One that teaches not this, is worse than none at all:
natural unfashionableness being much better than apish affected
postures; and I think it much more passable, to put off the hat and
make a leg like an honest country gentleman than like an ill-
fashioned dancing-master. For as for the jigging part, and the
figures of dances, I count that little or nothing, farther than as it
tends to perfect graceful carriage.

§ 197. Music\ is thought to have some affinity with dancing, and
a good hand upon some instruments is by many people mightily
valued. But it wastes so much of a young man's time to gain but a
moderate skill in it; and engages often in such odd company, that
many think it much better spared: and I have amongst men of parts
and business so seldom heard any one commended or esteemed for

FENCING 171

having an excellency in musicf^, that amongst all those things that
ever came into the list of accomplishments, I think I may give it the
last place. Our short lives will not serve us for the attainment of all
things; nor can our minds be always intent on something to be
learned. The weakness of our constitutions both of mind and body,
requires that we should be often unbent: and he that will make a
good use of any part of his hfe, must allow a large portion of it to
recreation. At least, this must not be denied to young people; unless
whilst you with too much haste make them old, you have the dis-
pleasure to set them in their graves or a second childhood sooner
than you could wish. And therefore, I think, that the time and pains
allotted to serious improvements, should be employed about things
of most use and consequence, and that too in the methods the most
easy and short that could be at any rate obtained: and perhaps, as I
have above said, it would be none of the least secrets of education,
to make the exercises of the body and the mind the recreation one to
another. I doubt not but that something might be done in it, by a
prudent man, that would well consider the temper and inclination of
his pupil. For he that is wearied either with study or dancing does
not desire presently to go to sleep, but to do something else which
may divert and delight him. But this must be always remembered,
that nothing can come into the account of recreation, that is not
done with delight.

§ 198. Fencing and riding the great horse, are looked upon so
necessary parts of breeding, that it would be thought a great omission
to neglect them; the latter of the two being for the most part to be
learned only in great towns, is one of the best exercises for health,
which is to be had in those places of ease and luxury : and upon that
account makes a fit part of a young gentleman's employment during
his abode there. And as far as it conduces to give a man a firm and
graceful seat on horseback, and to make him able to teach his horse
to stop and turn quick, and to rest on his hanches, is of use to a
gentleman both in peace and war. But whether it be of moment
enough to be made a business of, and deserve to take up more of his
time than should barely for his health be employed at due intervals
in some such vigorous exercise, I shall leave to the discretion of par-
ents and tutors; who will do well to remember, in all the parts of

172 JOHN LOCKE

education, that most time and application is to be bestowed on that
which is hke to be of greatest consequence and frequentest use in
the ordinary course and occurrences of that Ufa the young man is
designed for.

§ 199. As for fencing, it seems to me a good exercise for health,
but dangerous to the life; the confidence of their skill being apt to
engage in quarrels those that think they have learned to use their
swords. This presumption makes them often more touchy than
needs on point of honour and slight or no provocations. Young
men, in their warm blood, are forward to think they have in vain
learned to fence, if they never shew their skill and courage in a duel;
and they seem to have reason. But how many sad tragedies that
reason has been the occasion of, the tears of many a mother can
witness. A man that cannot fence, will be more careful to keep out
of bullies' and gamesters' company, and will not be half so apt to
stand upon punctilios, nor to give affronts, or fiercely justify them
when given, which is that which usually makes the quarrel. And
when a man is in the field, a moderate skill in fencing rather exposes
him to the sword of his enemy than secures him from it. And
certainly a man of courage who cannot fence at all and therefore
will put all upon one thrust and not stand parrying, has the odds
against a moderate fencer, especially if he has skill in wrestling.
And therefore, if any provision be to be made against such accidents,
and a man be to prepare his son for duels, I had much rather mine
should be a good wrestler than an ordinary fencer, which is the
most a gendeman can attain to in it, unless he will be constantly in
the fencing-school and every day exercising. But since fencing and
riding the great horse are so generally looked upon as necessary
qualifications in the breeding of a gentleman, it will be hard wholly
to deny any one of that rank these marks of distinction. I shall leave
it therefore to the father to consider, how far the temper of his son
and the station he is like to be in, will allow or encourage him to
comply with fashions which, having very little to do with civil life,
were yet formerly unknown to the most warlike nations, and seem
to have added little of force or courage to those who have received
them; unless we will think martial skill or prowess have been im-

LEARNING A TRADE 1 73

proved by duelling, with which fencing came into, and with which
I presume it will go out o£ the world.

§ 200. These are my present thoughts concerning learning and
accomplishments. The great business of all is virtue and wisdom :

Nullum numen abest si sit Prudentia.

Teach him to get a mastery over his inclinations, and submit his
appetite to reason. This being obtained, and by constant practice
settled into habit, the hardest part of the task is over. To bring a
young man to this, I know nothing which so much contributes as
the love of praise and commendation, which should therefore be
instilled into him by all arts imaginable. Make his mind as sensible
of credit and shame as may be; and when you have done that, you
have put a principle into him, which will influence his actions when
you are not by, to which the fear of a little smart of a rod is not
comparable, and which will be the proper stock whereon after-
wards to graff the true principles of morality and religion.

§ 201. I have one thing more to add, which as soon as I mention
I shall run the danger of being suspected to have forgot what I am
about, and what I have above written concerning education all
tending towards a gentleman's calling, with which a trade seems
wholly inconsistent. And yet I cannot forbear to say, I would have
him 'learn a trade, a manual trade; nay two or three, but one more
particularly.

§ 202. The busy inclination of children being always to be di-
rected to something that may be useful to them, the advantages pro-
posed from what they are set about may be considered of two kinds:
I. Where the skill itself that is got by exercise is worth the having.
Thus skill not only in languages and learned sciences, but in paint-
ing, turning, gardening, tempering and working in iron, and all
other useful arts is worth the having. 2. Where the exercise itself,
without any consideration, is necessary or useful for health. Knowl-
edge in some things is so necessary to be got by children whilst they
are young, that some part of their time is to be allotted to their im-
provement in them, though those employments contribute nothing
at all to their health. Such are reading and writing and all other

174 JOHN LOCKE

sedentary studies for the cultivating of the mind, which unavoid-
ably take up a great part of a gentleman's time, quite from their
cradles. Other manual arts, which are both got and exercised by
labour, do many of them by that exercise not only increase our
dexterity and skill, but contribute to our health too, especially such
as employ us in the open air. In these, then, health and improve-
ment may be join'd together; and of these should some fit ones be
chosen, to be made the recreations of one whose chief business is
with books and study. In this choice the age and inclination of the
person is to be considered, and constraint always to be avoided in
bringing him to it. For command and force may often create, but
can never cure, an aversion : and whatever any one is brought to by
compulsion, he will leave as soon as he can, and be htde profited
and less recreated by, whilst he is at it.

§ 203. That which of all others would please me best, would be a
fainter, were there not an argument or two against it not easy to be
answered. First, ill painting is one of the worst things in the world;
and to attain a tolerable degree of skill in it, requires too much of a
man's time. If he has a natural inclination to it, it will endanger the
neglect of all other more useful studies to give way to that; and if
he have no inclination to it, all the time, pains and money shall be
employed in it, will be thrown away to no purpose. Another reason
why I am not for painting in a gentleman, is, because it is a sedentary
recreation, which more employs the mind than the body. A gentle-
man's more serious employment I look on to be study; and when that
demands relaxation and refreshment, it should be in some exercise of
the body, which unbends the thought, and confirms the health and
strength. For these two reasons I am not for painting.

§ 204. In the next place, for a country gentleman I should pro-
pose one, or rather both these, viz. Gardening or husbandry in gen-
eral, and working in wood, as a carpenter, joiner, or turner, these
being fit and healthy recreations for a man of study or business.
For since the mind endures not to be constantly employed in the
same thing or way, and sedentary or studious men should have some
exercise, that at the same time might divert their minds and employ
their bodies, I know none that could do it better for a country gentle-
man than these two; the one of them affording him exercise when

TRADE AND RECREATION 1 75

the weather or season keeps him from the other. Besides that, by
being skill'd in the one of them, he will be able to govern and teach
his gardener; by the other, contrive and make a great many things
both of delight and use : though these I propose not as the chief end
of his labour, but as temptations to it; diversion from his other more
serious thoughts and employments by useful and healthy manual
exercise being what I chiefly aim at in it.

§ 205. The great men among the antients understood very well
how to reconcile manual labour with affairs of state, and thought
it no lessening to their dignity to make the one the recreation to
the other. That indeed which seems most generally to have em-
ployed and diverted their spare hours, was agriculture. Gideon
among the Jews was taken from threshing, as well as Cincinnatus
amongst the Romans from the plough, to command the armies of
their countries against their enemies; and 'tis plain their dexterous
handling of the flayl or the plough, and being good workmen with
these tools, did not hinder their skill in arms, nor make them less
able in the arts of war or government. They were great captains and
statesmen as well as husbandmen. Cato Major, who had with great
reputation born all the great offices of the commonwealth, has left
us an evidence under his own hand, how much he was versed in
country affairs; and, as I remember, Cyrus thought gardening so
little beneath the dignity and grandeur of a throne, that he shew'd
Xenophon a large field of fruit-trees all of his own planting. The
records of antiquity, both among ]ews and Gentiles, are full of in-
stances of this kind, if it were necessary to recommend useful recrea-
tions by examples.

§ 206. Nor let it be thought that I mistake, when I call these or the
like exercises of manual arts, diversions or recreations: for recrea-
tion is not being idle (as every one may observe) but easing the
wearied part by change of business: and he that thinks diversion
may not lie in hard and painful labour, forgets the early rising, hard
riding, heat, cold and hunger of huntsmen, which is yet known to
be the constant recreation of men of the greatest condition. Delving,
planting, inoculating, or any the like profitable employments, would
be no less a diversion than any of the idle sports in fashion, if men
could but be brought to delight in them, which custom and skill

176 JOHN LOCKE

in a trade will quickly bring any one to do. And I doubt not but
there are to be found those, who being frequently called to cards or
any other play by those they could not refuse, have been more tired
with these recreations than with any the most serious employment of
life, though the play has been such as they have naturally had no
aversion to, and with which they could willingly sometimes divert
themselves.

§ 207. Play, wherein persons of condition, especially ladies, waste
so much of their time, is a plain instance to me that men cannot be
perfectly idle; they must be doing something; for how else could
they sit so many hours toiling at that which generally gives more
vexation than delight to people whilst they are actually engag'd in it ?
'Tis certain, gaming leaves no satisfaction behind it to those who
reflect when it is over, and it no way profits either body or mind:
as to their estates, if it strike so deep as to concern them, it is a trade
then, and not a recreation, wherein few that have any thing else to
live on thrive: and at best, a thriving gamester has but a poor trade
on't, who fills his pockets at the price of his reputation.

Recreation belongs not to people who are strangers to business,
and are not wasted and wearied with the employment of their call-
ing. The skill should be, so to order their time of recreation, that it
may relax and refresh the part that has been exercised and is tired,
and yet do something which besides the present delight and ease,
may produce what will afterwards be profitable. It has been nothing
but the vanity and pride of greatness and riches, that has brought
unprofitable and dangerous pastimes (as they are called) into fash-
ion, and persuaded people into a belief, that the learning or putting
their hands to any thing that was useful, could not be a diversion
fit for a gentleman. This has been that which has given cards, dice
and drinking so much credit in the world: and a great many throw
away their spare hours in them, through the prevalency of custom,
and want of some better employment to fill up the vacancy of leisure,
more than from any real delight is to be found in them. They
cannot bear the dead weight of unemployed time lying upon their
hands, nor the uneasiness it is to do nothing at all : and having never
learned any laudable manual art wherewith to divert themselves,
they have recourse to those foolish or ill ways in use, to help ofl

TRADE AND RECREATION 177

their time, which a rational man, till corrupted by custom, could
find very little pleasure in.

§ 208. I say not this, that I would never have a young gentleman
accommodate himself to the innocent diversions in fashion amongst
those of his age and condition. I am so far from having him austere
and morose to that degree, that I would persuade him to more than
ordinary complaisance for all the gaieties and diversions of those
he converses with, and be averse or testy in nothing they should
desire of him, that might become a gentleman and an honest man.
Though as to cards and dice, I think the safest and best way is never
to learn any play upon them, and so to be incapacitated for those
dangerous temptations and incroaching wasters of useful time. But
allowance being made for idle and jovial conversation and all fash-
ionable becoming recreations; I say, a young man will have time
enough from his serious and main business, to learn almost any trade.
'Tis want of application, and not of leisure, that men are not skilful
in more arts than one; and an hour in a day, constantly employed in
such a way of diversion, will carry a man in a short time a great deal
farther than he can imagine: which, if it were of no other use but to
drive the common, vicious, useless, and dangerous pastimes out of
fashion, and to shew there was no need of them, would deserve to be
encouraged. If men from their youth were weaned from that saun-
tring humour wherein some out of custom let a good part of their
lives run uselessly away, without either business or recreation, they
would find time enough to acquire dexterity and s\ill in hundreds of
things, which, though remote from their proper callings, would not
at all interfere with them. And therefore, I think, for this, as well
as other reasons before-mentioned, a lazy, listless humour that idly
dreams away the days, is of all others the least to be indulged or
permitted in young people. It is the proper state of one sick and out
of order in his health, and is tolerable in nobody else of what age or
condition soever.

§ 209. To the arts above-mentioned may be added perfuming,
varnishing, graving, and several sorts of working in iron, brass, and
silver; and if, as it happens to most young gentlemen, that a con-
siderable part of his time be spent in a great town, he may learn to
cut, polish, and set precious stones, or employ himself in grinding and

178 JOHN LOCKE

polishing optical glasses. Amongst the great variety there is of in-
genious manual arts, 'twill be impossible that no one should be
found to please and delight him, unless he be either idle or de-
bauched, which is not to be supposed in a right way of education.
And since he cannot be always employ'd in study, reading, and
conversation, there will be many an hour, besides what his exercises
will take up, which, if not spent this way, will be spent worse. For
I conclude, a young man will seldom desire to sit perfecdy still and
idle; or, if he does, 'tis a fault that ought to be mended.

§ 210. But if his mistaken parents, frighted with the disgraceful
names of mechanic\ and trade, shall have an aversion to any thing
of this kind in their children; yet there is one thing relating to trade,
which, when they consider, they will think absolutely necessary for
their sons to learn.

Merchants' accompts, tho' a science not likely to help a gendeman
to get an estate, yet possibly there is not any thing of more use and
efficacy, to make him preserve the estate he has. 'Tis seldom ob-
served, that he keeps an accompt of his income and expences, and
thereby has constantly under view the course of his domestick
affairs, lets them run to ruin : and I doubt not but many a man gets
behind-hand before he is aware, or runs farther on when he is once
in, for want of this care, or the skill to do it. I would therefore
advise all gentlemen to learn perfectly merchants' accompts, and not
to think it is a skill that belongs not to them, because it has received
its name from, and has been chiefly practised by men of traffick.

§ 211. When my young master has once got the skill of keeping
accounts (which is a business of reason more than arithmetick) per-
haps it will not be amiss that his father from thenceforth require him
to do it in all his concernments. Not that I would have him set
down every pint of wine or play that costs him money; the general
name of expences will serve for such things well enough: nor would
I have his father look so narrowly into these accompts, as to take
occasion from thence to criticise on his expences; he must remember
that he himself was once a young man, and not forget the thoughts
he had then, nor the right his son has to have the same, and to have
allowance made for them. If therefore I would have the young
gentleman oblig'd to keep an account, it is not at all to have that

TRAVEL 179

way a check upon his expences (for what the father allows him, he
ought to let him be fully master of) but only, that he might be
brought early into the custom of doing it, and that it might be made
familiar and habitual to him betimes, which will be so useful and
necessary to be constantly practised the whole course of his life. A
noble Venetian, whose son wallowed in the plenty of his father's
riches, finding his son's expences grow very high and extravagant,
ordered his cashier to let him have for the future no more money
than what he should count when he received it. This one would
think no great restraint to a young gentleman's expences; who could
freely have as much money as he would tell. But yet this, to one that
was used to nothing but the pursuit of his pleasures, prov'd a very
great trouble, which at last ended in this sober and advantageous
reflection: if it be so much pains to me barely to count the money
I would spend, what labour and pains did it cost my ancestors,
not only to count, but get it? This rational thought, suggested
by this little pains impos'd upon him, wrought so effectually upon
his mind, that it made him take up, and from that time forwards
prove a good husband. This, at least, every body must allow, that
nothing is likelier to keep a man within compass than the having
constantly before his eyes the state of his affairs in a regular course
of accompt.

§ 212. The last part usually in education is travel, which is com-
monly thought to finish the work, and complete the gendeman. I
confess travel into foreign countries has great advantages, but the
time usually chosen to send young men abroad, is, I think, of all
other, that which renders their least capable of reaping those ad-
vantages. Those which are propos'd, as to the main of them, may be
reduced to these two: first, language, secondly, an improvement in
wisdom and prudence, by seeing men, and conversing with people of
tempers, customs and ways of living, different from one another, and
especially from those of his parish and neighbourhood. But from
sixteen to one and twenty, which is the ordinary time of travel, men
are, of all their lives, the least suited to these improvements. The
first season to get foreign languages, and form the tongue to their
true accents, I should think, should be from seven to fourteen or
sixteen, and then too a tutor with them is useful and necessary, who

l8o JOHN LOCKE

may with those languages teach them other things. But to put them
out of their parents' view at a great distance under a governor, when
they think themselves to be too much men to be governed by others,
and yet have not prudence and experience enough to govern them-
selves, what is it, but to expose them to all the greatest dangers of
their whole life, when they have the least fence and guard against
them ? 'Till that boiling boisterous part of life comes in, it may be
hoped the tutor may have some authority: neither the stubbornness
of age, nor the temptation or examples of others, can take him from
his tutor's conduct till fifteen or sixteen; but then, when he begins
to comfort himself with men, and thinks himself one; when he comes
to relish and pride himself in manly vices, and thinks it a shame to
be any longer under the controul and conduct of another, what can
be hoped from even the most careful and discreet governor, when
neither he has power to compel, nor his pupil a disposition to be
persuaded; but on the contrary, has the advice of warm blood and
prevailing fashion, to hearken to the temptations of his companions,
just as wise as himself, rather than to the persuasions of his tutor,
who is now looked on as an enemy to his freedom? And when is
a man so like to miscarry, as when at the same time he is both raw
and unruly? This is the season of all his life that most requires
the eye and authority of his parents and friends to govern it. The
flexibleness of the former part of a man's age, not yet grown up to
be headstrong, makes it more governable and safe; and in the after-
part, reason and foresight begin a little to take place, and mind a man
of his safety and improvement. The time therefore I should think
the fittest for a young gentleman to be sent abroad, would be, either
when he is younger, under a tutor, whom he might be the better
for; or when he is some years older, without a governor; when he is
of age to govern himself, and make observations of what he finds
in other countries worthy his notice, and that might be of use to
him after his return; and when too, being throughly acquainted with
the laws and fashions, the natural and moral advantages and defects
of his own country, he has something to exchange with those abroad,
from whose conversation he hoped to reap any knowledge.

§ 213. [Wanting].

§ 214. The ordering of travel otherwise, is that, I imagine, which

TRAVEL l8l

makes so many young gentlemen come back so little improved by it.
And if they do bring home with them any knowledge of the places
and people they have seen, it is often an admiration of the worst
and vainest practices they met with abroad; retaining a relish and
memory of those things wherein their liberty took its first swing,
rather than of what should make them better and wiser after their
return. And indeed how can it be otherwise, going abroad at the
age they do under the care of another, who is to provide their nec-
essaries, and make their observations for them? Thus under the
shelter and pretence of a governor, thinking themselves excused
from standing upon their own legs or being accountable for their
own conduct, they very seldom trouble themselves with enquiries or
making useful observations of their own. Their thoughts run after
play and pleasure, wherein they take it as a lessening to be controll'd;
but seldom trouble themselves to examine the designs, observe the
address, and consider the arts, tempers, and inclinations of men they
meet with; that so they may know how to comport themselves to-
wards them. Here he that travels with them is to screen them; get
them out when they have run themselves into the briars; and in all
their miscarriages be answerable for them.

§ 215. I confess, the knowledge of men is so great a skill, that it
is not to be expected a young man should presently be perfect in it.
But yet his going abroad is to little purpose, if travel does not some-
times open his eyes, make him cautious and wary, and accustom him
to look beyond the outside, and, under the inoffensive guard of a
civil and obliging carriage, keep himself free and safe in his conver-
sation with strangers and all sorts of people without forfeiting their
good opinion. He that is sent out to travel at the age, and with the
thoughts of a man designing to improve himself, may get into the
conversation and acquaintance of persons of condition where he
comes; which, tho' a thing of most advantage to a gentleman that
travels, yet I ask, amongst our young men that go abroad under
tutors, what one is there of an hundred, that ever visits any person
of quality? Much less makes an acquaintance with such, from
whose conversation he may learn what is good breeding in that
country, and what is worth observation in it; tho' from such persons
it is, one may learn more in one day, than in a year's rambling from

1 82 JOHN LOCKE

one inn to another. Nor indeed, is it to be wondered; for men of
worth and parts will not easily admit the familiarity of boys who
yet need the care of a tutor; tho' a young gentleman and stranger,
appearing like a man, and shewing a desire to inform himself in
the customs, manners, laws, and government of the country he is
in, will find welcome assistance and entertainment amongst the best
and most knowing persons every where, who will be ready to re-
ceive, encourage and countenance, an ingenuous and inquisitive
foreigner.

§ 216. This, how true soever it be, will not I fear alter the custom,
which has cast the time of travel upon the worst part of a man's life;
but for reasons not taken from their improvement. The young lad
must not be ventured abroad at eight or ten, for fear of what may
happen to the tender child, tho' he then runs ten times less risque
than at sixteen or eighteen. Nor must he stay at home till that
dangerous, heady age be over, because he must be back again by one
and twenty, to marry and propagate. The father cannot stay any
longer for the portion, nor the mother for a new set of babies to play
with; and so my young master, whatever comes on it, must have a
wife look'd out for him by that time he is of age; tho' it would be
no prejudice to his strength, his parts, or his issue, if it were respited
for some time, and he had leave to get, in years and knowledge,
the start a little of his children, who are often found to tread too
near upon the heels of their fathers, to the no great satisfaction
either of son or father. But the young gentleman being got within
view of matrimony, 'tis time to leave him to his mistress.

§ 217. Tho' I am now come to a conclusion of what obvious
remarks have suggested to me concerning education, I would not
have it thought that I look on it as a just treatise on this subject.
There are a thousand other things that may need consideration;
especially if one should take in the various tempers, different inclin-
ations, and particular defaults, that are to be found in children, and
prescribe proper remedies. The variety is so great that it would
require a volume; nor would that reach it. Each man's mind has
some peculiarity, as well as his face, that distinguishes him from all
others; and there are possibly scarce two children who can be con-
ducted by exactly the same method. Besides that, I think a prince, a

CONCLUSION 183

nobleman, and an ordinary gentleman's son, should have different
ways of breeding. But having had here only some general views in
reference to the main end and aims in education, and those designed
for a gentleman's son, whom, being then very little, I considered only
as white paper, or wax, to be moulded and fashioned as one pleases;
I have touched little more than those heads which I judged neces-
sary for the breeding of a young gentleman of his condition in
general; and have now published these my occasional thoughts with
this hope, that tho' this be far from being a complete treatise on this
subject, or such as that every one may find what will just fit his
child in it, yet it may give some small light to those, whose concern
for their dear little ones makes them so irregularly bold, that they
dare venture to consult their own reason in the education of their
children, rather than wholly to rely upon old custom.

THREE DIALOGUES BETWEEN
HYLAS AND PHILONOUS, ETC.

BY
GEORGE BERKELEY

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, was born in the County of
Kilkenny, Ireland, March 12, 1685. He was educated at Trinity College,
Dublin, where he became acquainted with the writings of Locke, and
grew enthusiastically interested in the "new philosophy," as it was called,
in contrast to the scholasticism which Trinity College had not yet offi-
cially discarded. When he was only twenty-four he published his "Essay
Towards a New Theory of Vision," and in the next year his "Treatise
Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge"; but being disap-
pointed in the comparative neglect of his new ideas by the philosophers
of the day, he proceeded to discuss both objections and answers in the
"Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous," published in 1713, and here
reprinted.

Meantime, Berkeley had been appointed to various college offices; and
in 1713 he crossed to England and gained access to the circles of Addison
and Pope. Through Swift's influence he went to Italy as chaplain to
Lord Peterborough; and after several years, spent partly in London and
partly on the Continent, he returned to Ireland in 1721 as chaplain to the
Lord Lieutenant, became Dean of Derry, and inherited property.

Berkeley had now become possessed with the idea of a great future
for Christianity in America, planned a college in Bermuda, and, while the
grants of money which he hoped for were in suspense, he crossed the
Atlantic and spent the years 1728-31 in Rhode Island. Becoming hope-
less of ever getting the required endowment for his college, he returned
to England, published "Alciphron," which he had written on his Amer-
ican farm, and retired to the Bishopric of Cloyne, where he lived almost
to the end of his life, practising benevolence in his diocese and publishing
the virtues of tar-water, a panacea in which he believed with character-
istic enthusiasm. He died at Oxford, January 14, 1753.

The following Dialogues are the best defense of Berkeley's main doc-
trines, and are regarded by Leslie Stephen as "the finest specimen in our
language of the conduct of argument by dialogue." His chief editor,
Fraser, calls them "the gem of British metaphysical literature."

THREE DIALOGUES

BETWEEN

HYLAS AND PHILONOUS

THE DESIGN OF WHICH IS PLAINLY TO DEMONSTRATE
THE REALITY AND PERFECTION OF

HUMAN KNOWLEDGE

THE INCORPOREAL NATURE OF THE

SOUL

AND THE IMMEDIATE PROVIDENCE OF A

DEITY

IN OPPOSITION TO

SCEPTICS AND ATHEISTS

ALSO TO OPEN A METHOD FOR RENDERING THE SCIENCES MORE
EASY, USEFUL, AND COMPENDIOUS

First published in 1713

THREE DIALOGUES

BETWEEN

HYLAS AND PHILONOUS, IN OPPOSITION TO
SCEPTICS AND ATHEISTS

THE FIRST DIALOGUE

FIILONOUS. Good morrow, Hylas: I did not expect to find
you abroad so early.
Hylas. It is indeed something unusual; but my thoughts
were so taken up with a subject I was discoursing of last night, that
finding I could not sleep, I resolved to rise and take a turn in the
garden.

Phil. It happened well, to let you see what innocent and agreeable
pleasures you lose every morning. Can there be a pleasanter time of
the day, or a more delightful season of the year? That purple sky,
those wild but sweet notes of birds, the fragrant bloom upon the
trees and flowers, the gentle influence of the rising sun, these and a
thousand nameless beauties of nature inspire the soul with secret
transports; its faculties too being at this time fresh and lively, are fit
for those meditations, which the solitude of a garden and tran-
quillity of the morning naturally dispose us to. But I am afraid I
interrupt your thoughts: for you seemed very intent on something.

Hyl. It is true, I was, and shall be obliged to you if you will permit
me to go on in the same vein; not that I would by any means de-
prive myself of your company, for my thoughts always flow more
easily in conversation with a friend, than when I am alone: but my
request is, that you would suffer me to impart my reflexions to you.

Phil. With all my heart, it is what I should have requested my-
self if you had not prevented me.

Hyl. I was considering the odd fate of those men who have in all
ages, through an affectation of being distinguished from the vulgar.

190 GEORGE BERKELEY

or some unaccountable turn o£ thought, pretended either to beUeve
nothing at all, or to believe the most extravagant things in the world.
This however might be borne, if their paradoxes and scepticism
did not draw after them some consequences of general disadvantage
to mankind. But the mischief lieth here; that when men of less
leisure see them who are supposed to have spent their whole time in
the pursuits of knowledge professing an entire ignorance of all
things, or advancing such notions as are repugnant to plain and
commonly received principles, they will be tempted to entertain
suspicions concerning the most important truths, which they had
hitherto held sacred and unquestionable.

Phil. I entirely agree with you, as to the ill tendency of the
affected doubts of some philosophers, and fantastical conceits of
others. I am even so far gone of late in this way of thinking, that I
have quitted several of the sublime notions I had got in their schools
for vulgar opinions. And I give it you on my word; since this revolt
from metaphysical notions to the plain dictates of nature and com-
mon sense, I find my understanding strangely enlightened, so that
I can now easily comprehend a great many things which before
were all mystery and riddle.

Hyl. I am glad to find there was nothing in the accounts I heard
of you.

Phil. Pray, what were those ?

Hyl. You were represented, in last night's conversation, as one
who maintained the most extravagant opinion that ever entered into
the mind of man, to wit, that there is no such thing as material sub-
stance in the world.

Phil. That there is no such thing as what philosophers call material
substance, I am seriously persuaded: but, if I were made to see any-
thing absurd or sceptical in this, I should then have the same reason
to renounce this that I imagine I have now to reject the contrary
opinion.

Hyl. What! can anything be more fantastical, more repugnant to
Common Sense, or a more manifest piece of Scepticism, than to
believe there is no such thing as matter?

Phil. Softly, good Hylas. What if it should prove that you, who
hold there is, are, by virtue of that opinion, a greater sceptic, and

FIRST DIALOGUE Ipl

maintain more paradoxes and repugnances to Common Sense, than
I who believe no such thing?

Hyl. You may as soon persuade me, the part is greater than the
whole, as that, in order to avoid absurdity and Scepticism, I should
ever be obliged to give up my opinion in this point.

Phil. Well then, are you content to admit that opinion for true,
which upon examination shall appear most agreeable to Common
Sense, and remote from Scepticism ?

Hyl. With all my heart. Since you are for raising disputes about
the plainest things in nature, I am content for once to hear what you
have to say.

Phil. Pray, Hylas, what do you mean by a sceptic?

Hyl. I mean what all men mean — one that doubts of everything.

Phil. He then who entertains no doubts concerning some particu-
lar point, with regard to that point cannot be thought a sceptic.

Hyl. I agree with you.

Phil. Whether doth doubting consist in embracing the affirmative
or negative side of a question?

Hyl. In neither; for whoever understands English cannot but
know that doubting signifies a suspense between both.

Phil. He then that denies any point, can no more be said to doubt
of it, than he who affirmeth it with the same degree of assurance.

Hyl. True.

Phil. And, consequently, for such his denial is no more to be
esteemed a sceptic than the other.

Hyl. I acknowledge it.

Phil. How Cometh it to pass then, Hylas, that you pronounce me
a sceptic, because I deny what you affirm, to wit, the existence of
Matter? Since, for aught you can tell, I am as peremptory in my
denial, as you in your affirmation.

Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I have been a little out in my definition;
but every false step a man makes in discourse is not to be insisted
on. I said indeed that a sceptic was one who doubted of everything;
but I should have added, or who denies the reality and truth of
things.

Phil. What things? Do you mean the principles and theorems
of sciences? But these you know are universal intellectual notions.

192 GEORGE BERKELEY

and consequently independent of Matter. The denial therefore of
this doth not imply the denying them.

Hyl. I grant it. But are there no other things? What think you
of distrusting the senses, of denying the real existence of sensible
things, or pretending to know nothing of them. Is not this sufficient
to denominate a man a sceptic?

Phil. Shall we therefore examine which of us it is that denies the
reality of sensible things, or professes the greatest ignorance of
them; since, if I take you rightly, he is to be esteemed the greatest
sceptic?

Hyl. That is what I desire.

Phil. What mean you by Sensible Things?

Hyl. Those things which are perceived by the senses. Can you
imagine that I mean anything else?

Phil. Pardon me, Hylas, if I am desirous clearly to apprehend
your notions, since this may much shorten our inquiry. Suffer me
then to ask you this farther question. Are those things only per-
ceived by the senses which are perceived immediately ? Or, may those
things properly be said to be sensible which are perceived mediately,
or not without the intervention of others?

Hyl. I do not sufficiently understand you.

Phil. In reading a book, what I immediately perceive are the
letters; but mediately, or by means of these, are suggested to my
mind the notions of God, virtue, truth, &c. Now, that the letters are
truly sensible things, or perceived by sense, there is no doubt: but I
would know whether you take the things suggested by them to be
so too.

Hyl. No, certainly: it were absurd to think God or virtue sensi-
ble things; though they may be signified and suggested to the mind
by sensible marks, with which they have an arbitrary connexion.

Phil. It seems then, that by sensible things you mean those only
which can be perceived immediately by sense?

Hyl. Right.

Phil. Doth it not follow from this, that though I see one part of
the sky red, and another blue, and that my reason doth thence evi-
dently conclude there must be some cause of that diversity of colours,

FIRST DIALOGUE I93

yet that cause cannot be said to be a sensible thing, or perceived by the
sense of seeing?

Hyl. It doth.

Phil. In like manner, though I hear variety of sounds, yet I can-
not be said to hear the causes of those sounds?

Hyl. You cannot.

Phil. And when by my touch I perceive a thing to be hot and
heavy, I cannot say, with any truth or propriety, that I feel the cause
of its heat or weight?

Hyl. To prevent any more questions of this kind, I tell you once
for all, that by sensible things I mean those only which are perceived
by sense; and that in truth the senses perceive nothing which they
do not perceive immediately: for they make no inferences. The de-
ducing therefore of causes or occasions from effects and appearances,
which alone are perceived by sense, entirely relates to reason.

Phil. This point then is agreed between us — That sensible things
are those only tvhich are immediately perceived by sense. You will
farther inform me, whether we immediately perceive by sight any-
thing beside light, and colours, and figures; or by hearing, anything
but sounds; by the palate, anything beside tastes; by the smell, beside
odours; or by the touch, more than tangible qualities.

Hyl. We do not.

Phil. It seems, therefore, that if you take away all sensible quali-
ties, there remains nothing sensible ?

Hyl. I grant it.

Phil. Sensible things therefore are nothing else but so many sensi-
ble qualities, or combinations of sensible qualities?

Hyl. Nothing else.

Phil. Heat then is a sensible thing?

Hyl. Certainly.

Phil. Doth the reality of sensible things consist in being perceived?
or, is it something distinct from their being perceived, and that bears
no relation to the mind?

Hyl. To exist is one thing, and to be perceived is another.

Phil. I speak with regard to sensible things only. And of these
I ask, whether by their real existence you mean a subsistence exterior
to the mind, and distinct from their being perceived?

194 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. I mean a real absolute being, distinct from, and without
any relation to, their being perceived.

Phil. Heat therefore, if it be allowed a real being, must exist
without the mind?

Hyl. It must.

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, is this real existence equally compatible to
all degrees of heat, which we perceive; or is there any reason why we
should attribute it to some, and deny it to others? And if there be,
pray let me know that reason.

Hyl. Whatever degree of heat we perceive by sense, we may be
sure the same exists in the object that occasions it.

Phil. What! the greatest as well as the least?

Hyl. I tell you, the reason is plainly the same in respect of both.
They are both perceived by sense; nay, the greater degree of heat
is more sensibly perceived; and consequently, if there is any differ-
ence, we are more certain of its real existence than we can be of the
reality of a lesser degree.

Phil. But is not the most vehement and intense degree of heat a
very great pain?

Hyl. No one can deny it.

Phil. And is any unperceiving thing capable of pain or pleasure?

Hyl. No, certainly.

Phil. Is your material substance a senseless being, or a being en-
dowed with sense and perception?

Hyl. It is senseless without doubt.

Phil. It cannot therefore be the subject of pain?

Hyl. By no means.

Phil. Nor consequently of the greatest heat perceived by sense,
since you acknowledge this to be no small pain?

Hyl. I grant it.

Phil. What shall we say then of your external object; is it a mate-
rial Substance, or no?

Hyl. It is a material substance with the sensible qualities inhering
in it.

Phil. How then can a great heat exist in it, since you own it can-
not in a material substance? I desire you would clear this point,

Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I fear I was out in yielding intense heat to

FIRST DIALOGUE 1 95

be a pain. It should seem rather, that pain is something distinct from
heat, and the consequence or effect of it.

Phil. Upon putting your hand near the fire, do you perceive one
simple uniform sensation, or two distinct sensations?

Hyl. But one simple sensation.

Phil. Is not the heat immediately perceived?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. And the pain?

Hyl. True.

Phil. Seeing therefore they are both immediately perceived at
the same time, and the fire affects you only with one simple or un-
compounded idea, it follows that this same simple idea is both the
intense heat immediately perceived, and the pain; and, consequendy,
that the intense heat immediately perceived is nothing distinct from
a particular sort of pain,

Hyl. It seems so.

Phil. Again, try in your thoughts, Hylas, if you can conceive a
vehement sensation to be without pain or pleasure.

Hyl. I cannot.

Phil. Or can you frame to yourself an idea of sensible pain or
pleasure in general, abstracted from every particular idea of heat,
cold, tastes, smells? &c.

Hyl. I do not find that I can.

Phil. Doth it not therefore follow, that sensible pain is nothing
distinct from those sensations or ideas, in an intense degree ?

Hyl. It is undeniable; and, to speak the truth, I begin to suspect
a very great heat cannot exist but in a mind perceiving it.

Phil. What! are you then in that sceptical state of suspense,
between affirming and denying?

Hyl. I think I may be positive in the point. A very violent and
painful heat cannot exist without the mind.

Phil. It hath not therefore according to you, any real being?

Hyl. I own it.

Phil. Is it therefore certain, that there is no body in nature really
hot?

Hyl. I have not denied there is any real heat in bodies. I only say,
there is no such thing as an intense real heat.

196 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. But, did you not say before that all degrees of heat were
equally real; or, if there was any difference, that the greater were
more undoubtedly real than the lesser ?

Hyl. True: but it was because I did not then consider the ground
there is for distinguishing between them, which I now plainly see.
And it is this: because intense heat is nothing else but a particu-
lar kind of painful sensation; and pain cannot exist but in a jier-
ceiving being; it follows that no intense heat can really exist in
an unperceiving corporeal substance. But this is no reason why
we should deny heat in an inferior degree to exist in such a sub-
stance.

Phil. But how shall we be able to discern those degrees of heat
which exist only in the mind from those which exist without it.?

Hyl. That is no difficult matter. You know the least pain cannot
exist unperceived; whatever, therefore, degree of heat is a pain exists
only in the mind. But, as for all other degrees of heat, nothing
obliges us to think the same of them.

Phil. I think you granted before that no unperceiving being was
capable of pleasure, any more than of pain.

Hyl. I did.

Phil. And is not warmth, or a more gentle degree of heat than
what causes uneasiness, a pleasure?

Hyl. What then?

Phil. Consequently, it cannot exist without the mind in an un-
perceiving substance, or body.

Hyl. So it seems.

Phil. Since, therefore, as well those degrees of heat that are not
painful, as those that are, can exist only in a thinking substance; may
we not conclude that external bodies are absolutely incapable of any
degree of heat whatsoever?

Hyl. On second thoughts, I do not think it so evident that warmth
is a pleasure as that a great degree of heat is a pain.

Phil. I do not pretend that warmth is as great a pleasure as heat
is a pain. But, if you grant it to be even a small pleasure, it serves
to make good my conclusion.

Hyl. I could rather call it an indolence. It seems to be nothing
more than a privation of both pain and pleasure. And that such a

FIRST DIALOGUE 1 97

quality or state as this may agree to an unthinking substance, I hope
you will not deny.

Phil. If you are resolved to maintain that warmth, or a gentle
degree of heat, is no pleasure, I know not how to convince you other-
wise than by appealing to your own sense. But what think you
of cold ?

Hyl. The same that I do of heat. An intense degree of cold is a
pain; for to feel a very great cold, is to perceive a great uneasiness:
it cannot therefore exist without the mind; but a lesser degree of
cold may, as well as a lesser degree of heat.

Phil. Those bodies, therefore, upon whose application to our
own, we perceive a moderate degree of heat, must be concluded to
have a moderate degree of heat or warmth in them; and those, upon
whose application we feel a like degree of cold, must be thought to
have cold in them.

Hyl. They must.

Phil. Can any doctrine be true that necessarily leads a man into
an absurdity?

Hyl. Without doubt it cannot.

Phil. Is it not an absurdity to think that the same thing should be
at the same time both cold and warm?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. Suppose now one of your hands hot, and the other cold,
and that they are both at once put into the same vessel of water, in
an intermediate state; will not the water seem cold to one hand, and
warm to the other?

Hyl. It will.

Phil. Ought we not therefore, by your principles, to conclude
it is really both cold and warm at the same time, that is, according
to your own concession, to believe an absurdity?

Hyl. I confess it seems so.

Phil. Consequently, the principles themselves are false, since you
have granted that no true principle leads to an absurdity.

Hyl. But, after all, can anything be more absurd than to say, there
is no heat in the fire?

Phil. To make the point still clearer; tell me whether, in two
cases exactly alike, we ought not to make the same judgment?

198 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. We ought.

Phil. When a pin pricks your finger, doth it not rend and divide
the fibres of your flesh?

Hyl. It doth.

Phil. And when a coal burns your finger, doth it any more ?

Hyl. It doth not.

Phil. Since, therefore, you neither judge the sensation itself occa-
sioned by the pin, nor anything like it to be in the pin; you should
not, conformably to what you have now granted, judge the sensation
occasioned by the fire, or anything like it, to be in the fire.

Hyl. Well, since it must be so, I am content to yield this point,
and acknowledge that heat and cold are only sensations existing in
our minds. But there still remain qualities enough to secure the
reality of external things.

Phil. But what will you say, Hylas, if it shall appear that the
case is the same with regard to all other sensible qualities, and that
they can no more be supposed to exist without the mind, than heat
and cold?

Hyl. Then indeed you will have done something to the purpose;
but that is what I despair of seeing proved.

Phil. Let us examine them in order. What think you of tastes —
do they exist without the mind, or no?

Hyl. Can any man in his senses doubt whether sugar is sweet, or
wormwood bitter?

Phil. Inform me, Hylas. Is a sweet taste a particular kind of pleas-
ure or pleasant sensation, or is it not?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. And is not bitterness some kind of uneasiness or pain?

Hyl. I grant it.

Phil. If therefore sugar and wormwood are unthinking corporeal
substances existing without the mind, how can sweetness and bitter-
ness, that is, pleasure and pain, agree to them?

Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I now see what it was deluded me all this
time. You asked whether heat and cold, sweetness and bitterness,
were not particular sorts of pleasure and pain; to which I answered
simply, that they were. Whereas I should have thus distinguished: —
those qualities, as perceived by us, are pleasures or pains; but not as

FIRST DIALOGUE 1 99

existing in the external objects. We must not therefore conclude
absolutely, that there is no heat in the fire, or sweetness in the
sugar, but only that heat or sweetness, as perceived by us, are not
in the fire or sugar. What say you to this ?

Phil. I say it is nothing to the purpose. Our discourse proceeded
altogether concerning sensible things, which you defined to be, the
things we immediately perceive by our senses. Whatever other
qualities, therefore, you speak of as distinct from these, I know
nothing of them, neither do they at all belong to the point in dis-
pute. You may, indeed, pretend to have discovered certain quaUties
which you do not perceive, and assert those insensible qualities exist
in fire and sugar. But what use can be made of this to your present
purpose, I am at a loss to conceive. Tell me then once more, do you
acknowledge that heat and cold, sweetness and bitterness (meaning
those qualities which are perceived by the senses), do not exist with-
out the mind?

Hyl. I see it is to no purpose to hold out, so I give up the cause
as to those mentioned qualities. Though I profess it sounds oddly, to
say that sugar is not sweet.

Phil. But, for your farther satisfaction, take this along with you:
that which at other times seems sweet, shall, to a distempered palate,
appear bitter. And, nothing can be plainer than that divers persons
perceive different tastes in the same food; since that which one man
delights in, another abhors. And how could this be, if the taste was
something really inherent in the food?

Hyl. I acknowledge I know not how.

Phil. In the next place, odours are to be considered. And, with
regard to these, I would fain know whether what hath been said of
tastes doth not exactly agree to them ? Are they not so many pleas-
ing or displeasing sensations?

Hyl. They are.

Phil. Can you then conceive it possible that they should exist in
an unperceiving thing?

Hyl. I cannot.

Phil. Or, can you imagine that filth and ordure affect those brute
animals that feed on them out of choice, with the same smells which
we perceive in them ?

200 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. By no means.

Phil. May we not therefore conclude of smells, as of the other
forementioned qualities, that they cannot exist in any but a perceiv-
ing substance or mind?

Hyl. I think so.

Phil. Then as to sounds, what must we think of them: are they
accidents really inherent in external bodies, or not ?

Hyl. That they inhere not in the sonorous bodies is plain from
hence : because a bell struck in the exhausted receiver of an air-pump
sends forth no sound. The air, therefore, must be thought the sub-
ject of sound.

Phil. What reason is there for that, Hylas ?

Hyl. Because, when any motion is raised in the air, we perceive a
sound greater or lesser, according to the air's motion; but without
some motion in the air, we never hear any sound at all.

Phil. And granting that we never hear a sound but when some
motion is produced in the air, yet I do not see how you can infer
from thence, that the sound itself is in the air.

Hyl. It is this very motion in the external air that produces in
the mind the sensation of sound. For, striking on the drum of the
ear, it causeth a vibration, which by the auditory nerves being com-
municated to the brain, the soul is thereupon affected with the sensa-
tion called sound.

Phil. What! is sound then a sensation?

Hyl. I tell you, as perceived by us, it is a particular sensation in
the mind.

Phil. And can any sensation exist without the mind ?

Hyl. No, certainly.

Phil. How then can sound, being a sensation, exist in the air, if by
the air you mean a senseless substance existing without the mind?

Hyl. You must distinguish, Philonous, between sound as it is per-
ceived by us, and as it is in itself; or (which is the same thing)
between the sound we immediately perceive, and that which
exists without us. The former, indeed, is a particular kind of sen-
sation, but the latter is merely a vibrative or undulatory motion in
the air.

Phil. I thought I had already obviated that distinction, by the

FIRST DIALOGUE 201

answer I gave when you were applying it in a like case before.
But, to say no more of that, are you sure then that sound is really
nothing but motion?

Hyl. I am.

Phil. Whatever therefore agrees to real sound, may with truth be
attributed to motion ?

Hyl. It may.

Phil. It is then good sense to speak of motion as of a thing that is
loud, sweet, acute, or grave.

Hyl. I see you are resolved not to understand me. Is it not evident
those accidents or modes belong only to sensible sound, or sound in
the common acceptation of the word, but not to sound in the real
and philosophic sense; which, as I just now told you, is nothing but
a certain motion of the air ?

Phil. It seems then there are two sorts of sound — the one vulgar,
or that which is heard, the other philosophical and real?

Hyl. Even so.

Phil. And the latter consists in motion?'

Hyl. I told you so before.

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, to which of the senses, think you, the idea
of motion belongs? to the hearing?

Hyl. No, certainly; but to the sight and touch.

Phil. It should follow then, that, according to you, real sounds
may possibly be seen or felt, but never heard.

Hyl. Look you, Philonous, you may, if you please, make a jest of
my opinion, but that will not alter the truth of things. I own, indeed,
the inferences you draw me into sound something oddly; but com-
mon language, you know, is framed by, and for the use of the vulgar:
we must not therefore wonder if expressions adapted to exact phil-
osophic notions seem uncouth and out of the way.

Phil. Is it come to that? I assure you, I imagine myself to have
gained no small point, since you make so light of departing from
common phrases and opinions; it being a main part of our inquiry,
to examine whose notions are widest of the common road, and
most repugnant to the general sense of the world. But, can you think
it no more than a philosophical paradox, to say that real sounds are
never heard, and that the idea of them is obtained by some other

202 GEORGE BERKELEY

sense ? And is there nothing in this contrary to nature and the truth
of things?

Hyl. To deal ingenuously, I do not like it. And, after the con-
cessions already made, I had as well grant that sounds too have no
real being without the mind.

Phil. And I hope you will make no difficulty to acknowledge the
same of colours.

Hyl. Pardon me: the case of colours is very different. Can any-
thing be plainer than that we see them on the objects?

Phil. The objects you speak of are, I suppose, corporeal Substances
existing without the mind?

Hyl. They are.

Phil. And have true and real colours inhering in them?

Hyl. Each visible object hath that colour which we see in it.

Phil. How! is there anything visible but what we perceive by
sight ?

Hyl. There is not.

Phil. And, do we perceive anything by sense which we do not
perceive immediately?

Hyl. How often must I be obliged to repeat the same thing? I
tell you, we do not.

Phil. Have patience, good Hylas; and tell me once more, whether
there is anything immediately perceived by the senses, except sensible
qualities. I know you asserted there was not; but I would now be
informed, whether you still persist in the same opinion.

Hyl. I do.

Phil. Pray, is your corporeal substance either a sensible quality,
or made up of sensible qualities?

Hyl. What a question that is! who ever thought it was?

Phtl. My reason for asking was, because in saying, each visible
object hath that colour which we see in it, you make visible objects
to be corporeal substances; which implies either that corporeal sub-
stances are sensible qualities, or else that there is something besides
sensible qualities perceived by sight : but, as this point was formerly
agreed between us, and is still maintained by you, it is a clear conse-
quence, that your corporeal substance is nothing distinct from sensi-
ble qualities.

FIRST DIALOGUE 203

Hyl. You may draw as many absurd consequences as you please,
and endeavour to perplex the plainest things; but you shall never
persuade me out of my senses. I clearly understand my own mean-
ing.

Phil. I wish you would make me understand it too. But, since
you are unwilling to have your notion of corporeal substance ex-
amined, I shall urge that point no farther. Only be pleased to let me
know, whether the same colours which we see exist in external
bodies, or some other.

Hyl. The very same.

Phil. What! are then the beautiful red and purple we see on
yonder clouds really in them? Or do you imagine they have in
themselves any other form than that of a dark mist or vapour ?

Hyl. I must own, Philonous, those colours are not really in the
clouds as they seem to be at this distance. They are only apparent
colours.

Phil. Apparent call you them? how shall we distinguish these
apparent colours from real?

Hyl. Very easily. Those are to be thought apparent which, ap-
pearing only at a distance, vanish upon a nearer approach.

Phil. And those, I suppose, are to be thought real which are dis-
covered by the most near and exact survey.

Hyl. Right.

Phil. Is the nearest and exactest survey made by the help of a
microscope, or by the naked eye?

Hyl, By a microscope, doubtless.

Phil. But a microscope often discovers colours in an object differ-
ent from those perceived by the unassisted sight. And, in case we had
microscopes magnifying to any assigned degree, it is certain that no
object whatsoever, viewed through them, would appear in the same
colour which it exhibits to the naked eye.

Hyl. And what will you conclude from all this? You cannot
argue that there are really and naturally no colours on objects: be-
cause by artificial managements they may be altered, or made to
vanish.

Phil. I think it may evidently be concluded from your own con-
cessions, that all the colours we see with our naked eyes are only

204 GEORGE BERKELEY

apparent as those on the clouds, since they vanish upon a more close
and accurate inspection which is afforded us by a microscope. Then,
as to what you say by way of prevention : I ask you whether the real
and natural state of an object is better discovered by a very sharp and
piercing sight, or by one which is less sharp?

Hyl. By the former without doubt.

Phil. Is it not plain from Dioptrics that microscopes make the
sight more penetrating, and represent objects as they would appear
to the eye in case it were naturally endowed with a most exquisite
sharpness ?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. Consequendy the microscopical representation is to be
thought that which best sets forth the real nature of the thing, or
what it is in itself. The colours, therefore, by it perceived are more
genuine and real than those perceived otherwise.

Hyl. I confess there is something in what you say.

Phil. Besides, it is not only possible but manifest, that there
actually are animals whose eyes are by nature framed to perceive
those things which by reason of their minuteness escape our sight.
What think you of those inconceivably small animals perceived by
glasses? must we suppose they are all stark bhnd? Or, in case they
see, can it be imagined their sight hath not the same use in preserving
their bodies from injuries, which appears in that of all other animals?
And if it hath, is it not evident they must see particles less than their
own bodies; which will present them with a far different view in
each object from that which strikes our senses? Even our own eyes
do not always represent objects to us after the same manner. In the
jaundice every one knows that all things seem yellow. Is it not there-
fore highly probable those animals in whose eyes we discern a very
different texture from that of ours, and whose bodies abound with
different humours, do not see the same colours in every object that
we do? From all which, should it not seem to follow that all col-
ours are equally apparent, and that none of those which we perceive
are really inherent in any outward object?

Hyl. It should.

Phil. The point will be past all doubt, if you consider that, in case
colours were real properties or affections inherent in external bodies,

FIRST DIALOGUE 205

they could admit o£ no alteration without some change wrought in
the very bodies themselves: but, is it not evident from what hath
been said that, upon the use of microscopes, upon a change happening
in the humours of the eye, or a variation of distance, without any
manner of real alteration in the thing itself, the colours of any object
are either changed, or totally disappear? Nay, all other circum-
stances remaining the same, change but the situation of some objects,
and they shall present different colours to the eye. The same thing
happens upon viewing an object in various degrees of light. And
what is more known than that the same bodies appear differently
coloured by candle-light from what they do in the open day.'' Add
to these the experiment of a prism which, separating the heteroge-
neous rays of light, alters the colour of any object, and will cause the
whitest to appear of a deep blue or red to the naked eye. And now
tell me whether you are still of opinion that every body hath its true
real colour inhering in it; and, if you think it hath, I would fain
know farther from you, what certain distance and position of the
object, what peculiar texture and formation of the eye, what degree
or kind of light is necessary for ascertaining that true colour, and
distinguishing it from apparent ones.

Hyl. I own myself entirely satisfied, that they are all equally ap-
parent, and that there is no such thing as colour really inhering in
external bodies, but that it is altogether in the light. And what con-
firms me in this opinion is, that in proportion to the light colours
are still more or less vivid; and if there be no light, then are there no
colours perceived. Besides, allowing there are colours on external
objects, yet, how is it possible for us to perceive them? For no ex-
ternal body affects the mind, unless it acts first on our organs of
sense. But the only action of bodies is motion; and motion cannot be
communicated otherwise than by impulse. A distant object therefore
cannot act on the eye; nor consequently make itself or its properties
perceivable to the soul. Whence it plainly follows that it is imme-
diately some contiguous substance, which, operating on the eye, occa-
sions a perception of colours: and such is light.

Phil. How! is light then a substance?

Hyl. I tell you, Philonous, external light is nothing but a thin
fluid substance, whose minute particles being agitated with a brisk

206 GEORGE BERKELEY

motion, and in various manners reflected from the different surfaces
of outward objects to the eyes, communicate different motions to the
optic nerves; which, being propagated to the brain, cause therein
various impressions; and these are attended with the sensations of
red, blue, yellow, &c.

Phil. It seems then the light doth no more than shake the optic
nerves.

Hyl. Nothing else.

Phil. And consequent to each particular motion of the nerves,
the mind is affected with a sensation, which is some particular colour.

Hyl. Right.

Phil. And these sensations have no existence without the mind.

Hyl. They have not.

Phil. How then do you affirm that colours are in the light; since
by light you understand a corporeal substance external to the mind ?

Hyl. Light and colours, as immediately perceived by us, I grant
cannot exist without the mind. But in themselves they are only the
motions and configurations of certain insensible particles of matter.

Phil. Colours then, in the vulgar sense, or taken for the immediate
objects of sight, cannot agree to any but a perceiving substance.

Hyl. That is what I say.

Phil. Well then, since you give up the point as to those sensible
qualities which are alone thought colours by all mankind beside,
you may hold what you please with regard to those invisible ones of
the philosophers. It is not my business to dispute about them; only I
would advise you to bethink yourself, whether, considering the in-
quiry we are upon, it be prudent for you to affirm — the red and
blue which we see are not real colours, but certain unknown motions
and figures which no man ever did or can see are truly so. Are not
these shocking nodons, and are not they subject to as many ridicu-
lous inferences, as those you were obliged to renounce before in
the case of sounds?

Hyl. I frankly own, Philonous, that it is in vain to stand out any
longer. Colours, sounds, tastes, in a word all those termed secondary
qualities, have certainly no existence without the mind. But by this
acknowledgment I must not be supposed to derogate anything from

FIRST DIALOGUE 207

the reality of Matter, or external objects; seeing it is no more than
several philosophers maintain, who nevertheless are the farthest
imaginable from denying Matter. For the clearer understanding of
this, you must know sensible quaUties are by philosophers divided
into Primary and Secondary. The former are Extension, Figure,
Solidity, Gravity, Motion, and Rest; and these they hold exist really
in bodies. The latter are those above enumerated; or, briefly, all
sensible qualities beside the Primary; which they assert are only so
many sensations or ideas existing nowhere but in the mind. But all
this, I doubt not, you are apprised of. For my part, I have been a
long time sensible there was such an opinion current among philos-
ophers, but was never thoroughly convinced of its truth until now.

Phil. You are still then of opinion that extension and figures are
inherent in external unthinking substances.?

Hyl. I am.

Phil. But what if the same arguments which are brought against
Secondary Qualities will hold good against these also?

Hyl. Why then I shall be obliged to think, they too exist only in
the mind.

Phil. Is it your opinion the very figure and extension which you
perceive by sense exist in the outward object or material substance?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. Have all other animals as good grounds to think the same
of the figure and extension which they see and feel ?

Hyl. Without doubt, if they have any thought at all.

Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Think you the senses were bestowed
upon all animals for their preservation and well-being in life? or
were they given to men alone for this end ?

Hyl. I make no question but they have the same use in all
other animals.

Phil. If so, is it not necessary they should.be enabled by them to
perceive their own limbs, and those bodies which are capable of
harming them?

Hyl. Certainly.

Phil. A mite therefore must be supposed to see his own foot, and
things equal or even less than it, as bodies of some considerable

208 GEORGE BERKELEY

dimension; though at the same time they appear to you scarce dis-
cernible, or at best as so many visible points?

Hyl. I cannot deny it.

Phil. And to creatures less than the mite they will seem yet larger?

Hyl. They will.

Phil. Insomuch that what you can hardly discern will to another
extremely minute animal appear as some huge mountain ?

Hyl. All this I grant.

Phil. Can one and the same thing be at the same time in itself of
different dimensions?

Hyl. That were absurd to imagine.

Phil. But, from what you have laid down it follows that both the
extension by you perceived, and that perceived by the mite itself, as
likewise all those perceived by lesser animals, are each of them the
true extension of the mite's foot; that is to say, by your own prin-
ciples you are led into an absurdity.

Hyl. There seems to be some difficulty in the point.

Phil. Again, have you not acknowledged that no real inherent
property of any object can be changed without some change in the
thing itself?

Hyl. I have.

Phil. But, as we approach to or recede from an object, the visible
extension varies, being at one distance ten or a hundred times greater
than another. Doth it not therefore follow from hence likewise that
it is not really inherent in the object?

Hyl. I own I am at a loss what to think.

Phil. Your judgment will soon be determined, if you will venture
to think as freely concerning this quality as you have done concern-
ing the rest. Was it not admitted as a good argument, that neither
heat nor cold was in the water, because it seemed warm to one hand
and cold to the other ?

Hyl. It was.

Phil. Is it not the very same reasoning to conclude, there is no
extension or figure in an object, because to one eye it shall seem little,
smooth, and round, when at the same time it appears to the other,
great, uneven, and regular ?

Hyl. The very same. But does this latter fact ever happen?

FIRST DIALOGUE 209

Phil. You may at any time make the experiment, by looking with
one eye bare, and with the other through a microscope.

Hyl. I know not how to maintain it; and yet I am loath to give up
extension, I see so many odd consequences following upon such a
concession.

Phil. Odd, say you? After the concessions already made, I hope
you will stick at nothing for its oddness. ['But, on the other hand,
should it not seem very odd, if the general reasoning which includes
all other sensible qualities did not also include extension? If it be al-
lowed that no idea, nor anything like an idea, can exist in an unper-
ceiving substance, then surely it follows that no figure, or mode
of extension, which we can either perceive, or imagine, or have any
idea of, can be really inherent in Matter; not to mention the peculiar
difficulty there must be in conceiving a material substance, prior to
and distinct from extension to be the substratum of extension. Be
the sensible quality what it will — figure, or sound, or colour, it seems
alike impossible it should subsist in that which doth not perceive it.]

Hyl. I give up the point for the present, reserving still a right to
retract my opinion, in case I shall hereafter discover any false step
in my progress to it.

Phil. That is a right you cannot be denied. Figures and extension
being despatched, we proceed next to motion. Can a real motion in
any external body be at the same time very swift and very slow?

Hyl. It cannot.

Phil. Is not the motion of a body swift in a reciprocal proportion
to the time it takes up in describing any given space ? Thus a body
that describes a mile in an hour moves three times faster than it
would in case it described only a mile in three hours.

Hyl. I agree with you.

Phil. And is not time measured by the succession of ideas in our
minds?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. And is it not possible ideas should succeed one another twice
as fast in your mind as they do in mine, or in that of some spirit of
another kind?

Hyl. I own it.

' what follows, within brackets, is not contained in the first and second editions.

210 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. Consequently the same body may to another seem to per-
form its motion over any space in half the time that it doth to you.
And the same reasoning will hold as to any other proportion: that is
to say, according to your principles (since the motions perceived are
both really in the object) it is possible one and the same body shall
be really moved the same way at once, both very swift and very slow.
How is this consistent either with common sense, or with what you
just now granted?

Hyl. I have nothing to say to it.

Phil. Then as for solidity; either you do not mean any sensible
quaUty by that word, and so it is beside our inquiry : or if you do, it
must be either hardness or resistance. But both the one and the
other are plainly relative to our senses: it being evident that what
seems hard to one animal may appear soft to another, who hath
greater force and firmness of limbs. Nor is it less plain that the
resistance I feel is not in the body.

Hyl. I own the very sensation of resistance, which is all you
immediately perceive, is not in the body; but the cause of that sensa-
tion is.

Phil. But the causes of our sensations are not things immediately
perceived, and therefore are not sensible. This point I thought had
been already determined.

Hyl. I own it was; but you will pardon me if I seem a litde em-
barrassed: I know not how to quit my old notions.

Phil. To help you out, do but consider that if extension be once
acknowledged to have no existence without the mind, the same must
necessarily be granted of motion, solidity, and gravity; since they
all evidently suppose extension. It is therefore superfluous to inquire
particularly concerning each of them. In denying extension, you have
denied them all to have any real existence.

Hyl. I wonder, Philonous, if what you say be true, why those
philosophers who deny the Secondary Qualities any real existence
should yet attribute it to the Primary. If there is no difference be-
tween them, how can this be accounted for?

Phil. It is not my business to account for every opinion of the
philosophers. But, among other reasons which may be assigned for
this, it seems probable that pleasure and pain beiag rather annexed to

FIRST DIALOGUE 211

the former than the latter may be one. Heat and cold, tastes and
smells, have something more vividly pleasing or disagreeable than
the ideas of extension, figure, and motion affect us with. And, it
being too visibly absurd to hold that pain or pleasure can be in an
unperceiving substance, men are more easily weaned from believing
the external existence of the Secondary than the Primary Qualities.
You will be satisfied there is something in this, if you recollect the
difference you made between an intense and more moderate degree
of heat; allowing the one a real existence, while you denied it to the
other. But, after all, there is no rational ground for that distinction;
for, surely an indifferent sensation is as truly a sensation as one more
pleasing or painful; and consequently should not any more than they
be supposed to exist in an unthinking subject.

Hyl. It is just come into my head, Philonous, that I have some-
where heard of a distinction between absolute and sensible extension.
Now, though it be acknowledged that great and small, consisting
merely in the relation which other extended beings have to the parts
of our own bodies, do not really inhere in the substances themselves;
yet nothing obliges us to hold the same with regard to absolute exten-
sion, which is something abstracted from great and small, from this
or that particular magnitude or figure. So likewise as to motion;
swift and slow are altogether relative to the succession of ideas in our
own minds. But, it doth not follow, because those modifications of
motion exist not without the mind, that therefore absolute motion
abstracted from them doth not.

Phil. Pray what is it that distinguishes one motion, or one part
of extension, from another? Is it not something sensible, as some
degree of swiftness or slowness, some certain magnitude or figure
peculiar to each?

Hyl. I think so.

Phil. These qualities, therefore, stripped of all sensible properties,
are without all specific and numerical differences, as the schools
call them.

Hyl. They are.

Phil. That is to say, they are extension in general, and motion in
general.

Hyl. Let it be so.

212 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. But it is a universally received maxim that Everything which
exists is particular. How then can motion in general, or extension
in general, exist in any corporeal substance?

Hyl. I will take time to solve your difficulty.

Phil. But I think the point may be speedily decided. Without
doubt you can tell whether you are able to frame this or that idea.
Now I am content to put our dispute on this issue. If you can frame
in your thoughts a distinct abstract idea of motion or extension,
divested of all those sensible modes, as swift and slow, great and
small, round and square, and the like, which are acknowledged to
exist only in the mind, I will then yield the point you contend for.
But if you cannot, it will be unreasonable on your side to insist any
longer upon what you have no notion of.

Hyl. To confess ingenuously, I cannot.

Phil. Can you even separate the ideas of extension and motion
from the ideas of all those qualities which they who make the dis-
tinction term secondary?

Hyl. What! is it not an easy matter to consider extension and mo-
tion by themselves, abstracted from all other sensible qualities ? Pray
how do the mathematicians treat of them ?

Phil. I acknowledge, Hylas, it is not difficult to form general
propositions and reasonings about those qualities, without mention-
ing any other; and, in this sense, to consider or treat of them ab-
stractedly. But, how doth it follow that, because I can pronounce
the word motion by itself, I can form the idea of it in my mind ex-
clusive of body ? or, because theorems may be made of extension and
figures, without any mention of great or small, or any other sensible
mode or quality, that therefore it is possible such an abstract idea of
extension, without any particular size or figure, or sensible quality^
should be distinctly formed, and apprehended by the mind ? Mathe-
maticians treat of quantity, without regarding what other sensible
qualities it is attended with, as being altogether indifferent to their
demonstrations. But, when laying aside the words, they contemplate
the bare ideas, I believe you will find, they are not the pure
abstracted ideas of extension.

^ 'Size or figure, or sensible quality' — 'size, colour, &c,' in the first and second
editions.

FIRST DIALOGUE 213

Hyl. But what say you to pure intellect? May not abstracted
ideas be framed by that faculty ?

Phil. Since I cannot frame abstract ideas at all, it is plain I can-
not frame them by the help of pure intellect; whatsoever faculty you
understand by those words. Besides, not to inquire into the nature of
pure intellect and its spiritual objects, as virtue, reason, God, or the
like, thus much seems manifest — that sensible things are only to be
perceived by sense, or represented by the imagination. Figures,
therefore, and extension, being originally perceived by sense, do not
belong to pure intellect : but, for your farther satisfaction, try if you
can frame the idea of any figure, abstracted from all particularities of
size, or even from other sensible qualities.

Hyl. Let me think a little — I do not find that I can.

Phil. And can you think it possible that should really exist in
nature which implies a repugnancy in its conception ?

Hyl. By no means.

Phil. Since therefore it is impossible even for the mind to disunite
the ideas of extension and motion from all other sensible qualities,
doth it not follow, that where the one exist there necessarily the other
exist likewise ?

Hyl. It should seem so.

Phil. Consequently, the very same arguments which you admitted
as conclusive against the Secondary Qualities are, without any farther
application of force, against the Primary too. Besides, if you will
trust your senses, is it not plain all sensible qualities coexist, or to them
appear as being in the same place ? Do they ever represent a motion,
or figure, as being divested of all other visible and tangible qualities ?

Hyl. You need say no more on this head. I am free to own, if
there be no secret error or oversight in our proceedings hitherto,
that all sensible qualities are alike to be denied existence without the
mind. But, my fear is that I have been too liberal in my former
concessions, or overlooked some fallacy or other. In short, I did not
take time to think.

Phil. For that matter, Hylas, you may take what time you please
in reviewing the progress of our inquiry. You are at liberty to re-
cover any slips you might have made, or offer whatever you have
omitted which makes for your first opinion.

214 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. One great oversight I take to be this — ^that I did not suffi-
ciently distinguish the object from the sensation. Now, though this
latter may not exist without the mind, yet it will not thence follow
that the former cannot.

Phil. What object do you mean? the object of the senses?

Hyl. The same.

Phil. It is then immediately perceived?

Hyl. Right.

Phil. Make me to understand the difference between what is im-
mediately perceived and a sensation.

Hyl. The sensation I take to be an act of the mind perceiving;
besides which, there is something perceived; and this I call the object.
For example, there is red and yellow on that tulip. But then the act
of perceiving those colours is in me only, and not in the tulip.

Phil. What tulip do you speak of? Is it that which you see?

Hyl. The same.

Phil. And what do you see beside colour, figure, and extension?

Hyl. Nothing.

Phil. What you would say then is that the red and yellow are
coexistent with the extension; is it not?

Hyl. That is not all; I would say they have a real existence with-
out the mind, in some unthinking substance.

Phil. That the colours are really in the tulip which I see is mani-
fest. Neither can it be denied that this tulip may exist independent
of your mind or mine; but, that any immediate object of the senses —
that is, any idea, or combination of ideas — should exist in an unthink-
ing substance, or exterior to all minds, is in itself an evident contra-
diction. Nor can I imagine how this follows from what you said
just now, to wit, that the red and yellow were on the tuhp you saw,
since you do not pretend to see that unthinking substance.

Hyl. You have an artful way, Philonous, of diverting our inquiry
from the subject.

Phil. I see you have no mind to be pressed that way. To return
then to your distinction between sensation and object; if I take you
right, you distinguish in every perception two things, the one an
action of the mind, the other not.

Hyl. True.

FIRST DIALOGUE 215

Phil. And this action cannot exist in, or belong to, any unthink-
ing thing; but, whatever beside is impHed in a perception may?

Hyl. That is my meaning.

Phil. So that if there was a perception without any act of the mind,
it were possible such a perception should exist in an unthinking sub-
stance?

Hyl. I grant it. But it is impossible there should be such a per-
ception.

Phil. When is the mind said to be active?

Hyl. When it produces, puts an end to, or changes, anything.

Phil. Can the mind produce, discontinue, or change anything,
but by an act of the will?

Hyl. It cannot.

Phil. The mind therefore is to be accounted active in its percep-
tions so far forth as volition is included in them?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. In plucking this flower I am active; because I do it by the
motion of my hand, which was consequent upon my volition; so Uke-
wise in applying it to my nose. But is either of these smelling?

Hyl. No.

Phil. I act too in drawing the air through my nose; because my
breathing so rather than otherwise is the effect of my voHtion. But
neither can this be called smelling: for, if it were, I should smell every
time I breathed in that manner?

Hyl. True.

Phil. Smelling then is somewhat consequent to all this?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. But I do not find my will concerned any farther. What-
ever more there is — as that I perceive such a particular smell, or any
smell at all — this is independent of my will, and therein I am alto-
gether passive. Do you find it otherwise with you, Hylas?

Hyl. No, the very same.

Phil. Then, as to seeing, is it not in your power to open your
eyes, or keep them shut; to turn them this or that way?

Hyl. Without doubt.

Phil. But, doth it in like manner depend on your will that in look-
ing on this flower you perceive white rather than any other colour?

2l6 GEORGE BERKELEY

Or, directing your open eyes towards yonder part of the heaven, can
you avoid seeing the sun ? Or is light or darkness the effect of your
volition ?

Hyl. No, certainly.

Phil. You are then in these respects altogether passive?

Hyl. I am.

Phil. Tell me now, whether seeing consists in perceiving light
and colours, or in opening and turning the eyes.?

Hyl. Without doubt, in the former.

Phil. Since therefore you are in the very perception of light and
colours altogether passive, what is become of that action you were
speaking of as an ingredient in every sensation? And, doth it not
follow from your own concessions, that the perception of light and
colours, including no action in it, may exist in an unperceiving sub-
stance? And is not this a plain contradiction?

Hyl. I know not what to think of it.

Phil. Besides, since you distinguish the active and passive in every
perception, you must do it in that of pain. But how is it possible
that pain, be it as little active as you please, should exist in an unper-
ceiving substance? In short, do but consider the point, and then con-
fess ingenuously, whether light and colours, tastes, sounds, &c. are
not all equally passions or sensations in the soul. You may indeed
call them external objects, and give them in words what subsistence
you please. But, examine your own thoughts, and then tell me
whether it be not as I say ?

Hyl. I acknowledge, Philonous, that, upon a fair observation of
what passes in my mind, I can discover nothing else but that I am a
thinking being, affected with variety of sensations; neither is it possi-
ble to conceive how a sensation should exist in an unperceiving sub-
stance. — But then, on the other hand, when I look on sensible things
in a different view, considering them as so many modes and qualities,
I find it necessary to suppose a material substratum, without which
they cannot be conceived to exist.

Phil. Material substratum call you it? Pray, by which of your
senses came you acquainted with that being?

Hyl. It is not itself sensible; its modes and qualities only being
perceived by the senses.

FIRST DIALOGUE 21 7

Phil. I presume then it was by reflexion and reason you obtained
the idea of it?

Hyl. I do not pretend to any proper positive idea of it. However,
I conclude it exists, because qualities cannot be conceived to exist
without a support.

Phil. It seems then you have only a relative notion of it, or that
you conceive it not otherwise than by conceiving the relation it bears
to sensible qualities.''

Hyl. Right.

Phil. Be pleased therefore to let me know wherein that relation
consists.

Hyl. Is it not sufficiently expressed in the term substratum, or sub-
stance?

Phil. If so, the word substratum should import that it is spread
under the sensible qualities or accidents .?

Hyl. True.

Phil. And consequently under extension.?

Hyl. I own it.

Phil. It is therefore somewhat in its own nature entirely distinct
from extension.?

Hyl. I tell you, extension is only a mode, and Matter is something
that supports modes. And is it not evident the thing supported is
different from the thing supporting?

Phil. So that something distinct from, and exclusive of, extension
is supposed to be the substratum of extension?

Hyl. Just so.

Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Can a thing be spread without exten-
sion ? or is not the idea of extension necessarily included in spread-
ing?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. Whatsoever therefore you suppose spread under anything
must have in itself an extension distinct from the extension of that
thing under which it is spread?

Hyl. It must.

Phil. Consequently, every corporeal substance, being the sub-
stratum of extension, must have in itself another extension, by which
it is qualified to be a substratum: and so on to infinity. And I ask
whether this be not absurd in itself, and repugnant to what you

2l8 GEORGE BERKELEY

granted just now, to wit, that the substratum was something distinct
from and exclusive of extension ?

Hyl. Aye but, Philonous, you take me wrong. I do not mean that
Matter is spread in a gross Hteral sense under extension. The word
substratum is used only to express in general the same thing v/ith
substance.

Phil. Well then, let us examine the relation implied in the term
substance. Is it not that it stands under accidents?

Hyl. The very same.

Phil. But, that one thing may stand under or support another,
must it not be extended ?

Hyl. It must.

Phil. Is not therefore this supposition liable to the same absurdity
with the former?

Hyl. You still take things in a strict literal sense. That is not fair,
Philonous.

Phil. I am not for imposing any sense on your words: you are at
liberty to explain them as you please. Only, I beseech you, make me
understand something by them. You tell me Matter supports or
stands under accidents. How! is it as your legs support your body?

Hyl. No; that is the literal sense.

Phil. Pray let me know any sense, literal or not literal, that you
understand it in. — How long must I wait for an answer, Hylas ?

Hyl. I declare I know not what to say. I once thought I under-
stood well enough what was meant by Matter's supporting accidents.
But now, the more I think on it the less can I comprehend it: in
short I find that I know nothing of it.

Phil. It seems then you have no idea at all, neither relative nor
positive, of Matter; you know neither what it is in itself, nor what
relation it bears to accidents ?

Hyl. I acknowledge it.

Phil. And yet you asserted that you could not conceive how quali-
ties or accidents should really exist, without conceiving at the same
time a material support of them ?

Hyl. I did.

Phil. That is to say, when you conceive the real existence of quali-

FIRST DIALOGUE 219

ties, you do withal conceive Something which you cannot conceive ?

Hyl. It was wrong, I own. But still I fear there is some fallacy or
other. Pray what think you of this? It is just come into my head
that the ground of all our mistake lies in your treating of each quality
by itself. Now, I grant that each quality cannot singly subsist with-
out the mind. Colour cannot without extension, neither can figure
without some other sensible quality. But, as the several qualities
united or blended together form entire sensible things, nothing hin-
ders why such things may not be supposed to exist without the mind.

Phil. Either, Hylas, you are jesting, or have a very bad memory.
Though indeed we went through all the qualities by name one after
another, yet my arguments or rather your concessions, nowhere
tended to prove that the Secondary Qualities did not subsist each
alone by itself; but, that they were not at all without the mind. In-
deed, in treating of figure and motion we concluded they could not
exist without the mind, because it was impossible even in thought
to separate them from all secondary qualities, so as to conceive
them existing by themselves. But then this was not the only argu-
ment made use of upon that occasion. But (to pass by all that hath
been hitherto said, and reckon it for nothing, if you will have it so)
I am content to put the whole upon this issue. If you can conceive it
possible for any mixture or combination of qualities, or any sensible
object whatever, to exist without the mind, then I will grant it
actually to be so.

Hyl. If it comes to that the point will soon be decided. What more
easy than to conceive a tree or house existing by itself, independent
of, and unperceived by, any mind whatsoever? I do at this present
time conceive them existing after that manner.

Phil. How say you, Hylas, can you see a thing which is at the
same time unseen?

Hyl. No, that were a contradiction.

Phil. Is it not as great a contradiction to talk of conceiving a thing
which is unconceived?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. The tree or house therefore which you think of is conceived
by you?

220 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. How should it be otherwise ?

Phil. And what is conceived is surely in the mind ?

Hyl. Without question, that which is conceived is in the mind.

Phil. How then came you to say, you conceived a house or tree
existing independent and out o£ all minds whatsoever?

Hyl. That was I own an oversight; but stay, let me consider what
led me into it. — It is a pleasant mistake enough. As I was thinking
■of a tree in a solitary place, where no one was present to see it, me-
thought that was to conceive a tree as existing unperceived or un-
thought of; not considering that I myself conceived it all the while.
But now I plainly see that all I can do is to frame ideas in my own
mind. I may indeed conceive in my own thoughts the idea of a
tree, or a house, or a mountain, but that is all. And this is far from
proving that I can conceive them existing out of the minds of all
Spirits.

Phil. You acknowledge then that you cannot possibly conceive
how any one corporeal sensible thing should exist otherwise than in
the mind?

Hyl. I do.

Phil. And yet you will earnestly contend for the truth of that
which you cannot so much as conceive ?

Hyl. I profess I know not what to think; but still there are some
scruples remain with me. Is it not certain I see things at a distance?
Do we not perceive the stars and moon, for example, to be a great
way off? Is not this, I say, manifest to the senses?

Phil. Do you not in a dream too perceive those or the like objects?

Hyl. I do.

Phil. And have they not then the same appearance of being dis-
tant?

Hyl. They have.

Phil. But you do not thence conclude the apparitions in a dream
to be without the mind?

Hyl. By no means.

Phil. You ought not therefore to conclude that sensible objects
are without the mind, from their appearance, or manner wherein
they are perceived.

FIRST DIALOGUE 221

Hyl. I acknowledge it. But doth not my sense deceive me in
those cases ?

Phil. By no means. The idea or thing which you immediately
perceive, neither sense nor reason informs you that it actually exists
without the mind. By sense you only know that you are affected with
such certain sensations of light and colours, &c. And these you will
not say are without the mind.

Hyl. True: but, beside all that, do you not think the sight sug-
gests something of outness or distance?

Phil. Upon approaching a distant object, do the visible size and
figure change perpetually, or do they appear the same at all distances ?

Hyl. They are in a continual change.

Phil. Sight therefore doth not suggest, or any way inform you,
that the visible object you immediately perceive exists at a distance,
or will be perceived when you advance farther onward; there being
a continued series of visible objects succeeding each other during the
whole time of your approach.

Hyl. It doth not; but still I know, upon seeing an object, what
object I shall perceive after having passed over a certain distance: no
matter whether it be exactly the same or no : there is still something
of distance suggested in the case.

Phil. Good Hylas, do but reflect a little on the point, and then
tell me whether there be any more in it than this: from the ideas you
actually perceive by sight, you have by experience learned to col-
lect what other ideas you will (according to the standing order of
nature) be affected with, after such a certain succession of time and
motion.

Hyl. Upon the whole, I take it to be nothing else.

Phil. Now, is it not plain that if we suppose a man born blind was
on a sudden made to see, he could at first have no experience of
what may be suggested by sight?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. He would not then, according to you, have any notion of
distance annexed to the things he saw; but would take them for a
new set of sensations, existing only in his mind.?

Hyl. It is undeniable.

222 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. But, to make it still more plain: is not distance a line turned
endwise to the eye ?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. And can a line so situated be perceived by sight ?

Hyl. It cannot.

Phil. Doth it not therefore follow that distance is not properly and
immediately perceived by sight?

Hyl. It should seem so.

Phil. Again, is it your opinion that colours are at a distance ?

Hyl. It must be acknowledged they are only in the mind.

Phil. But do not colours appear to the eye as coexisting in the
same place with extension and figures?

Hyl. They do.

Phil. How can you then conclude from sight that figures exist
without, when you acknowledge colours do not; the sensible appear-
ance being the very same with regard to both ?

Hyl. I know not what to answer.

Phil. But, allowing that distance was truly and immediately per-
ceived by the mind, yet it would not thence follow it existed out of
the mind. For, whatever is immediately perceived is an idea : and can
any idea exist out of the mind ?

Hyl. To suppose that were absurd: but, inform me, Philonous,
can we perceive or know nothing beside our ideas?

Phil. As for the rational deducing of causes from effects, that is
beside our inquiry. And, by the senses you can best tell whether you
perceive anything which is not immediately perceived. And I ask
you, whether the things immediately perceived are other than your
own sensations or ideas? You have indeed more than once, in the
course of this conversation, declared yourself on those points; but you
seem, by this last question, to have departed from what you then
thought.

Hyl. To speak the truth, Philonous, I think there are two kinds
of objects: — the one perceived immediately, which are likewise called
ideas; the other are real things or external objects, perceived by the
mediation of ideas, which are their images and representations. Now,
I own ideas do not exist without the mind; but the latter sort of ob-

FIRST DIALOGUE 223

jects do. I am sorry I did not think of this distinction sooner; it
would probably have cut short your discourse.

Phil. Are those external objects perceived by sense or by some
other faculty.?

Hyl. They are perceived by sense,

Phil. How! Is there any thing perceived by sense which is not
immediately perceived.''

Hyl. Yes, Philonous, in some sort there is. For example, when I
look on a picture or statue of Julius Csesar, I may be said after a
manner to perceive him (though not immediately) by my senses.

Phil, It seems then you will have our ideas, which alone are im-
mediately perceived, to be pictures of external things: and that these
also are perceived by sense, inasmuch as they have a conformity or re-
semblance to our ideas?

Hyl. That is my meaning.

Phil. And, in the same way that Julius Csesar, in himself invisible,
is nevertheless perceived by sight; real things, in themselves imper-
ceptible, are perceived by sense.

Hyl. In the very same.

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, when you behold the picture of Julius
CjEsar, do you see with your eyes any more than some colours and
figures, with a certain symmetry and composition of the whole.''

Hyl. Nothing else.

Phil. And would not a man who had never known anything of
Julius CaEsar see as much.''

Hyl. He would.

Phil. Consequently he hath his sight, and the use of it, in as per-
fect a degree as you?

Hyl. I agree with you.

Phil. Whence comes it then that your thoughts are directed to the
Roman emperor, and his are not ? This cannot proceed from the sen-
sations or ideas of sense by you then perceived; since you acknowl-
edge you have no advantage over him in that respect. It should
seem therefore to proceed from reason and memory: should it
not?

Hyl. It should.

224 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. Consequently, it will not follow from that instance that any-
thing is perceived by sense which is not immediately perceived.
Though I grant we may, in one acceptation, be said to perceive sensi-
ble things mediately by sense: that is, when, from a frequently per-
ceived connexion, the immediate perception of ideas by one sense
suggests to the mind others, perhaps belonging to another sense, which
are wont to be connected with them. For instance, when I hear a
coach drive along the streets, immediately I perceive only the sound;
but, from the experience I have had that such a sound is connected
with a coach, I am said to hear the coach. It is nevertheless evident
that, in truth and strictness, nothing can be heard but sound; and the
coach is not then properly perceived by sense, but suggested from ex-
perience. So likewise when we are said to see a red-hot bar of iron;
the solidity and heat of the iron are not the objects of sight, but sug-
gested to the imagination by the colour and figure which are properly
perceived by that sense. In short, those things alone are actually and
strictly perceived by any sense, which would have been perceived in
case that same sense had then been first conferred on us. As for
other things, it is plain they are only suggested to the mind by ex-
perience, grounded on former perceptions. But, to return to your
comparison of Caesar's picture, it is plain, if you keep to that, you
must hold the real things, or archetypes of our ideas, are not per-
ceived by sense, but by some internal faculty of the soul, as reason
or memory. I would therefore fain know what arguments you can
draw from reason for the existence of what you call real things or
material objects. Or, whether you remember to have seen them
formerly as they are in themselves; or, if you have heard or read of
any one that did.

Hyl. I see, Philonous, you are disposed to raillery; but that will
never convince me.

Phil. My aim is only to learn from you the way to come at the
knowledge of material beings. Whatever we perceive is perceived
immediately or mediately: by sense, or by reason and reflexion. But,
as you have excluded sense, pray shew me what reason you have to
believe their existence; or what medium you can possibly make use
of to prove it, either to mine or your own understanding.

FIRST DIALOGUE 225

Hyl. To deal ingenuously, Philonous, now I consider the point,
I do not find I can give you any good reason for it. But, thus much
seems pretty plain, that it is at least possible such things may really
exist. And, as long as there is no absurdity in supposing them, I am
resolved to believe as I did, till you bring good reasons to the con-
trary.

Phil. What! Is it come to this, that you only believe the existence
of material objects, and that your beHef is founded barely on the
possibility of its being true? Then you w^ill have me bring reasons
against it: though another would think it reasonable the proof should
lie on him who holds the affirmative. And, after all, this very point
which you are now resolved to maintain, without any reason, is in
effect what you have more than once during this discourse seen good
reason to give up. But, to pass over all this; if I understand you
rightly, you say our ideas do not exist without the mind, but that
they are copies, images, or representations, of certain originals
that do?

Hyl. You take me right.

Phil. They are then like external things?

Hyl. They are.

Phil. Have those things a stable and permanent nature, inde-
pendent of our senses; or are they in a perpetual change, upon our
producing any motions in our bodies — suspending, exerting, or alter-
ing, our faculties or organs of sense?

Hyl. Real things, it is plain, have a fixed and real nature, which
remains the same notwithstanding any change in our senses, or in
the posture and motion of our bodies; which indeed may affect the
ideas in our minds, but it were absurd to think they had the same
effect on things existing without the mind.

Phil. How then is it possible that things perpetually fleeting and
variable as our ideas should be copies or images of anything fixed
and constant? Or, in other words, since all sensible qualities, as size,
figure, colour, &c., that is, our ideas, are continually changing, upon
every alteration in the distance, medium, or instruments of sensation;
how can any determinate material objects be properly represented or
painted forth by several distinct things, each of which is so different

226 GEORGE BERKELEY

from and unlike the rest? Or, if you say it resembles some one only
of our ideas, how shall we be able to distinguish the true copy from
all the false ones?

Hyl. I profess, Philonous, I am at a loss. I know not what to say
to this.

Phil. But neither is this all. Which are material objects in them-
selves — perceptible or imperceptible?

Hyl. Properly and immediately nothing can be perceived but
ideas. All material things, therefore, are in themselves insensible,
and to be perceived only by our ideas.

Phil. Ideas then are sensible, and their archetypes or originals
insensible ?

Hyl. Right.

Phil. But how can that which is sensible be li\e that which is in-
sensible ? Can a real thing, in itself invisible, be like a colour; or a
real thing, which is not audible, be like a sound? In a word, can
anything be like a sensation or idea, but another sensation or idea ?

Hyl. I must own, I think not.

Phil. Is it possible there should be any doubt on the point? Do
you not perfectly know your own ideas?

Hyl. I know them perfecdy; since what I do not perceive or know
can be no part of my idea.

Phil. Consider, therefore, and examine them, and then tell me if
there be anything in them which can exist without the mind: or if
you can conceive anything like them existing without the mind.

Hyl. Upon inquiry, I find it is impossible for me to conceive or
understand how anything but an idea can be like an idea. And it is
most evident that no idea can exist without the mind.

Phil. You are therefore, by your principles, forced to deny the
reality of sensible things; since you made it to consist in an absolute
existence exterior to the mind. That is to say, you are a downright
sceptic. So I have gained my point, which was to shew your princi-
ples led to Scepticism.

Hyl. For the present I am, if not entirely convinced, at least
silenced.

Phil. I would fain know what more you would require in order to
a perfect conviction. Have you not had the liberty of explaining

FIRST DIALOGUE 227

yourself all manner of ways? Were any little slips in discourse laid
hold and insisted on ? Or were you not allowed to retract or reinforce
anything you had offered, as best served your purpose? Hath not
everything you could say been heard and examined with all the fair-
ness imaginable? In a word, have you not in every point been con-
vinced out of your own mouth ? And, if you can at present discover
any flaw in any of your former concessions, or think of any remain-
ing subterfuge, any new distinction, colour, or comment whatsoever,
why do you not produce it?

Hyl. A little patience, Philonous. I am at present so amazed to see
myself ensnared, and as it were imprisoned in the labyrinths you
have drawn me into, that on the sudden it cannot be expected I should
find my way out. You must give me time to look about me and
recollect myself.

Phil. Hark; is not this the college bell?

Hyl. It rings for prayers.

Phil. We will go in then, if you please, and meet here again to-
morrow morning. In the meantime, you may employ your thoughts
on this morning's discourse, and try if you can find any fallacy in it,
or invent any new means to extricate yourself.

Hyl. Agreed.

THE SECOND DIALOGUE

■y "FYLAS. I beg your pardon, Philonous, for not meeting

m § you sooner. All this morning my head was so filled with
J. J, our late conversation that I had not leisure to think of
the time of the day, or indeed of anything else.

Philonous. I am glad you were so intent upon it, in hopes if there
were any mistakes in your concessions, or fallacies in my reasonings
from them, you will now discover them to me.

Hyl. I assure you I have done nothing ever since I saw you but
search after mistakes and fallacies, and, with that view, have minutely
examined the whole series of yesterday's discourse: but all in vain,
for the notions it led me into, upon review, appear still more clear
and evident; and, the more I consider them, the more irresistibly do
they force my assent.

Phil. And is not this, think you, a sign that they are genuine, that
they proceed from nature, and are conformable to right reason?
Truth and beauty are in this alike, that the strictest survey sets them
both off to advantage; while the false lustre of error and disguise
cannot endure being reviewed, or too nearly inspected.

Hyl. I own there is a great deal in what you say. Nor can any one
be more entirely satisfied of the truth of those odd consequences, so
long as I have in view the reasonings that lead to them. But, when
these are out of my thoughts, there seems, on the other hand, some-
thing so satisfactory, so natural and intelligible, in the modern way of
explaining things that, I profess, I know not how to reject it.

Phil. I know not what way you mean.

Hyl. I mean the way of accounting for our sensations or ideas.

Phil. How is that?

Hyl. It is supposed the soul makes her residence in some part of
the brain, from which the nerves take their rise, and are thence ex-
tended to all parts of the body; and that outward objects, by the dif-

228

SECOND DIALOGUE 229

ferent impressions they make on the organs of sense, communicate
certain vibrative motions to the nerves; and these being filled with
spirits propagate them to the brain or seat of the soul, which, accord-
ing to the various impressions or traces thereby made in the brain,
is variously affected with ideas.

Phil. And call you this an explication of the manner whereby we
are affected with ideas?

Hyl. Why not, Philonous? Have you anything to object against
it?

Phil. I would first know whether I rightly understand your hypoth-
esis. You make certain traces in the brain to be the causes or
occasions of our ideas. Pray tell me whether by the brain you mean
any sensible thing.

Hyl. What else think you I could mean?

Phil. Sensible things are all immediately perceivable; and those
things which are immediately perceivable are ideas; and these exist
only in the mind. Thus much you have, if I mistake not, long since
agreed to.

Hyl. I do not deny it.

Phil. The brain therefore you speak of, being a sensible thing,
exists only in the mind. Now, I would fain know whether you think
it reasonable to suppose that one idea or thing existing in the mind
occasions all other ideas. And, if you think so, pray how do you ac-
count for the origin of that primary idea or brain itself?

Hyl. I do not explain the origin of our ideas by that brain which
is perceivable to sense — this being itself only a combination of sensi-
ble ideas — but by another which I imagine.

Phil. But are not things imagined as truly in the mind as things
perceived ?

Hyl. I must confess they are.

Phil. It comes, therefore, to the same thing; and you have been
all this while accounting for ideas by certain motions or impressions
of the brain; that is, by some alterations in an idea, whether sensible
or imaginable it matters not.

Hyl. I begin to suspect my hypothesis.

Phil. Besides spirits, all that we know or conceive are our own
ideas. When, therefore, you say all ideas are occasioned by impressions

230 GEORGE BERKELEY

in the brain, do you conceive this brain or no ? If you do, then you
talk of ideas imprinted in an idea causing that same idea, which is
absurd. If you do not conceive it, you talk unintelligibly, instead of
forming a reasonable hypothesis.

Hyl. I now clearly see it was a mere dream. There is nothing
in it.

Phil. You need not be much concerned at it; for after all, this way
of explaining things, as you called it, could never have satisfied any
reasonable man. What connexion is there between a motion in the
nerves, and the sensations of sound or colour in the mind ? Or how
is it possible these should be the effect of that ?

Hyl. But I could never think it had so little in it as now it seems
to have.

Phil. Well then, are you at length satisfied that no sensible things
have a real existence; and that you are in truth an arrant sceptic .i"

Hyl. It is too plain to be denied.

Phil. Look! are not the fields covered with a delightful verdure?
Is there not something in the woods and groves, in the rivers and
clear springs, that soothes, that delights, that transports the soul ? At
the prospect of the wide and deep ocean, or some huge mountain
whose top is lost in the clouds, or of an old gloomy forest, are not our
minds fiUed with a pleasing horror? Even in rocks and deserts is
there not an agreeable wildness? How sincere a pleasure is it to be-
hold the natural beauties of the earth! To preserve and renew our
relish for them, is not the veil of night alternately drawn over her
face, and doth she not change her dress with the seasons ? How aptly
are the elements disposed! What variety and use ['in the meanest
productions of nature] ! What delicacy, what beauty, what contriv-
ance, in animal and vegetable bodies! How exquisitely are all things
suited, as well to their particular ends, as to constitute opposite parts
of the whole! And, while they mutually aid and support, do they not
also set off and illustrate each other? Raise now your thoughts from
this ball of earth to all those glorious luminaries that adorn the high
arch of heaven. The motion and situation of the planets, are they not
admirable for use and order? Were those (miscalled erratic) globes
once known to stray, in their repeated journeys through the pathless
' 'In stones and minerals' — in first and second editions.

SECOND DIALOGUE 23 1

void? Do they not measure areas round the sun ever proportioned
to the times? So fixed, so immutable are the laws by which the
unseen Author of nature actuates the universe. How vivid and radiant
is the lustre of the fixed stars! How magnificent and rich that negli-
gent profusion with which they appear to be scattered throughout the
whole azure vault! Yet, if you take the telescope, it brings into your
sight a new host of stars that escape the naked eye. Here they seem
contiguous and minute, but to a nearer view immense orbs of light
at various distances, far sunk in the abyss of space. Now you must
call imagination to your aid. The feeble narrow sense cannot descry
innumerable worlds revolving round the central fires; and in those
worlds the energy of an all-perfect Mind displayed in endless forms.
But, neither sense nor imagination are big enough to comprehend the
boundless extent, with all its glittering furniture. Though the labour-
ing mind exert and strain each power to its utmost reach, there still
stands out ungrasped a surplusage immeasurable. Yet all the vast
bodies that compose this mighty frame, how distant and remote so-
ever, are by some secret mechanism, some Divine art and force,
linked in a mutual dependence and intercourse with each other;
even with this earth, which was almost slipt from my thoughts and
lost in the crowd of worlds. Is not the whole system immense, beauti-
ful, glorious beyond expression and beyond thought! What treat-
ment, then, do those philosophers deserve, who would deprive these
noble and delightful scenes of all reality? How should those Prin-
ciples be entertained that lead us to think all the visible beauty of the
creation a false imaginary glare? To be plain, can you expect this
Scepticism of yours will not be thought extravagandy absurd by all
men of sense?

Hyl. Other men may think as they please; but for your part you
have nothing to reproach me with. My comfort is, you are as much
a sceptic as I am.

Phil. There, Hylas, I must beg leave to differ from you.

Hyl. What! Have you all along agreed to the premises, and
do you now deny the conclusion, and leave me to maintain those
paradoxes by myself which you led me into? This surely is not
fair.

Phil. I deny that I agreed with you in those notions that led to
Scepticism. You indeed said the reality of sensible things consisted in

232 GEORGE BERKELEY

an absolute existence out of the minds of spirits, or distinct from their
being perceived. And pursuant to this notion of reality, you are
obliged to deny sensible things any real existence: that is, according
to your own definition, you profess yourself a sceptic. But I neither
said nor thought the reality of sensible things was to be defined after
that manner. To me it is evident for the reasons you allow of, that
sensible things cannot exist otherwise than in a mind or spirit.
Whence I conclude, not that they have no real existence, but that,
seeing they depend not on my thought, and have all existence dis-
tinct from being perceived by me, there must be some other Mind
wherein they exist. As sure, therefore, as the sensible world really
exists, so sure is there an infinite omnipresent Spirit who contains
and supports it.

Hyl. What! This is no more than I and all Christians hold; nay,
and all others too who believe there is a God, and that He knows
and comprehends all things.

Phil. Aye, but here lies the difference. Men commonly believe that
all things are known or perceived by God, because they believe the
being of a God; whereas I, on the other side, immediately and neces-
sarily conclude the being of a God, because all sensible things must
be perceived by Him.

Hyl. But, so long as we all believe the same thing, what matter is
it how we come by that belief?

Phil. But neither do we agree in the same opinion. For philos-
ophers, though they acknowledge all corporeal beings to be perceived
by God, yet they attribute to them an absolute subsistence distinct
from their being perceived by any mind whatever; which I do not.
Besides, is there no difference between saying. There is a God, there-
fore He perceives all things; and saying. Sensible things do really
exist; and, if they really exist, they are necessarily perceived by an
infinite Mind: therefore there is an infinite Mind or God? This fur-
nishes you with a direct and immediate demonstration, from a most
evident principle, of the being of a God. Divines and philosophers
had proved beyond all controversy, from the beauty and usefulness
of the several parts of the creation, that it was the workmanship of
God. But that — setting aside all help of astronomy and natural
philosophy, all contemplation of the contrivance, order, and adjust-

SECOND DIALOGUE 233

ment of things — an infinite Mind should be necessarily inferred from
the bare existence of the sensible world, is an advantage to them only
who have made this easy reflexion: that the sensible world is that
which we perceive by our several senses; and that nothing is per-
ceived by the senses beside ideas; and that no idea or archetype of an
idea can exist otherwise than in a mind. You may now, without any
laborious search into the sciences, without any subtlety of reason, or
tedious length of discourse, oppose and baffle the most strenuous ad-
vocate for Atheism. Those miserable refuges, whether in an eternal
succession of unthinking causes and effects, or in a fortuitous con-
course of atoms; those wild imaginations of Vanini, Hobbes, and
Spinoza: in a word, the whole system of Atheism, is it not entirely
overthrown, by this single reflexion on the repugnancy included in
supposing the whole, or any part, even the most rude and shapeless,
of the visible world, to exist without a mind ? Let any one of those
abettors of impiety but look into his own thoughts, and there try if
he can conceive how so much as a rock, a desert, a chaos, or confused
jumble of atoms; how anything at all, either sensible or imaginable,
can exist independent of a Mind, and he need go no farther to be
convinced of his folly. Can anything be fairer than to put a dispute
on such an issue, and leave it to a man himself to see if he can con-
ceive, even in thought, what he holds to be true in fact, and from a
notional to allow it a real existence?

Hyl. It cannot be denied there is something highly serviceable to
religion in what you advance. But do you not think it looks very
like a notion entertained by some eminent moderns, of seeing all
things in God?

Phil. I would gladly know that opinion: pray explain it to me.

Hyl. They conceive that the soul, being immaterial, is incapable
of being united with material things, so as to perceive them in them-
selves; but that she perceives them by her union with the substance
of God, which, being spiritual, is therefore purely intelligible, or cap-
able of being the immediate object of a spirit's thought. Besides the
Divine essence contains in it perfections correspondent to each created
being; and which are, for that reason, proper to exhibit or represent
them to the mind.

Phil. I do not understand how our ideas, which are things alto-

234 GEORGE BERKELEY

gether passive and inert, can be the essence, or any part (or like any
part) of the essence or substance of God, who is an impassive, indi-
visible, pure, active being. Many more difHculties and objections
there are which occur at first view against this hypothesis; but I shall
only add that it is liable to all the absurdities of the common hypoth-
esis, in making a created world exist otherwise than in the mind of
a Spirit. Besides all which it hath this pecuUar to itself; that it makes
that material world serve to no purpose. And, if it pass for a good
argument against other hypotheses in the sciences, that they suppose
Nature, or the Divine wisdom, to make something in vain, or do that
by tedious roundabout methods which might have been performed
in a much more easy and compendious way, what shall we think of
that hypothesis which supposes the whole world made in vain ?

Hyl. But what say you? Are not you too of opinion that we
see all things in God? If I mistake not, what you advance comes
near it.

Phil. [Tew men think; yet all have opinions. Hence men's
opinions are superficial and confused. It is nothing strange that ten-
ets which in themselves are ever so different, should nevertheless be
confounded with each other, by those who do not consider them
attentively. I shall not therefore be surprised if some men imagine
that I run into the enthusiasm of Malebranche; though in truth I am
very remote from it. He builds on the most abstract general ideas,
which I entirely disclaim. He asserts an absolute external world,
which I deny. He maintains that we are deceived by our senses, and
know not the real natures or the true forms and figures of extended
beings; of all which I hold the direct contrary. So that upon the
whole there are no Principles more fundamentally opposite than his
and mine. It must be owned that] I entirely agree with what the holy
Scripture saith, 'That in God we live and move and have our being.'
But that we see things in His essence, after the manner above set
forth, I am far from believing. Take here in brief my meaning: — It
is evident that the things I perceive are my own ideas, and that no
idea can exist unless it be in a mind: nor is it less plain that these ideas
or things by me perceived, either themselves or their archetypes, exist
independently of my mind, since I know myself not to be their
^ The passage within brackets first appeared in the third edition.

SECOND DIALOGUE 235

author, it being out of my power to determine at pleasure what par-
ticular ideas I shall be affected with upon opening my eyes or ears:
they must therefore exist in some other Mind, whose Will it is they
should be exhibited to me. The things, I say, immediately perceived
are ideas or sensations, call them which you will. But how can any
idea or sensation exist in, or be produced by, anything but a mind or
spirit? This indeed is inconceivable. And to assert that which is
inconceivable is to talk nonsense: is it not.?

Hyl. Without doubt.

Phil. But, on the other hand, it is very conceivable that they should
exist in and be produced by a spirit; since this is no more than I daily
experience in myself, inasmuch as I perceive numberless ideas; and,
by an act of my will, can form a great variety of them, and raise them
up in my imagination : though, it must be confessed, these creatures
of the fancy are not altogether so distinct, so strong, vivid, and per-
manent, as those perceived by my senses — which latter are called
red things. From all which I conclude, there is a Mind which a§ects
me every moment with all the sensible impressions I perceive. And,
from the variety, order, and manner of these, I conclude the Author
of them to be wise, powerful, and good, beyond comprehension. Mark
it well; I do not say, I see things by perceiving that which represents
them in the intelligible Substance of God. This I do not understand;
but I say, the things by me perceived are known by the understand-
ing, and produced by the will of an infinite Spirit. And is not all
this most plain and evident.? Is there any more in it than what a
little observation in our own minds, and that which passeth in them,
not only enables us to conceive, but also obliges us to acknowledge.

Hyl. I think I understand you very clearly; and own the proof
you give of a Deity seems no less evident than it is surprising. But,
allowing that God is the supreme and universal Cause of all things,
yet, may there not be still a Third Nature besides Spirits and Ideas ?
May we not admit a subordinate and limited cause of our ideas?
In a word, may there not for all that be Matter?

Phil. How often must I inculcate the same thing? You allow the
things immediately perceived by sense to exist nowhere without the
mind; but there is nothing perceived by sense which is not perceived
immediately: therefore there is nothing sensible that exists without

236 GEORGE BERKELEY

the mind. The Matter, therefore, which you still insist on is some-
thing intelligible, I suppose; something that may be discovered by
reason, and not by sense.

Hyl. You are in the right.

Phil. Pray let me know what reasoning your belief of Matter is
grounded on; and what this Matter is, in your present sense of it.

Hyl. I find myself affected with various ideas, whereof I know I
am not the cause; neither are they the cause of themselves, or of one
another, or capable of subsisting by themselves, as being altogether
inactive, fleeting, dependent beings. They have therefore some cause
distinct from me and them: of which I pretend to know no more
than that it is the cause of my ideas. And this thing, whatever it be,
I call Matter.

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, hath every one a liberty to change the current
proper signification attached to a common name in any language?
For example, suppose a traveller should tell you that in a certain
country men pass unhurt through the fire; and, upon explaining him-
self, you found he meant by the word fire that which others call
water. Or, if he should assert that there are trees that walk upon
two legs, meaning men by the term trees. Would you think this
reasonable?

Hyl. No; I should think it very absurd. Common custom is the
standard of propriety in language. And for any man to affect speak-
ing improperly is to pervert the use of speech, and can never serve
to a better purpose than to protract and multiply disputes where there
is no difference in opinion.

Phil. And doth not Matter, in the common current acceptation of
the word, signify an extended, solid, moveable, unthinking, inactive
Substance?

Hyl. It doth.

Phil. And, hath it not been made evident that no such substance
can possibly exist? And, though it should be allowed to exist, yet
how can that which is inactive be a cause; or that which is unthink^
ing be a cause of thought? You may, indeed, if you please, annex to
the word Matter a contrary meaning to what is vulgarly received;
and tell me you understand by it, an unextended, thinking, active
being, which is the cause of our ideas. But what else is this than to

SECOND DIALOGUE 237

play with words, and run into that very fault you just now con-
demned with so much reason ? I do by no means find fault with your
reasoning, in that you collect a cause from the phenomena: but I deny
that the cause deducible by reason can properly be termed Matter.

Hyl. There is indeed something in what you say. But I am afraid
you do not thoroughly comprehend my meaning. I would by no
means be thought to deny that God, or an infinite Spirit, is the
Supreme Cause of all things. All I contend for is, that, subordinate
to the Supreme Agent, there is a cause of a limited and inferior na-
ture, which concurs in the production of our ideas, not by any act
of will, or spiritual efficiency, but by that kind of action which
belongs to Matter, viz. motion.

Phil. I find you are at every turn relapsing into your old exploded
conceit, of a moveable, and consequently an extended, substance, ex-
isting without the mind. What! Have you already forgotten you
were convinced; or are you willing I should repeat what has been
said on that head ? In truth this is not fair dealing in you, still to sup-
pose the being of that which you have so often acknowledged to have
no being. But, not to insist farther on what has been so largely
handled, I ask whether all your ideas are not perfectly passive and
inert, including nothing of action in them.

Hyl. They are.

Phil. And are sensible qualities anything else but ideas ?

Hyl. How often have I acknowledged that they are not.

Phil. But is not motion a sensible quality?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. Consequently it is no action?

Hyl. I agree with you. And indeed it is very plain that when I stir
my finger, it remains passive; but my will which produced the mo-
tion is active.

Phil. Now, I desire to know, in the first place, whether, motion
being allowed to be no action, you can conceive any action besides
volition: and, in the second place, whether to say something and con-
ceive nothing be not to talk nonsense: and, lasdy, whether, having
considered the premises, you do not perceive that to suppose any
efficient or active Cause of our ideas, other than Spirit, is highly
absurd and unreasonable?

238 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. I give up the point entirely. But, though Matter may not be
a cause, yet what hinders its being an instrument, subservient to the
supreme Agent in the production of our ideas?

Phil. An instrument say you; pray what may be the figure, springs,
wheels, and motions, of that instrument?

Hyl. Those I pretend to determine nothing of, both the substance
and its qualities being entirely unknown to me.

Phil. What ? You are then of opinion it is made up of unknown
parts, that it hath unknown motions, and an unknown shape ?

Hyl. I do not believe that it hath any figure or motion at all, being
aheady convinced, that no sensible qualities can exist in an unper-
ceiving substance.

Phil. But what notion is it possible to frame of an instrument void
of all sensible qualities, even extension itself?

Hyl. I do not pretend to have any notion of it.

Phil. And what reason have you to think this unknown, this in-
conceivable Somewhat doth exist? Is it that you imagine God can-
not act as well without it; or that you find by experience the use of
some such thing, when you form ideas in your own mind ?

Hyl. You are always teasing me for reasons of my belief. Pray
what reasons have you not to believe it ?

Phil. It is to me a sufficient reason not to believe the existence of
anything, if I see no reason for believing it. But, not to insist on rea-
sons for believing, you will not so much as let me know what it is
you would have me believe; since you say you have no manner of no-
tion of it. After all, let me entreat you to consider whether it be like a
philosopher, or even like a man of common sense, to pretend to
believe you know not what, and you know not why.

Hyl. Hold, Philonous. When I tell you Matter is an instrument,
I do not mean altogether nothing. It is true I know not the particu-
lar kind of instrument; but, however, I have some notion of instru-
ment in general, which I apply to it.

Phil. But what if it should prove that there is something, even in
the most general notion of instrument, as taken in a distinct sense
from cause, which makes the use of it inconsistent with the Divine
attributes?

SECOND DIALOGUE 239

Hyl. Make that appear and I shall give up the point.

Phil. What mean you by the general nature or notion of instru-
ment?

Hyl. That which is common to all particular instruments com-
poseth the general notion.

Phil. Is it not common to all instruments, that they are applied
to the doing those things only which cannot be performed by the
mere act of our wills ? Thus, for instance, I never use an instrument
to move my finger, because it is done by a volition. But I should use
one if I were to remove part of a rock, or tear up a tree by the roots.
Are you of the same mind? Or, can you shew any example where
an instrument is made use of in producing an effect immediately
depending on the will of the agent ?

Hyl. I own I cannot.

Phil. How therefore can you suppose that an All-perfect Sfnrit,
on whose Will all things have an absolute and immediate depend-
ence, should need an instrument in his operations, or, not needing it,
make use of it ? Thus it seems to me that you are obliged to own the
use of a lifeless inactive instrument to be incompatible with the in-
finite perfection of God; that is, by your own confession, to give up
the point.

Hyl. It doth not readily occur what I can answer you.

Phil. But, methinks you should be ready to own the truth, when
it has been fairly proved to you. We indeed, who are beings of finite
powers, are forced to make use of instruments. And the use of an
instrument sheweth the agent to be limited by rules of another's
prescription, and that he cannot obtain his end but in such a way, and
by such conditions. Whence it seems a clear consequence, that the
supreme unlimited agent useth no tool or instrument at all. The
will of an Omnipotent Spirit is no sooner exerted than executed, with-
out the application of means; which, if they are employed by inferior
agents, it is not upon account of any real efficacy that is in them, or
necessary aptitude to produce any effect, but merely in compliance
with the laws of nature, or those conditions prescribed to them by
the First Cause, who is Himself above all limitation or prescription
whatsoever.

240 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. I will no longer maintain that Matter is an instrument. How-
ever, I would not be understood to give up its existence neither; since,
notwithstanding what hath been said, it may still be an occasion.

Phil, How many shapes is your Matter to take? Or, how often
must it be proved not to exist, before you are content to part with it ?
But, to say no more of this (though by all the laws of disputation I
may jusdy blame you for so frequently changing the signification
of the principal term) — I would fain know what you mean by affirm-
ing that matter is an occasion, having already denied it to be a cause.
And, when you have shewn in what sense you understand occasion,
pray, in the next place, be pleased to shew me what reason induceth
you to believe there is such an occasion of our ideas?

Hyl. As to the first point: by occasion I mean an inactive unthink-
ing being, at the presence whereof God excites ideas in our minds.

Phil. And what may be the nature of that inactive unthinking
being?

Hyl. I know nothing of its nature.

Phil. Proceed then to the second point, and assign some reason
why we should allow an existence to this inactive, unthinking,
unknown thing.

Hyl. When we see ideas produced in our minds, after an orderly
and constant manner, it is natural to think they have some fixed and
regular occasions, at the presence of which they are excited.

Phil. You acknowledge then God alone to be the cause of our
ideas, and that He causes them at the presence of those occasions.

Hyl. That is my opinion.

Phil. Those things which you say are present to God, without
doubt He perceives.

Hyl. Certainly; otherwise they could not be to Him an occasion
of acting.

Phil. Not to insist now on your making sense of this hypothesis,
or answering all the puzzling questions and difficulties it is liable
to: I only ask whether the order and regularity observable in the
series of our ideas, or the course of nature, be not sufficiently ac-
counted for by the wisdom and power of God; and whether it doth
not derogate from those attributes, to suppose He is influenced,
directed, or put in mind, when and what He is to act, by an unthink-

SECOND DIALOGUE 24 1

ing substance? And, lastly, whether, in case I granted all you con-
tend for, it would make anything to your purpose; it not being easy
to conceive how the external or absolute existence of an unthinking
substance, distinct from its being perceived, can be inferred from my
allowing that there are certain things perceived by the mind of God,
which are to Him the occasion of producing ideas in us ?

Hyl. I am perfectly at a loss what to think, this notion of occasion
seeming now altogether as groundless as the rest.

Phil. Do you not at length perceive that in all these different ac-
ceptations of Matter, you have been only supposing you know not
what, for no manner of reason, and to no kind of use?

Hyl. I freely own myself less fond of my notions since they have
been so accurately examined. But still, methinks, I have some con-
fused perception that there is such a thing as Matter.

Phil. Either you perceive the being of Matter immediately or
mediately. If immediately, pray inform me by which of the senses
you perceive it. If mediately, let me know by what reasoning it is
inferred from those things which you perceive immediately. So
much for the perception. Then for the Matter itself, I ask whether
it is object, substratum, cause, instrument, or occasion? You have al-
ready pleaded for each of these, shifting your notions, and making
Matter to appear sometimes in one shape, then in another. And what
you have offered hath been disapproved and rejected by yourself. If
you have anything new to advance I would gladly bear it.

Hyl. I think I have already offered all I had to say on those heads.
I am at a loss what more to urge.

Phil. And yet you are loath to part with your old prejudice. But,
to make you quit it more easily, I desire that, beside what has been
hitherto suggested, you will farther consider whether, upon sup-
position that Matter exists, you can possibly conceive how you should
be affected by it. Or, supposing it did not exist, whether it be not
evident you might for all that be affected with the same ideas you
now are, and consequently have the very same reasons to believe its
existence that you now can have.

Hyl. I acknowledge it is possible we might perceive all things just
as we do now, though there was no Matter in the world; neither can
I conceive, if there be Matter, how it should produce any idea in our

242 GEORGE BERKELEY

minds. And, I do farther grant you have entirely satisfied me that it
is impossible there should be such a thing as Matter in any of the
foregoing acceptations. But still I cannot help supposing that there is
Matter in some sense or other. What that is I do not indeed pretend
to determine.

Phil. I do not expect you should define exactly the nature of that
unknown being. Only be pleased to tell me whether it is a Sub-
stance; and if so, whether you can suppose a Substance without acci-
dents; or, in case you suppose it to have accidents or qualities, I de-
sire you will let me know what those qualities are, at least what is
meant by Matter's supporting them?

Hyl. We have already argued on those points. I have no more to
say to them. But, to prevent any farther questions, let me tell you
I at present understand by Matter neither substance nor accident,
thinking nor extended being, neither cause, instrument, nor occasion,
but Something entirely unknown, distinct from all these.

Phil. It seems then you include in your present notion of Matter
nothing but the general abstract idea of entity.

Hyl. Nothing else; save only that I super-add to this general idea
the negation of all those particular things, qualities, or ideas, that I
perceive, imagine, or in anywise apprehend.

Phil. Pray where do you suppose this unknown Matter to exist?

Hyl. Oh Philonous! now you think you have entangled me; for,
if I say it exists in place, then you will infer that it exists in the mind,
since it is agreed that place or extension exists only in the mind. But
I am not ashamed to own my ignorance. I know not where it exists;
only I am sure it exists not in place. There is a negative answer for
you. And you must expect no other to all the questions you put for
the future about Matter.

Phil. Since you will not tell me where it exists, be pleased to in-
form me after what manner you suppose it to exist, or what you mean
by its existence?

Hyl. It neither thinks nor acts, neither perceives nor is perceived.

Phil. But what is there positive in your abstracted notion of its
existence ?

Hyl. Upon a nice observation, I do not find I have any positive
notion or meaning at all. I tell you again, I am not ashamed to own

SECOND DIALOGUE 243

my ignorance. I know not what is meant by its existence, or how it
exists.

Phil. Continue, good Hylas, to act the same ingenuous part, and
tell me sincerely whether you can frame a distinct idea of Entity in
general, prescinded from and exclusive of all thinking and corporeal
beings, all particular things whatsoever.

Hyl. Hold, let me think a little — I profess, Philonous, I do not find
that I can. At first glance, methought I had some dilute and airy
notion of Pure Entity in abstract; but, upon closer attention, it hath
quite vanished out of sight. The more I think on it, the more am I
confirmed in my prudent resolution of giving none but negative
answers, and not pretending to the least degree of any positive
knowledge or conception of Matter, its where, its how, its entity, or
anything belonging to it.

Phil. When, therefore, you speak of the existence of Matter, you
have not any notion in your mind ?

Hyl. None at all.

Phil. Pray tell me if the case stands not thus: — At first, from a be-
lief of material substance, you would have it that the immediate
objects existed without the mind; then that they are archetypes; then
causes; next instruments; then occasions: lastly something in general,
which being interpreted proves nothing. So Matter comes to nothing.
What think you, Hylas, is not this a fair summary of your whole
proceeding?

Hyl. Be that as it will, yet I still insist upon it, that our not being
able to conceive a thing is no argument against its existence.

Phil. That from a cause, effect, operation, sign, or other circum-
stance, there may reasonably be inferred the existence of a thing not
immediately perceived; and that it were absurd for any man to
argue against the existence of that thing, from his having no direct
and positive notion of it, I freely own. But, where there is nothing
of all this; where neither reason nor revelation induces us to believe
the existence of a thing; where we have not even a relative notion of
it; where an abstraction is made from perceiving and being perceived,
from Spirit and idea: lastly, where there is not so much as the most
inadequate or faint idea pretended to — I will not indeed thence con-
clude against the reality of any notion, or existence of anything; but

244 GEORGE BERKELEY

my inference shall be, that you mean nothing at all; that you employ
words to no manner of purpose, without any design or signification
whatsoever. And I leave it to you to consider how mere jargon
should be treated.

Hyl. To deal frankly with you, Philonous, your arguments seem
in themselves unanswerable; but they have not so great an effect
on me as to produce that entire conviction, that hearty acquiescence,
which attends demonstration. I find myself relapsing into an obscure
surmise of I know not what, matter.

Phil. But, are you not sensible, Hylas, that two things must con-
cur to take away all scruple, and work a plenary assent in the mind ?
Let a visible object be set in never so clear a light, yet, if there is any
imperfection in the sight, or if the eye is not directed towards it, it
will not be distinctly seen. And though a demonstration be never so
well grounded and fairly proposed, yet, if there is withal a stain of
prejudice, or a wrong bias on the understanding, can it be expected
on a sudden to perceive clearly, and adhere firmly to the truth? No;
there is need of time and pains: the attention must be awakened
and detained by a frequent repetition of the same thing placed oft in
the same, oft in different lights. I have said it already, and find I
must still repeat and inculcate, that it is an unaccountable licence
you take, in pretending to maintain you know not what, for you
know not what reason, to you know not what purpose. Can this be
paralleled in any art or science, any sect or profession of men? Or
is there anything so barefacedly groundless and unreasonable to be
met with even in the lowest of common conversation ? But, perhaps
you will still say. Matter may exist; though at the same time you
neither know what is meant by Matter, or by its existence. This in-
deed is surprising, and the more so because it is altogether voluntary
['and of your own head], you not being led to it by any one reason;
for I challenge you to shew me that thing in nature which needs
Matter to explain or account for it.

Hyl. The reality of things cannot be maintained without suppos-
ing the existence of Matter. And is not this, think you, a good reason
why I should be earnest in its defence ?

Phil. The reality of things! What things? sensible or intelligible?
' Omitted in last edition.

SECOND DIALOGUE 245

Hyl. Sensible things.

Phil. My glove for example ?

Hyl. That, or any other thing perceived by the senses.

Phil. But to fix on some particular thing. Is it not a sufficient evi-
dence to me of the existence of this glove, that I see it, and feel it, and
wear it ? Or, if this will not do, how is it possible I should be assured
of the reality of this thing, which I actually see in this place, by sup-
posing that some unknown thing, which I never did or can see, exists
after an unknown manner, in an unknown place, or in no place at
all? How can the supposed reality of that which is intangible be a
proof that anything tangible really exists ? Or, of that which is in-
visible, that any visible thing, or, in general of anything which is
imperceptible, that a perceptible exists? Do but explain this and I
shall think nothing too hard for you.

Hyl. Upon the whole, I am content to own the existence of matter
is highly improbable; but the direct and absolute impossibility of it
does not appear to me.

Phil. But granting Matter to be possible, yet, upon that account
merely, it can have no more claim to existence than a golden moun-
tain, or a centaur.

Hyl. I acknowledge it; but still you do not deny it is possible; and
that which is possible, for aught you know, may actually exist.

Phil. I deny it to be possible; and have, if I mistake not, evidently
proved, from your own concessions, that it is not. In the common
sense of the word Matter, is there any more implied than an ex-
tended, solid, figured, moveable substance, existing without the
mind? And have not you acknowledged, over and over, that you
have seen evident reason for denying the possibility of such a sub-
stance?

Hyl. True, but that is only one sense of the term Matter.

Phil. But is it not the only proper genuine received sense? And,
if Matter, in such a sense, be proved impossible, may it not be
thought with good grounds absolutely impossible? Else how could
anything be proved impossible? Or, indeed, how could there be
any proof at all one way or other, to a man who takes the liberty to
unsettle and change the common signification of words?

Hyl. I thought philosophers might be allowed to speak more

246 GEORGE BERKELEY

accurately than the vulgar, and were not always confined to the com-
mon acceptation of a term.

Phil. But this now mentioned is the common received sense
among philosophers themselves. But, not to insist on that, have you
not been allowed to take Matter in what sense you pleased? And
have you not used this privilege in the utmost extent; sometimes
entirely changing, at others leaving out, or putting into the defini-
tion of it whatever, for the present, best served your design, contrary
to all the known rules of reason and logic ? And hath not this shift-
ing, unfair method of yours spun out our dispute to an unnecessary
length; Matter having been particularly examined, and by your own
confession refuted in each of those senses? And can any more be
required to prove the absolute impossibility of a thing, than the prov-
ing it impossible in every particular sense that either you or any one
else understands it in?

Hyl. But I am not so thoroughly satisfied that you have proved the
impossibility of Matter, in the last most obscure abstracted and indef-
inite sense.

Phil. When is a thing shewn to be impossible?

Hyl. When a repugnancy is demonstrated between the ideas com-
prehended in its definition.

Phil. But where there are no ideas, there no repugnancy can be
demonstrated between ideas?

Hyl. I agree with you.

Phil. Now, in that which you call the obscure indefinite sense of
the word Matter, it is plain, by your own confession, there was in-
cluded no idea at all, no sense except an unknown sense; which is
the same thing as none. You are not, therefore, to expect I should
prove a repugnancy between ideas, where there are no ideas; or the
impossibility of Matter taken in an unknown sense, that is, no sense at
all. My business was only to shew you meant nothing; and this you
were brought to own. So that, in all your various senses, you have
been shewed either to mean nothing at all, or, if anything, an ab-
surdity. And if this be not sufficient to prove the impossibility of a
thing, I desire you will let me know what is.

Hyl. I acknowledge you have proved that Matter is impossible;
nor do I see what more can be said in defence of it. But, at the same

SECOND DIALOGUE 247

time that I give up this, I suspect all my other notions. For surely
none could be more seemingly evident than this once was: and yet it
now^ seems as false and absurd as ever it did true before. But I think
we have discussed the point sufficiently for the present. The remain-
ing part of the day I would willingly spend in running over in my
thoughts the several heads of this morning's conversation, and to-
morrow shall be glad to meet you here again about the same time.
Phil. I will not fail to attend you.

THE THIRD DIALOGUE

M ^^ILONOUS. 'Tell me, Hylas, what are the fruits of yester-

M—^ day's meditation? Has it confirmed you in the same mind
_^ you were in at parting? or have you since seen cause to
change your opinion ?

Hylas. Truly my opinion is that all our opinions are alike vain and
uncertain. What we approve to-day, we condemn to-morrow. We
keep a stir about knowledge, and spend our lives in the pursuit of
it, when, alas! we know nothing all the while: nor do I think it pos-
sible for us ever to know anything in this life. Our faculties are
too narrow and too few. Nature certainly never intended us for
speculation.

Phil. What! Say you we can know nothing, Hylas?

Hyl. There is not that single thing in the world whereof we can
know the real nature, or what it is in itself.

Phil. Will you tell me I do not really know what fire or water is?

Hyl. You may indeed know that fire appears hot, and water fluid;
but this is no more than knowing what sensations are produced in
your own mind, upon the application of fire and water to your
organs of sense. Their internal constitution, their true and real
nature, you are utterly in the dark as to that.

Phil. Do I not know this to be a real stone that I stand on, and that
which I see before my eyes to be a real tree ?

Hyl. Know? No, it is impossible you or any man alive should
know it. All you know is, that you have such a certain idea or
appearance in your own mind. But what is this to the real tree or
stone? I tell you that colour, figure, and hardness, which you per-
ceive, are not the real natures of those things, or in the least like them.
The same may be said of all other real things, or corporeal sub-
stances, which compose the world. They have none of them any-
thing of themselves, like those sensible qualities by us perceived. We

* 'Tell me, Hylas,' — 'So Hylas' — in first and second editions.
248

THIRD DIALOGUE 249

should not therefore pretend to affirm or know anything of them,
as they are in their own nature.

Phil. But surely, Hylas, I can distinguish gold, for example, from
iron: and how could this be, if I knew not what either truly was?

Hyl. Believe me, Philonous, you can only distinguish between
your own ideas. That yellowness, that weight, and other sensible
qualities, think you they are really in the gold ? They are only rela-
tive to the senses, and have no absolute existence in nature. And in
pretending to distinguish the species of real things, by the appear-
ances in your mind, you may perhaps act as wisely as he that should
conclude two men were of a different species, because their clothes
were not of the same colour.

Phil. It seems, then, we are altogether put off with the appear-
ances of things, and those false ones too. The very meat I eat, and
the cloth I wear, have nothing in them like what I see and feel.

Hyl. Even so.

Phil. But is it not strange the whole world should be thus im-
posed on, and so foolish as to believe their senses? And yet I know
not how it is, but men eat, and drink, and sleep, and perform all the
offices of life, as comfortably and conveniently as if they really knew
the things they are conversant about.

Hyl. They do so: but you know ordinary practice does not re-
quire a nicety of speculative knowledge. Hence the vulgar retain
their mistakes, and for all that make a shift to bustle through the
affairs of life. But philosophers know better things.

Phil. You mean, they \now that they l{now nothing.

Hyl. That is the very top and perfection of human knowledge.

Phil. But are you all this while in earnest, Hylas; and are you
seriously persuaded that you know nothing real in the world? Sup-
pose you are going to write, would you not call for pen, ink, and
paper, like another man; and do you not know what it is you call
for?

Hyl. How often must I tell you, that I know not the real nature
of any one thing in the universe ? I may indeed upon occasion make
use of pen, ink, and paper. But what any one of them is in its own
true nature, I declare positively I know not. And the same is true
with regard to every other corporeal thing. And, what is more, we

250 GEORGE BERKELEY

are not only ignorant of the true and real nature of things, but even
of their existence. It cannot be denied that we perceive such certain
appearances or ideas; but it cannot be concluded from thence that
bodies really exist. Nay, now I think on it, I must, agreeably to my
former concessions, farther declare that it is impossible any real cor-
poreal thing should exist in nature.

Phil. You amaze me. Was ever anything more wild and extrava-
gant than the notions you now maintain: and is it not evident you
are led into all these extravagances by the belief of material sub-
stance? This makes you dream of those unknown natures in every-
thing. It is this occasions your distinguishing between the reality
and sensible appearances of things. It is to this you are indebted for
being ignorant of what everybody else knows perfectly well. Nor is
this all: you are not only ignorant of the true nature of everything,
but you know not whether anything really exists, or whether there are
any true natures at all; forasmuch as you attribute to your material
beings an absolute or external existence, wherein you suppose their
reality consists. And, as you are forced in the end to acknowledge
such an existence means either a direct repugnancy, or nothing at
all, it follows that you are obliged to pull down your own hypothesis
of material Substance, and positively to deny the real existence o£
any part of the universe. And so you are plunged into the deepest
and most deplorable scepticism that ever man was. Tell me, Hylas,
is it not as I say ?

Hyl. I agree with you. Material substance was no more than an
hypothesis; and a false and groundless one too. I will no longer
spend my breath in defence of it. But whatever hypothesis you ad-
vance, or whatsoever scheme of things you introduce in its stead, I
doubt not it will appear every whit as false: let me but be allowed
to question you upon it. That is, suffer me to serve you in your own
kind, and I warrant it shall conduct you through as many perplexi-
ties and contradictions, to the very same state of scepticism that I my-
self am in at present.

Phil. I assure you, Hylas, I do not pretend to frame any hypothesis
at all. I am of a vulgar cast, simple enough to believe my senses, and
leave things as I find them. To be plain, it is my opinion that the
real things are those very things I see, and feel, and perceive by my

THIRD DIALOGUE 25 1

senses. These I know; and, finding they answer all the necessities
and purposes of life, have no reason to be solicitous about any other
unknown beings. A piece of sensible bread, for instance, would stay
my stomach better than ten thousand times as much of that insen-
sible, unintelligible, real bread you speak of. It is likewise my opin-
ion that colours and other sensible qualities are on the objects. I
cannot for my life help thinking that snow is white, and fire hot.
You indeed, who by snow and jire mean certain external, unper-
ceived, unperceiving substances, are in the right to deny whiteness or
heat to be affections inherent in them. But I, who understand by
those words the things I see and feel, am obliged to think like other
folks. And, as I am no sceptic with regard to the nature of things, so
neither am I as to their existence. That a thing should be really per-
ceived by my senses, and at the same time not really exist, is to me
a plain contradiction; since I cannot prescind or abstract, even in
thought, the existence of a sensible thing from its being perceived.
Wood, stones, lire, water, flesh, iron, and the like things, which I
name and discourse of, are things that I know. And I should not
have known them but that I perceived them by my senses; and things
perceived by the senses are immediately perceived; and things im-
mediately perceived are ideas; and ideas cannot exist without the
mind; their existence therefore consists in being perceived; when,
therefore, they are actually perceived there can be no doubt of their
existence. Away then with all that scepticism, all those ridiculous
philosophical doubts. What a jest is it for a philosopher to question
the existence of sensible things, till he hath it proved to him from the
veracity of God; or to pretend our knowledge in this point
falls short of intuition or demonstration! I might as well doubt
of my own being, as of the being of those things I actually see and
feel.

Hyl. Not so fast, Philonous: you say you cannot conceive how
sensible things should exist without the mind. Do you not ?

Phil. I do.

Hyl. Supposing you were annihilated, cannot you conceive it pos-
sible that things perceivable by sense may still exist.''

Phil. I can; but then it must be in another mind. When I deny
sensible things an existence out of the mind, I do not mean my mind

252 GEORGE BERKELEY

in particular, but all minds. Now, it is plain they have an existence
exterior to my mind; since I find them by experience to be inde-
pendent of it. There is therefore some other Mind wherein they
exist, during the intervals between the times of my perceiving them:
as likewise they did before my birth, and would do after my supposed
annihilation. And, as the same is true with regard to all other finite
created spirits, it necessarily follows there is an omnipresent eternal
Mind, which knows and comprehends all things, and exhibits them
to our view in such a manner, and according to such rules, as He
Himself hath ordained, and are by us termed the laws of nature.

Hyl. Answer me, Philonous. Are all our ideas perfectly inert
beings? Or have they any agency included in them?

Phil. They are altogether passive and inert.

Hyl. And is not God an agent, a being purely active ?

Phil. I acknowledge it.

Hyl. No idea therefore can be like unto, or represent the nature
of God?

Phil. It cannot.

Hyl. Since therefore you have no idea of the mind of God, how
can you conceive it possible that things should exist in His mind?
Or, if you can conceive the mind of God, without having an idea of
it, why may not I be allowed to conceive the existence of Matter,
notwithstanding I have no idea of it?

Phil. As to your first question: I own I have properly no idea,
either of God or any other spirit; for these being active, cannot be
represented by things perfectly inert, as our ideas are. I do never-
theless know that I, who am a spirit or thinking substance, exist as
certainly as I know my ideas exist. Farther, I know what I mean by
the terms / and myself; and I know this immediately or intuitively,
though I do not perceive it as I perceive a triangle, a colour, or a
sound. The Mind, Spirit, or Soul is that indivisible unextended thing
which thinks, acts, and perceives. I say indivisible, because unex-
tended; and unextended, because extended, figured, moveable things
are ideas; and that which perceives ideas, which thinks and wills, is
plainly itself no idea, nor like an idea. Ideas are things inactive, and
perceived. And Spirits a sort of beings altogether different from
them. I do not therefore say my soul is an idea, or like an idea.

THIRD DIALOGUE 253

However, taking the word idea in a large sense, my soul may be said
to furnish me with an idea, that is, an image or Ukeness of God —
though indeed extremely inadequate. For, all the notion I have of
God is obtained by reflecting on my own soul, heightening its powers,
and removing its imperfections. I have, therefore, though not an in-
active idea, yet in myself some sort of an active thinking image of the
Deity. And, though I perceive Him not by sense, yet I have a notion
of Him, or know Him by reflexion and reasoning. My own mind
and my own ideas I have an immediate knowledge of; and, by the
help of these, do mediately apprehend the possibility of the existence
of other spirits and ideas. Farther, from my own being, and from the
dependency I find in myself and my ideas, I do, by an act of reason,
necessarily infer the existence of a God, and of all created things in
the mind of God. So much for your first question. For the second :
I suppose by this time you can answer it yourself. For you neither
perceive Matter objectively, as you do an inactive being or idea; nor
know it, as you do yourself, by a reflex act, neither do you mediately
apprehend it by similitude of the one or the other; nor yet collect it
by reasoning from that which you know immediately. All which
makes the case of Matter widely different from that of the Deity.

\^Hyl. You say your own soul supplies you with some sort of an
idea or image of God. But, at the same time, you acknowledge you
have, properly speaking, no idea of your own soul. You even affirm
that spirits are a sort of beings altogether different from ideas. Con-
sequently that no idea can be like a spirit. We have therefore no
idea of any spirit. You admit nevertheless that there is spiritual Sub-
stance, although you have no idea of it; while you deny there can be
such a thing as material Substance, because you have no notion or
idea of it. Is this fair dealing? To act consistently, you must either
admit Matter or reject Spirit. What say you to this?

Phil. I say, in the first place, that I do riot deny the existence of
material substance, merely because I have no notion of it, but because

2 This important passage, printed within brackets, is not found in the first and
second editions of the Dialogues. It is, by anticipation, Berkeley's answer to Hume's
application of the objections to the reality of abstract or unperceived Matter, to the
reality of the Ego or Self, of which we are aware through memory, as identical amid
the changes of its successive states. — A. C. F.

254 GEORGE BERKELEY

the notion of it is inconsistent; or, in other words, because it is re-
pugnant that there should be a notion of it. Many things, for aught
I know, may exist, whereof neither I nor any other man hath or can
have any idea or notion whatsoever. But then those things must be
possible, that is, nothing inconsistent must be included in their
definition. I say, secondly, that, although we believe things to exist
which we do not perceive, yet we may not believe that any particular
thing exists, without some reason for such belief: but I have no rea-
son for believing the existence of Matter. I have no immediate intui-
tion thereof: neither can I immediately from my sensations, ideas,
notions, actions, or passions, infer an unthinking, unperceiving, inac-
tive Substance — either by probable deduction, or necessary conse-
quence. Whereas the being of my Self, that is, my own soul, mind,
or thinking principle, I evidently know by reflexion. You will forgive
me if I repeat the same things in answer to the same objections. In
the very notion or definition of material Substance, there is included
a manifest repugnance and inconsistency. But this cannot be said
of the notion of Spirit. That ideas should exist in what doth not per-
ceive, or be produced by what doth not act, is repugnant. But, it is no
repugnancy to say that a perceiving thing should be the subject of
ideas, or an active thing the cause of them. It is granted we have
neither an immediate evidence nor a demonstrative knowledge of
the existence of other finite spirits ; but it will not thence follow that
such spirits are on a foot with material substances: if to suppose the
one be inconsistent, and it be not inconsistent to suppose the other;
if the one can be inferred by no argument, and there is a probability
for the other; if we see signs and effects indicating distinct finite
agents like ourselves, and see no sign or symptom whatever that
leads to a rational belief of Matter. I say, lastly, that I have a notion
of Spirit, though I have not, strictly speaking, an idea of it. I do not
perceive it as an idea, or by means of an idea, but know it by
reflexion.

Hyl. Notwithstanding all you have said, to me it seems that, ac-
cording to your own way of thinking, and in consequence of your
own principles, it should follow that you are only a system of float-
ing ideas, without any substance to support them. Words are not to
be used without a meaning. And, as there is no more meaning in

THIRD DIALOGUE 255

Spiritual Substance than in material Substance, the one is to be
exploded as well as the other.

Phil. How often must I repeat, that I know or am conscious of my
own being; and that / myself am not my ideas, but somewhat else,
a thinking, active principle that perceives, knows, wills, and operates
about ideas. I know that I, one and the same self, perceive both col-
ours and sounds: that a colour cannot perceive a sound, nor a sound
a colour: that I am therefore one individual principle, distinct from
colour and sound; and, for the same reason, from all other sensible
things and inert ideas. But, I am not in like manner conscious either
of the existence or essence of Matter. On the contrary, I know that
nothing inconsistent can exist, and that the existence of Matter implies
an inconsistency. Farther, I know what I mean when I affirm that
there is a spiritual substance or support of ideas, that is, that a spirit
knows and perceives ideas. But, I do not know what is meant when
it is said that an unperceiving substance hath inherent in it and sup-
ports either ideas or the archetypes of ideas. There is therefore upon
the whole no parity of case between Spirit and Matter.]

Hyl. I own myself satisfied in this point. But, do you in earnest
think the real existence of sensible things consists in their being
actually perceived? If so; how comes it that all mankind distinguish
between them? Ask the first man you meet, and he shall tell you,
to be perceived is one thing, and to exist is another.

Phil. I am content, Hylas, to appeal to the common sense of the
world for the truth of my notion. Ask the gardener why he thinks
yonder cherry-tree exists in the garden, and he shall tell you, because
he sees and feels it; in a word, because he perceives it by his senses.
Ask him why he thinks an orange-tree not to be there, and he shall
tell you, because he does not perceive it. What he perceives by sense,
that he terms a real being, and saith it is or exists; but, that which is
not perceivable, the same, he saith, hath no being.

Hyl. Yes, Philonous, I grant the existence of a sensible thing con-
sists in being perceivable, but not in being actually perceived.

Phil. And what is perceivable but an idea? And can an idea
exist without being actually perceived? These are points long since
agreed between us.

256 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. But, be your opinion never so true, yet surely you will not
deny it is shocking, and contrary to the common sense of men. Ask
the fellow whether yonder tree hath an existence out of his mind:
what answer think you he would make?

Phil. The same that I should myself, to wit, that it doth exist out
of his mind. But then to a Christian it cannot surely be shocking to
say, the real tree, existing without his mind, is truly known and
comprehended by (that is exists in) the infinite mind of God. Prob-
ably he may not at first glance be aware of the direct and immediate
proof there is of this; inasmuch as the very being of a tree, or any
other sensible thing, implies a mind wherein it is. But the point itself
he cannot deny. The question between the Materialists and me is
not, whether things have a real existence out of the mind of this or
that person, but whether they have an absolute existence, distinct
from being perceived by God, and exterior to all minds. This indeed
some heathens and philosophers have affirmed, but whoever enter-
tains notions of the Deity suitable to the Holy Scriptures will be of
another opinion.

Hyl. But, according to your notions, what difference is there be-
tween real things, and chimeras formed by the imagination, or the
visions of a dream — since they are all equally in the mind ?

Phil. The ideas formed by the imagination are faint and indistinct;
they have, besides, an entire dependence on the will. But the ideas
perceived by sense, that is, real things, are more vivid and clear; and,
being imprinted on the mind by a spirit distinct from us, have not the
like dependence on our will. There is therefore no danger of con-
founding these with the foregoing : and there is as little of confound-
ing them with the visions of a dream, which are dim, irregular, and
confused. And, though they should happen to be never so lively and
natural, yet, by their not being connected, and of a piece with the pre-
ceding and subsequent transactions of our lives, they might easily be
distinguished from realities. In short, by whatever method you dis-
tinguish things from chimeras on your scheme, the same, it is evi-
dent, will hold also upon mine. For, it must be, I presume, by some
perceived difference; and I am not for depriving you of any one thing
that you perceive.

Hyl. But still, Philonous, you hold, there is nothing in the world

THIRD DIALOGUE 257

but spirits and ideas. And this, you must needs acknowledge, sounds
very oddly.

Phil. I own the word idea, not being commonly used for thing,
sounds something out of the way. My reason for using it was, be-
cause a necessary relation to the mind is understood to be implied
by that term; and it is now commonly used by philosophers to de-
note the immediate objects of the understanding. But, however
oddly the proposition may sound in words, yet it includes nothing
so very strange or shocking in its sense; which in effect amounts to
no more than this, to wit, that there are only things perceiving, and
things perceived; or that every unthinking being is necessarily, and
from the very nature of its existence, perceived by some mind; if not
by a finite created mind, yet certainly by the infinite mind of God,
in whom 'we live, and move, and have our being.' Is this as strange
as to say, the sensible qualities are not on the objects: or that we can-
not be sure of the existence of things, or know any thing of their real
natures — though we both see and feel them, and perceive them by all
our senses?

Hyl. And, in consequence of this, must we not think there are no
such things as physical or corporeal causes; but that a Spirit is the
immediate cause of all the phenomena in nature? Can there be any-
thing more extravagant than this ?

Phil. Yes, it is infinitely more extravagant to say — a thing which is
inert operates on the mind, and which is unperceiving is the cause
of our perceptions, \^ without any regard either to consistency, or the
old known axiom, Nothing can give to another that which it hath
not itself] . Besides, that which to you, I know not for what reason,
seems so extravagant is no more than the Holy Scriptures assert
in a hundred places. In them God is represented as the sole and
immediate Author of all those effects which some heathens and phi-
losophers are wont to ascribe to Nature, Matter, Fate, or the like
unthinking principle. This is so much the constant language of
Scripture that it were needless to confirm it by citations.

Hyl. You are not aware, Philonous, that in making God the im-
mediate Author of all the motions in nature, you make Him the
Author of murder, sacrilege, adultery, and the like heinous sins.
' The words within brackets are omitted in the third edition.

258 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. In answer to that, I observe, first, that the imputation of guilt
is the same, whether a person commits an action with or without an
instrument. In case therefore you suppose God to act by the media-
tion of an instrument or occasion, called Matter, you as truly make
Him the author of sin as I, who think Him the immediate agent
in all those operations vulgarly ascribed to Nature. I farther observe
that sin or moral turpitude doth not consist in the outward physical
action or motion, but in the internal deviation of the will from the
laws of reason and religion. This is plain, in that the killing an
enemy in a battle, or putting a criminal legally to death, is not thought
sinful; though the outward act be the very same with that in the
case of murder. Since, therefore, sin doth not consist in the physical
action, the making God an immediate cause of all such actions is not
making Him the Author of sin. Lastly, I have nowhere said that
God is the only agent who produces all the motions in bodies. It is
true I have denied there are any other agents besides spirits; but this
is very consistent with allowing to thinking rational beings, in the
production of motions, the use of limited powers, ultimately indeed
derived from God, but immediately under the direction of their own
wills, which is sufficient to entitle them to all the guilt of their
actions.

Hyl. But the denying Matter, Philonous, or corporeal Substance;
there is the point. You can never persuade me that this is not re-
pugnant to the universal sense of mankind. Were our dispute to be
determined by most voices, I am confident you would give up the
point, without gathering the votes.

Phil. I wish both our opinions were fairly stated and submitted
to the judgment of men who had plain common sense, without the
prejudices of a learned education. Let me be represented as one who
trusts his senses, who thinks he knows the things he sees and feels,
and entertains no doubts of their existence; and you fairly set forth
with all your doubts, your paradoxes, and your scepticism about you,
and I shall willingly acquiesce in the determination of any indifferent
person. That there is no substance wherein ideas can exist beside
spirit is to me evident. And that the objects immediately perceived
are ideas, is on all hands agreed. And that sensible qualities are objects
immediately perceived no one can deny. It is therefore evident

THIRD DIALOGUE 259

'there can be no substratum of those quahties but spirit; in which
they exist, not by way of mode or property, but as a thing per-
ceived in that which perceives it. I deny therefore that there is
any unthinking substratum of the objects of sense, and in that accep-
tation that there is any material substance. But if by material sub-
stance is meant only sensible body — that which is seen and felt
(and the unphilosophical part of the world, I dare say, mean no
more) — then I am more certain of matter's existence than you or any
other philosopher pretend to be. If there be anything which makes
the generality of mankind averse from the notions I espouse, it is a
misapprehension that I deny the reality of sensible things. But, as it
is you who are guilty of that, and not I, it follows that in truth their
aversion is against your notions and not mine. I do therefore assert
that I am as certain as of my own being, that there are bodies or cor-
poreal substances (meaning the things I perceive by my senses) ; and
that, granting this, the bulk of mankind will take no thought about,
nor think themselves at all concerned in the fate of those unknown
natures, and philosophical quiddities, which some men are so
fond of.

Hyl. What say you to this? Since, according to you, men judge of
the reality of things by their senses, how can a man be mistaken in
thinking the moon a plain lucid surface, about a foot in diameter;
or a square tower, seen at a distance, round; or an oar, with one end
in the water, crooked ?

Phil. He is not mistaken with regard to the ideas he actually
perceives, but in the inference he makes from his present perceptions.
Thus, in the case of the oar, what he immediately perceives by sight
is certainly crooked; and so far he is in the right. But if he thence con-
clude that upon taking the oar out of the water he shall perceive the
same crookedness; or that it would affect his touch as crooked things
are wont to do: in that he is mistaken. In like manner, if he shall
conclude from what he perceives in one station, that, in case he ad-
vances towards the moon or tower, he should still be affected with
the like ideas, he is mistaken. But his mistake lies not in what he
perceives immediately, and at present, (it being a manifest contra-
diction to suppose he should err in respect of that) but in the wrong
judgment he makes concerning the ideas he apprehends to be con-

260 GEORGE BERKELEY

nected with those immediately perceived: or, concerning the ideas
that, from what he perceives at present, he imagines would be per-
ceived in other circumstances. The case is the same with regard to
the Copernican system. We do not here perceive any motion of the
earth : but it were erroneous thence to conclude, that, in case we were
placed at as great a distance from that as we are now from the other
planets, we should not then perceive its motion.

Hyl. I understand you; and must needs own you say things plaus-
ible enough. But, give me leave to put you in mind of one thing.
Pray, Philonous, were you not formerly as positive that Matter
existed, as you are now that it does not ?

Phil. I was. But here lies the difference. Before, my positiveness
was founded, without examination, upon prejudice; but now, after
inquiry, upon evidence.

Hyl. After all, it seems our dispute is rather about words than
things. We agree in the thing, but differ in the name. That we are
affected with ideas from without is evident; and it is no less evident
that there must be (I will not say archetypes, but) Powers without
the mind, corresponding to those ideas. And, as these Powers cannot
subsist by themselves, there is some subject of them necessarily to be
admitted; which I call Matter, and you call Spirit. This is all the
difference.

Phil. Pray, Hylas, is that powerful Being, or subject of powers,
extended?

Hyl. It hath not extension; but it hath the power to raise in you
the idea of extension.

Phil. It is therefore itself unextended .''

Hyl. I grant it.

Phil. Is it not also active ?

Hyl. Without doubt. Otherwise, how could we attribute powers
to it?

Phil. Now let me ask you two questions: First, Whether it be
agreeable to the usage either of philosophers or others to give the
name Matter to an unextended active being? And, Secondly,
Whether it be not ridiculously absurd to misapply names contrary
to the common use of language ?

Hyl. Well then, let it not be called Matter, since you will have it

THIRD DIALOGUE 26 1

SO, but some Third Nature distinct from Matter and Spirit. For
what reason is there why you should call it Spirit? Does not the
notion of spirit imply that it is thinking, as well as active and un-
extended?

Phil. My reason is this: because I have a mind to have some no-
tion of meaning in what I say: but I have no notion of any action dis-
tinct from volition, neither can I conceive volition to be anywhere
but in a spirit: therefore, when I speak of an active being, I am
obliged to mean a Spirit. Beside, what can be plainer than that a
thing which hath no ideas in itself cannot impart them to me; and,
if it hath ideas, surely it must be a Spirit. To make you comprehend
the point still more clearly if it be possible, I assert as well as you
that, since we are affected from without, we must allow Powers to be
without, in a Being distinct from ourselves. So far we are agreed.
But then we differ as to the kind of this powerful Being. I will have
it to be Spirit, you Matter, or I know not what (I may add too, you
know not what) Third Nature. Thus, I prove it to be Spirit. From
the effects I see produced, 1 conclude there are actions; and, because
actions, volitions; and, because there are volitions, there must be a
will. Again, the things I perceive must have an existence, they or
their archetypes, out of my mind : but, being ideas, neither they nor
their archetypes can exist otherwise than in an understanding; there
is therefore an understanding. But will and understanding consti-
tute in the strictest sense a mind or spirit. The powerful cause, there-
fore, of my ideas is in strict propriety of speech a Spirit.

Hyl. And now I warrant you think you have made the point very
clear, little suspecting that what you advance leads directly to a con-
tradiction. Is it not an absurdity to imagine any imperfection in
God?

Phil. Without a doubt.

Hyl. To suffer pain is an imperfection?

Phil. It is.

Hyl. Are we not sometimes affected with pain and uneasiness by
some other Being?

Phil. We are.

Hyl. And have you not said that Being is a Spirit, and is not that
Spirit God ?

262 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. I grant it.

Hyl. But you have asserted that whatever ideas we perceive from
without are in the mind which affects us. The ideas, therefore, of
pain and uneasiness are in God; or, in other words, God suffers pain:
that is to say, there is an imperfection in the Divine nature: which,
you acknowledged, was absurd. So you are caught in a plain con-
tradiction.

Phil. That God knows or understands all things, and that He
knows, among other things, what pain is, even every sort of painful
sensation, and what it is for His creatures to suffer pain, I make no
question. But, that God, though He knows and sometimes causes
painful sensations in us, can Himself suffer pain, I positively deny.
We, who are limited and dependent spirits, are liable to impressions
of sense, the effects of an external Agent, which, being produced
against our wills, are sometimes painful and uneasy. But God, whom
no external being can affect, who perceives nothing by sense as we
do; whose will is absolute and independent, causing all things, and
liable to be thwarted or resisted by nothing: it is evident, such a
Being as this can suffer nothing, nor be affected with any painful
sensation, or indeed any sensation at all. We are chained to a body :
that is to say, our perceptions are connected with corporeal motions.
By the law of our nature, we are affected upon every alteration in the
nervous parts of our sensible body; which sensible body, rightly
considered, is nothing but a complexion of such qualities or ideas as
have no existence distinct from being perceived by a mind. So that
this connexion of sensations with corporeal motions means no more
than a correspondence in the order of nature, between two sets of
ideas, or things immediately perceivable. But God is a Pure Spirit,
disengaged from all such sympathy, or natural ties. No corporeal
motions are attended with the sensations of pain or pleasure in His
mind. To know everything knowable, is certainly a perfection; but
to endure, or suffer, or feel anything by sense, is an imperfection.
The former, I say, agrees to God, but not the latter. God knows,
or hath ideas; but His ideas are not conveyed to Him by sense,
as ours are. Your not distinguishing, where there is so manifest a
difference, makes you fancy you see an absurdity where there is
none.

THIRD DIALOGUE 263

Hyl. But, all this while you have not considered that the quantity
of Matter has been demonstrated to be proportioned to the gravity of
bodies. And what can withstand demonstration ?

Phil. Let me see how you demonstrate that point.

Hyl. I lay it down for a principle, that the moments or quantities
of motion in bodies are in a direct compounded reason of the veloci-
ties and quantities of Matter contained in them. Hence, where the
velocities are equal, it follows the moments are directly as the quan-
tity of Matter in each. But it is found by experience that all bodies
(bating the small inequalities, arising from the resistance of the air)
descend with an equal velocity; the motion therefore of descending
bodies, and consequently their gravity, which is the cause or prin-
ciple of that motion, is proportional to the quantity of Matter; which
was to be demonstrated.

Phil. You lay it down as a self-evident principle that the quantity
of motion in any body is proportional to the velocity and Matter
taken together; and this is made use of to prove a proposition from
whence the existence of Matter is inferred. Pray is not this arguing
in a circle?

Hyl. In the premise I only mean that the motion is proportional
to the velocity, jointly with the extension and solidity.

Phil. But, allowing this to be true, yet it will not thence follow
that gravity is proportional to Matter, in your philosophic sense of
the word; except you take it for granted that unknown substratum,
or whatever else you call it, is proportional to those sensible qualities;
which to suppose is plainly begging the question. That there is
magnitude and solidity, or resistance, perceived by sense, I readily
grant; as likewise, that gravity may be proportional to those qualities
I will not dispute. But that either these qualities as perceived by us,
or the powers producing them, do exist in a material substratum;
this is what I deny, and you indeed afBrm, but, notwithstanding your
demonstration, have not yet proved.

Hyl. I shall insist no longer on that point. Do you think, however,
you shall persuade me that the natural philosophers have been
dreaming all this while? Pray what becomes of all their hypotheses
and explications of the phenomena, which suppose the existence of
Matter?

264 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. What mean you, Hylas, by the phenomena?

Hyl. I mean the appearances which I perceive by my senses.

Phil. And the appearances perceived by sense, are they not ideas?

Hyl. I have told you so a hundred times.

Phtl. Therefore, to explain the phenomena, is, to shew how we
come to be affected with ideas, in that manner and order wherein
they are imprinted on our senses. Is it not ?

Hyl. It is.

Phil. Now, i£ you can prove that any philosopher has explained
the production of any one idea in our minds by the help of Matter,
I shall for ever acquiesce, and look on all that hath been said against
it as nothing; but, if you cannot, it is vain to urge the explication of
phenomena. That a Being endowed with knowledge and will should
produce or exhibit ideas is easily understood. But that a Being which
is utterly destitute of these faculties should be able to produce ideas,
or in any sort to affect an intelligence, this I can never understand.
This I say, though we had some positive conception of Matter,
though we knew its qualities, and could comprehend its existence,
would yet be so far from explaining things, that it is itself the most
inexplicable thing in the world. And yet, for all this, it will not
follow that philosophers have been doing nothing; for, by observing
and reasoning upon the connexion of ideas, they discover the laws
and methods of nature, which is a part of knowledge both useful and
entertaining.

Hyl. After all, can it be supposed God would deceive all mankind ?
Do you imagine He would have induced the whole world to believe
the being of Matter, if there was no such thing?

Phil. That every epidemical opinion, arising from prejudice, or
passion, or thoughtlessness, may be imputed to God, as the Author
of it, I believe you will not affirm. Whatsoever opinion we father on
Him, it must be either because He has discovered it to us by super-
natural revelation; or because it is so evident to our natural faculties,
which were framed and given us by God, that it is impossible we
should withhold our assent from it. But where is the revelation ? or
where is the evidence that extorts the belief of Matter? Nay, how
does it appear, that Matter, ta\en for something distinct from what
we perceive by our senses, is thought to exist by all mankind; or in-

THIRD DIALOGUE 265

deed, by any except a few philosophers, who do not know what they
would be at? Your question supposes these points are clear; and,
when you have cleared them, I shall think myself obliged to give
you another answer. In the meantime, let it suffice that I tell you, I
do not suppose God has deceived mankind at all.

Hyl. But the novelty, Philonous, the novelty! There lies the dan-
ger. New notions should always be discountenanced; they unsettle
men's minds, and nobody knows where they will end.

Phil. Why the rejecting a notion that has no foundation, either in
sense, or in reason, or in Divine authority, should be thought to un-
settle the belief of such opinions as are grounded on all or any of
these, I cannot imagine. That innovations in government and re-
ligion are dangerous, and ought to be discountenanced, I freely own.
But is there the like reason why they should be discouraged in philos-
ophy ? The making anything known which was unknown before is
an innovation in knowledge: and, if all such innovations had been
forbidden, men would have made a notable progress in the arts and
sciences. But it is none of my business to plead for novelties and
paradoxes. That the qualities we perceive are not on the objects:
that we must not believe our senses: that we know nothing of the
real nature of things, and can never be assured even of their exist-
ence: that real colours and sounds are nothing but certain unknown
figures and motions : that motions are in themselves neither swift nor
slow: that there are in bodies absolute extensions, without any par-
ticular magnitude or figure: that a thing stupid, thoughtless, and in-
active, operates on a spirit: that the least particle of a body contains
innumerable extended parts: — these are the novelties, these are the
strange notions which shock the genuine uncorrupted judgment of
all mankind; and being once admitted, embarrass the mind with
endless doubts and difficulties. And it is against these and the like
innovations I endeavour to vindicate Common Sense. It is true, in
doing this, I may perhaps be obliged to use some ambages, and ways
of speech not common. But, if my notions are once thoroughly un-
derstood, that which is most singular in them will, in effect, be found
to amount to no more than this: — that it is absolutely impossible,
and a plain contradiction, to suppose any unthinking Being should
exist without being perceived by a Mind. And, if this notion be

266 GEORGE BERKELEY

singular, it is a shame it should be so, at this time of day, and in a
Christian country.

Hyl. As for the difficulties other opinions may be liable to, those
are out of the question. It is your business to defend your own opin-
ion. Can anything be plainer than that you are for changing all
things into ideas? You, I say, who are not ashamed to charge me
with scepticism. This is so plain, there is no denying it.

Phil. You mistake me. I am not for changing things into ideas,
but rather ideas into things; since those immediate objects of percep-
tion, which, according to you, are only appearances of things, I take
to be the real things themselves.

Hyl. Things! You may pretend what you please; but it is certain
you leave us nothing but the empty forms of things, the outside only
which strikes the senses.

Phil. What you call the empty forms and outside of things seem
to me the very things themselves. Nor are they empty or incomplete,
otherwise than upon your supposition^that Matter is an essential
part of all corporeal things. We both, therefore, agree in this, that we
perceive only sensible forms: but herein we differ — you will have
them to be empty appearances, I, real beings. In short, you do not
trust your senses, I do.

Hyl. You say you believe your senses; and seem to applaud your-
self that in this you agree with the vulgar. According to you, there-
fore, the true nature of a thing is discovered by the senses. If so,
whence comes that disagreement .'* Why is not the same figure, and
other sensible qualities, perceived all manner of ways? and why
should we use a microscope the better to discover the true nature of
a body, if it were discoverable to the naked eye ?

Phil. Strictly speaking, Hylas, we do not see the same object that
we feel; neither is the same object perceived by the microscope which
was by the naked eye. But, in case every variation was thought suffi-
cient to constitute a new kind of individual, the endless number of
confusion of names would render language impracticable. There-
fore, to avoid this, as well as other inconveniences which are obvious
upon a httle thought, men combine together several ideas, appre-
hended by divers senses, or by the same sense at different times, or
in different circumstances, but observed, however, to have some con-

THIRD DIALOGUE 267

nexion in nature, either with respect to co-existence or succession; all
which they refer to one name, and consider as one thing. Hence it
follows that when I examine, by my other senses, a thing I have seen,
it is not in order to understand better the same object which I had
perceived by sight, the object of one sense not being perceived by the
other senses. And, when I look through a microscope, it is not that I
may perceive more clearly what I perceived already with my bare
eyes; the object perceived by the glass being quite different from the
former. But, in both cases, my aim is only to know what ideas are
connected together; and the more a man knows of the connexion
of ideas, the more he is said to know of the nature of things. What,
therefore, if our ideas are variable; what if our senses are not in all
circumstances affected with the same appearances. It will not thence
follow they are not to be trusted; or that they are inconsistent either
with themselves or anything else: except it be with your preconceived
notion of (I know not what) one single, unchanged, unperceivable,
real Nature, marked by each name. Which prejudice seems to have
taken its rise from not rightly understanding the common language
of men, speaking of several distinct ideas as united into one thing
by the mind. And, indeed, there is cause to susf)ect several erroneous
conceits of the philosophers are owing to the same original: while
they began to build their schemes not so much on notions as on
words, which were framed by the vulgar, merely for conveniency
and dispatch in the common actions of life, without any regard to
speculation.

Hyl. Methinks I apprehend your meaning.

Phil. It is your opinion the ideas we perceive by our senses are
not real things, but images or copies of them. Our knowledge, there-
fore, is no farther real than as our ideas are the true representations
of those originals. But, as these supposed originals are in themselves
unknown, it is impossible to know how far our ideas resemble them;
or whether they resemble them at all. We cannot, therefore, be sure
we have any real knowledge. Farther, as our ideas are perpetually
varied, without any change in the supposed real things, it necessarily
follows they cannot all be true copies of them: or, if some are and
others are not, it is impossible to distinguish the former from the
latter. And this plunges us yet deeper in uncertainty. Again, when

268 GEORGE BERKELEY

we consider the point, we cannot conceive how any idea, or any-
thing like an idea, should have an absolute existence out of a mind:
nor consequently, according to you, how there should be any real
thing in nature. The result of all which is that we are thrown into the
most hopeless and abandoned scepticism. Now, give me leave to
ask you. First, Whether your referring ideas to certain absolutely ex-
isting unperceived substances, as their originals, be not the source of
all this scepticism? Secondly, whether you are informed, either by
sense or reason, of the existence of those unknown originals ? And,
in case you are not, whether it be not absurd to suppose them?
Thirdly, Whether, upon inquiry, you find there is anything distinctly
conceived or meant by the absolute or external existence of unper-
ceiving substances? Lastly, Whether, the premises considered, it be
not the wisest way to follow nature, trust your senses, and, laying
aside all anxious thought about unknown natures or substances, ad-
mit with the vulgar those for real things which are perceived by
the senses?

Hyl. For the present, I have no inclination to the answering part.
I would much rather see how you can get over what follows. Pray
are not the objects perceived by the senses of one, likewise perceivable
to others present? If there were a hundred more here, they would all
see the garden, the trees, and flowers, as I see them. But they are not
in the same manner affected with the ideas I frame in my imagination.
Does not this make a difference between the former sort of objects
and the latter?

Phil. I grant it does. Nor have I ever denied a difference between
the objects of sense and those of imagination. But what would you
infer from thence? You cannot say that sensible objects exist unper-
ceived, because they are perceived by many.

Hyl. I own I can make nothing of that objection: but it hath led
me into another. Is it not your opinion that by our senses we perceive
only the ideas existing in our minds?

Phil. It is.

Hyl. But the same idea which is in my mind cannot be in yours,
or in any other mind. Doth it not therefore follow, from your prin-
ciples, that no two can see the same thing? And is not this highly
absurd ?

THIRD DIALOGUE 269

Phil, If the term same be taken in the vulgar acceptation, it is cer-
tain (and not at all repugnant to the principles I maintain) that dif-
ferent persons may perceive the same thing; or the same thing or idea
exist in different minds. Words are of arbitrary imposition; and,
since men are used to apply the word same where no distinction or
variety is perceived, and I do not pretend to alter their perceptions,
it follows that, as men have said before, several saw the same thing,
so they may, upon like occasions, still continue to use the same
phrase, without any deviation either from propriety of language, or
the truth of things. But, if the term same be used in the acceptation
of philosophers, who pretend to an abstracted notion of identity,
then, according to their sundry definitions of this notion (for it is not
yet agreed wherein that philosophic identity consists), it may or
may not be possible for divers persons to perceive the same thing.
But whether philosophers shall think fit to call a thing the same or
no, is, I conceive, of small importance. Let us suppose several men
together, all endued with the same faculties, and consequently af-
fected in like sort by their senses, and who had yet never known
the use of language; they would, without question, agree in
their perceptions. Though perhaps, when they came to the use of
speech, some regarding the uniformness of what was perceived,
might call it the same thing: others, especially regarding the diversity
of persons who perceived, might choose the denomination of different
things. But who sees not that all the dispute is about a word? to wit,
whether what is perceived by different persons may yet have the
term same applied to it? Or, suppose a house, whose walls or out-
ward shell remaining unaltered, the chambers are all pulled down,
and new ones built in their place; and that you should call this the
same, and I should say it was not the same house: — would we not,
for all this, perfectly agree in our thoughts of the house, considered
in itself? And would not all the difference consist in a sound? If
you should say. We differed in our notions; for that you super-added
to your idea of the house the simple abstracted Idea of Identity,
whereas I did not; I would tell you, I know not what you mean by
the abstracted idea of identity; and should desire you to look into

your own thoughts, and be sure you understood yourself. ^Why

so silent, Hylas? Are you not yet satisfied men may dispute about
identity and diversity, without any real difference in their thoughts

270 GEORGE BERKELEY

and opinions, abstracted from names? Take this farther reflexion
with you — that whether Matter be allowed to exist or no, the case is
exactly the same as to the point in hand. For the Materialists them-
selves acknowledge what we immediately perceive by our senses
to be our own ideas. Your difficulty, therefore, that no two see the
same thing, makes equally against the Materialists and me.

Hyl. [*Ay, Philonous,] But they suppose an external archetype,
to which referring their several ideas they may truly be said to
perceive the same thing.

Phil. And (not to mention your having discarded those arche-
types) so may you suppose an external archetype on my principles;
— external, I mean, to your own mind: though indeed it must be
supposed to exist in that Mind which comprehends all things; but
then, this serves all the ends of identity, as well as if it existed out
of a mind. And I am sure you yourself will not say it is less
intelligible.

Hyl. You have indeed clearly satisfied me — either that there is
no difficulty at bottom in this point; or, if there be, that it makes
equally against both opinions.

Phil. But that which makes equally against two contradictory
opinions can be a proof against neither.

Hyl. I acknowledge it.

But, after all, Philonous, when I consider the substance of what
you advance against Scepticism, it amounts to no more than this: —
We are sure that we really see, hear, feel; in a word, that we are
affected with sensible impressions.

Phil. And how are we concerned any farther? I see this cherry,
I feel it, I taste it: and I am sure nothing cannot be seen, or felt, or
tasted: it is therefore real. Take away the sensations of softness,
moisture, redness, tartness, and you take away the cherry, since it is
not a being distinct from sensations. A cherry, I say, is nothing but
a congeries of sensible impressions, or ideas perceived by various
senses: which ideas are united into one thing (or have one name
given them) by the mind, because they are observed to attend each
other. Thus, when the palate is affected with such a particular taste,
^Omitted in author's last edition.

THIRD DIALOGUE 27I

the sight is aflfected with a red colour, the touch with roundness,
softness, &c. Hence, when I see, and feel, and taste, in such sundry
certain manners, I am sure the cherry exists, or is real; its reality
being in my opinion nothing abstracted from those sensations. But
if by the word cherry you mean an unknown nature, distinct from
all those sensible qualities, and by its existence something distinct
from its being perceived; then, indeed, I own, neither you nor I, nor
any one else, can be sure it exists.

Hyl. But, what would you say, Philonous, if I should bring the
very same reasons against the existence of sensible things in a mind,
which you have offered against their existing in a material sub-
stratum?

Phil. When I see your reasons, you shall hear what I have to say
to them.

Hyl. Is the mind extended or unextended .''

Phil. Unextended, without doubt.

Hyl. Do you say the things you perceive are in your mind ?

Phil. They are.

Hyl. Again, have I not heard you speak of sensible impressions?

Phil. I believe you may.

Hyl. Explain to me now, O Philonous! how it is possible there
should be room for all those trees and houses to exist in your mind.
Can extended things be contained in that which is unextended ? Or,
are we to imagine impressions made on a thing void of all solidity ?
You cannot say objects are in your mind, as books in your study:
or that things are imprinted on it, as the figure of a seal upon wax.
In what sense, therefore, are we to understand those expressions.?
Explain me this if you can: and I shall then be able to answer all
those queries you formerly put to me about my substratum.

Phil. Look you, Hylas, when I speak of objects as existing in the
mind, or imprinted on the senses, I would not be understood in the
gross literal sense; as when bodies are said to exist in a place, or a
seal to make an impression upon wax. My meaning is only that the
mind comprehends or perceives them; and that it is affected from
without, or by some being distinct from itself. This is my explication
of your difficulty; and how it can serve to make your tenet of an
unperceiving material substratum intelhgible, I would fain know.

272 GEORGE BERKELEY

Hyl. Nay, if that be all, I confess I do not see what use can be
made of it. But are you not guilty of some abuse of language in this?

Phil. None at all. It is no more than common custom, which you
know is the rule of language, hath authorised: nothing being more
usual, than for philosophers to speak of the immediate objects of
the understanding as things existing in the mind. Nor is there any-
thing in this but what is conformable to the general analogy of
language; most part of the mental operations being signified by
words borrowed from sensible things; as is plain in the terms com-
prehend, reflect, discourse, Cc, which, being applied to the mind,
must not be taken in their gross, original sense.

Hyl. You have, I own, satisfied me in this point. But there still
remains one great difficulty, which I know not how you will get
over. And, indeed, it is of such importance that if you could solve
all others, without being able to find a solution for this, you must
never expect to make me a proselyte to your principles.

Phil. Let me know this mighty difficulty.

Hyl. The Scripture account of the creation is what appears to me
utterly irreconcilable with your notions. Moses tells us of a crea-
tion: a creation of what? of ideas? No, certainly, but of things, of
real things, solid corporeal substances. Bring your principles to
agree with this, and I shall perhaps agree with you.

Phil. Moses mentions the sun, moon, and stars, earth and sea,
plants and animals. That all these do really exist, and were in the
beginning created by God, I make no question. If by ideas you mean
fictions and fancies of the mind, then these are no ideas. If by ideas
you mean immediate objects of the understanding, or sensible
things, which cannot exist unperceived, or out of a mind, then these
things are ideas. But whether you do or do not call them ideas, it
matters little. The difference is only about a name. And, whether
that name be retained or rejected, the sense, the truth, and reaUty
of things continues the same. In common talk, the objects of our
senses are not termed ideas, but things. Call them so still : provided
you do not attribute to them any absolute external existence, and I
shall never quarrel with you for a word. The creation, therefore, I
allow to have been a creation of things, of real things. Neither is

THIRD DIALOGUE 273

this in the least inconsistent with my principles, as is evident from
what I have now said; and would have been evident to you without
this, if you had not forgotten what had been so often said before.
But as for solid corporeal substances, I desire you to show where
Moses makes any mention of them; and, if they should be mentioned
by him, or any other inspired writer, it would still be incumbent
on you to shew those words were not taken in the vulgar acceptation,
for things falling under our senses, but in the philosophic acceptation,
for Matter, or an unknown quiddity, with an absolute existence.
When you have proved these points, then (and not till then) may
you bring the authority of Moses into our dispute.

Hyl. It is in vain to dispute about a point so clear. I am content
to refer it to your own conscience. Are you not satisfied there is
some peculiar repugnancy between the Mosaic account of the crea-
tion and your notions ?

Phil. If all possible sense which can be put on the first chapter
of Genesis may be conceived as consistently with my principles as
any other, then it has no peculiar repugnancy with them. But there
is no sense you may not as well conceive, believing as I do. Since,
besides spirits, all you conceive are ideas; and the existence of these
I do not deny. Neither do you pretend they exist without the
mind.

Hyl. Pray let me see any sense you can understand it in.

Phil. Why, I imagine that if I had been present at the creation, I
should have seen things produced into being — that is become per-
ceptible — in the order prescribed by the sacred historian. I never
before believed the Mosaic account of the creation, and now find no
alteration in my manner of believing it. When things are said to
begin or end their existence, we do not mean this wath regard to
God, but His creatures. All objects are eternally known by God, or,
which is the same thing, have an eternal existence in His mind: but
when things, before imperceptible to creatures, are, by a decree of
God, perceptible to them, then are they said to begin a relative
existence, with respect to created minds. Upon reading therefore
the Mosaic account of the creation, I understand that the several
parts of the world became gradually perceivable to finite spirits,
endowed with proper faculties; so that, whoever such were present,

274 GEORGE BERKELEY

they were in truth perceived by them. This is the literal obvious
sense suggested to me by the words o£ the Holy Scripture: in which
is included no mention, or no thought, either of substratum, instru-
ment, occasion, or absolute existence. And, upon inquiry, I doubt
not it will be found that most plain honest men, who believe the
creation, never think of those things any more than I. What meta-
physical sense you may understand it in, you only can tell.

Hyl. But, Philonous, you do not seem to be aware that you allow
created things, in the beginning, only a relative, and consequently
hypothetical being: that is to say, upon supposition there were men
to perceive them; without which they have no actuality of absolute
existence, wherein creation might terminate. Is it not, therefore,
according to you, plainly impossible the creation of any inanimate
creatures should precede that of man? And is not this directly
contrary to the Mosaic account?

Phil. In answer to that, I say, first, created beings might begin to
exist in the mind of other created intelUgences, beside men. You
will not therefore be able to prove any contradiction between Moses
and my notions, unless you first shew there was no other order of
finite created spirits in being, before man. I say farther, in case we
conceive the creation, as we should at this time, a parcel of plants
or vegetables of all sorts produced, by an invisible Power, in a desert
where nobody was present — that this way of explaining or conceiv-
ing it is consistent with my principles, since they deprive you of
nothing, either sensible or imaginable; that it exactly suits with the
common, natural, and undebauched notions of mankind; that it
manifests the dependence of all things on God; and consequently
hath all the good effect or influence, which it is possible that im-
portant article of our faith should have in making men humble,
thankful, and resigned to their [''great] Creator. I say, moreover,
that, in this naked conception of things, divested of words, there
will not be found any notion of what you call the actuality of abso-
lute existence. You may indeed raise a dust with those terms, and
so lengthen our dispute to no purpose. But I entreat you calmly to
look into your own thoughts, and then tell me if they are not a
useless and unintelligible jargon.

* In the first and second editions only.

THIRD DIALOGUE 2/5

Hyl. I own I have no very clear notion annexed to them. But
what say you to this? Do you not make the existence of sensible
things consist in their being in a mind? And were not all things
eternally in the mind of God? Did they not therefore exist from
all eternity, according to you? And how could that which was
eternal be created in time? Can anything be clearer or better con-
nected than this?

Phil. And are not you too of opinion, that God knew all things
from eternity?

Hyl. I am.

Phil. Consequently they always had a being in the Divine intellect.

Hyl. This I acknowledge.

Phil. By your own confession, therefore, nothing is new, or begins
to be, in respect of the mind of God. So we are agreed in that
point.

Hyl. What shall we make then of the creation?

Phil. May we not understand it to have been entirely in respect
of finite spirits; so that things, with regard to us, may properly be
said to begin their existence, or be created, when God decreed they
should become perceptible to intelligent creatures, in that order and
manner which He then established, and we now call the laws of
nature? You may call this a relative, or hypothetical existence if you
please. But, so long as it supplies us with the most natural, obvious,
and literal sense of the Mosaic history of the creation; so long as it
answers all the religious ends of that great article; in a word, so long
as you can assign no other sense or meaning in its stead; why should
we reject this? Is it to comply with a ridiculous sceptical humour
of making everything nonsense and unintelligible? I am sure you
cannot say it is for the glory of God. For, allowing it to be a thing
possible and conceivable that the corporeal world should have an
absolute existence extrinsical to the mind of God, as well as to the
minds of all created spirits; yet how could this set forth either the
immensity or omniscience of the Deity, or the necessary and im-
mediate dependence of all things on Him ? Nay, would it not rather
seem to derogate from those attributes?

Hyl. Well, but as to this decree of God's, for making things per-
ceptible, what say you, Philonous? Is it not plain, God did either

276 GEORGE BERKELEY

execute that decree from all eternity, or at some certain time began
to will what He had not actually willed before, but only designed
to will ? If the former, then there could be no creation, or beginning
of existence, in finite things. If the latter, then we must acknowledge
something new to befall the Deity; which implies a sort of change:
and all change argues imperfection.

Phil. Pray consider what you are doing. Is it not evident this
objection concludes equally against a creation in any sense; nay,
against every other act of the Deity, discoverable by the light of
nature? None of which can we conceive, otherwise than as per-
formed in time, and having a beginning. God is a Being of tran-
scendent and unlimited perfections: His nature, therefore, is incom-
prehensible to finite spirits. It is not, therefore, to be expected, that
any man, whether Materialist or Immaterialist, should have exactly
just notions of the Deity, His attributes, and ways of operation. If
then you would infer anything against me, your difficulty must not
be drawn from the inadequateness of our conceptions of the Divine
nature, which is unavoidable on any scheme; but from the denial
of Matter, of which there is not one word, directly or indirectly, in
what you have now objected.

Hyl. I must acknowledge the difficulties you are concerned to
clear are such only as arise from the non-existence of Matter, and
are peculiar to that notion. So far you are in the right. But I cannot
by any means bring myself to think there is no such peculiar repug-
nancy between the creation and your opinion; though indeed where
to fix it, I do not distinctly know.

Phil. What would you have? Do I not acknowledge a twofold
state of things — the one ectypal or natural, the other archetypal and
eternal? The former was created in time; the latter existed from
everlasting in the mind of God. Is not this agreeable to the common
notions of divines? or, is any more than this necessary in order to
conceive the creation? But you suspect some peculiar repugnancy,
though you know not where it lies. To take away all possibility
of scruple in the case, do but consider this one point. Either you are
not able to conceive the creation on any hypothesis whatsoever;
and, if so, there is no ground for dislike or complaint against any
particular opinion on that score: or you are able to conceive it; and.

THIRD DIALOGUE 277

if so, why not on my Principles, since thereby nothing conceivable
is taken away? You have all along been allowed the full scope of
sense, imagination, and reason. Whatever, therefore, you could
before apprehend, either immediately or mediately by your senses,
or by ratiocination from your senses; whatever you could perceive,
imagine, or understand, remains still with you. If, therefore, the
notion you have of the creation by other Principles be intelligible,
you have it still upon mine; if it be not intelligible, I conceive it to
be no notion at all; and so there is no loss of it. And indeed it seems
to me very plain that the supposition of Matter, that is a thing
perfectly unknown and inconceivable, cannot serve to make us con-
ceive anything. And, I hope it need not be proved to you that if the
existence of Matter doth not make the creation conceivable, the
creation's being without it inconceivable can be no objection against
its non-existence.

Hyl. I confess, Philonous, you have almost satisfied me in this
point of the creation.

Phil. I would fain know why you are not quite satisfied. You tell
me indeed of a repugnancy between the Mosaic history and Im-
materialism: but you know not where it lies. Is this reasonable,
Hylas ? Can you expect I should solve a difficulty without knowing
what it is? But, to pass by all that, would not a man think you
were assured there is no repugnancy between the received notions
of Materialists and the inspired writings?

Hyl. And so I am.

Phil. Ought the historical part of Scripture to be understood in
a plain obvious sense, or in a sense which is metaphysical and out of
the way?

Hyl. In the plain sense, doubtless.

Phil. When Moses speaks of herbs, earth, water, &c. as having
been created by God; think you not the sensible things commonly
signified by those words are suggested to. every unphilosophical
reader ?

Hyl. I cannot help thinking so.

Phil. And are not all ideas, or things perceived by sense, to be
denied a real existence by the doctrine of the Materialist?

Hyl. This I have already acknowledged.

278 GEORGE BERKELEY

Phil. The creation, therefore, according to them, was not the
creation of things sensible, which have only a relative being, but of
certain unknown natures, which have an absolute being, wherein
creation might terminate?

Hyl. True.

Phil. Is it not therefore evident the assertors of Matter destroy the
plain obvious sense of Moses, with which their notions are utterly
inconsistent; and instead of it obtrude on us I know not what; some-
thing equally unintelligible to themselves and me?

Hyl. I cannot contradict you.

Phil. Moses tells us of a creation. A creation of what ? of unknown
quiddities, of occasions, or substratum? No, certainly; but of things
obvious to the senses. You must first reconcile this with your notions,
if you expect I should be reconciled to them.

Hyl. I see you can assault me with my own weapons.

Phil. Then as to absolute existence; was there ever known a more
jejune notion than that? Something it is so abstracted and unintel-
ligible that you have frankly owned you could not conceive it, much
less explain anything by it. But allowing Matter to exist, and the
notion of absolute existence to be clear as light; yet, was this ever
known to make the creation more credible? Nay, hath it not
furnished the atheists and infidels of all ages with the most plausible
arguments against a creation? That a corporeal substance, which
hath an absolute existence without the minds of spirits, should be
produced out of nothing, by the mere will of a Spirit, hath been
looked upon as a thing so contrary to all reason, so impossible and
absurd, that not only the most celebrated among the ancients, but
even divers modern and Christian philosophers have thought Matter
co-eternal with the Deity. Lay these things together, and then judge
you whether MateriaUsm disposes men to believe the creation of
things.

Hyl. I own, Philonous, I think it does not. This of the creation
is the last objection I can think of; and I must needs own it hath
been sufficiently answered as well as the rest. Nothing now remains
to be overcome but a sort of unaccountable backwardness that I find
in myself towards your notions.

THIRD DIALOGUE 279

Phil. When a man is swayed, he knows not why, to one side of
the question, can this, think you, be anything else but the effect of
prejudice, which never fails to attend old and rooted notions? And
indeed in this respect I cannot deny the belief of Matter to have
very much the advantage over the contrary opinion, with men of a
learned education.

Hyl. I confess it seems to be as you say.

Phil. As a balance, therefore, to this weight of prejudice, let us
throw into the scale the great advantages that arise from the belief
of Immaterialism, both in regard to religion and human learning.
The being of a God, and incorruptibility of the soul, those great
articles of religion, are they not proved with the clearest and most
immediate evidence ? When I say the being of a God, I do not mean
an obscure general Cause of things, whereof we have no concep-
tion, but God, in the strict and proper sense of the word. A Being
whose spirituality, omnipresence, providence, omniscience, infinite
power and goodness, are as conspicuous as the existence of sensible
things, of which (notwithstanding the fallacious pretences and
affected scruples of Sceptics) there is no more reason to doubt than
of our own being. — Then, with relation to human sciences. In
Natural Philosophy, what intricacies, what obscurities, what con-
tradictions hath the belief of Matter led men into! To say nothing
of the numberless disputes about its extent, continuity, homogeneity,
gravity, divisibility, &c. — do they not pretend to explain all things
by bodies operating on bodies, according to the laws of motion? and
yet, are they able to comprehend how one body should move an-
other? Nay, admitting there was no difficulty in reconciling the
notion of an inert being with a cause, or in conceiving how an
accident might pass from one body to another; yet, by all their
strained thoughts and extravagant suppositions, have they been able
to reach the mechanical production of any one animal or vegetable
body? Can they account, by the laws of motion, for sounds, tastes,
smells, or colours; or for the regular course of things? Have they
accounted, by physical principles, for the aptitude and contrivance
even of the most inconsiderable parts of the universe? But, laying
aside Matter and corporeal causes, and admitting only the efficiency

280 GEORGE BERKELEY

of an All-perfect Mind, are not all the effects of nature easy and in-
telligible? If the phenomena are nothing else but ideas; God is a
spirit, but Matter an unintelligent, unperceiving being. If they dem-
onstrate an unlimited power in their cause; God is active and omnip-
otent, but Matter an inert mass. If the order, regularity, and use-
fulness of them can never be sufficiently admired; God is infinitely
wise and provident, but Matter destitute of all contrivance and de-
sign. These surely are great advantages in Physics. Not to mention
that the apprehension of a distant Deity naturally disposes men to a
negligence in their moral actions; which they would be more cau-
tious of, in case they thought Him immediately present, and acting
on their minds, without the interposition of Matter, or unthinking
second causes. — Then in Metaphysics: what difficulties concerning
entity in abstract, substantial forms, hylarchic principles, plastic na-
tures, substance and accident, principle of individuation, possibility
of Matter's thinking, origin of ideas, the manner how two independ-
ent substances so widely different as Spirit and Matter, should mu-
tually operate on each other ? what difficulties, I say, and endless dis-
quisitions, concerning these and innumerable other the like points,
do we escape, by supposing only Spirits and ideas ? — Even the Mathe-
matics themselves, if we take away the absolute existence of extended
things, become much more clear and easy; the most shocking para-
doxes and intricate speculations in those sciences depending on the
infinite divisibility of finite extension; which depends on that sup-
position — But what need is there to insist on the particular sciences?
Is not that opposition to all science whatsoever, that frenzy of the an-
cient and modern Sceptics, built on the same foundation? Or can
you produce so much as one argument against the reality of cor-
poreal things, or in behalf of that avowed utter ignorance of their
natures, which doth not suppose their reality to consist in an external
absolute existence? Upon this supposition, indeed, the objections
from the change of colours in a pigeon's neck, or the appearance of
the broken oar in the water, must be allowed to have weight. But
these and the like objections vanish, if we do not maintain the being
of absolute external originals, but place the reality of things in ideas,
fleeting indeed, and changeable; — however, not changed at random,
but according to the fixed order of nature. For, herein consists that
constancy and truth of things which secures all the concerns of life,

THIRD DIALOGUE 28 1

and distinguishes that which is real from the irregular visions of
the fancy.

Hyl, I agree to all you have now said, and must own that nothing
can incline me to embrace your opinion more than the advantages I
see it is attended with. I am by nature lazy; and this would be a
mighty abridgment in knowledge. What doubts, what hypotheses,
what labyrinths of amusement, what fields of disputation, what an
ocean of false learning, may be avoided by that single notion of
Immaterialism!

Phil. After all, is there anything farther remaining to be done?
You may remember you promised to embrace that opinion which
upon examination should appear most agreeable to Common Sense
and remote from Scepticism. This, by your own confession, is that
which denies Matter, or the absolute existence of corporeal things.
Nor is this all; the same notion has been proved several ways, viewed
in different lights, pursued in its consequences, and all objections
against it cleared. Can there be a greater evidence of its truth? or is
it possible it should have all the marks of a true opinion and yet be
false ?

Hyl. I own myself entirely satisfied for the present in all respects.
But, what security can I have that I shall still continue the same
full assent to your opinion, and that no unthought-of objection or
difficulty will occur hereafter ?

Phil. Pray, Hylas, do you in other cases, when a point is once evi-
dently proved, withhold your consent on account of objections or
difficulties it may be liable to? Are the difficulties that attend the
doctrine of incommensurable quantities, of the angle of contact, of
the asymptotes to curves, or the like, sufficient to make you hold out
against mathematical demonstration? Or will you disbelieve the
Providence of God, because there may be some particular things
which you know not how to reconcile with it ? If there are difficulties
attending Immaterialism, there are at the same time direct and evi-
dent proofs of it. But for the existence of Matter there is not one proof,
and far more numerous and insurmountable objections lie against it.
But where are those mighty difficulties you insist on? Alas! you
know not where or what they are; something which may possibly
occur hereafter. If this be a sufficient pretence for withholding your

282 GEORGE BERKELEY

full assent, you should never yield it to any proposition, how free
soever from exceptions, how clearly and solidly soever demonstrated.

Hyl, You have satisfied me, Philonous.

Phil. But, to arm you against all future objections, do but consider:
That which bears equally hard on two contradictory opinions can be
proof against neither. Whenever, therefore, any difficulty occurs, try
if you can find a solution for it on the hypothesis of the Materialists.
Be not deceived by words; but sound your own thoughts. And in
case you cannot conceive it easier by the help of Materialism, it is
plain it can be no objection against Immaterialism. Had you pro-
ceeded all along by this rule, you would probably have spared your-
self abundance of trouble in objecting; since of all your difficulties
I challenge you to shew one that is explained by Matter: nay, which
is not more unintelligible with than without that supposition; and
consequently makes rather against than for it. You should consider,
in each particular, whether the difficulty arises from the non-existence
of Matter. If it doth not, you might as well argue from the infinite
divisibility of extension against the Divine prescience, as from such
a difficulty against Immaterialism. And yet, upon recollection, I be-
lieve you will find this to have been often, if not always, the case.
You should likewise take heed not to argue on a petitio principii.
One is apt to say — The unknown substances ought to be esteemed
real things, rather than the ideas in our minds : and who can tell but
the unthinking external substance may concur, as a cause or in-
strument, in the productions of our ideas? But is not this proceeding
on a supposition that there are such external substances? And to
suppose this, is it not begging the question? But, above all things,
you should beware of imposing on yourself by that vulgar sophism
which is called ignoratio elenchi. You talked often as if you thought
I maintained the non-existence of Sensible Things. Whereas in truth
no one can be more thoroughly assured of their existence than I am.
And it is you who doubt; I should have said, positively deny it.
Everything that is seen, felt, heard, or any way perceived by the
senses, is, on the principles I embrace, a real being; but not on yours.
Remember, the Matter you contend for is an Unknown Somewhat
(if indeed it may be termed somewhat), which is quite stripped of all
sensible quaUties, and can neither be perceived by sense, nor appre-

THIRD DIALOGUE 283

hended by the mind. Remember I say, that it is not any object which
is hard or soft, hot or cold, blue or white, round or square, &c. For
all these things I affirm do exist. Though indeed I deny they have an
existence distinct from being perceived; or that they exist out of all
minds whatsoever. Think on these points; let them be attentively
considered and still kept in view. Otherwise you will not compre-
hend the state of the question; without which your objections will
always be wide of the mark, and, instead of mine, may possibly be
directed (as more than once they have been) against your own
notions.

Hyl. I must needs own, Philonous, nothing seems to have kept me
from agreeing with you more than this same mista\ing the question.
In denying Matter, at first glimpse I am tempted to imagine you deny
the things we see and feel: but, upon reflexion, find there is no
ground for it. What think you, therefore, of retaining the name
Matter, and applying it to sensible things? This may be done with-
out any change in your sentiments: and, believe me, it would be a
means of reconciling them to some persons who may be more
shocked at an innovation in words than in opinion.

Phil. With all my heart: retain the word Matter, and apply it to
the objects of sense, if you please; provided you do not attribute to
them any subsistence distinct from their being perceived. I shall
never quarrel with you for an expression. Matter, or material sub-
stance, are terms introduced by philosophers; and, as used by them,
imply a sort of independency, or a subsistence distinct from being
perceived by a mind: but are never used by common people; or, if
ever, it is to signify the immediate objects of sense. One would think,
therefore, so long as the names of all particular things, with the
terms sensible, substance, body, stuff, and the like, are retained, the
word Matter should be never missed in common talk. And in phil-
osophical discourses it seems the best way to leave it quite out: since
there is not, perhaps, any one thing that hath more favoured and
strengthened the depraved bent of the mind towards Atheism than
the use of that general confused term.

Hyl. Well but, Philonous, since I am content to give up the notion
of an unthinking substance exterior to the mind, I think you ought
not to deny me the privilege of using the word Matter as I please.

284 GEORGE BERKELEY

and annexing it to a collection o£ sensible qualities subsisting only in
the mind. I freely own there is no other substance, in a strict sense,
than Spirit. But I have been so long accustomed to the term Matter
that I know not how to part with it : to say, there is no Matter in the
world, is still shocking to me. Whereas to say — There is no Matter,
if by that term be meant an unthinking substance existing without
the mind; but if by Matter is meant some sensible thing, whose exist-
ence consists in being perceived, then there is Matter: — this distinc-
tion gives it quite another turn; and men will come into your notions
with small difficulty, when they are proposed in that manner. For,
after all, the controversy about Matter in the strict acceptation of it,
lies altogether between you and the philosophers: whose principles,
I acknowledge, are not near so natural, or so agreeable to the common
sense of mankind, and Holy Scripture, as yours. There is nothing
we either desire or shun but as it makes, or is apprehended to make,
some part of our happiness or misery. But what hath happiness or
misery, joy or grief, pleasure or pain, to do with Absolute Existence;
or with unknown entities, abstracted from all relation to us? It is
evident, things regard us only as they are pleasing or displeasing:
and they can please or displease only so far forth as they are per-
ceived. Farther, therefore, we are not concerned; and thus far you
leave things as you found them. Yet still there is something new in
this doctrine. It is plain, I do not now think with the Philosophers;
nor yet altogether with the vulgar. I would know how the case
stands in that respect; precisely, what you have added to, or altered
in my former notions.

Phil. I do not pretend to be a setter-up of new notions. My en-
deavours tend only to unite, and place in a clearer light, that truth
which was before shared between the vulgar and the philosophers : —
the former being of opinion, that those things they immediately per-
ceive are the real things; and the latter, that the things immediately
perceived are ideas, which exist only in the mind. Which two no-
tions put together, do, in eilect, constitute the substance of what I
advance.

Hyl. I have been a long time distrusting my senses: methought I
saw things by a dim light and through false glasses. Now the
glasses are removed and a new light breaks in upon my under-

THIRD DIALOGUE 285

standing. I am clearly convinced that I see things in their native
forms, and am no longer in pain about their unknown natures or
absolute existence. This is the state I find myself in at present;
though, indeed, the course that brought me to it I do not yet thor-
oughly comprehend. You set out upon the same principles that
Academics, Cartesians, and the like sects usually do; and for a long
time it looked as if you were advancing their philosophical Scepti-
cism: but, in the end, your conclusions are directly opposite to theirs.
Phil. You see, Hylas, the water of yonder fountain, how it is forced
upwards, in a round column, to a certain height; at which it breaks,
and falls back into the basin from whence it rose: its ascent, as well
as descent, proceeding from the same uniform law or principle of
gravitation. Just so, the same Principles which, at first view, lead to
Scepticism, pursued to a certain point, bring men back to Common
Sense.

AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING
HUMAN UNDERSTANDING

BY
DAVID HUME

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

The main facts of the life of David Hume will be found in the intro-
ductory note to his "Standard of Taste" in the volume of "English
Essays" in the Harvard Classics.

Hume's most elaborate philosophical work was his "Treatise of Human
Nature," published in three volumes in 1739-40. This work had been
written between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five; and in the
"Advertisement" prefixed to the edition of his "Collected Essays," pub-
lished the year after his death, he spoke slightingly of the "Treatise" as
a juvenile work, marred by negligences both in reasoning and expression;
and desired that the "Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding" and
the "Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals" should "alone be
regarded as containing his philosophical sentiments and principles."

While it is possible to take this depreciation of the "Treatise" too
seriously, since it contains much of great philosophic importance which
does not appear in the "Enquiries," yet the later works do represent his
more mature thinking, and have the advantage of a much better style,
at once more precise and more easily intelligible. To understand fully
Hume's place in the history of European philosophy, it is still necessary
to study the "Treatise"; but from the "Enquiry Concerning Human
Understanding" one can gather much of his general attitude and method
of thinking; while in such sections as that on "Miracles" we have an
explanation of the bitter animosity that he roused in orthodox circles.

AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING
HUMAN UNDERSTANDING

SECTION I

OF THE DIFFERENT SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY

MORAL philosophy, or the science of human nature, may be
treated after two different manners; each of which has its
peculiar merit, and may contribute to the entertainment, in-
struction, and reformation of mankind. The one considers man
chiefly as born for action; and as influenced in his measures by
taste and sentiment; pursuing one object, and avoiding another, ac-
cording to the value which these objects seem to possess, and accord-
ing to the light in which they present themselves. As virtue, of
all objects, is allowed to be the most valuable, this species of philoso-
phers paint her in the most amiable colours; borrowing all helps
from poetry and eloquence, and treating their subject in an easy
and obvious manner, and such as is best fitted to please the imagina-
tion, and engage the affections. They select the most striking ob-
servations and instances from common life; place opposite characters
in a proper contrast; and alluring us into the paths of virtue by the
views of glory and happiness, direct our steps in these paths by the
soundest precepts and most illustrious examples. They make us feel
the difference between vice and virtue; they excite and regulate our
sentiments; and so they can but bend our hearts to the love of probity
and true honour, they think, that they have fully attained the end of
all their labours.

The other species of philosophers consider man in the light of a
reasonable rather than an active being, and endeavour to form his
understanding more than cultivate his manners. They regard human
nature as a subject of speculation; and with a narrow scrutiny exam-
ine it, in order to find those principles, which regulate our under-

290 DAVID HUME

Standing, excite our sentiments, and make us approve or blame any
particular object, action, or behaviour. They think it a reproach to
all literature, that philosophy should not yet have fixed, beyond con-
troversy, the foundation of morals, reasoning, and criticism; and
should for ever talk of truth and falsehood, vice and virtue, beauty
and deformity, without being able to determine the source of these
distinctions. While they attempt this arduous task, they are deterred
by no difficulties; but proceeding from particular instances to general
principles, they still push on their enquiries to principles more gen-
eral, and rest not satisfied till they arrive at those original principles,
by which, in every science, all human curiosity must be bounded.
Though their speculations seem abstract, and even unintelligible to
common readers, they aim at the approbation of the learned and the
wise; and think themselves sufficiently compensated for the labour
of their whole lives, if they can discover some hidden truths, which
may contribute to the instruction of posterity.

It is certain that the easy and obvious philosophy will always,
with the generality of mankind, have the preference above the ac-
curate and abstruse; and by many will be recommended, not only as
more agreeable, but more useful than the other. It enters more into
common life; moulds the heart and affections; and, by touching those
principles which actuate men, reforms their conduct, and brings
them nearer to that model of perfection which it describes. On the
contrary, the abstruse philosophy, being founded on a turn of mind,
which cannot enter into business and action, vanishes when the phi-
losopher leaves the shade, and comes into open day ; nor can its prin-
ciples easily retain any influence over our conduct and behaviour.
The feelings of our heart, the agitation of our passions, the vehe-
mence of our affections, dissipate all its conclusions, and reduce the
profound philosopher to a mere plebeian.

This also must be confessed, that the most durable, as well as justest
fame, has been acquired by the easy philosophy, and that abstract
reasoners seem hitherto to have enjoyed only a momentary reputa-
tion, from the caprice or ignorance of their own age, but have not
been able to support their renown with more equitable posterity. It
is easy for a profound philosopher to commit a mistake in his subtile
reasonings; and one mistake is the necessary parent of another, while

SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 29I

he pushes on his consequences, and is not deterred from embracing
any conclusion, by its unusual appearance, or its contradiction to
popular opinion. But a philosopher, who purposes only to repre-
sent the common sense of mankind in more beautiful and more en-
gaging colours, if by accident he falls into error, goes no farther; but
renewing his appeal to common sense, and the natural sentiments
of the mind, returns into the right path, and secures himself from
any dangerous illusions. The fame of Cicero flourishes at present;
but that of Aristotle is utterly decayed. La Bruyere passes the seas,
and still maintains his reputation: but the glory of Malebranche is
confined to his own nation, and to his own age. And Addison, per-
haps, will be read with pleasure, when Locke shall be entirely for-
gotten.

The mere philosopher is a character, which is commonly but little
acceptable in the world, as being supposed to contribute nothing
either to the advantage or pleasure of society; while he lives remote
from communication with mankind, and is wrapped up in principles
and notions equally remote from their comprehension. On the
other hand, the mere ignorant is still more despised; nor is any thing
deemed a surer sign of an illiberal genius in an age and nadon where
the sciences flourish, than to be entirely destitute of all relish for those
noble entertainments. The most perfect character is supposed to lie
between those extremes; retaining an equal ability and taste for
books, company, and business; preserving in conversation that dis-
cernment and delicacy which arise from polite letters; and in busi-
ness, that probity and accuracy which are the natural result of a just
philosophy. In order to diffuse and cultivate so accomplished a char-
acter, nothing can be more useful than compositions of the easy style
and manner, which draw not too much from life, require no deep
application or retreat to be comprehended, and send back the stu-
dent among mankind full of noble sentiments and wise precepts,
applicable to every exigence of human life. By means of such com-
positions, virtue becomes amiable, science agreeable, company in-
structive, and retirement entertaining.

Man is a reasonable being; and as such, receives from science his
proper food and nourishment: But so narrow are the bounds of
human understanding, that little satisfaction can be hoped for in this

292 DAVID HUME

particular, either from the extent of security or his acquisitions. Man
is a sociable, no less than a reasonable being: but neither can he
always enjoy company agreeable and amusing, or preserve the proper
relish for them. Man is also an active being; and from that disposi-
tion, as well as from the various necessities of human life, must sub-
mit to business and occupation: but the mind requires some relaxa-
tion, and cannot always support its bent to care and industry. It
seems, then, that nature has pointed out a mixed kind of life as most
suitable to the human race, and secretly admonished them to allow
none of these biases to draw too much, so as to incapacitate them
for other occupations and entertainments. Indulge your passion for
science, says she, but let your science be human, and such as may have
a direct reference to action and society. Abstruse thought and pro-
found researches I prohibit, and will severely punish, by the pensive
melancholy which they introduce, by the endless uncertainty in
which they involve you, and by the cold reception which your pre-
tended discoveries shall meet with, when communicated. Be a
philosopher; but, amidst all your philosophy, be still a man.

Were the generality of mankind contented to prefer the easy phi-
losophy to the abstract and profound, without throwing any blame or
contempt on the latter, it might not be improper, perhaps, to comply
with this general opinion, and allow every man to enjoy, without
opposition, his own taste and sentiment. But as the matter is often
carried farther, even to the absolute rejecting of all profound reason-
ings, or what is commonly called metaphysics, we shall now proceed
to consider what can reasonably be pleaded in their behalf.

We may begin with observing, that one considerable advantage,
which results from the accurate and abstract philosophy, is, its sub-
serviency to the easy and humane; which, without the former, can
never attain a sufficient degree of exactness in its sentiments, pre-
cepts, or reasonings. All polite letters are nothing but pictures of
human life in various attitudes and situations; and inspire us with
different sentiments, of praise or blame, admiration or ridicule, ac-
cording to the qualities of the object, which they set before us. An
artist must be better qualified to succeed in this undertaking, who,
besides a delicate taste and a quick apprehension, possesses an ac-
curate knowledge of the internal fabric, the operations of the under-

SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 293

Standing, the workings of the passions, and the various species of
sentiment which discriminate vice and virtue. How painful soever
this inward search or enquiry may appear, it becomes, in some meas-
ure, requisite to those, who would describe with success the obvious
and outward appearances of life and manners. The anatomist pre-
sents to the eye the most hideous and disagreeable objects; but his
science is useful to the painter in delineating even a Venus or an
Helen. While the latter employs all the richest colours of his art,
and gives his figures the most graceful and engaging airs; he must
still carry his attention to the inward structure of the human body,
the position of the muscles, the fabric of the bones, and the use and
figure of every part or organ. Accuracy is, in every case, advan-
tageous to beauty, and just reasoning to delicate sentiment. In vain
would we exalt the one by depreciating the other.

Besides, we may observe, in every art or profession, even those
which most concern life or action, that a spirit of accuracy, however
acquired, carries all of them nearer their perfection, and renders them
more subservient to the interests of society. And though a philoso-
pher may live remote from business, the genius of philosophy, if
carefully cultivated by several, must gradually diffuse itself through-
out the whole society, and bestow a similar correctness on every art
and calling. The politician will acquire greater foresight and sub-
tility, in the subdividing and balancing of power; the lawyer more
method and finer principles in his reasonings; and the general more
regularity in his discipline, and more caution in his plans and opera-
tions. The stability of modern governments above the ancient, and
the accuracy of modern philosophy, have improved, and probably
will still improve, by similar gradations.

Were there no advantage to be reaped from these studies, beyond
the gratification of an innocent curiosity, yet ought not even this to
be despised; as being one accession to those few safe and harmless
pleasures, which are bestowed on the human race. The sweetest and
most inoffensive path of life leads through the avenues of science
and learning; and whoever can either remove any obstructions in
this way, or open up any new prospect, ought so far to be esteemed
a benefactor to mankind. And though these researches may appear
painful and fatiguing, it is with some minds as with some bodies,

294 DAVID HUME

which being endowed with vigorous and florid health, require severe
exercise, and reap a pleasure from what, to the generality of man-
kind, may seem burdensome and laborious. Obscurity, indeed, is
painful to the mind as well as to the eye; but to bring light from ob-
scurity, by whatever labour, must needs be delightful and rejoicing.

But this obscurity in the profound and abstract philosophy, is ob-
jected to, not only as painful and fatiguing, but as the inevitable
source of uncertainty and error. Here indeed lies the justest and
most plausible objection against a considerable part of metaphysics,
that they are not properly a science; but arise either from the fruit-
less efforts of human vanity, which would penetrate into subjects
utterly inaccessible to the understanding, or from the craft of popular
superstitions, which, being unable to defend themselves on fair
ground, raise these intangling brambles to cover and protect their
weakness. Chaced from the open country, these robbers fly into the
forest, and lie in wait to break in upon every unguarded avenue of
the mind, and overwhelm it with religious fears and prejudices. The
stoutest antagonist, if he remit his watch a moment, is oppressed.
And many, through cowardice and folly, open the gates to the ene-
mies, and willingly receive them with reverence and submission, as
their legal sovereigns.

But is this a sufficient reason, why philosophers should desist from
such researches, and leave superstition still in possession of her re-
treat ? Is it not proper to draw an opposite conclusion, and perceive
the necessity of carrying the war into the most secret recesses of the
enemy.'' In vain do we hope, that men, from frequent disappoint-
ment, will at last abandon such airy sciences, and discover the proper
province of human reason. For, besides, that many persons find too
sensible an interest in perpetually recalling such topics; besides this,
I say, the motive of blind despair can never reasonably have place
in the sciences; since, however unsuccessful former attempts may
have proved, there is still room to hope, that the industry, good for-
tune, or improved sagacity of succeeding generations may reach
discoveries unknown to former ages. Each adventurous genius will
still leap at the arduous prize, and find himself stimulated, rather
than discouraged, by the failures of his predecessors; while he hopes
that the glory of achieving so hard an adventure is reserved for him

SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 295

alone. The only method of freeing learning, at once, from these ab-
struse questions, is to enquire seriously into the nature of human
understanding, and show, from an exact analysis of its powers and
capacity, that it is by no means fitted for such remote and abstruse
subjects. We must submit to this fatigue in order to live at ease ever
after : and must cultivate true metaphysics with some care, in order to
destroy the false and adulterate. Indolence, which, to some persons,
affords a safeguard against this deceitful philosophy, is, with others,
overbalanced by curiosity; and despair, which, at some moments, pre-
vails, may give place afterwards to sanguine hopes and expectations.
Accurate and just reasoning is the only catholic remedy, fitted for all
persons and all dispositions; and is alone able to subvert that abstruse
philosophy and metaphysical jargon, which being mixed up with
popular superstition, renders it in a manner impenetrable to careless
reasoners, and gives it the air of science and wisdom.

Besides this advantage of rejecting, after deliberate enquiry, the
most uncertain and disagreeable part of learning, there are many
positive advantages, which result from an accurate scrutiny into the
powers and faculties of human nature. It is remarkable concerning
the operations of the mind, that, though most intimately present to
us, yet, whenever they become the object of reflexion, they seem
involved in obscurity; nor can the eye readily find those lines and
boundaries, which discriminate and distinguish them. The objects
are too fine to remain long in the same aspect or situation; and must
be apprehended in an instant, by a superior penetration, derived
from nature, and improved by habit and reflexion. It becomes,
therefore, no inconsiderable part of science barely to know the
different operations of the mind, to separate them from each other,
to class them under their proper heads, and to correct all that seeming
disorder, in which they lie involved, when made the object of re-
flexion and enquiry. This talk of ordering and distinguishing, which
has no merit, when performed with regard to external bodies, the
objects of our senses, rises in its value, when directed towards the
operations of the mind, in proportion to the difficulty and labour,
which we meet with in performing it. And if we can go no farther
than this mental geography, or delineation of the distinct parts and
powers of the mind, it is at least a satisfaction to go so far; and the

296 DAVID HUME

more obvious this science may appear (and it is by no means
obvious) the more contemptible still must the ignorance of it be
esteemed, in all pretenders to learning and philosophy.

Nor can there remain any suspicion, that this science is uncertain
and chimerical; unless we should entertain such a scepticism as is
entirely subversive of all speculation, and even action. It cannot be
doubted, that the mind is endowed with several powers and faculties,
that these powers are distinct from each other, that what is really
distinct to the immediate perception may be distinguished by re-
flexion; and consequently, that there is a truth and falsehood in all
propositions on this subject, and a truth and falsehood, which lie not
beyond the compass of human understanding. There are many ob-
vious distinctions of this kind, such as those between the will and un-
derstanding, the imagination and passions, which fall within the
comprehension of every human creature; and the finer and more
philosophical distinctions are no less real and certain, though more
difficult to be comprehended. Some instances, especially late ones, of
success in these enquiries, may give us a j uster notion of the certainty
and solidity of this branch of learning. And shall we esteem it
worthy the labour of a philosopher to give us a true system of the
planets, and adjust the position and order of those remote bodies;
while we aflect to overlook those, who, with so much success,
delineate the parts of the mind, in which we are so intimately con-
cerned.''

But may we not hope, that philosophy, cultivated with care, and
encouraged by the attention of the public, may carry its researches
still farther, and discover, at least in some degree, the secret springs
and principles, by which the human mind is actuated in its opera-
tions? Astronomers had long contented themselves with proving,
from the phaenomena, the true motions, order, and magnitude of
the heavenly bodies: till a philosopher, at last, arose, who seems,
from the happiest reasoning, to have also determined the laws and
forces, by which the revolutions of the planets are governed and di-
rected. The like has been performed with regard to other parts of
nature. And there is no reason to despair of equal success in our
enquiries concerning the mental powers and economy, if prosecuted
with equal capacity and caution. It is probable, that one operation

SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 297

and principle of the mind depends on another; which, again, may be
resolved into one more general and universal: and how far these
researches may possibly be carried, it will be difficult for us, before, or
even after, a careful trial, exactly to determine. This is certain, that
attempts of this kind are every day made even by those who philos-
ophize the most negligently : and nothing can be more requisite than
to enter upon the enterprize with thorough care and attention; that,
if it lie within the compass of human understanding, it may at last
be happily achieved; if not, it may, however, be rejected with some
confidence and security. This last conclusion, surely, is not desirable;
nor ought it to be embraced too rashly. For how much must we di-
minish from the beauty and value of this species of philosophy, upon
such a supposition ? Moralists have hitherto been accustomed, when
they considered the vast multitude and diversity of those actions that
excite our approbation or dislike, to search for some common princi-
ple, on which this variety of sentiments might depend. And though
they have sometimes carried the matter too far, by their passion for
some one general principle; it must, however, be confessed, that they
are excusable in expecting to find some general principles, into which
all the vices and virtues were justly to be resolved. The like has been
the endeavour of critics, logicians, and even politicians: nor have
their attempts been wholly unsuccessful; though perhaps longer
time, greater accuracy, and more ardent application may bring these
sciences still nearer their perfection; To throw up at once all preten-
sions of this kind may justly be deemed more rash, precipitate, and
dogmatical, than even the boldest and most affirmative philosophy,
that has ever attempted to impose its crude dictates and principles
on mankind.

What though these reasonings concerning human nature seem
abstract, and of difficult comprehension.'' This affords no presump-
tion of their falsehood. On the contrary, it seems impossible, that
what has hitherto escaped so many wise and profound philosophers
can be very obvious and easy. And whatever pains these researches
may cost us, we may think ourselves sufficiently rewarded, not only in
point of profit but of pleasure, if, by that means, we can make any
addition to our stock of knowledge, in subjects of such unspeakable
importance.

298 DAVID HUME

But as, after all, the abstractedness of these speculations is no
recommendation, but rather a disadvantage to them, and as this diffi-
culty may perhaps be surmounted by care and art, and the avoiding
of all unnecessary detail, we have, in the following enquiry, at-
tempted to throw some light upon subjects, from which uncer-
tainty has hitherto deterred the wise, and obscurity the ignorant.
Happy, if we can unite the boundaries of the different species of
philosophy, by reconciling profound enquiry with clearness, and
truth with novelty! And still more happy, if, reasoning in this easy
manner, we can undermine the foundations of an abstruse philo-
sophy, which seems to have hitherto served only as a shelter to super-
stition, and a cover to absurdity and error!

SECTION II

OF THE ORIGIN OF IDEAS

EVERY one will readily allow, that there is a considerable dif-
ference between the perceptions of the mind, when a man
feels the pain of excessive heat, or the pleasure of moderate
warmth, and when he afterwards recalls to his memory this sensa-
tion, or anticipates it by his imagination. These faculties may mimic
or copy the perceptions of the senses; but they never can entirely
reach the force and vivacity of the original sentiment. The utmost
we say of them, even when they operate with greatest vigour, is,
that they represent their object in so lively a manner, that we could
almost say we feel or see it: But, except the mind be disordered by
disease or madness, they never can arrive at such a pitch of vivacity,
as to render these perceptions altogether undistinguishable. All the
colours of poetry, however splendid, can never paint natural objects
in such a manner as to make the description be taken for a real land-
skip. The most lively thought is still inferior to the dullest sensation.

We may observe a like distinction to run through all the other
perceptions of the mind. A man in a fit of anger, is actuated in a
very different manner from one who only thinks of that emotion. If
you tell me, that any person is in love, I easily understand your mean-
ing, and from a just conception of his situation; but never can mis-
take that conception for the real disorders and agitations of the pas-
sion. When we reflect on our past sentiments and affections, our
thought is a faithful mirror, and copies its objects truly; but the
colours which it employs are faint and dull, in comparison of those
in which our original perceptions were clothed. It requires no nice
discernment or metaphysical head to mark the distinction between
them.

Here therefore we may divide all the perceptions of the mind into
two classes or species, which are distinguished by their different de-
grees of force and vivacity. The less forcible and lively are commonly

299

300 DAVID HUME

denominated Thoughts or Ideas. The other species want a name in
our language, and in most others; I suppose, because it was not
requisite for any, but philosophical purposes, to rank them under a
general term or appellation. Let us, therefore, use a little freedom,
and call them Impressions; employing that word in a sense somewhat
different from the usual. By the term impression, then, I mean all
our more lively perceptions, when we hear, or see, or feel, or love, or
hate, or desire, or will. And impressions are distinguished from ideas,
which are the less lively perceptions, of which we are conscious,
when we reflect on any of those sensations or movements above
mentioned.

Nothing, at first view, may seem more unbounded than the
thought of man, which not only escapes all human power and au-
thority, but is not even restrained within the limits of nature and
reality. To form monsters, and join incongruous shapes and ap-
pearances, costs the imagination no more trouble than to conceive
the most natural and familiar objects. And while the body is con-
fined to one planet, along which it creeps with pain and difficulty;
the thought can in an instant transport us into the most distant
regions of the universe; or even beyond the universe, into the un-
bounded chaos, where nature is supposed to lie in total confusion.
What never was seen, or heard of, may yet be conceived; nor is any
thing beyond the power of thought, except what implies an absolute
contradiction.

But though our thought seems to possess this unbounded liberty,
we shall find, upon a nearer examination, that it is really confined
within very narrow limits, and that all this creative power of the
mind amounts to no more than the faculty of compounding, trans-
posing, augmenting, or diminishing the materials afforded us by the
senses and experience. When we think of a golden mountain, we
only join two consistent ideas, gold, and mountain, with which we
were formerly acquainted. A virtuous horse we can conceive; be-
cause, from our own feeling, we can conceive virtue; and this we
may unite to the figure and shape of a horse, which is an animal
familiar to us. In short, all the materials of thinking are derived
either from our outward or inward sentiment: the mixture and

ORIGIN OF IDEAS 3OI

composition of these belongs alone to the mind and will. Or, to ex-
press myself in philosophical language, all our ideas or more feeble
perceptions are copies of our impressions or more lively ones.

To prove this, the two following arguments will, I hope, be suffi-
cient. First, when we analyze our thoughts or ideas, however com-
pounded or sublime, we always find that they resolve themselves into
such simple ideas as were copied from a precedent feeling or senti-
ment. Even those ideas, which, at first view, seem the most wide
of this origin, are found, upon a nearer scrutiny, to be derived from
it. The idea of God, as meaning an infinitely intelligent, wise, and
good Being, arises from reflecting on the operations of our own mind,
and augmenting, without limit, those qualities of goodness and wis-
dom. We may prosecute this enquiry to what length we please;
where we shall always find, that every idea which we examine is
copied from a similar impression. Those who would assert that this
position is not universally true nor without exception, have only one,
and that an easy method of refuting it; by producing that idea,
which, in their opinion, is not derived from this source. It will then
be incumbent on us, if we would maintain our doctrine, to produce
the impression, or lively perception, which corresponds to it.

Secondly. If it happen, from a defect of the organ, that a man is
not susceptible of any species of sensation, we always find that he is
as little susceptible of the correspondent ideas. A blind man can
form no notion of colours; a deaf man of sounds. Restore either of
them that sense in which he is deficient; by opening this new inlet
for his sensations, you also open an inlet for the ideas; and he finds
no difficulty in conceiving these objects. The case is the same, if the
object, proper for exciting any sensation, has never been applied to
the organ. A Laplander or Negro has no notion of the relish of wine.
And though there are few or no instances of a like deficiency in the
mind, where a person has never felt or is wholly incapable of a senti-
ment or passion that belongs to his species; yet we find the same
observation to take place in a less degree. A man of mild manners
can form no idea of inveterate revenge or cruelty; nor can a selfish
heart easily conceive the heights of friendship and generosity. It is
readily allowed, that other beings may possess many senses of which

302 DAVID HUME

we can have no conception; because the ideas of them have never
been introduced to us in the only manner by which an idea can have
access to the mind, to wit, by the actual feeling and sensation.

There is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which may
prove that it is not absolutely impossible for ideas to arise, inde-
pendent of their correspondent impressions, I believe it will readily
be allowed, that the several distinct ideas of colour, which enter by
the eye, or those of sound, which are conveyed by the ear, are really
different from each other; though, at the same time, resembling.
Now if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the
different shades of the same colour; and each shade produces a dis-
tinct idea, independent of the rest. For if this should be denied, it is
possible, by the continual gradation of shades, to run a colour in-
sensibly into what is most remote from it; and if you will not allow
any of the means to be different, you cannot, without absurdity, deny
the extremes to be the same. Suppose, therefore, a person to have
enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly ac-
quainted with colours of all kinds except one particular shade of
blue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with.
Let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one, be
placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the
lightest; it is plain that he will perceive a blank, where that shade is
wanting, and will be sensible that there is a greater distance in that
place between the contiguous colour than in any other. Now I ask,
whether it be possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply
this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular
shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? I
believe there are few but will be of opinion that he can : and this may
serve as a proof that the simple ideas are not always, in every instance,
derived from the correspondent impressions; though this instance is
so singular, that it is scarcely worth our observing, and does not merit
that for it alone we should alter our general maxim.

Here, therefore, is a proposition, which not only seems, in itself,
simple and intelligible; but, if a proper use were made of it, might
render every dispute equally intelligible, and banish all that jargon,
which has so long taken possession of metaphysical reasonings, and
drawn disgrace upon them. All ideas, especially abstract ones, are

ORIGIN OF IDEAS 303

naturally faint and obscure: the mind has but a slender hold of them:
they are apt to be confounded with other resembling ideas; and when
we have often employed any term, though without a distinct mean-
ing, we are apt to imagine it has a determinate idea annexed to it.
On the contrary, all impressions, that is, all sensations, either out-
ward or inward, are strong and vivid: the limits between them are
more exactly determined; nor is it easy to fall into any error or
mistake with regard to them. When we entertain therefore, any
suspicion that a philosophical term is employed without any mean-
ing or idea (as is but too frequent), we need but enquire, from what
impression is that supposed idea derived? And if it be impossible to
assign any, this will serve to confirm our suspicion. By bringing
ideas into so clear a light we may reasonably hope to remove all dis-
pute, which may arise, concerning their nature and reality.'

' It is probable that no more was meant by those, who denied innate ideas, than
that all ideas were copies of our impressions; though it must be confessed, that the
terms, which they employed, were not chosen with such caution, nor so exacdy defined,
as to prevent all mistakes about their doctrine. For what is meant by innate? If
innate be equivalent to natural, then all the perceptions and ideas of the mind must
be allowed to be innate or natural, in whatever sense we take the latter word,
whether in opposition to what is uncommon, artificial, or miraculous. If by innate
be meant, contemporary to our birth, the dispute seems to be frivolous; nor is it
worth while to enquire at what time thinking begins, whether before, at, or after
our birth. Again, the word idea, seems to be commonly taken in a very loose
sense, by Locke and others; as standing for any of our perceptions, our sensations
and passions, as well as thoughts. Now in this sense, I should desire to know, what
can be meant by asserdng, that self-love, or resentment of injuries, or the passion
between the sexes is not innate?

But admitting these terms, impressions and ideas, in the sense above explained,
and understanding by innate, what is original or copied from no precedent perception,
then may we assert that all our impressions are innate, and our ideas not innate.

To be ingenuous, I must own it to be my opinion, that Locke was betrayed into
this question by the schoolmen, who, making use of undefined terms, draw out their
disputes to a tedious length, without ever touching the point in question. A like
ambiguity and circumlocution seem to run through that philosopher's reasonings on
this as well as most other subjects.

SECTION III

OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS

IT IS evident that there is a principle o£ connexion between the
different thoughts or ideas of the mind, and that in their appear-
ance to the memory or imagination, they introduce each other
with a certain degree of method and regularity. In our more serious
thinking or discourse this is so observable that any particular thought,
which breaks in upon the regular tract or chain of ideas, is imme-
diately remarked and rejected. And even in our wildest and most
wandering reveries, nay in our very dreams, we shall find, if we re-
flect, that the imagination ran not altogether at adventures, but that
there was still a connexion upheld among the different ideas, which
succeeded each other. Were the loosest and freest conversation to be
transcribed, there would immediately be observed something which
connected it in all its transitions. Or where this is wanting, the person
who broke the thread of discourse might still inform you, that there
had secretly revolved in his mind a succession of thought, which had
gradually led him from the subject of conversation. Among different
languages, even where we cannot suspect the least connexion or
communication, it is found, that the words, expressive of ideas, the
most compounded, do yet nearly correspond to each other: a certain
proof that the simple ideas, comprehended in the compound ones,
were bound together by some universal principle, which had an
equal influence on all mankind.

Though it be too obvious to escape observation, that different ideas
are connected together; I do not find that any philosopher has at-
tempted to enumerate or class all the principles of association; a sub-
ject, however, that seems worthy of curiosity. To me, there appear
to be only three principles of connexion among ideas, namely. Re-
semblance, Contiguity in time or place, and Cause or Effect.

That these principles serve to connect ideas will not, I believe, be
much doubted. A picture naturally leads our thoughts to the

304

ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS 305

original :' the mention of one apartment in a building naturally intro-
duces an enquiry or discourse concerning the others:^ and if we think
of a wound, we can scarcely forbear reflecting on the pain which fol-
lows it.' But that this enumeration is complete, and that there are
no other principles of association except these, may be difficult to
prove to the satisfaction of the reader, or even to a man's own satis-
faction. All we can do, in such cases, is to run over several instances,
and examine carefully the principle which binds the different
thoughts to each other, never stopping till we render the principle
as general as possible.^ The more instances we examine, and the
more care we employ, the more assurance shall we acquire, that the
enumeration, which we form from the whole, is complete and entire.

' Resemblance. ^ Contiguity. ' Cause and effect.

* For instance. Contrast or Contrariety is also a connexion among Ideas: but it
may, perhaps, be considered as a mixture of Causation and Resemblance. Where two
objects are contrary, the one destroys the other; that is, the cause of its annihilation,
and the idea of the annihilation of an object, implies the idea of its former existence.

SECTION IV

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS CONCERNING THE OPERATIONS OF
THE UNDERSTANDING

Part I

j4LL the objects o£ human reason or enquiry may naturally be
i-\ divided into two kinds, to wit, Relations of Ideas, and Mat-
A. .A. ters of Fact. Of the first kind are the sciences of Geometry,
Algebra, and Arithmetic; and in short, every affirmation which is
either intuitively or demonstratively certain. That the square of the
hypothenuse is equal to the square of the two sides, is a proposition
which expresses a relation between these figures. That three times
five is equal to the half of thirty, expresses a relation between these
numbers. Propositions of this kind are discoverable by the mere
operation of thought, without dependence on what is anywhere exis-
tent in the universe. Though there never were a circle or triangle
in nature, the truths demonstrated by Euclid would for ever retain
their certainty and evidence.

Matters of fact, which are the second objects of human reason, are
not ascertained in the same manner; nor is our evidence of their
truth, however great, of a like nature with the foregoing. The con-
trary of every matter of fact is still possible; because it can never
imply a contradiction, and is conceived by the mind with the same
facility and distinctness, as if ever so conformable to reality. That
the sun will not rise to-morrow is no less intelligible a proposition,
and implies no more contradiction than the affirmation, that it will
rise. We should in vain, therefore, attempt to demonstrate its false-
hood. Were it demonstratively false, it would imply a contradiction,
and could never be distinctly conceived by the mind.

It may, therefore, be a subject worthy of curiosity, to enquire what
is the nature of that evidence which assures us of any real existence
and matter of fact, beyond the present testimony of our senses, or the

306

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 307

records of our memory. This part of philosophy, it is observable, has
been little cultivated, either by the ancients or moderns; and there-
fore our doubts and errors, in the prosecution of so important an
enquiry, may be the more excusable; while we march through such
difficult paths without any guide or direction. They may even prove
useful, by exciting curiosity, and destroying that implicit faith and
security, which is the bane of all reasoning and free enquiry. The
discovery of defects in the common philosophy, if any such there be,
will not, I presume, be a discouragement, but rather an incitement,
as is usual, to attempt something more full and satisfactory than has
yet been proposed to the public.

All reasonings concerning matter of fact seem to be founded on the
relation of Cause and Effect. By means of that relation alone we can
go beyond the evidence of our memory and senses. If you were to ask
a man, why he believes any matter of fact, which is absent; for in-
stance, that his friend is in the country, or in France; he would give
you a reason; and this reason would be some other fact; as a letter
received from him, or the knowledge of his former resolutions and
promises. A man finding a watch or any other machine in a desert
island, would conclude that there had once been men in that island.
All our reasonings concerning fact are of the same nature. And here
it is constantly supposed that there is a connexion between the present
fact and that which is inferred from it. Were there nothing to bind
them together, the inference would be entirely precarious. The
hearing of an articulate voice and rational discourse in the dark as-
sures us of the presence of some person : Why ? because these are the
effects of the human make and fabric, and closely connected with
it. If we anatomize all the other reasonings of this nature, we shall
find that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect, and
that this relation is either near or remote, direct or collateral. Heat
and light are collateral effects of fire, and the one effect may justly be
inferred from the other.

If we would satisfy ourselves, therefore, concerning the nature of
that evidence, which assures us of matters of fact, we must enquire
how we arrive at the knowledge of cause and effect.

I shall venture to affirm, as a general proposition, which admits of
no exception, that the knowledge of this relation is not, in any in-

308 DAVID HUME

Stance, attained by reasonings a priori; but arises entirely from ex-
perience, when we find that any particular objects are constantly
conjoined with each other. Let an object be presented to a man of
ever so strong natural reason and abilities; if that object be entirely
new to him, he will not be able, by the most accurate examination of
its sensible qualities, to discover any of its causes or effects. Adam,
though his rational faculties be supposed, at the very first, entirely
perfect, could not have inferred from the fluidity and transparency
of water that it would suffocate him, or from the light and warmth of
fire that it would consume him. No object ever discovers, by the
qualities which appear to the senses, either the causes which produced
it, or the effects which will arise from it; nor can our reason, un-
assisted by experience, ever draw any inference concerning real
existence and matter of fact.

This proposition, that causes and ejects are discoverable, not by
reason but by experience, will readily be admitted with regard to
such objects, as we remember to have once been altogether unknown
to us; since we must be conscious of the utter inability, which we
then lay under, of foretelling what would arise from them. Present
two smooth pieces of marble to a man who has no tincture of natural
philosophy; he will never discover that they will adhere together in
such a manner as to require great force to separate them in a direct
line, while they make so small a resistance to a lateral pressure. Such
events, as bear little analogy to the common course of nature, are
also readily confessed to be known only by experience; nor does any
man imagine that the explosion of gunpowder, or the attraction of a
loadstone, could ever be discovered by arguments a priori. In like
manner, when an effect is supposed to depend upon an intricate
machinery or secret structure of parts, we make no difficulty in at-
tributing all our knowledge of it to experience. Who will assert
that he can give the ultimate reason, why milk or bread is proper
nourishment for a man, not for a lion or a tiger?

But the same truth may not appear, at first sight, to have the same
evidence with regard to events, which have become familiar to us
from our first appearance in the world, which bear a close analogy
to the whole course of nature, and which are supposed to depend
on the simple qualities of objects, without any secret structure of

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 309

parts. We are apt to imagine that we could discover these effects
by the mere operation of our reason, without experience. We fancy,
that were we brought on a sudden into this world, we could at first
have inferred that one Billiard-ball would communicate motion to
another upon impulse; and that we needed not to have waited for the
event, in order to pronounce with certainty concerning it. Such is
the influence of custom, that, where it is strongest, it not only covers
our natural ignorance, but even conceals itself, and seems not to take
place, merely because it is found in the highest degree.

But to convince us that all the laws of nature, and all the operations
of bodies without exception, are known only by experience, the fol-
lowing reflections may, perhaps, suffice. Were any object presented
to us, and were we required to pronounce concerning the effect,
which will result from it, without consulting past observation; after
what manner, I beseech you, must the mind proceed in this opera-
tion ? It must invent or imagine some event, which it ascribes to the
object as its effect; and it is plain that this invention must be entirely
arbitrary. The mind can never possibly find the effect in the sup-
posed cause, by the most accurate scrutiny and examination. For the
effect is totally different from the cause, and consequently can never
be discovered in it. Motion in the second Billiard-ball is a quite
distinct event from motion in the first; nor is there anything in the
one to suggest the smallest hint of the other. A stone or piece of
metal raised into the air, and left without any support, immediately
falls: but to consider the matter a priori, is there anything we
discover in this situation which can beget the idea of a down-
ward, rather than an upward, or any other motion, in the stone or
metal ?

And as the first imagination or invention of a particular effect, in
all natural operations, is arbitrary, where we consult not experience;
so must we also esteem the supposed tie or connexion between the
cause and effect, which binds them together, and renders it impossi-
ble that any other effect could result from the operation of that cause.
When I see, for instance, a Billiard-ball moving in a straight line
towards another; even suppose motion in the second ball should by
accident be suggested to me, as the result of their contact or impulse;
may I not conceive, that a hundred different events might as well

310 DAVID HUME

follow from that cause ? May not both these balls remain at absolute
rest ? May not the first ball return in a straight line, or leap off from
the second in any line or direction? All these suppositions are con-
sistent and conceivable. Why then should we give the preference
to one, which is no more consistent or conceivable than the rest?
All our reasonings a priori will never be able to show us any founda-
tion for this preference.

In a word, then, every effect is a distinct event from its cause.
It could not, therefore, be discovered in the cause, and the first in-
vention or conception of it, a priori, must be entirely arbitrary. And
even after it is suggested, the conjunction of it with the cause must
appear equally arbitrary, since there are always many other effects,
which, to reason, must seem fully as consistent and natural. In vain,
therefore, should we pretend to determine any single event, or infer
any cause or effect, without the assistance of observation and expe-
rience.

Hence we may discover the reason why no philosopher, who is
rational and modest, has ever pretended to assign the ultimate cause
of any natural operation, or to show distinctly the action of that
power, which produces any single effect in the universe. It is con-
fessed, that the utmost effort of human reason is to reduce the prin-
ciples, productive of natural phenomena, to a greater simplicity, and
to resolve the many particular effects into a few general causes, by
means of reasonings from analogy, experience, and observation. But
as to the causes of these general causes, we should in vain attempt
their discovery; nor shall we ever be able to satisfy ourselves, by any
particular explication of them. These ultimate springs and prin-
ciples are totally shut up from human curiosity and enquiry. Elas-
ticity, gravity, cohesion of parts, communication of motion by im-
pulse; these are probably the ultimate causes and principles which we
shall ever discover in nature; and we may esteem ourselves suffi-
ciently happy, if, by accurate enquiry and reasoning, we can trace
up the particular phenomena to, or near to, these general principles.
The most perfect philosophy of the natural kind only staves off our
ignorance a litde longer: as perhaps the most perfect philosophy of
the moral or metaphysical kind serves only to discover larger por-
tions of it. Thus the observation of human blindness and weakness

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 3II

is the result of all philosophy, and meets us at every turn, in spite
of our endeavours to elude or avoid it.

Nor is geometry, when taken into the assistance of natural phi-
losophy, ever able to remedy this defect, or lead us into the know^ledge
of ultimate causes, by all that accuracy of reasoning for which it is
so justly celebrated. Every part of mixed mathematics proceeds upon
the supposition that certain laws are established by nature in her oper-
ations; and abstract reasonings are employed, either to assist expe-
rience in the discovery of these laws, or to determine their influence
in particular instances, where it depends upon any precise degree of
distance and quantity. Thus, it is a law of motion, discovered by ex-
perience, that the moment or force of any body in motion is in the
compound ratio or proportion of its solid contents and its velocity;
and consequently, that a small force may remove the greatest obstacle
or raise the greatest weight, if, by any contrivance or machinery, we
can increase the velocity of that force, so as to make it an overmatch
for its antagonist. Geometry assists us in the application of this law,
by giving us the just dimensions of all the parts and figures which
can enter into any species of machine; but still the discovery of the
law itself is owing merely to experience, and all the abstract reason-
ings in the world could never lead us one step towards the knowledge
of it. When we reason a priori, and consider merely any object or
cause, as it appears to the mind, independent of all observation, it
never could suggest to us the notion of any distinct object, such as
its effect; much less, show us the inseparable and inviolable con-
nexion between them. A man must be very sagacious who could
discover by reasoning that crystal is the effect of heat, and ice of cold,
without being previously acquainted with the operation of these
qualities.

Part II

But we have not yet attained any tolerable satisfaction with regard
to the question first proposed. Each solution still gives rise to a new
question as di£Scult as the foregoing, and leads us on to farther en-
quiries. When it is asked, What is the nature of all our reasonings
concerning matter of fact? the proper answer seems to be, that they
are founded on the relation of cause and effect. When again it is

312 DAVID HUME

asked, What is the foundation of all our reasonings and conclusions
concerning that relation? it may be replied in one word, Experience.
But if we still carry on our sifting humour, and ask. What is the
foundation of all conclusions from experience? this implies a new
question, which may be of more difficult solution and explication.
Philosophers, that give themselves airs of superior wisdom and suffi-
ciency, have a hard task when they encounter persons of inquisitive
dispositions, who push them from every corner to which they retreat,
and who are sure at last to bring them to some dangerous dilemma.
The best expedient to prevent this confusion, is to be modest in our
pretensions; and even to discover the difficulty ourselves before it is
objected to us. By this means, we may make a kind of merit of our
very ignorance.

I shall content myself, in this section, with an easy task, and shall
pretend only to give a negative answer to the question here pro-
posed. I say then, that, even after we have experience of the opera-
tions of cause and effect, our conclusions from that experience are
not founded on reasoning, or any process of the understanding. This
answer we must endeavour both to explain and to defend.

It must certainly be allowed, that nature has kept us at a great
distance from all her secrets, and has afforded us only the knowl-
edge of a few superficial qualities of objects; while she conceals from
us those powers and principles on which the influence of those ob-
jects entirely depends. Our senses inform us of the colour, weight,
and consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever in-
form us of those qualities which fit it for the nourishment and sup-
port of a human body. Sight or feeling conveys an idea of the actual
motion of bodies; but as to that wonderful force or power, which
would carry on a moving body for ever in a continued change of
place, and which bodies never lose but by communicating it to
others; of this we cannot form the most distant conception. But not-
withstanding this ignorance of natural powers'' and principles, we
always presume, when we see like sensible qualities, that they have
like secret powers, and expect that effects, similar to those which we
have experienced, will follow from them. If a body of like colour and

1 The word, Power, is here used in a loose and popular sense. The more accurate
explication of it would give additional evidence to this argument. See Sect. 7.

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 313

consistence with that bread, which we have formerly eat, be pre-
sented to us, we make no scruple of repeating the experiment, and
foresee, with certainty, like nourishment and support. Now this is a
process of the mind or thought, of which I would willingly know
the foundation. It is allowed on all hands that there is no known
connexion between the sensible qualities and the secret powers; and
consequently, that the mind is not led to form such a conclusion
concerning their constant and regular conjunction, by anything
which it knows of their nature. As to past Experience, it can be al-
lowed to give direct and certain information of those precise objects
only, and that precise period of time, which fell under its cognizance :
but why this experience should be extended to future times, and to
other objects, which for aught we know, may be only in appearance
similar; this is the main question on which I would insist. The bread,
which I formerly eat, nourished me; that is, a body of such sensible
qualities was, at that time, endued with such secret powers: but does
it follow, that other bread must also nourish me at another time,
and that like sensible qualities must always be attended with like
secret powers? The consequence seems nowise necessary. At least,
it must be acknowledged that there is here a consequence drawn by
the mind; that there is a certain step taken; a process of thought, and
an inference, which wants to be explained. These two propositions
are far from being the same. / have found that such an object has
always been attended with such an effect, and / foresee, that other
objects, tvhich are, in appearance, similar, u/ill be attended with simi-
lar effects. I shall allow, if you please, that the one proposition may
justly be inferred from the other: I know, in fact, that it always is in-
ferred. But if you insist that the inference is made by a chain of rea-
soning, I desire you to produce that reasoning. The connexion be-
tween these propositions is not intuitive. There is required a me-
dium, which may enable the mind to draw such an inference, if in-
deed it be drawn by reasoning and argument. What that medium is,
I must confess, passes my comprehension; and it is incumbent on
those to produce it, who assert that it really exists, and is the origin of
all our conclusions concerning matter of fact.

This negative argument must certainly, in process of time, be-
come altogether convincing, if many penetrating and able philoso-

314 DAVID HUME

phers shall turn their enquiries this way and no one be ever able
to discover any connecting proposition or intermediate step, which
supports the understanding in this conclusion. But as the question
is yet new, every reader may not trust so far to his own penetration,
as to conclude, because an argument escapes his enquiry, that there-
fore it does not really exist. For this reason it may be requisite to
venture upon a more difBcult task; and enumerating all the branches
of human knowledge, endeavour to show that none of them can
afford such an argument.

All reasonings may be divided into two kinds, namely, demonstra-
tive reasoning, or that concerning relations of ideas, and moral rea-
soning, or that concerning matter of fact and existence. That there
are no demonstrative arguments in the case seems evident; since it
implies no contradiction that the course of nature may change, and
that an object, seemingly like those which we have experienced, may
be attended with different or contrary effects. May I not clearly and
distinctly conceive that a body, falling from the clouds, and which,
in all other respects, resembles snow, has yet the taste of salt or feeling
of fire.'' Is there any more intelligible proposition than to affirm, that
all the trees will flourish in December and January, and decay in May
and June? Now whatever is intelligible, and can be distinctly con-
ceived, implies no contradiction, and can never be proved false by
any demonstrative argument or abstract reasoning i priori.

If we be, therefore, engaged by arguments to put trust in past
experience, and make it the standard of our future judgment, these
arguments must be probable only, or such as regard matter of fact
and real existence according to the division above mentioned. But
that there is no argument of this kind, must appear, if our explica-
tion of that species of reasoning be admitted as solid and satisfactory.
We have said that all arguments concerning existence are founded
on the relation of cause and effect; that our knowledge of that rela-
tion is derived entirely from experience; and that all our experi-
mental conclusions proceed upon the supposition that the future will
be conformable to the past. To endeavour, therefore, the proof of
this last supposition by probable arguments, or arguments regarding
existence, must be evidently going in a circle, and taking that for
granted, which is the very point in question.

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 315

In reality, all arguments from experience are founded on the simi-
larity which we discover among natural objects, and by which we
are induced to expect effects similar to those which we have found
to follow from such objects. And though none but a fool or mad-
man will ever pretend to dispute the authority of experience, or
to reject that great guide of human life, it may surely be allowed
a philosopher to have so much curiosity at least as to examine the
principle of human nature, which gives this mighty authority to ex-
perience, and makes us draw advantage from that similarity which
nature has placed among different objects. From causes which ap-
pear similar we expect similar effects. This is the sum of all our ex-
perimental conclusions. Now it seems evident that, if this conclusion
were formed by reason, it would be as perfect at first, and upon one
instance, as after ever so long a course of experience. But the case
is far otherwise. Nothing so like as eggs; yet no one, on account of
this appearing similarity, expects the same taste and relish in all of
them. It is only after a long course of uniform experiments in any
kind, that we attain a firm reliance and security with regard to a par-
ticular event. Now where is that process of reasoning which, from
one instance, draws a conclusion, so different from that which it
infers from a hundred instances that are nowise different from that
single one? This question I propose as much for the sake of in-
formation, as with an intention of raising difficulties. I cannot find,
I cannot imagine any such reasoning. But I keep my mind still open
to instruction, if any one will vouchsafe to bestow it on me.

Should it be said that, from a number of uniform experiments,
we infer a connexion between the sensible qualities and the secret
powers; this, I must confess, seems the same difficulty, couched in dif-
ferent terms. The question still recurs, on what process of argument
this inference is founded? Where is the medium, the interposing
ideas, which join propositions so very wide of each other? It is con-
fessed that the colour, consistence, and other sensible qualities of
bread appear not, of themselves, to have any connexion with the
secret powers of nourishment and support. For otherwise we could
infer these secret powers from the first appearance of these sensible
qualities, without the aid of experience; contrary to the sentiment of
all philosophers, and contrary to plain matter of fact. Here, then, is

3l6 DAVID HUME

our natural state of ignorance with regard to the powers and in-
fluence of all objects. How is this remedied by experience? It only
shows us a number of uniform effects, resulting from certain objects,
and teaches us that those particular objects, at that particular time,
were endowed with such powers and forces. When a new object,
endowed with similar sensible qualities, is produced, we expect simi-
lar powers and forces, aiid look for a like effect. From a body of
like colour and consistence with bread we expect like nourishment
and support. But this surely is a step or progress of the mind, which
wants to be explained. When a man says, / have found, in all past
instances, such sensible qualities conjoined with such secret powers:
And when he says. Similar sensible qualities will always be con-
joined with similar secret powers, he is not guilty of a tautology, nor
are these propositions in any respect the same. You say that the one
proposition is an inference from the other. But you must confess
that the inference is not intuitive; neither is it demonstrative: Of
what nature is it, then? To say it is experimental, is begging the
question. For all inferences from experience suppose, as their founda-
tion, that the future will resemble the past, and that similar powers
will be conjoined with similar sensible qualities. If there be any
suspicion that the course of nature may change, and that the past may
be no rule for the future, all experience becomes useless, and can
give rise to no inference or conclusion. It is impossible, therefore,
that any arguments from experience can prove this resemblance of
the past to the future; since all these arguments are founded on the
supposition of that resemblance. Let the course of things be allowed
hitherto ever so regular; that alone, without some new argument
or inference, proves not that, for the future, it will continue so. In
vain do you pretend to have learned the nature of bodies from your
past experience. Their secret nature, and consequently all their ef-
fects and influence, may change, without any change in their sensible
qualities. This happens sometimes, and with regard to some objects:
Why may it not happen always, and with regard to all objects?
What logic, what process or argument secures you against this sup-
position ? My practice, you say, refutes my doubts. But you mistake
the purport of my question. As an agent, I am quite satisfied in the
point; but as a philosopher, who has some share of curiosity, I will

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 317

not say scepticism, I want to learn the foundation o£ this inference.
No reading, no enquiry has yet been able to remove my difficulty, or
give me satisfaction in a matter of such importance. Can I do better
than propose the difficulty to the public, even though, perhaps, I
have small hopes of obtaining a solution? We shall at least, by this
means, be sensible of our ignorance, if we do not augment our
knowledge.

I must cbnfess that a man is guilty of unpardonable arrogance
who concludes, because an argument has escaped his own investiga-
tion, that therefore it does not really exist. I must also confess that,
though all the learned, for several ages, should have employed them-
selves in fruitless search upon any subject, it may still, perhaps, be
rash to conclude positively that the subject must, therefore, pass all
human comprehension. Even though we examine all the sources of
our knowledge, and conclude them unfit for such a subject, there
may still remain a suspicion, that the enumeration is not complete,
or the examination not accurate. But with regard to the present
subject, there are some considerations which seem to remove all this
accusation of arrogance or suspicion of mistake.

It is certain that the most ignorant and stupid peasants — nay in-
fants, nay even brute beasts — improve by experience, and learn the
qualities of natural objects, by observing the effects which result from
them. When a child has felt the sensation of pain from touching
the flame of a candle, he will be careful not to put his hand near any
candle; but will expect a similar effect from a cause which is similar
in its sensible qualities and appearance. If you assert, therefore, that
the understanding of the child is led into this conclusion by any
process of argument or ratiocination, I may justly require you to pro-
duce that argument; nor have you any pretence to refuse so equitable
a demand. You cannot say that the argument is abstruse, and may
possibly escape your enquiry; since you confess that it is obvious to
the capacity of a mere infant. If you hesitate, therefore, a moment,
or if, after reflection, you produce any intricate or profound argu-
ment, you, in a manner, give up the question, and confess that it is
not reasoning which engages us to suppose the past resembling the
future, and to expect similar effects from causes which are, to ap-
pearance, similar. This is the proposition which I intended to enforce

3l8 DAVID HUME

in the present section. If I be right, I pretend not to have made any
mighty discovery. And if I be v^^rong, I must acknowledge myself
to be indeed a very backward scholar; since I cannot now discover
an argument which, it seems, was perfectly familiar to me long
before I was out of my cradle.

SECTION V

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF THESE DOUBTS

Part I

THE passion for philosophy, like that for religion, seems
liable to this inconvenience, that, though it aims at the cor-
rection of our manners, and extirpation of our vices, it may
only serve, by imprudent management, to foster a predominant in-
clination, and push the mind, with more determined resolution, to-
wards that side which already draws too much, by the bias and pro-
pensity of the natural temper. It is 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 atten-
tion the vanity of human life, and turn all our thoughts towards
the empty and transitory nature of riches and honours, we are, per-
haps, all the while flattering our natural indolence, which, hating the
bustle of the world, and drudgery of business, seeks a pretence of rea-
son to give itself a full and uncontrolled indulgence. There is, how-
ever, one species of philosophy which seems little liable to this in-
convenience, 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 always talk of doubt and suspense of j udgment, of danger
in hasty determinations, of confining to very narrow bounds the en-
quiries of the understanding, and of renouncing all speculations
which lie not within the limits of common life and practice. Noth-
ing, therefore, can be more contrary than such a philosophy to
the supine indolence of the mind, its rash arrogance, its lofty pre-
tensions, and its superstitious credulity. Every passion is mortified

319

320 DAVID HUME

by it, except the love of truth; and that passion never is, nor can be,
carried to too high a degree. It is surprising, 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 resent-
ment. 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 whatso-
ever. Though 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, though 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 ob-
jects, and one event following another; but he would not be able to
discover anything 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, the other the effect. Their conjunction may be arbitrary and
casual. There may be no reason to infer the existence of one from
the appearance of the other. And in a word, such a person, without
more experience, could never employ his conjecture or reasoning

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 32 1

concerning any matter of fact, or be assured of anything 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 familiar objects or
events to be constantly conjoined together; what is the consequence
of this experience? He immediately infers the existence of one ob-
ject from the appearance of the other. Yet he has not, by all his ex-
perience, acquired any idea or knowledge 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 though 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 con-
clusion.

This principle is Custom or Habit. For wherever 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. It is sufficient satis-
faction, that we can go so far, without repining at the narrowness of
our faculties because they will carry us no farther. And it is 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 re-
spect, different from them. Reason is incapable of any such variation.
The conclusions which it draws from considering one circle are the

522 DAVID HUME

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'.

Custom, then, is the great guide of human life. It is that prin-
ciple 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 pro-
duction 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 though 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

* Nothing is more useful 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 h 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 defended, cither 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 between reason and experience is maintained in all our delib-
erations 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. Though it be allowed,
that reason may form very plausible conjectures with regard to the consequences of
such a particular conduct in such particular circumstances; it is 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, 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 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 between them

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 323

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 an-
cient 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 eyewitnesses 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 par-
ticular 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 knowledge 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

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 familiar 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 shows us the danger which we must incur by reposing an entire
confidence in mankind. In both cases, it is 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 obser-
vation, 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 talent is, at first, apt to overlook, though on them the justness of
his conclusions, and consequendy 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.

324 DAVID HUME

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; though, 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 between that and some 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 the 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. It is 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 pre-
vent.

At this point, it would be very allowable for us to stop our philo-
sophical 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 with 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,
though it be neglected.

Part II

Nothing is more free than the imagination of man; and though
it cannot exceed that original stock of ideas furnished by the internal

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 325

and external senses, it has unlimited power o£ mixing, compounding,
separating, and dividing these ideas, in 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 cer-
tainty. Wherein, therefore, consists the difference between such a fic-
tion 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 fic-
tion, and consequently be able to believe whatever it .pleases; con-
trary to what we find by daily experience. We can, in our concep-
tion, 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 com-
manded at pleasure. It must be excited by nature, like all other senti-
ments; 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 feel-
ing or sentiment, diflerent 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 con-
trary, 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
toward 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

326 DAVID HUME

manner as i£ we should endeavour to define the feeling of cold or
passion of anger, to a creature who never had any 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 analo-
gies, 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 real-
ities, 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 in-
fluence on the passions and imagination. Provided we agree about
the thing, it is 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 man-
ner, before our eyes, in their true colours, just as they might have
existed. But as it is impossible that this faculty of imagination can
ever, of itself, reach belief, it is evident that belief consists not in the
peculiar nature or order of ideas, but in the manner of their concep-
tion, and in their feeling to the mind. I confess, that it is 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 judgement from
the fictions of the imagination. It gives them more weight and in-
fluence; makes them appear of greater importance; enforces them
in the mind; and renders them the governing principle of 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 im-
pression of my senses immediately conveys my thought to the person,
together with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out to myself

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 327

as existing at present, with the same quaUties and relations, of which
I formerly knew them possessed. These ideas take faster hold of
my mind than ideas of an enchanted 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 more
intense and steady than what attends the mere fictions of the imagin-
ation, 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 phenomena 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, namely, Re-
semblance, 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 associa-
tions, this may be established 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 vigour. In producing this effect, there concur
both a relation and a present impression. Where the picture bears

328 DAVID HUME

him no resemblance, 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 pic-
ture of a friend, when it is set before us; but when it is removed,
rather choose 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 consid-
ered as instances of the same nature. The devotees of that supersti-
tion usually plead in excuse for the mummeries, with which they
are upbraided, that they feel the good effect of those external mo-
tions, and postures, and actions, in enlivening their devotion and
quickening their fervour, which otherwise would decay, if directed
entirely to distant and immaterial objects. We shadow out the ob-
jects 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 it is 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 resem-
blance. It is certain that distance diminishes the force of every idea,
and that, upon our approach to any object; though it does not dis-
cover itself to our senses; it operates upon the mind with an in-
fluence, which imitates an immediate impression. The thinking on
any object readily transports the mind to what is contiguous; but it is
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 dis-
tant; though even at that distance the reflecting on any thing in the

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 329

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.^

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 reliques 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 it is evi-
dent, that one of the best reliques, which a devotee could procure,
would be the handy work of a saint; and if his cloaths and furniture
are ever to be considered in this light, it is because they were once at
his disposal, and were moved and affected by him; in which re-
spect 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 ab-
sent, were presented to us; it is evident, that this object would in-
stantly revive its correlative idea, and recall to our thoughts all past
intimacies and familiarities, in more lively colours 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 cor-
relative object is always presupposed; without which the relation
could have no effect. 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

* 'Naturane nobis, inquit, datum dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum ea loca videa-
mus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acceperimus multum esse versatos, magis movea-
mur, quam siquando eorum ipsorum aut facta audiamus aut scriptum aliquod legamus ?
Velut ego nunc moveor. Venit enim mihi Plato in mentem, quern accepimus primum
hie disputare solitum: cuius etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam solum mihi
afferunt, sed ipsum videntur in conspectu meo hie ponere. Hie Speusippus, hie
Xenoerates, hie eius auditor Polemo; cuius ipsa ilia sessio fuit, quam videmus. Equi-
dem etiam curiam nostram, Hostiliam dico, non hanc novam, quae mihi minor esse
videtur postquam est maior, solebam intuens, Scipionem, Catoncm, 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. v.

330 DAVID HUME

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 im-
mediately carried to conceive, that it augments, not extinguishes
the flame. This transition of thought from the cause to the efEect
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 though
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 a customary
transition of the idea of another object, which we have been accus-
tomed to conjoin with the former? This is the whole operation of
the mind, in all our conclusions concerning matter of fact and
existence; and it is 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, then, is a kind of pre-established harmony between the
course of nature and the succession of our ideas; and though 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 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 knowl-
edge 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, or employ our natural powers, either to the producing of good.

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 33 1

or avoiding of evil. Those, who delight in the discovery and con-
templation 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 opera-
tions; 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. It is more conformable to the ordinary
wisdom of nature to 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 laboured 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; though we are
ignorant of those powers and forces, on which this regular course
and succession of objects totally depends.

SECTION VI

THOUGH there be no such thing as Chance in the world;
our ignorance of the real cause of any event has the same
influence on the understanding, and begets a Hke species
of belief or opinion.

There is certainly a probability, which arises from a superiority
of chances on any side; and according as this superiority increases,
and surpasses the opposite chances, the probability receives a pro-
portionable increase, and begets still a higher degree of belief or assent
to that side, in which we discover the superiority. If a dye were
marked with one figure or number of spots on four sides, and with
another figure or number of spots on the two remaining sides, it
would be more probable, that the former would turn up than the
latter; though, if it had a thousand sides marked in the same manner,
and only one side different, the probabiUty would be much higher,
and our belief or expectation of the event more steady and secure.
This process of the thought or reasoning may seem trivial and
obvious; but to those who consider it more narrowly, it may, per-
haps, afford matter for curious speculation.

It seems evident, that, when the mind looks forward to discover
the event, which may result from the throw of such a dye, it con-
siders the turning up of each particular side as alike probable; and
this is the very nature of chance, to render all the particular events,
comprehended in it, entirely equal. But finding a greater number
of sides concur in the one event than in the other, the mind is car-
ried more frequently to that event, and meets it oftener, in revolving
the various possibilities or chances, on which the ultimate result

^Mr. Locke divides all arguments into demonstrative and probable. In this viewt
we must say, that it is only probable all men must die, or that the sun will rise to-mor-
row. But to conform our language more to common use, we ought to divide argu-
ments into demonstrations, proofs, and probabilities. By proofs meaning such argu-
ments from experience as leave no room for doubt or opposition.

332

PROBABILITY 333

depends. This concurrence of several views in one particular event
begets immediately, by an inexplicable contrivance of nature, the
sentiment of belief, and gives that event the advantage over its
antagonist, which is supported by a smaller number of views, and
recurs less frequently to the mind. If we allow, that belief is nothing
but a firmer and stronger conception of an object than what attends
the mere fictions of the imagination, this operation may, perhaps,
in some measure, be accounted for. The concurrence of these several
views or glimpses imprints the idea more strongly on the imagina-
tion; gives it superior force and vigour; renders its influence on the
passions and affections more sensible; and in a word, begets that
reliance or security, which constitutes the nature of belief and
opinion.

The case is the same with the probability of causes, as with that
of chance. There are some causes, which are entirely uniform and
constant in producing a particular effect; and no instance has ever
yet been found of any failure or irregularity in their operation.
Fire has always burned, and water suffocated every human creature:
the production of motion by impulse and gravity is an universal
law, which has hitherto admitted of no exception. But there are
other causes, which have been found more irregular and uncertain;
nor has rhubarb always proved a purge, or opium a soporific to
every one, who has taken these medicines. It is true, when any
cause fails of producing its usual effect, philosophers ascribe not
this to any irregularity in nature; but suppose, that some secret
causes, in the particular structure of parts, have prevented the
operation. Our reasonings, however, and conclusions concerning
the event are the same as if this principle had no place. Being
determined by custom to transfer the past to the future, in all our
inferences; where the past has been entirely regular and uniform,
we expect the event with the greatest assurance, and leave no room
for any contrary supposition. But where different effects have been
found to follow from causes, which are to appearance exactly similar,
all these various effects must occur to the mind in transferring the
past to the future, and enter into our consideration, when we de-
termine the probability of the event. Though we give the preference
to that which has been found most usual, and believe that this effect

334 DAVID HUME

will exist, we must not overlook the other effects, but must assign
to each of them a particular weight and authority, in proportion as
we have found it to be more or less frequent. It is more probable,
in almost every country of Europe, that there will be frost some-
time in January, than that the weather will continue open through-
out that whole month; though this probability varies according to
the different climates, and approaches to a certainty in the more
northern kingdoms. Here then it seems evident, that, when we
transfer the past to the future, in order to determine the effect, which
will result from any cause, we transfer all the different events, in
the same proportion as they have appeared in the past, and conceive
one to have existed a hundred times, for instance, another ten times,
and another once. As a great number of views do here concur in
one event, they fortify and confirm it to the imagination, beget that
sentiment which we call belief, and give its object the preference
above the contrary event, which is not supported by an equal num-
ber of experiments, and recurs not so frequently to the thought in
transferring the past to the future. Let any one try to account for
this operation of the mind upon any of the received systems of
philosophy, and he will be sensible of the difficulty. For my part,
I shall think it sufficient, if the present hints excite the curiosity of
philosophers, and make them sensible how defective all common
theories are in treating of such curious and such sublime subjects.

SECTION VII

OF THE IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION

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 small-
est 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 defined in geometry, the mind readily, of itself, sub-
stitutes, 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 under-
standing, the various agitations of the passions, though 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 grad-
ually 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 nearly com-
pensate 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

335

33^ DAVID HUME

ideas are apt, without extreme care, to fall into obscurity and con-
fusion, 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 scarcely 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 through a few steps, we may be very
well satisfied with our progress; considering how soon nature throws
a bar to ail our enquiries 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 of any conclusion. And, per-
haps, our progress in natural philosophy is chiefly retarded by the
want of proper experiments and phaenomena, which are often dis-
covered by chance, and cannot always be found, when requisite,
even by the most diligent and prudent enquiry. As moral philosophy
seems hitherto to have received less improvement than either geom-
etry 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 con-
nexion, 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 re-
move 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 it is impossible for us to /A/«^ of anything, which
we have not antecedently felt, either by our external or internal senses.
I have endeavoured' to explain and prove this proposition, and have

' Section 11.

IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 337

expressed my hopes, that, by a proper appHcation of it, men may reach
a greater clearness and precision in philosophical reasonings, than
what they have hitherto been 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 more 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 cor-
respondent 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, that can
be the object of our enquiry.

To be fully acquainted, therefore, with the idea of power or neces-
sary 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, fol-
low 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

338 DAVID HUME

without experience; and might, at first, pronounce with certainty
concerning it, by mere dint of thought and reasoning.

In reahty, 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 of force, which actuates
the whole machine, is entirely 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 be-
tween them, we have no room so much as to conjecture or imagine.
It is impossible, therefore, that the idea of power can be derived
from the contemplation of bodies, in single instances of their opera-
tion; because no bodies ever discover any power, which can be the
original of this idea.*

Since, therefore, external objects as they appear to the senses, give
us no idea of power or necessary connexion, by their operation 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 internal power; while we feel, that, by the simple com-
mand of our will, we can move the organs of our body, or direct the
faculties of our mind. 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 mind, and on the command which is exercised by will, both
over the organs of the body and faculties of the soul.

^Mr. Locke, in his chapter of power, says that, finding from experience, that
there are several new productions in matter, and concluding that there must some-
where 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.

IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 339

We shall proceed to examine this pretension; and first with regard
to the influence of volition over the organs o£ the body. This in-
fluence, we may observe, is a fact, which, like all other natural
events, 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 infallible 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 diUgent
enquiry.

For first: Is there any principle in all nature more mysterious than
the union of soul with body; by which a supposed spiritual sub-
stance 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 con-
sciousness 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; though we cannot assign any reason besides
experience, for so remarkable a difference between one and the
other. Why has the will an influence over the tongue and fingers,
not over the heart or liver? This question would never embarrass
us, were we conscious of a power in the former case, 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, suddenly struck with palsy in the leg or arm, or who had
newly lost those members, frequendy endeavours at first to move

340 DAVID HUME

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 insepa-
rable.

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, through which
the motion is successively propagated, ere it reach the member itself
whose motion is the immediate object of voUtion. 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. Imme-
diately another event, unknown to ourselves, and totally different
from the one intended, is produced: This event produces another,
equally unknown: till at last, through a long succession, the desired
event is produced. But if the original power were felt, it must be
known: were it known, its effect also must be known; since all
power is relative to its effect. And vice versa, if the effect be not
known, the power cannot be known nor 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, though
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, though with assurance; that our idea of power is not
copied from any sentiment or consciousness of power within our-
selves, 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

IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 34I

events: But the power or energy by which this is effected, like that
in other natural events, is unknown and inconceivable.*

Shall we then assert, that we are conscious o£ 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 the 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 pro-
duce the effect : for these are supposed to be synonymous. 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, namely,
the existence of an idea, consequent to a command of the will: but
the manner, in which this operation is performed, the power by
which it is produced, is entirely 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 cause and effect, but
only by experience and observation, as in all other natural events

' It 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. It is 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 senti-
ment. 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 h priori. It must, however, be confessed, that the animal nisus, which we
experience, though it can afford no accurate precise idea of power, enters very much
into that vulgar, inaccurate idea, which is formed of it.

342 DAVID HUME

and in the operation o£ 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,
not in another.

Thirdly, This self-coinmand is very different at different times.
A man in health possesses more o£ 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 mech-
anism or structure of parts, upon which the effect depends, and
which, being entirely 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
anything in it like this creative power, by which it raises from
nothing a new idea, and with a kind of Fiat, imitates the omnip-
otence 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 ex-
perience 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 account-
ing 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. It is 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

IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 343

proper cause, and to explain the manner in which the effect is pro-
duced by it. It is usual for men, in such difficulties, to have recourse
to some invisible intelligent principle* 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 un-
intelligible as in the most unusual, and that we only learn by ex-
perience the frequent Conjunction of objects, without being ever
able to comprehend anything 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 voHtion 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, it is 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 uni-
verse. 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 be-
tween soul and body; and that they are not the organs of sense,
which, being agitated by external objects, produce sensations in the

<e<4s i.iri lirixavTis.

344 DAVID HUME

mind; but that It is 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 pro-
duces local motion in our members: it is 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: it is the universal Creator, who discovers it to the
mind, and renders it present to us.

Thus, according to these philosophers, every thing is full of God.
Not content 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 dependence 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 a£fect so
much to celebrate. It argues surely more power in the Deity to dele-
gate a certain degree of power to inferior creatures than to produce
every thing by his own immediate volition. It argues more wisdom
to contrive at first the fabric of the world with such perfect fore-
sight 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 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, sufficiently apprized of the weakness of human
reason, and the narrow limits to which it is confined in all its
operations. Though 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

IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 345

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 to 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
wd thus apply it to subjects that lie entirely out of the sphere of
experience. But on this we shall have occasion to touch afterwards.'
Secondly, I cannot perceive any force in the arguments on which
this theory is founded. We are ignorant, it is true, of the manner
in which bodies operate on each other: their force or energy is en-
tirely 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 comprehend 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 cases."

S Section XII.

^ I need not examine at length the pis 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 com-
prehending that active power. It was never the meaning of Sir Isaac Newton to rob
second causes of all force or energy; though 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; though
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. Malebranche and

346 DAVID HUME

Part II

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
difl5culty 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 or conceive the tie 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, throughout all nature, any one in-
stance of connexion which is conceivable by us. All events seem
entirely loose and separate. One event follows another; but we
never can observe any tie 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 nec-
essary conclusion seems to be that we have no idea of connexion or
power at all, and that these words are absolutely, without any mean-
ing, 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, it is 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 par-
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 suppose all along, that matter has a real, though subordinate and
derived power. By what means has it become so prevalent among our modern
metaphysicians ?

IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 347

ticular event to follow upon another, we are not entitled to form a
general rule, or foretell 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 of foretelling one upon the appearance of the other, and of
employing that reasoning, which can alone assure us of any matter
of fact or existence. We then call the one object. Cause; 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 among
events arises from a number of similar instances which occur of the
constant conjunction of these events; nor can that idea ever be sug-
gested by any one of these instances, surveyed in all possible lights
and positions. But there is nothing in a number of instances, dif-
ferent 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, this customary transition of
the imagination from one object to its usual attendant, is the senti-
ment or impression from which we form the idea of power or neces-
sary connexion. Nothing farther is in the case. Contemplate the
subject on all sides; you will never find any other origin of that idea.
This is the sole difference between one instance, from which we can
never receive the idea of connexion, and a number of similar in-
stances, by which it is suggested. The first time a man saw the
communication of motion by impulse, as by the shock of two bil-
liard 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 con-
nected. 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 foretell the existence
of one from the appearance of the other. When we say, therefore,

348 DAVID HUME

that one object is connected with another, we mean only that they
have acquired a connexion in our thought, 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 weakened
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 to us
to know perfectly, it is 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 enquiries are, therefore, every moment, employed about this
relation: yet so imperfect are the ideas which we form concerning
it, that it is 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 ex-
perience. Suitably 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, suitably to this ex-
perience, form another definition of cause, and call it, an object fol-
lowed by another, and whose appearance always conveys the thought
to that other. But though both these definitions be drawn from cir-
cumstances foreign to the cause, we cannot remedy this inconven-
ience, or attain any more perfect definition, which may point out
that circumstance in the cause, which gives it a connexion with its

IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 349

effect. We have no idea of this connexion, nor even any distant
notion what it is we desire to know, when we endeavour at a con-
ception 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 re-
lation of cause and effect in either of these two lights; but beyond
these, we have no idea of it.'

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

^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, it is 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,
need 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 to 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 a 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 ieel 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.

350 DAVID HUME

connexion. We then feel a new sentiment or impression, to wit, 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 illustration) 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 whether 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 point of view we should endeavour to reach, and reserve the
flowers of rhetoric for subjects which are more adapted to them.

SECTION VIII

OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY

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 this 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 mind 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. It is true, if men attempt the discussion of ques-
tions which lie entirely beyond the reach of human capacity, such as
those concerning the origin of worlds, or the economy of the in-
tellectual system or region of spirits, they may long beat the air in
their fruitless contests, and never arrive at any determinate con-
clusion. But if the question regard any subject of common life and
experience, nothing, one would think, could preserve the dispute so

351

352 DAVID HUME

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, that all mankind, both learned and
ignorant, have always been of the same opinion with regard to this
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 it is no wonder, if
a sensible 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 in-
struction or entertainment. But the state of the argument here pro-
posed 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 doctrine 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.

It is universally allowed that matter, in all its operations, is ac-
tuated by a necessary force, and that every natural effect is so pre-
cisely determined by the energy of its cause that no other effect, in
such particular circumstances, could possibly have resulted from it.
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, there-
fore, 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 continually
shifted in such a manner that no two events bore any resemblance
to each other, but every object was entirely new, without any simil-
itude to whatever had been seen before, we should never, in that
case, have attained the least idea of necessity, or of a connexion

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 353

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 un-
known to mankind. Inference and reasoning concerning the opera-
tions of nature would, from that moment, be at an end; and the
memory and senses remain the only canals, by which the knowledge
of any real existence could possibly have access to the mind. Our
idea, therefore, of necessity and causation arises entirely from the
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, with-
out any doubt or hesitation, that these two circumstances take place
in the voluntary actions of men, and in the operations of mind; it
must follow, that all mankind have ever agreed in the doctrine of
necessity, and that they have hitherto disputed, merely for not under-
standing 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 always produce 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 through society, have been,
from the beginning of the world, and still are, the source of all the
actions and enterprises, which have ever been observed among man-
kind. 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 trans-
ferring to the former most of the observations which you have made
with regard to the latter. Mankind are so much the same, in all

354 DAVID HUME

times and places, that history informs us of nothing new or strange
in this particular. Its chief use is only to discover the constant and
universal principles of human nature, by showing 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 philos-
opher 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, wholly different from any with whom we were
ever acquainted; men, who were entirely divested of avarice, am-
bition, or revenge; who knew no pleasure but friendship, generosity,
and public spirit; we should immediately, from these circumstances,
detect the falsehood, 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 con-
trary to the course of nature, and that no human motives, in such
circumstances, could ever induce him to such a conduct. The verac-
ity of Quintus Curtius is as much to be suspected, 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 acknowledge a 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,

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 355

as well as speculation. By means of this guide, we mount up to the
knowledge of men's inclinations and motives, from their actions,
expressions, and even gestures; and again descend to the interpreta-
tion of their actions from our knowledge of their motives and in-
clinations. The general observations treasured up by a course of
experience, give us the clue of human nature, and teach us to unravel
all its intricacies. Pretexts and appearances no longer deceive us.
Public declarations pass for the specious colouring of a cause. And
though virtue and honour be allowed their proper weight and au-
thority, that perfect disinterestedness, so often pretended to, 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 anomalous, it were im-
possible to collect any general observations concerning mankind;
and no experience, however accurately digested by reflection, would
ever serve to any purpose. Why is the aged husbandman more skil-
ful 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, will always act precisely in the same manner,
without making any allowance for the diversity of characters, prej-
udices, 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 regu-
larity.

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 ? Is it thence we become acquainted
with the different characters which nature has impressed upon the

356 DAVID HUME

sexes, and which she preserves with constancy and regularity? Are
the actions of the same person much diversified in the different
periods of his hfe, 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 pre-
vail in the different ages of human creatures. Even the characters,
which are peculiar to each individual, have a uniformity in their
influence; otherwise our acquaintance with the persons and our
observation of their conduct could never teach us their dispositions,
or 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 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; though
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 it is 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 pos-
sibility 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 does not commonly go right:
But an artist easily perceives that the same force in the spring or
pendulum has always the same influence on the wheels; but fails

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 357

of its usual effects, perhaps by reason o£ 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 seem-
ing 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 fol-
low from any particular cause; the philosopher and physician are
not surprised at the matter, nor are ever tempted to deny, in general,
the necessity and uniformity of those principles by which the animal
economy 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 ir-
regular 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 reason-
ing 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 toothache, 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; though it be applicable, in a more particular manner, to some
persons who have no fixed rule for their conduct, but proceed in a
continued course of caprice and inconstancy. The internal principles
and motives may operate in a uniform manner, notwithstanding
these seeming irregularities; in the same manner as the winds, rain,
cloud, and other variations of the weather are supposed to be gov-

358 DAVID HUME

erned by steady principles; diough 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 acknowledged 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 to have always
been conjoined; it may seem superfluous to prove that this experi-
enced uniformity in human actions is a source whence we draw
inferences concerning them. But in order to throw the argument
into a greater variety of hghts we shall also insist, though briefly,
on this latter topic.

The mutual dependence of men is so great in all societies that
scarce any human action is entirely complete 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 him 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 purchasers, 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 pro-
portion 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 the 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 ob-
jects; and firmly believe that men, as well as all the elements, are
to continue, in their operations, the same that 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 em-
ploys, and would be equally surprised were his expectations dis-
appointed. In short, this experimental inference and reasoning

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 359

concerning the actions of others enters so much into human hfe
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 even 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 man-
kind ? How could politics be a science, if laws and forms of govern-
ment had not a uniform influence upon society? Where would be
the foundation of morals, if particular characters had no certain or
determinate power to produce particular sentiments, and if these
sentiments had no constant operation on actions? And with what
pretence 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 acknowledging the
doctrine of necessity, and this injerence from motive to voluntary
actions, from characters to conduct.

And indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and morcd
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
when he considers the obstinacy of the gaoler, as the walls and bars
with which he is surrounded; and, in all attempts for his freedom,
chooses 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
axe 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, coo-

360 DAVID HUME

vulsive motions, and death. Here is a connected chain o£ natural
causes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference be-
tween them in passing from one link to another: Nor is it less cer-
tain 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, volition, and actions; or figure and
motion. We may change the name of things; but their nature and
their operation on the understanding never change.

Were a man, whom I know to be honest and opulent, and with
whom I live in intimate friendship, to come into my house, where
I am surrounded with my servants, I rest assured that he is not to
stab me before he leaves it in order to rob me of my silver standish;
and I no more suspect this event than the falling of the house itself,
which is new, and solidly built and founded. — But he may have
been seized with a sudden and unknown frenzy. — So may a sudden
earthquake arise, and shake and tumble my house about my ears.
I shall therefore change the suppositions. I shall say that I know
with certainty that he is not to put his hand into the fire and hold
it there till it be consumed: and this event, I think I can foretell
with the same assurance, as that, if he throw himself out at the
window, and meet with no obstruction, he will not remain a moment
suspended in the air. No suspicion of an unknown frenzy can give
the least possibility to the former event, which is so contrary to all
the known principles of human nature. A man who at noon leaves
his purse full of gold on the pavement at Charing-Cross, may as well
expect that it will fly away like a feather, as that he will find it un-
touched an hour after. Above one half of human reasonings con-
tain inferences of a similar nature, attended with more or less degrees
of certainty proportioned to our experience of the usual conduct of
mankind in such particular situations.

I have frequently considered, what could possibly be the reason
why all mankind, though they have ever, without hesitation, ac-
knowledged the doctrine of necessity in their whole practice and
reasoning, have yet discovered such a reluctance to acknowledge it
in words, and have rather shown a propensity, in all ages, to profess

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 361

the contrary opinion. The matter, I think, may be accounted for
after the following manner. If we examine the operations of body,
and the production of effects from their causes, we shall find that
all our faculties can never carry us farther in our knowledge 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 beUef of the other.
But though this conclusion concerning human ignorance be the re-
sult 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 con-
nexion 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 thence
apt to suppose, that there is a difference between the effects which
result 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
allowed to have place in voluntary actions; we may be more easily
led to own the same necessity common to all causes. And though
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 sentiment. 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 con-
nexion between the cause and effect; and connexion that has not
place in 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

362 DAVID HUME

by examining the faculties of the soul, the influence of the under-
standing, and the operations of the will. Let them first discuss a
more simple question, namely, 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 conceive in matter, and if these circumstances be also
universally acknowledged to take place in the operations of the mind,
the dispute is at an end; 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 bring-
ing the question 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 material causes; and to convince ourselves that all we
know of them is the constant conjunction and inference above men-
tioned. We may, perhaps, find that it is with difficulty we are in-
duced to fix such narrow limits to human understanding: but we
can afterwards find no difficulty when we come to apply this doc-
trine to the actions of the will. For as it is evident that these have a
regular conjunction with motives and circumstances and characters,
and as we always draw inferences from one to the other, we must
be obliged to acknowledge in words that necessity, which we have
already avowed, in every deliberation of our lives, and in every step
of our conduct and behaviour.'

' The 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, though, in reflecling on human actions, we seldom feel
such a looseness, or indifference, but are commonly able to infer them with consider-
able certainty from their motives, and from the dispositions of the agent; yet it fre-
quendy happens, that, in performing the actions themselves, we are sensible of some-

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 363

But to proceed in this reconciling project with regard to the ques-
tion of Hberty and necessity; the most contentious question of meta-
physics, 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 one does not follow with a certain degree of uni-
formity from the other, and that one afFords no inference by which
we can conclude the existence of the other. For these are plain and
acknowledged matters of fact. By liberty, then, we can only mean
a power of acting or not acting, according to the determinations of
the will; this is, if we choose to remain at rest, we may; if we choose
to move, we also may. Now this hypothetical liberty is universally
allowed to belong to every one 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 intel-
ligible, I am persuaded that all mankind will be found of one opinion
with regard to it.

It is 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 anywhere a being in

thing like it: And as all resembling objects are readily taken for each other, this
has been employed as a demonstrative and even 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 Velletty, 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 fan-
tastical 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 spec-
tator 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.

364 DAVID HUME

nature. But it is pretended that some causes are necessary, some not
necessary. Here then is the 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 show distinctly the
origin of the idea, expressed by the definition; and I shall readily
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 conjunc-
tion produces that inference of the understanding, which is the only
connexion, that we can have any comprehension of. Whoever at-
tempts a definition of cause, exclusive of these circumstances, will
be obliged either to employ unintelligible terms or such as are
synonymous to the term which he endeavours to define.^ 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 disputes, to endeavour the
refutation of any hypothesis, by a pretence of its dangerous conse-
quences to religion and morality. When any opinion leads to ab-
surdities, it is certainly false; but it is not certain that an opinion is
false, because it is 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 frankly submit 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, but are absolutely
essential to its support.

2 Thus, if a cause be defined, that which produces any thing, it is easy to observe,
that producing is synonymous 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 constantly forms the very essence of necessity,
nor have we any other idea of it.

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 365

Necessity may be defined two ways, conformably to the two defini-
tions 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,
though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common life,
been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no one has ever
pretended to deny that we can draw inferences concerning human
actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced
union of like actions, with like motives, inclinations, and circum-
stances. 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 acknowledged, 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 everyone does,
and must readily allow of. We change no circumstance in the re-
ceived 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, it is sup-
posed 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 it is 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 crea-
ture, endowed with thought and consciousness; and when any crim-
inal or injurious actions excite that passion, it is only by their rela-
tion 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 character and disposition of the person who per-

366 DAVID HUME

formed 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, it is 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 character anywise 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 unpremeditatedly than for such as proceed from deliber-
ation. For what reason? but because a hasty temper, though a con-
stant 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 per-
son criminal merely as they are proofs of criminal principles in the
mind; and when, by an 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 ac-
tions, 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 sentiment, so far only as they are indications
of the internal character, passions, and affections; it is 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.

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 367

I jpretend not to have obviated or removed all objections to this
theory, with regard to necessity and liberty. I can foresee other objec-
tions, 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-deter-
mined, reaching from the original cause of all to every single volition
of every human creature. No contingency anywhere 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 subse-
quent 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 in-
volve our Creator in the same guilt, while he is acknowledged 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
is 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 clear and un-
alterable 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. Ig-
norance or impotence may be pleaded for so limited a creature as
man; but those imperfections have no place in our Creator. He fore-
saw, he ordained, he intended all those actions of men, which we so
rashly pronounce criminal. And we must therefore conclude, 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 pos-
sibly 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 as criminal actions render criminal the original
cause, if the connexion between them be necessary and inevitable.

368 DAVID HUME

This objection consists of two parts, which we shall examine sep-
arately; 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 acknowledge
him to be the ultimate author of guilt and moral turpitude 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
phenomena 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 all created beings, without any mixture of positive or ab-
solute ill or 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 ancient 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 en-
larged view, which could comprehend the whole system of nature,
every event became an object of joy and exultation. But though 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 through the proper canals, to
the sinews and nerves, 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 though 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 object; and by an

LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 369

economy, 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, dis-
positions, and actions, it immediately feels the sentiment of appro-
bation or blame; nor are there any emotions more essential to its
frame and constitution. The characters which engage our approba-
tion 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 it may reasonably be
presumed, that the moral sentiments arise, either mediately or im-
mediately, from a reflection of these opposite interests. What though
philosophical meditations establish a different opinion or conjecture;
that everything is right with regard to the whole, and that the quali-
ties, 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 counterbalance 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 anywise diminished by these sublime reflections ? Why then
should his moral resentment against the crime be supposed incom-
patible with them? Or why should not the acknowledgment of a
real distinction between vice and virtue be reconcileable to all specu-
lative systems of philosophy, as well as that of a real distinction be-
tween personal beauty and deformity? Both these distinctions are
founded in the natural sentiments of the human mind: And these
sentiments are not to be controuled or 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

370 DAVID HUME

and unassisted reason is very unfit to handle; and whatever system
she embraces, she must find herself involved in inextricable diffi-
culties, and even contradictions, at every step which she takes with
regard to such subjects. To reconcile the indiflerence and con-
tingency 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 power 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 enough
to employ her enquiries, without launching into so boundless an
ocean of doubt, uncertainty, and contradiction!

SECTION IX

OF THE REASON OF ANIMALS

ALL our reasonings concerning matter of fact are founded on
LJk a species of Analogy, which leads us to expect from any
A. .m. cause the same events, which we have observed to result
from similar causes. Where the causes are entirely similar, the anal-
ogy is perfect, and the inference, drawn from it, is regarded as cer-
tain and conclusive: nor does any man ever entertain a doubt, where
he sees a piece of iron, that it will have weight and cohesion of parts;
as in all other instances, which have ever fallen under his observa-
tion. But where the objects have not so exact a similarity, the analogy
is less perfect, and the inference is less conclusive; though still it has
some force, in proportion to the degree of similarity and resemblance.
The anatomical observations, formed upon one animal, are, by this
species of reasoning, extended to all animals; and it is certain, that
when the circulation of the blood, for instance, is clearly proved to
have place in one creature, as a frog, or fish, it forms a strong pre-
sumption, that the same principle has place in all. These analogical
observations may be carried farther, even to this science, of which we
are now treating; and any theory, by which we explain the operations
of the understanding, or the origin and connexion of the passions in
man, will acquire additional authority, if we find, that the same
theory is requisite to explain the same phenomena in all other ani-
mals. We shall make trial of this, with regard to the hypothesis, by
which we have, in the foregoing discourse, endeavoured to account
for all experimental reasonings; and it is hoped, that this new point
of view will serve to confirm all our former observations.

First, It seems evident, that animals as well as men learn many
things from experience, and infer, that the same events will always
follow from the same causes. By this principle they become ac-
quainted with the more obvious properties of external objects, and
gradually, from their birth, treasure up a knowledge of the nature

371

372 DAVID HUME

o£ fire, water, earth, stones, heights, depths, &c., and of the effects
which result from their operation. The ignorance and inexperience
of the young are here plainly distinguishable from the cunning and
sagacity of the old, who have learned, by long observation, to avoid
what hurt them, and to pursue what gave ease or pleasure. A horse,
that has been accustomed to the field, becomes acquainted with the
proper height which he can leap, and will never attempt what ex-
ceeds his force and ability. An old greyhound will trust the more
fatiguing part of the chace to the younger, and will place himself
so as to meet the hare in her doubles; nor are the conjectures, which
he forms on this occasion, founded in any thing but his observation
and experience.

This is still more evident from the effects of discipline and educa-
tion on animals, who, by the proper application of rewards and pun-
ishments, may be taught any course of action, and most contrary to
their natural instincts and propensities. Is it not experience, which
renders a dog apprehensive of pain, when you menace him, or lift
up the whip to beat him? Is it not even experience, which makes
him answer to his name, and infer, from such an arbitrary sound,
that you mean him rather than any of his fellows, and intend to call
him, when you pronounce it in a certain manner, and with a certain
tone and accent?

In all these cases, we may observe, that the animal infers some fact
beyond what immediately strikes his senses; and that this inference
is altogether founded on past experience, while the creature expects
from the present object the same consequences, which it has always
found in its observation to result from similar objects.

Secondly, It is impossible, that this inference of the animal can be
founded on any process of argument or reasoning, by which he con-
cludes, that like events must follow like objects, and that the course
of nature will always be regular in its operations. For if there be in
reality any arguments of this nature, they surely lie too abstruse for
the observation of such imperfect understandings; since it may well
employ the utmost care and attention of a philosophic genius to
discover and observe them. Animals, therefore are not guided in
these inferences by reasoning: neither are children; neither are the
generality of mankind, in their ordinary actions and conclusions:

THE REASON OF ANIMALS 373

neither are philosophers themselves, who, in all the active parts of
life, are, in the main, the same with the vulgar, and are governed by
the same maxims. Nature must have provided some other principle,
of more ready, and more general use and application; nor can an
operation of such immense consequence in life, as that of inferring
effects from causes, be trusted to the uncertain process of reasoning
and argumentation. Were this doubtful with regard to men, it seems
to admit of no question with regard to the brute creation; and the
conclusion being once firmly established in the one, we have a strong
presumption, from all the rules of analogy, that it ought to be uni-
versally admitted, without any exception or reserve. It is custom
alone, which engages animals, from every object, that strikes their
senses, to infer its usual attendant, and carries their imagination,
from the appearance of the one, to conceive the other, in that par-
ticular manner, which we denominate belief. No other explication
can be given of this operation, in all the higher, as well as lower
classes of sensitive beings, which fall under our notice and observa-
tion.'

' Since all reasoning concerning facts or causes is derived merely from custom,
it may be asked how it happens, that men so much surpass animals in reasoning, and
one man so much surpasses another? Has not the same custom the same influence
on all?

We shall here endeavour briefly to explain the great difference in human under-
standings: After which the reason of the difference between men and animals will
easily be comprehended.

1. When we have lived any time, and have been accustomed to the uniformity
of nature, we acquire a general habit, by which we always transfer the known to the
unknown, and conceive the latter to resemble the former. By means of this general
habitual principle, we regard even one experiment as the foundation of reasoning, and
expect a similar event with some degree of certainty, where the experiment has been
made accurately, and free from all foreign circumstances. It is therefore considered as
a matter of great importance to observe the consequences of things; and as one
man may very much surpass another in attention and memory and observation, this
will make a very great difference in their reasoning.

2. Where there is a complication of causes to produce any effect, one mind may
be much larger than another, and better able to comprehend the whole system of
objects, and to infer justly their consequences.

3. One man is able to carry on a chain of consequences to a greater length than
another.

4. Few men can think long without running into a confusion of ideas, and mis-
taking one for another; and there are various degrees of this infirmity.

5. The circumstance, on which the effect depends, is frequently involved in other
circumstances, which are foreign and extrinsic. The separation of it often requires
great attention, accuracy, and subtility.

6. The forming of general maxims from particular observation is a very nice
operation; and nothing is more usual, from haste or a narrowness of mind, which
sees not on all sides, than to commit mistakes in this particular.

374 DAVID HUME

But though animals learn many parts o£ their knowledge from
observation, there are also many parts of it, which they derive from
the original hand of nature; which much exceed the share of capacity
they possess on ordinary occasions; and in which they improve, little
or nothing, by the longest practice and experience. These we de-
nominate Instincts, and are so apt to admire as something very ex-
traordinary, and inexplicable by all the disquisitions of human un-
derstanding. But our wonder will, perhaps, cease or diminish, when
we consider, that the experimental reasoning itself, which we possess
in common with beasts, and on which the whole conduct of life
depends, is nothing but a species of instinct or mechanical power,
that acts in us unknown to ourselves; and in its chief operations, is
not directed by any such relations or comparisons of ideas, as are the
proper objects of our intellectual faculties. Though the instinct be
different, yet still it is an instinct, which teaches a man to avoid the
fire; as much as that, which teaches a bird, with such exactness, the
art of incubation, and the whole economy and order of its nursery.

7. when we reason from analogies, the man, who has the greater experience or the
greater promptitude of suggesting analogies, will be the better reasoner.

8. Biases from prejudice, education, passion, party, &c. hang more upon one mind
than another.

9. After we have acquired a confidence in human testimony, books and conversa-
tion enlarge much more the sphere of one man's experience and thought than those
of another.

It would be easy to discover many other circumstances that make a difference in
the understandings of men.

SECTION X

OF MIRACLES

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 doc-
trine, so little worthy of a serious refutation. It is acknowledged 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
Aposdes, who were eye-witnesses 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 it is evident it must diminish in passing from them
to their disciples; nor can any one rest such confidence in their testi-
mony, as in the immediate object of his senses. But a weaker evi-
dence 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, though 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 opera-
tion 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 supersti-
tion, and free us from their impertinent solicitations. 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.
Though experience be our only guide in reasoning concerning

375

376 DAVID HUME

matters of fact; it must be acknowledged, that this guide is not alto-
gether infallible, but in some cases is apt to lead us into errors. One,
who in our climate, should expect better weather in any week of
June than in one of December, would reason justly, and conform-
ably to experience; but it is 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 con-
trariety 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 ex-
pects 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 oppo-
site experiments: he considers which side is supported by the greater
number of experiments: to that side he inclines, with doubt and
hesitation; and when at last he fixes his judgement, the evidence ex-
ceeds not what we properly call probability. All probability, then,
supposes an opposition of experiments and observations, where the
one side is found to overbalance the other, and to produce a degree
of evidence, proportioned to the superiority. A hundred instances
or experiments on one side, and fifty on another, afford a doubtful
expectation of any event; though 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 experi-
ments, 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

MIRACLES 377

even necessary to human life, than that which is 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; it is evident,
that we ought not to make an exception to this maxim in favour
of human testimony, whose connexion with any event seems, in
itself, as little necessary as any other. Were not the memory tena-
cious 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 de-
lirious, or noted for falsehood and villainy, has no manner of author-
ity with us.

And as the evidence, derived from witnesses and human testi-
mony, 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
object has been found to be constant or variable. There are a num-
ber of circumstances to be taken into consideration in all judgements
of this kind; and the ultimate standard, by which we determine all
disputes, that may arise concerning them, is always derived from ex-
perience and observation. Where this experience is not entirely
uniform on any side, it is attended with an unavoidable contrariety
in our judgements, and with the same opposition and mutual destruc-
tion of argument 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 force of its antagonist.

378 DAVID HUME

This contrariety of evidence, in the present case, may be derived
from several different causes; from the opposition of contrary testi-
mony; from the character or number of the witnesses; from the man-
ner of their deUvering 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 doubtful character; when they have an interest in what
they affirm; when they deliver their testimony with 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 the testimony endeavours
to establish, partakes of the extraordinary and the marvellous; in
that case, the evidence, resulting from the testimony, admits of 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 his-
torians, is not derived from any connexion, which we perceive i
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 con-
test 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 wit-
nesses, gives us also, in this case, another degree of assurance against
the fact, which they endeavour to establish; from which contradiction
there necessarily arises a counterpoize, and mutual destruction of
belief and authority.

/ should not believe such a story were it told me by Cato, was a
proverbial saying in Rome, even during the lifetime of that phil-
osophical patriot.' The incredibility of a fact, it was allowed, might
invalidate so great an authority.

The Indian prince, who refused to believe the first relations con-
cerning the effects of frost, reasoned justly; and it naturally required
very strong testimony to engage his assent to facts, that arose from a
state of nature, with which he was unacquainted, and which bore
^Plutarch, in vita Catonis.

MIRACLES 379

SO little analogy to those events, of which he had had constant and
uniform experience. Though they were not contrary to his expe-
rience, they were not conformable to it.^

But in order to encrease 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 argu-
ment 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 mir-
acle, if it ever happen in the common course of nature. It is no mir-
acle that a man, seemingly in good health, should die on a sudden :
because such a kind of death, though more unusual than any other,
has yet been frequently observed to happen. But it is 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 a uniform expe-

' No Indian, it is evident, could have experience that water did not freeze in
cold climates. This is placing nature in a situation quite unknown to him; and it is
impossible for him to tell ii priori what will result from it. It is 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 confessed, 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, accoiding 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 miraculous, 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 fluid 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.

380 DAVID HUME

rience against every miraculous event, otherwise the event would not
merit that appellation. And as a 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 superior.'

The plain consequence is (and it is 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 falsehood would be
more miraculous, than the fact, which it endeavors 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 anyone
tells me, that he saw a dead man restored to life, I immediately con-
sider with myself, whether it be more probable, that this person
should either deceive or be deceived, or that the fact, which he re-
lates, should really have happened. I weigh the one miracle against
the other; and according to the superiority, which I discover, I pro-
nounce my decision, and always reject the greater miracle. If the
falsehood of his testimony would be more miraculous, than the
event which he relates; then, and not till then, can he pretend to com-
mand my belief or opinion.

Part II

In the foregoing reasoning we have supposed, that the testimony,
upon which a miracle is founded, may possibly amount to an entire

' Sometimes 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 transgression of a law of nature
hy a particular volition of the Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible agent.
A miracle may either be 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, though not so sensible with regard to us.

MIRACLES 381

proof, and that the falsehood of that testimony would be a real
prodigy: but it is easy to shew, that we have been a great deal too
liberal in our concession, 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 at-
tested 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 repu-
tation in the eyes of mankind, as to have a great deal to lose in case
of their being detected in any falsehood; and at the same time, attest-
ing 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 assur-
ance, which we might, from human testimony, have 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 expe-
rience, resembles those, of which we have; that what we have found
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 as
are founded on the greatest number of past observations. But
though, 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 of such a fact, upon account of that very circumstance,
which ought to destroy all its authority. The passion of surprise 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.

382 DAVID HUME

With what greediness are the miraculous accounts of travellers
received, their descriptions of sea and land monsters, their relations
o£ 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 narrative
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 not 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 judgement to can-
vass his evidence: what judgement they have, they renounce by prin-
ciple, 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 overpowers their credulity.

Eloquence, when at its highest pitch, leaves little room for reason
or reflection; but addressing itself entirely to the fancy or the affec-
tions, captivates the willing hearers, and subdues their understand-
ing. Happily, this pitch it seldom attains. But what a Tully or a
Demosthenes could scarcely effect 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 passions.

The many instances of forged miracles, and prophecies, and super-
natural events, which, in all ages, have either been detected by con-
trary evidence, or which detect themselves by their absurdity, prove
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 in-
stance: 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

MIRACLES 383

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 find them confirmed
by some greater evidence. Do not the same passions, and others
still stronger, incline the generality of mankind to believe and re-
port, with the greatest vehemence and assurance, all religious
miracles ?

Thirdly. It forms a 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, pestilence, famine and
death, are never the effect of those natural causes, which we expe-
rience. Prodigies, omens, oracles, judgements, 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, we soon learn, that there is nothing mysterious or
supernatural in the case, but that all proceeds from the usual pro-
pensity of mankind towards the marvellous, and that, though this
inclination may at intervals receive a check from sense and learning,
it can never be thoroughly extirpated from human nature.

It is strange, a judicious reader is apt to say, upon the perusal of
these wonderful historians, that such prodigious events never hap-
pen in our days. But it is nothing strange, I hope, that men should
lie in all ages. You must surely have seen instances enough 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

384 DAVID HUME

a more proper soil, shot up at last into prodigies almost equal to
those which they relate.

It was a wise policy in that false prophet, Alexander, who though
now forgotten, was once so famous, to lay the first scene of his im-
postures 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 enquiry, have no opportunity of receiv-
ing better information. The stories come magnified to them by a hun-
dred circumstances. Fools are industrious in propagating the impos-
ture; 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 enlisting 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, o£ starting an imposture among an
ignorant people, that, even though the delusion should be too gross
to impose on the generality of them {which, though seldom, is some-
times the case) it has a much better chance for succeeding in remote
countries, than if the first scene had been laid in a city renowned for
arts and knowledge. The most ignorant and barbarous of these bar-
barians carry the report abroad. None of their countrymen have a
large correspondence, or sufficient credit and authority to contradict
and beat down the delusion. Men's inclination to the marvellous has
full opportunity to display itself. And thus a story, which is univer-
sally 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 learn-
ing had immediately spread, throughout the whole Roman empire,
their sense of the matter; which, being supported by so great au-
thority, and displayed by all the force of reason and eloquence, had
entirely opened the eyes of mankind. It is true; Lucian, passing by
chance through Paphlagonia, had an opportunity of performing this

MIRACLES 385

good office. But, though much to be wished, it does not always hap-
pen, that every Alexander meets with a Lucian, ready to expose and
detect his impostures.

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 num-
ber of witnesses; so that not only the miracle destroys the credit of
testimony, but 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 it is impossible the religions of ancient
Rome, of Turkey, of Siam, and of China should, all of them, be
established on any solid foundation. Every miracle, therefore, pre-
tended to have been wrought in any of these religions (and all of
them abound in miracles), as its direct scope is to establish the par-
ticular system to which it is attributed; so has it the same force,
though more indirectly, to overthrow every other system. In de-
stroying a rival system, it likewise destroys the credit of those
miracles, on which that system was established; so that all the prodi-
gies 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 be-
lieve any miracle of Mahomet or 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, Taci-
tus, and, in short, of all the authors and witnesses, Grecian, Chinese,
and Roman Catholic, who have related any miracle in their particu-
lar 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 miracle 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 profane history, is that
which Tacitus reports of Vespasian, who cured a blind man in Alex-

386 DAVID HUME

andria, by means of his spittle, and a lame man by the mere touch o£
his foot; in obedience to a vision of the god Serapis, who had en-
joined them to have recourse to the Emperor, for these miraculous
cures. The story may be seen in that fine historian^; 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 ex-
ploded and idolatrous superstition. The gravity, solidity, age, and
probity of so great an emperor, who, through the whole course of his
hfe, conversed in a familiar manner 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 credulity, that he even lies under the contrary imputa-
tion, of atheism and profaneness: The persons, from whose authority
he related the miracle, of established character for judgement and
veracity, as we may well presume; eye-witnesses of the fact, and con-
firming their testimony, after the Flavian family was 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 falsehood.

There is also a memorable story related by Cardinal de Retz, which
may well deserve our consideration. When that intriguing poliucian
fled into Spain, to avoid the persecution of his enemies, he passed
through Saragossa, the capital of Arragon, where he was shewn, in
the cathedral, a man, who had served seven years as a doorkeeper,
and was well known to every body in town, that had ever paid his
devotions at that church. He had been seen, for so long a time, want-
ing 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
* Hist. lib. V. cap. 8. Suetonius gives nearly the same account in vita Vesp.

MIRACLES 387

thorough believers of the miracle. Here the relater was also co-
temporary 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 scarcely 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 surprise 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 con-
currence 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 falsehood, through 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 con-
cluded, like a just reasoner, that such an evidence carried falsehood
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 a greater number of miracles ascribed to
one person, than those, which were lately said to have been wrought
in France upon the tomb of Abbe 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, at-
tested 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 everywhere; nor
were the Jesuits, though a learned body supported by the civil magis-
trate, 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.^ Where shall we find such a number of
circumstances, agreeing to the corroboration of one fact ? And what
^ By Mons. Montgeron, counsellor or judge o£ the Parliament of Paris.

388 DAVID HUME

have we to oppose to such a cloud of witnesses, but the absolute im-
possibility 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 battle
of Philippi or Pharsalia for instance; that therefore all kinds of testi-
mony must, in all cases, have equal force and authority? Suppose
that the Cesarean 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 re-
lated 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; be-
cause the materials are always prepared for it. The avidum genus
auricularum^ the gazing populace, receive greedily, without exami-
nation, 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 cele-
brated for a time, and have afterwards sunk into neglect and ob-
livion ? Where such reports, therefore, fly about, the solution of the
phenomenon is obvious; and we judge in conformity to regular ex-
perience and observation, when we account for it by the known and
natural principles of credulity and delusion. And shall we, rather

• Lucret.

MIRACLES 389

than have a recourse to so natural a solution, allow o£ a miraculous
violation of the most established laws of nature?

I need not mention the difficulty of detecting a falsehood in any
private or even public history, at the place, where it is said to happen;
much more when the scene is removed to ever so small a distance.
Even a court of judicature, with all the authority, accuracy, and
judgement, which they can employ, find themselves often at a loss
to distinguish between truth and falsehood in the most recent actions.
But the matter never comes to any issue, if trusted to the common
method of altercations and debate and flying rumours; especially
when men's passions have taken part 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 past,
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, though
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. It is experience only, which gives
authority to human testimony; and it is 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 subtract 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 ac-
cording to the principle here explained, this subtraction, with regard
to all popular religions, amounts to an entire 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 founda-
tion for any such system of religion.

I beg the limitations here made may be remarked, when I say.

390 DAVID HUME

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; though, perhaps, it will be
impossible to find any such in all the records of history. Thus, sup-
pose, all authors, in all languages, agree, that, from the first of Janu-
ary, 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, with-
out the least variation or contradiction: it is evident, that our present
philosophers, instead of doubting the fact, ought to receive it as cer-
tain, 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 phenomenon, which seems
to have a tendency towards that catastrophe, comes within the reach
of human testimony, if that testimony be very extensive and uni-
form.

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 suc-
cessor was acknowledged and proclaimed by the parliament; and
that, after being interred a month, she again appeared, resumed the
throne, and governed England for three years: I must confess that
I should be surprised at the concurrence of so many odd circum-
stances, 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 solid judgment 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 phenomena,
that I should rather believe the most extraordinary events to arise

MIRACLES 391

from their concurrence, than admit of 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.
Though 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 it is 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
violation 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
pretence it may be covered.

Lord Bacon seems to have embraced the same principles of rea-
soning. 'We ought,' says he, 'to make a collection or particular his-
tory of all monsters and prodigious births or produodons, and in a
word of every thing new, rare, and extraordinary in nature. But this
must be done with the most severe scrutiny, lest we depart from
truth. Above all, every relation must be considered as suspicious,
which depends in any degree upon religion, as the prodigies of Livy:
and no less so, everything that is to be found in the writers of natural
magic or alchimy, or such authors, who seem, all of them, to have an
unconquerable appetite for falsehood and fable.'

I am the better pleased with the method of reasoning here deliv-
ered, 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 re-
ligion is founded on Faith, not on reason; and it is a sure method
of exposing it to put it to such a trial as it is, by no means, fitted to
'Nov. Org. lib. ii. aph. 29.

392 DAVID HUME

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 Chris-
tians, not as the word or testimony of God himself, but as the pro-
duction 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, written 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 entirely 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, as 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 a serious consideration
declare, whether he thinks that the falsehood of such a book, sup-
ported by such a testimony, would be more extraordinary and mirac-
ulous 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 varia-
tion, 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 foretell 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 rea-
sonable 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.

SECTION XI

OF A PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE AND OF A FUTURE STATE

I WAS lately engaged in conversation with a friend who loves
sceptical paradoxes; where, though he advanced many prin-
ciples, of which I can by no means approve, yet as they seem to
be curious, and to bear some relation to the chain of reasoning carried
on throughout this enquiry, I shall here copy them from my memory
as accurately as I can, in order to submit them to the judgement
of the reader.

Our conversation began with my admiring the singular good for-
tune of philosophy, which, as it requires entire liberty above all other
privileges, and chiefly flourishes from the free opposition of senti-
ments and argumentation, received its first birth in an age and coun-
try of freedom and toleration, and was never cramped, even in its
most extravagant principles, by any creeds, concessions, or penal
statutes. For, except the banishment of Protagoras, and the death
of Socrates, which last event proceeded partly from other motives,
there are scarcely any instances to be met with, in ancient history, of
this bigoted jealousy, with which the present age is so much infested.
Epicurus lived at Athens to an advanced age, in peace and tran-
quillity: Epicureans' were even admitted to receive the sacerdotal
character, and to officiate at the altar, in the most sacred rites of the
established religion: and the public encouragement^ of pensions and
salaries was afforded equally, by the wisest of all the Roman em-
perors,' to the professors of every sect of philosophy. How requisite
such kind of treatment was to philosophy, in her early youth, will
easily be conceived, if we reflect, that, even at present, when she may
be supposed more hardy and robust, she bears with much difficulty
the inclemency of the seasons, and those harsh winds of calumny and
persecution, which blow upon her.

You admire, says my friend, as the singular good fortune of
'Luciani, ffUMT. <} AoirWoi. ^Luciaai, tivovxos. ^Luciani and Dio.

393

394 DAVID HUME

philosophy, what seems to result from the natural course of things,
and to be unavoidable in every age and nation. This pertinacious
bigotry, of which you complain, as so fatal to philosophy, is really her
offspring, who, after allying with superstition, separates himself en-
tirely from the interest of his parent, and becomes her most inveterate
enemy and persecutor. Speculative dogmas of religion, the present
occasions of such furious dispute, could not possibly be conceived or
admitted in the early ages of the world; when mankind, being
wholly illiterate, formed an idea of religion more suitable to their
weak apprehension, and composed their sacred tenets of such tales
chiefly as were the objects of traditional belief, more than of argu-
ment or disputation. After the first alarm, therefore, was over, which
arose from the new paradoxes and principles of the philosophers;
these teachers seem ever after, during the ages of antiquity, to have
lived in great harmony with the established superstition, and to have
made a fair partition of mankind between them; the former claiming
all the learned and wise, the latter possessing all the vulgar and
illiterate.

It seems then, say I, that you leave poUtics entirely out of the ques-
tion, and never suppose, that a wise magistrate can justly be jealous
of certain tenets of philosophy, such as those of Epicurus, which,
denying a divine existence, and consequently a providence and a
future state, seem to loosen, in a great measure the ties of morality,
and may be supposed, for that reason, pernicious to the peace of
civil society.

I know, replied he, that in fact these persecutions never, in any age,
proceeded from calm reason, or from experience of the pernicious
consequences of philosophy; but arose entirely from passion and
prejudice. But what if I should advance farther, and assert, that if
Epicurus had been accused before the people, by any of the syco-
phants or informers of those days, he could easily have defended his
cause, and proved his principles of philosophy to be as salutary as
those of his adversaries, who endeavoured, with such zeal, to expose
him to the pubUc hatred and jealousy?

I wish, said I, you would try your eloquence upon so extraordinary
a topic, and make a speech for Epicurus, which might satisfy, not the
mob of Athens, if you will allow that ancient and poHte city to have

PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 395

contained any mob, but the more philosophical part of his audience,
such as might be supposed capable of comprehending his arguments.

The matter would not be difficult, upon such conditions, replied
he: and if you please, I shall suppose myself Epicurus for a moment,
and make you stand for the Athenian people, and shall deliver you
such an harangue as will fill all the urn with white beans, and leave
not a black one to gratify the malice of my adversaries.

Very well: pray proceed upon these suppositions.

I come hither, O ye Athenians, to justify in your assembly what
I maintain in my school, and I find myself impeached by furious
antagonists, instead of reasoning with calm and dispassionate en-
quirers. Your deliberations, which of right should be directed to
questions of public good, and the interest of the commonwealth, are
diverted to the disquisitions of speculative philosophy; and these
magnificent, but perhaps fruitless enquiries, take place of your more
famihar but more useful occupations. But so far as in me lies, I will
prevent this abuse. We shall not here dispute concerning the origin
and government of worlds. We shall only enquire how far such
questions concern the public interest. And if I can persuade you, that
they are entirely indifferent to the peace of society and security of
government, I hope that you will presently send us back to our
schools, there to examine, at leisure, the question the most sublime,
but, at the same time, the most speculative of all philosophy.

The religious philosophers, not satisfied with the tradition of your
forefathers, and doctrine of your priests (in which I willingly ac-
quiesce), indulge a rash curiosity, in trying how far they can
establish religion upon the principles of reason; and they thereby
excite, instead of satisfying, the doubts, which naturally arise from
a diligent and scrutinous enquiry. They paint, in the most mag-
nificent colours, the order, beauty, and wise arrangement of the
universe; and then ask, if such a glorious display of intelligence
could proceed from the fortuitous concourse of atoms, or if chance
could produce what the greatest genius can never sufficiently admire.
I shall not examine the justness of this argument. I shall allow it to
be as solid as my antagonists and accusers can desire. It is sufficient,
if I can prove, from this very reasoning, that the question is entirely
speculative, and that, when, in my philosophical disquisitions, I deny

396 DAVID HUME

a providence and a future state, I undermine not the foundations of
society, but advance principles, which they themselves, upon their
own topics, if they argue consistently, must allow to be solid and
satisfactory.

You then, who are my accusers, have acknowledged, that the chief
or sole argument for a divine existence (which I never questioned)
is derived from the order of nature; where there appear such marks
of intelligence and design, that you think it extravagant to assign
for its cause, either chance, or the blind and unguided force of mat-
ter. You allow, that this is an argument drawn from effects to causes.
From the order of the work, you infer, that there must have been
project and forethought in the workman. If you cannot make out
this point, you allow, that your conclusion fails; and you pretend not
to establish the conclusion in a greater latitude than the phenomena
of nature will justify. These are your concessions. I desire you to
mark the consequences.

When we infer any particular cause from an effect, we must pro-
portion the one to the other, and can never be allowed to ascribe to
the cause any qualities, but what are exactly sufficient to produce the
effect. A body of ten ounces raised in any scale may serve as a proof,
that the counterbalancing weight exceeds ten ounces; but can never
afford a reason that it exceeds a hundred. If the cause, assigned for
any effect, be not sufficient to produce it, we must either reject that
cause, or add to it such qualities as will give it a just proportion to
the effect. But if we ascribe to it farther qualities, or affirm it capable
of producing other effects, we can only indulge the licence of conjec-
ture, and arbitrarily suppose the existence of qualities and energies,
without reason or authority.

The same rule holds, whether the cause assigned be brute uncon-
scious matter, or a rational intelligent being. If the cause be known
only by the effect, we never ought to ascribe to it any qualities, beyond
what are precisely requisite to produce the effect: nor can we, by any
rules of just reasoning, return back from the cause, and infer other
effects from it, beyond those by which alone it is known to us. No
one, merely from the sight of one of Zeuxis's pictures, could know,
that he was also a statuary or architect, and was an artist no less skil-
ful in stone and marble than in colours. The talents and taste, dis-

PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 397

played in the particular work before us; these we may safely conclude
the workman to be possessed of. The cause must be proportioned to
the effect; and if we exactly and precisely proportion it, we shall
never find in it any qualities, that point farther, or afford an inference
concerning any other design or performance. Such qualities must be
somewhat beyond what is merely requisite for producing the effect,
which we examine.

Allowing, therefore, the gods to be the authors of the existence
or order of the universe; it follows, that they possess that precise
degree of power, intelligence, and benevolence, which appears in
their workmanship; but nothing farther can ever be proved, except
we call in the assistance of exaggeration and flattery to supply the de-
fects of argument and reasoning. So far as the traces of any
attributes, at present, appear, so far may we conclude these attributes
to exist. The supposition of farther attributes is mere hypothesis;
much more the supposition, that, in distant regions of space or pe-
riods of time, there has been, or will be, a more magnificent display
of these attributes, and a scheme of administration more suitable to
such imaginary virtues. We can never be allowed to mount up from
the universe, the effect, to Jupiter, the cause; and then descend down-
wards, to infer any new effect from that cause; as if the present effects
alone were not entirely worthy of the glorious attributes, which we
ascribe to that deity. The knowledge of the cause being derived solely
from the effect, they must be exactly adjusted to each other; and the
one can never refer to anything farther, or be the foundation of any
new inference and conclusion.

You find certain phenomena in nature. You seek a cause or
author. You imagine that you have found him. You afterwards be-
come so enamoured of this offspring of your brain, that you imagine
it impossible, but he must produce something greater and more
perfect than the present scene of things, which is so full of ill and
disorder. You forget, that this superlative intelligence and benevo-
lence are entirely imaginary, or, at least, without any foundation in
reason; and that you have no ground to ascribe to him any qualities,
but what you see he has actually exerted and displayed in his
productions. Let your gods, therefore, O philosophers, be suited to
the present appearances of nature: and presume not to alter these

398 DAVID HUME

appearances by arbitrary suppositions, in order to suit them to the
attributes, which you so fondly ascribe to your deities.

When priests and poets, supported by your authority, O Athen-
ians, talk of a golden or silver age, which preceded the present state
of vice and misery, I hear them with attention and with reverence.
But when philosophers, who pretend to neglect authority, and to cul-
tivate reason, hold the same discourse, I pay them not, I own, the
same obsequious submission and pious deference. I ask; who carried
them into the celestial regions, who admitted them into the councils
of the gods, who opened to them the book of fate, that they thus
rashly affirm, that their deities have executed, or will execute, any
purpose beyond what has actually appeared? If they tell me, that
they have mounted on the steps or by the gradual ascent of reason,
and by drawdng inferences from effects to causes, I still insist, that
they have aided the ascent of reason by the wings of imagination;
otherwise they could not thus change their manner of inference, and
argue from causes to effects; presuming, that a more perfect produc-
tion than the present world would be more suitable to such perfect
beings as the gods, and forgetting that they have no reason to ascribe
to these celestial beings any perfection or any attribute, but what can
be found in the present world.

Hence all the fruitless industry to account for the ill appearances of
nature, and save the honour of the gods; while we must acknowledge
the reality of that evil and disorder, with which the world so much
abounds. The obstinate and intractable qualities of matter, we are
told, or the observance of general laws, or some such reason, is the
sole cause, which controlled the power and benevolence of Jupiter,
and obliged him to create mankind and every sensible creature so im-
perfect and so unhappy. These attributes then, are, it seems, before-
hand, taken for granted, in their greatest latitude. And upon that
supposition, I own that such conjectures may, perhaps, be admitted
as plausible solutions of the ill phenomena. But still I ask; Why take
these attributes for granted, or why ascribe to the cause any qualities
but what actually appear in the effect? Why torture your brain to
justify the course of nature upon suppositions, which, for aught you
know, may be entirely imaginary, and of which there are to be found
no traces in the course of nature ?

PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 399

The religious hypothesis, therefore, must be considered only as a
particular method of accounting for the visible phenomena of the
universe: but no just reasoner will ever presume to infer from it any
single fact, and alter or add to the phenomena, in any single par-
ticular. If you think, that the appearances of things prove such causes,
it is allowable for you to draw an inference concerning the existence
of these causes. In such complicated and sublime subjects, every one
should be indulged in the liberty of conjecture and argument. But
here you ought to rest. If you come backward, and arguing from
your inferred causes, conclude, that any other fact has existed, or will
exist, in the course of nature, which may serve as a fuller display of
particular attributes; I must admonish you, that you have departed
from the method of reasoning, attached to the present subject, and
have certainly added something to the attributes of the cause, be-
yond what appears in the effect; otherwise you could never, with
tolerable sense or propriety, add anything to the effect, in order to
render it more worthy of the cause.

Where, then, is the odiousness of that doctrine, which I teach in
my school, or rather, which I examine in my gardens? Or what do
you find in this whole question, wherein the security of good morals,
or the peace and order of society, is in the least concerned?

I deny a providence, you say, and supreme governor of the world,
who guides the course of events, and punishes the vicious with in-
famy and disappointment, and rewards the virtuous with honour and
success, in all their undertakings. But surely, I deny not the course
itself of events, which lies open to every one's inquiry and examina-
tion. I acknowledge, that, in the present order of things, virtue is
attended with more peace of mind than vice, and meets with a more
favourable reception from the world. I am sensible, that, according
to the past experience of mankind, friendship is the chief joy of
human life, and moderation the only source of tranquillity and happi-
ness. I never balance between the virtuous and the vicious course of
life; but am sensible, that, to a well-disposed mind, every advantage
is on the side of the former. And what can you say more, allowing
all your suppositions and reasonings ? You tell me, indeed, that this
disposition of things proceeds from intelHgence and design. But
whatever it proceeds from, the disposition itself, on which depends

400 DAVID HUME

our happiness or misery, and consequently our conduct and deport-
ment in life is still the same. It is still of>en for me, as well as you,
to regulate my behaviour, by my experience of past events. And if
you afiirm, that, while a divine providence is allowed and a supreme
distributive justice in the universe, I ought to expect some more par-
ticular reward of the good, and punishment of the bad, beyond the
ordinary course of events; I here find the same fallacy, which I have
before endeavoured to detect. You persist in imagining, that, if we
grant that divine existence, for which you so earnestly contend, you
may safely infer consequences from it, and add something to the
experienced order of nature, by arguing from the attributes which
you ascribe to your gods. You seem not to remember, that all your
reasonings on this subject can only be drawn from effects to causes;
and that every argument, deducted from causes to effects, must of
necessity be a gross sophism; since it is impossible for you to know
anything of the cause, but what you have antecedently, not inferred,
but discovered to the full, in the effect.

But what must a philosopher think of those vain reasoners, who
instead of regarding the present scene of things as the sole object
of their contemplation, so far reverse the whole course of nature, as to
render this life merely a passage to something farther; a porch, which
leads to a greater, and vastly different building; a prologue, which
serves only to introduce the piece, and give it more grace and pro-
priety? Whence, do you think, can such philosophers derive their
idea of the gods? From their own conceit and imagination surely.
For if they derived it from the present phenomena, it would never
point to anything farther, but must be exactly adjusted to them. That
the divinity may possibly be endowed with attributes, which we have
never seen exerted; may be governed by principles of action, which
we cannot discover to be satisfied : all this will freely be allowed. But
still this is mere possibility and hypothesis. We never can have rea-
son to infer any attributes, or any principles of action in him, but so
far as we know them to have been exerted and satisfied.

Are there any mar^s of a distributive justice in the world? If you
answer in the affirmative, I conclude, that, since justice here exerts
itself, it is satisfied. If you reply in the negative, I conclude, that you
have then no reason to ascribe justice, in our sense oi it, to the gods.

PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE • 4OI

If you hold a medium between affirmation and negation, by saying,
that the justice of the gods, at present, exerts itself in part, but not
in its full extent; I answer, that you have no reason to give it any
particular extent, but only so far as you see it, at present, exert itself.

Thus I bring the dispute, O Athenians, to a short issue with my
antagonists. The course of nature lies open to my contemplation as
well as to theirs. The experienced train of events is the great stand-
ard, by which we all regulate our conduct. Nothing else can be ap-
pealed to in the field, or in the senate. Nothing else ought ever to
be heard of in the school, or in the closet. In vain would our limited
understanding break through those boundaries, which are too narrow
for our fond imagination. While we argue from the course of nature,
and infer a particular intelligent cause, which first bestowed, and still
preserves order in the universe, we embrace a principle, which is
both uncertain and useless. It is uncertain; because the subject lies
entirely beyond the reach of human experience. It is useless; because
our knowledge of this cause being derived entirely from the course of
nature, we can never, according to the rules of just reasoning, return
back from the cause with any new inference, or making additions to
the common and experienced course of nature, establish any new
principles of conduct and behaviour.

I observe (said I, finding he had finished his harangue) that you
neglect not the artifice of the demagogues of old; and as you were
pleased to make me stand for the people, you insinuate yourself into
my favour by embracing those principles, to which, you know, I have
always expressed a particular attachment. But allowing you to make
experience (as indeed I think you ought) the only standard of our
judgement concerning this, and all other questions of fact; I doubt
not but, from the very same experience, to which you appeal, it may
be possible to refute this reasoning, which you have put into the
mouth of Epicurus. If you saw, for instance, a half-finished build-
ing, surrounded with heaps of brick and stone and mortar, and all
the instruments of masonry; could you not in]er from the effect, that
it was a work of design and contrivance? And could you not return
again, from this inferred cause, to infer new additions to the effect,
and conclude, that the building would soon be finished, and receive
all the further improvements, which art could bestow upon it.? If

402 DAVID HUME

you saw upon the sea-shore the print of one human foot, you would
conclude, that a man had passed that way, and that he had also
left the traces of the other foot, though effaced by the rolling of the
sands or inundation of the waters. Why then do you refuse to admit
the same method of reasoning with regard to the order of nature?
Consider the world and the present life only as an imperfect build-
ing, from which you can infer a superior intelligence; and arguing
from that superior intelligence, which can leave nothing imperfect;
why may you not infer a more finished scheme or plan, which will
receive its completion in some distant point of space or time?
Are not these methods of reasoning exactly similar? And under '
what pretence can you embrace the one, while you reject the
other?

The infinite difference of the subjects, replied he, is a sufficient
foundation for this difference in my conclusions. In works of human
art and contrivance, it is allowable to advance from the effect to the
cause, and returning back from the cause, to form new inferences
concerning the effect, and examine the alterations, which it has
probably undergone, or may still undergo. But what is the founda-
tion of this method of reasoning? Plainly this; that man is a being,
whom we know by experience, whose motives and designs we are
acquainted with, and whose projects and inclinations have a certain
connexion and coherence, according to the laws which nature has
established for the government of such a creature. When, therefore,
we find, that any work has proceeded from the skill and industry of
man; as we are otherwise acquainted with the nature of the animal,
we can draw a hundred inferences concerning what may be expected
from him; and these inferences will all be founded in experience
and observation. But did we know man only from the single work
or production which we examine, it were impossible for us to argue
in this manner; because our knowledge of all the qualities, which we
ascribe to him, being in that case derived from the production, it is
impossible they could point to anything farther, or be the foundation
of any new inference. The print of a foot in the sand can only prove,
when considered alone, that there was some figure adapted to it, by
which it was produced: but the print of a human foot proves like-
wise, from our other experience, that there was probably another
foot, which also left its impression, though effaced by time or other

PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 403

accidents. Here we mount from the effect to the cause; and descend-
ing again from the cause, infer alterations in the effect; but this is
not a continuation of the same simple chain of reasoning. We com-
prehend in this case a hundred other experiences and observations,
concerning the usual figure and members of that species of animal,
without which this method of argument must be considered as fal-
lacious and sophistical.

The case is not the same with our reasonings from the works of
nature. The Deity is known to us only by his productions, and is a
single being in the universe, not comprehended under any species or
genus, from whose experienced attributes or quahties, we can, by
analogy, infer any attribute or quality in him. As the universe shews
wisdom and goodness, we infer wisdom and goodness. As it shews
a particular degree of these perfections, we infer a particular degree
of them, precisely adapted to the effect which we examine. But
farther attributes or farther degrees of the same attributes, we can
never be authorised to infer or suppose, by any rules of just reason-
ing. Now, without some such licence of supposition, it is impossible
for us to argue from the cause, or infer any alteration in the effect,
beyond what has immediately fallen under our observation. Greater
good produced by this Being must still prove a greater degree of
goodness: a more impartial distribution of rewards and punishments
must proceed from a greater regard to justice and equity. Every sup-
posed addition to the works of nature makes an addition to the at-
tributes of the Author of nature; and consequently, being entirely
unsupported by any reason or argument, can never be admitted but
as mere conjecture and hypothesis.*

*In general, it may, I think, be established as a maxim, that where any cause
is known only by its particular effects, it must be impossible to infer any new
effects from that cause; since the qualities, which are requisite to produce these new
effects along with the former, must either be different, or superior, or of more extensive
operation, than those which simply produced the effect, whence alone the cause is
supposed to be known to us. We can never, therefore, have any reason to suppose the
existence of these qualities. To say, that the new effects proceed only from a contin-
uation of the same energy, which is already known from the first effects, will not
remove the difficulty. For even granting this to be the case (which can seldom be
supposed), the very continuation and exertion of a like energy (for it is impossible
it can be absolutely the same), I say, this exertion of a like energy, in a different
period of space and time, is a very arbitrary supposition, and what there cannot
possibly be any traces of in the effects, from which all our knowledge of the cause is
originally derived. Let the inferred cause be exactly proportioned (as it should be)
to the known effect; and it is impossible that it can possess any qualities, from which
new or different effects can be inferred.

404 DAVID HUME

The great source of our mistake in this subject, and of the un-
bounded Hcence of conjecture, which we indulge, is, that we tacitly
consider ourselves, as in the place of the Supreme Being, and con-
clude, that he will, on every occasion, observe the same conduct,
which we ourselves, in his situation, would have embraced as reason-
able and eligible. But, besides that the ordinary course of nature
may convince us, that almost everything is regulated by principles
and maxims very different from ours; besides this, I say, it must
evidently appear contrary to all rules of analogy to reason, from the
intentions and projects of men, to those of a Being so different, and
so much superior. In human nature, there is a certain experienced
coherence of designs and inclinations; so that when, from any fact,
we have discovered one intention of any man, it may often be rea-
sonable, from experience, to infer another, and draw a long chain of
conclusions concerning his past or future conduct. But this method
of reasoning can never have place with regard to a Being, so remote
and incomprehensible, who bears much less analogy to any other
being in the universe than the sun to a waxen taper, and who dis-
covers himself only by some faint traces or outlines, beyond which
we have no authority to ascribe to him any attribute or perfection.
What we imagine to be a superior perfection, may really be a defect.
Or were it ever so much a perfection, the ascribing of it to the
Supreme Being, where it appears not to have been really exerted, to
the full, in his works, savours more of flattery and panegyric, than
of just reasoning and sound philosophy. All the philosophy, there-
fore, in the world, and all the religion, which is nothing but a species
of philosophy, will never be able to carry us beyond the usual course
of experience, or give us measures of conduct and behaviour different
from those which are furnished by reflections on common life. No
new fact can ever be inferred from the religious hypothesis; no event
foreseen or foretold; no reward or punishment expected or dreaded,
beyond what is already known by practice and observation. So that
my apology for Epicurus will still appear solid and satisfactory; nor
have the political interests of society any connexion with the philo-
sophical disputes concerning metaphysics and religion.

There is still one circumstance, replied I, which you seem to have
overlooked. Though I should allow your premises, I must deny

PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 405

your conclusion. You conclude, that religious doctrines and reason-
ings can have no influence on Ufe, because they ought to have no
influence; never considering, that men reason not in the same manner
you do, but draw many consequences from the belief of a divine
Existence, and suppose that the Deity will inflict punishments on
vice, and bestow rewards on virtue, beyond what appear in the
ordinary course of nature. Whether this reasoning of theirs be just
or not, is no matter. Its influence on their life and conduct must
still be the same. And those, who attempt to disabuse them of such
prejudices, may, for aught I know, be good reasoners, but I cannot
allow them to be good citizens and politicians; since they free men
from one restraint upon their passions, and make the infringement
of the laws of society, in one respect, more easy and secure.

After all, I may, perhaps, agree to your general conclusion in
favour of liberty, though upon different premises from those, on
which you endeavour to found it. I think, that the state ought to
tolerate every principle of philosophy; nor is there an instance, that
any government has suffered in its political interests by such indul-
gence. There is no enthusiasm among philosophers; their doctrines
are not very alluring to the people; and no restraint can be put upon
their reasonings, but what must be of dangerous consequence to the
sciences, and even to the state, by paving the way for persecution
and oppression in points, where the generality of mankind are more
deeply interested and concerned.

But there occurs to me (continued I) with regard to your main
topic, a difficulty, which I shall just propose to you without insisting
on it; lest it lead into reasonings of too nice and delicate a nature.
In a word, I much doubt whether it be possible for a causa to be
known only by its effect (as you have all along supposed) or to be
of so singular and particular a nature as to have no parallel and no
similarity with any other cause or object, that has ever fallen under
our observation. It is only when two species of objects are found to
be constantly conjoined, that we can infer the one from the other;
and were an effect presented, which was entirely singular, and could
not be comprehended under any known species, I do not see, that
we could form any conjecture or inference at all concerning its cause.
If experience and observation and analogy be, indeed, the only guides

406 DAVID HUME

which we can reasonably follow in inferences of this nature; both
the effect and cause must bear a similarity and resemblance to other
effects and causes, which we know, and which we have found, in
many instances, to be conjoined with each other. I leave it to your
own reflection to pursue the consequences of this principle. I shall
just observe, that, as the antagonists of Epicurus always suppose the
universe, an effect quite singular and unparalleled, to be the proof
of a Deity, a cause no less singular and unparalleled; your reason-
ings, upon that suppwsition, seem, at least, to merit our attention.
There is, I own, some difficulty, how we can ever return from the
cause to the effect, and, reasoning from our ideas of the former,
infer any alteration on the latter, or any addition to it.

SECTION XII

OF THE ACADEMICAL OR SCEPTICAL PHILOSOPHY

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 recon-
cile these contradictions? The knights errant, 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; though it is
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 uncer-
tainty?

There is a species of scepticism, antecedent to all study and phil-
osophy, which is much inculcated by Des Cartes and others, as a
sovereign preservative against error and precipitate judgement. 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 those very faculties, of which we are supposed to be already diffi-
dent. The Cartesian doubt, therefore, were it ever possible to be

407

408 DAVID HUME

attained by any human creature (as it plainly is not) would be en-
tirely 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 pre-
serving a proper impartiality in our judgements, 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 fre-
quently our conclusions, and examine accurately all their conse-
quences; though by these 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 cer-
tainty in our determinations.

There is another species of scepticism, consequent to science and
enquiry, when 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 specu-
lation, 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 which
are 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 implicitly
to be depended on; but that we must correct their evidence by rea-
son, and by considerations, derived from the nature of the medium,

THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 409

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
falsehood. 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 sup-
pose an external universe, which depends not on our perception, but
would exist, though we and every sensible creature were absent or
annihilated. Even the animal creation are governed by a like opin-
ion, 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 power-
ful 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 be-
lieved 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 does not annihilate it. It preserves its exist-
ence 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 de-
stroyed 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, through which these images are
conveyed, without being 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

410 DAVID HUME

depart from the primary instincts of nature, and to embrace a new
system with regard to the evidence of our senses. But here philosophy
finds herself extremely embarrassed, when she would justify this
new system, and obviate the cavils and objections of the sceptics.
She can no longer plead the infallible and irresistible instinct of
nature: for that led us to a quite different system, which is acknowl-
edged 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, though resembling them (if that be possible) and could not
arise either from the energy of the mind itself, or from the sugges-
tion of some invisible and unknown spirit, or from some other cause
still more unknown to us? It is acknowledged, that, in fact, many
of these perceptions arise not from anything 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 dif-
ferent, and even contrary a nature.

It is a question of fact, whether the perceptions of the senses be
produced by external objects, resembling them: how shall this ques-
tion 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 anything 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 unex-
pected 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 question, we shall be at a loss to find arguments, by
which we may prove the existence of that Being or any of his
attributes.

THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 4II

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 knowledge
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 pro-
pensities 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 rea-
sonings, which can so little serve to any serious purpose. It is uni-
versally allowed by modern enquirers, 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 percep-
tions 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 de-
pendent 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, an
opinion, which, if we examine it accurately, we shall find to be un-
intelligible, 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 con-
ceive a triangle in general, which is neither Isosceles nor Scalenum,

412 DAVID HUME

nor has any particular length or proportion of sides; and he will
soon perceive the absurdity of all the scholastic notions with regard
to abstraction and general ideas.'

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. Bereave
matter of all its intelligible qualities, both primary and secondary,
you in a manner annihilate it, and leave only a certain unknown,
inexplicable something, as the cause of our perceptions; a notion so
imperfect, that no sceptic will think it worth while to contend
against it.

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
through 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 pur-
pose to tame and subdue the rebellious reason of mankind, ever
shocked common sense more than the doctrine of the infinitive

' This argument is drawn from Dr. Berkeley; and indeed most of the writings
of that very ingenious author form the best lessons of scepticism, which are to be found
either among the ancient 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, though 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.

THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 413

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 reason.^
But what renders the matter more extraordinary, is, that these seem-
ingly 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 re-
ceived, 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 increase 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 unex-
ceptionable as that which proves the three angles of a triangle to
be equal to two right ones, though 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 she 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 scarcely can pronounce with certainty and
assurance concerning any one object.
The absurdity of these bold determinations of the abstract sciences

^Whatever disputes there may be about matbematical 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 indivisible, 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 com-
poses an infinite extension. How much more an infinite nuinber of those infinitely
small parts of extension, which are still supposed infinitely divisible.

414 DAVID HUME

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 judgement 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 driven by these seeming absurdities
and contradictions. How any clear, distinct idea can contain cir-
cumstances, 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 quantity.*

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 enter-
tained in different ages and nations; the variations of our judgement
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. It is needless to
insist farther on this head. These objections are but weak. For as,
in common life, we reason every moment concerning fact and exist-
ence, and cannot possibly subsist, without continually employing

'It 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 circum-
stances, 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 partic-
ular size or figure: But as that term is also usually applied to animals of other colours,
figures and sizes, these ideas, though 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. It is sufficient to have dropped 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 ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 415

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 smoke, and leave the most determined
sceptic in the same condition as other mortals.

The sceptic, therefore, had better keep within 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 mat-
ter 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 conjoined together; that we have no argument to
convince us, that objects, which have, in our experience, been fre-
quently conjoined, will likewise, in other instances, be conjoined in
the same manner; and that nothing leads us to this inference 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 de-
ceitful. While the sceptic insists upon these topics, he shows 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 convic-
tion, which will remain constant and durable, with his audience,
A Stoic or Epicurean displays principles, which may not be durable,

4l6 DAVID HUME

but which have an effect on conduct and behaviour. But a Pyr-
rhonian cannot expect, 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 acknowledge, i£ he
will acknowledge anything, 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. It is true; so fatal an event is very little to be dreaded.
Nature is always too strong for principle. And though 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 amusement, and can
have no other tendency than to show the whimsical condition of
mankind, who must act and reason and believe; though they are
not able, by their most diligent enquiry, to satisfy themselves con-
cerning the foundation of these operations, or to remove the objec-
tions, which may be raised against them.

Part III

There is, indeed, a more mitigated scepticism or academical philos-
ophy, 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 com-
mon sense and reflection. The greater 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 counter-
poising argument, 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 understanding, checks their passion, and suspends

THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 417

their action. They are, therefore, impatient till they escape from a
state, which to them is so uneasy: and they think, that they could
never remove themselves far enough from it, by the violence of
their affirmations and obstinacy of their belief. But could such dog-
matical reasoners become sensible of the strange infirmities of human
understanding, even in its most perfect state, and when most ac-
curate and cautious in its determinations; such a reflection would
naturally inspire them with more modesty and reserve, and dimin-
ish 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 be inclined, from their natural temper, to haughtiness and
obstinacy, a small tincture of Pyrrhonism might 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 ad-
vantage 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, de-
lighted with whatever is remote and extraordinary, and running,
without control, 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 Judgement observes a contrary method, and avoid-
ing 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 anything, but the strong power of
natural instinct, could free us from it. Those who have a propensity

4l8 DAVID HUME

to philosophy, will still continue their researches; because they re-
flect, that, besides the immediate pleasure attending such an occupa-
tion, philosophical decisions are nothing but the reflections of
common Ufe, 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 con-
cerning any determination, which we may form, with regard to
the origin of worlds, and the situation of nature, from, and to
eternity ?

This narrow limitation, indeed, of our enquiries, is, in every re-
spect, so reasonable, that it suffices to make the slightest examination
into the natural powers of the human mind and to compare them
with 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 science or of
demonstration are quantity and number, and that all attempts to
extend this more perfect species of knowledge 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,
through their different appearances. But as all other ideas are clearly
distinct and different from each other, we can never advance farther,
by our utmost 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, it is only necessary to define the terms, and
explain injustice to be a violation of property. This proposition is,
indeed, nothing but a more imperfect definition. It is the same case

THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 419

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 knowledge and demonstration.

All other enquiries of men regard only matter of fact and exist-
ence; and these are evidently incapable of demonstration. What-
ever 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 impHes no contradiction.

The existence, therefore, of any being can only be proved by argu-
ments from its cause or its effect; and these arguments are founded
entirely on experience. If we reason a priori, anything may appear
able to produce anything. The falling of a pebble may, for aught
we know, extinguish the sun; or the wish of a man control the
planets in their orbits. It is only experience, which teaches us the
nature and bounds of cause and effect, and enables us to infer the
existence of one object from that of another*. Such is the foundation
of moral reasoning, which forms the greater part of human knowl-
edge, and is the source of all human action and behaviour.

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

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

■*That impious maxim of the ancient 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
a priori, the will of any other being might create it, or any other cause, that the most
whimsical imagination can assign.

420 DAVID HUME

Divinity or Theology, as it proves the existence o£ a Deity, and
the immortality of souls, is composed partly of reasonings concern-
ing particular, partly concerning general facts. It has a foundation
in reason, so far as it is supported by ejiperience. But its best and
most solid foundation is jaith and divine revelation.

Morals and criticism are not so properly objects of the understand-
ing 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, to wit, the
general tastes 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 con-
tain any abstract reasoning concerning quantity or number? No.
Does it contain any experimental reasoning concerning matter of
fact and existence? No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can
contain nothing but sophistry and illusion.