thc34
thc34f
Vol 34: The Classics
FRENCH AND ENGLISH
PHILOSOPHERS
DESCARTES • ROUSSEAU
VOLTAIRE • HOBBES
WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES
VOLUME 34
l?9*3
P F COLLIER & SON COMPANY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1910
BV P. F. Collier & SoH
Copyright, 1889
By Peter Eckler
manufactured in u. s. a.
^Designed. Printed, and Bound at
'CJje Collier Preaa, jfrtto gorfe
HAROLD 3RARY
BRIGHAM YOu*u LNIVER8ITT
PROVO, UTAH
CONTENTS
PAGE
Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the
Reason and Seeking the Truth in the Sciences
By Rene Descartes
Part I 5
Part II 12
Part III 21
Part IV 28
Part V 35
Part VI 49
Letters on the English — By Voltaire
Letter I — On the Quakers 65
Letter II — On the Quakers 69
Letter III — On the Quakers 71
Letter IV — On the Quakers 75
Letter V — On the Church of England 79
Letter VI — On the Presbyterians 82
Letter VII — On the Socinians, or Arians, or Antitrinitarians 84
Letter VIII— On the Parliament 86
Letter IX — On the Government 89
Letter X— On Trade 93
Letter XI — On Inoculation . 95
Letter XII — On the Lord Bacon 99
Letter XIII— On Mr. Locke 103
Letter XIV — On Descartes and Sir Isaac Newton . . no
Letter XV— On Attraction 115
Letter XVI — On Sir Isaac Newton's Optics .... 124
Letter XVII — On Infinites in Geometry, and Sir Isaac
Newton's Chronology 127
Letter XVIII— On Tragedy 133
Letter XIX— On Comedy 139
Letter XX — On Such of the Nobility as Cultivate the
Belles Lettres 143
(A) 1 HC— Vol. 34
2 CONTENTS
PAGS
Letters on the English (Coni'nued)
Letter XXI — On the Earl of Rochester and Mr. Waller 145
Letter XXII — On Mr. Pope and Some Other Famous Poets 150
Letter XXIII— On the Regard That Ought to be Shown
to Men of Letters 154
Letter XXIV — On the Royal Society and Other Academies 158
A Discourse upon the Origin and the Foundation of
the Inequality among Mankind 167
By J. J. Rousseau
First Part 171
Second Part 202
Profession of Faith of a Savoyard Vicar 245
Of Man, Being the First Part of Leviathan
By Thomas Hobbes
Chapter I — Of Sense 323
Chapter II — Of Imagination 325
\l Chapter III — Of the Consequence or Train of Imaginations 330
Chapter IV — Of Speech 335
Chapter V — Of Reason and Science 343
Chapter VI — Of the Interior Beginnings of Voluntary
Motions, Commonly Called the Passions; and the
Speeches by Which They Are Expressed .... 350
Chapter VII — Of the Ends, or Resolutions of Discourse 359
Chapter VIII — Of the Virtues Commonly Called Intellec-
tual, and Their Contrary Defects 362
Chapter IX — Of the Several Subjects of Knowledge . . 37s
Chapter X — Of Power, Worth, Dignity, Honour, and
Worthiness 374
Chapter XI — Of the Difference of Manners .... 384
Chapter XII — Of Religion 391
Chapter XIII — Of the Natural Condition of Mankind as
Concerning Their Felicity and Misery 402
Chapter XIV — Of the First and Second Natural Laws,
and of Contracts 407
J Chapter XV— Of Other Laws of Nature 417
Chapter XVI — Of Persons, Authors, and Things Per-
sonated 430
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Rene* Descartes was bom at La Haye in Touraine, March
31, 1596. He came of a landed family with possessions in Brit-
tany as well as in the south. His education was begun at the
Jesuit College of La Fleche, continued at Paris, and completed
by travel in various countries; and his studies were varied by
several years of military service. After he began to devote
himself to philosophy, he lived chieHy in Holland; but the last
five months of his life were spent in Stockholm, at the court of
Queen Christina of Sweden, where he died on February 11, 1650.
While still young, Descartes had become profoundly dissatis-
fied ivith the scholastic philosophy, which still survived in the
teaching of the Jesuits from whom he received his early train-
ing; and adopting a skeptical attitude he set out on his travels
determined "to gain knowledge only from himself and the great
book of the world, from nature and the observation of man!*
It was in Germany, as he tells us, that there came to him the
idea which proved the starting point of his whole system of
thought, the idea, "I think, therefore I exist," which called a
halt to the philosophical doubt with which he had resolved to
regard everything that could conceivably be doubted. On this
basis he built up a philosophy which is usually regarded as
the foundation of modem thought. Not that the system of
Descartes is accepted to-day; but the sweeping away of presup-
position of all kinds, and the "method" which lie proposed for the
discovery of truth, have made possible the whole modern philo-
sophic development. It was in the "Discourse" here printed,
originally published in 1637, that this method was first presented
to the world.
Descartes was distinguished in physics and mathematics as
well as in philosophy; and his "Geometry" revolutionised the
study of that science.
[PREFATORY NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.]
If this Discourse appear too long to be read at once, it may
be divided into six parts: and, in the first, will be found various
considerations touching the Sciences ; in the second, the principal
rules of the Method which the Author has discovered; in the
third, certain of the rules of Morals which he has deduced
from this Method; in the fourth, the reasonings by which he
establishes the existence of God and of the Human Soul, which
are the foundations of his Metaphysic; in the fifth, the order
of the Physical questions which he has investigated, and, in
particular, the explication of the motion of the heart and of some
other difficulties pertaining to Medicine, as also the difference
between the soul of man and that of the brutes; and, in the
last, what the Author believes to be required in order to greater
advancement in the investigation of Nature than has yet been
made, with the reasons that have induced him to write.
DISCOURSE ON THE METHOD
OF RIGHTLY CONDUCTING
THE REASON AND SEEKING THE TRUTH
IN THE SCIENCES
By Rene Descartes
PART I
GOOD SENSE is, of all things among men, the most
- equally distributed; for every one thinks himself so
abundantly provided with it, that those even who are
the most difficult to satisfy in everything else, do not usually
desire a larger measure of this quality than they already
possess. And in this it is not likely that all are mistaken : the
conviction is rather to be held as testifying that the power of
judging aright and of distinguishing Truth from Error, which
is properly what is called Good Sense or Reason, is by nature
equal in all men ; and that the diversity of our opinions, con-
sequently, does not arise from some being endowed with
a larger share of Reason than others, but solely from this,
that we conduct our thoughts along different ways, and do
not fix our attention on the same objects. For to be pos-
sessed of a vigorous mind is not enough; the prime requisite
is rightly to apply it. The greatest minds, as they are capa-
ble of the highest excellencies, are open likewise to the great-
est aberrations; and those who travel very slowly may yet
make far greater progress, provided they keep always to the
straight road, than those who, while they run, forsake it.
For myself, I have never fancied my mind to be in any
respect more perfect than those of the generality; on the
contrary, I have often wished that I were equal to some
others in promptitude of thought, or in clearness and dis-
tinctness of imagination, or in fulness and readiness of
memory. And besides these, I know of no other qualities
that contribute to the perfection of the mind ; for as to the
Reason or Sense, inasmuch as it is that alone which con-
stitutes us men, and distinguishes us from the brutes, I am
disposed to believe that it is to be found complete in each
S
6 DESCARTES
individual; and on this point to adopt the common opinion
of philosophers, who say that the difference of greater and
less holds only among the accidents, and not among the
forms or natures of individuals of the same species.
I will not hesitate, however, to avow my belief that it has
been my singular good fortune to have very early in life
fallen in with certain tracks which have conducted me to
considerations and maxims, of which I have formed a
Method that gives me the means, as I think, of gradually
augmenting my knowledge, and of raising it by little and
little to the highest point which the mediocrity of my talents
and the brief duration of my life will permit me to reach.
For I have already reaped from it such fruits that, al-
though I have been accustomed to think lowly enough of
myself, and although when I look with the eye of a phil-
osopher at the varied courses and pursuits of mankind at
large, I find scarcely one which does not appear vain and
useless, I nevertheless derive the highest satisfaction from
the progress I conceive myself to have already made in the
search after truth, and cannot help entertaining such ex-
pectations of the future as to believe that if, among the
occupations of men as men, there is any one really excellent
and important, it is that which I have chosen.
After all, it is possible I may be mistaken; and it is but
a little copper and glass, perhaps, that I take for gold and
diamonds. I know how very liable we are to delusion in
what relates to ourselves, and also how much the judgments
of our friends are to be suspected when given in our favour.
But I shall endeavour in this Discourse to describe the
paths I have followed, and to delineate my life as in a
picture, in order that each one may be able to judge of
them for himself, and that in the general opinion enter-
tained of them, as gathered from current report, I myself
may have a new help towards instruction to be added to those
I have been in the habit of employing.
My present design, then, is not to teach the Method
which each ought to follow for the right conduct of his
Reason, but solely to describe the way in which I have
endeavoured to conduct my own. They who set themselves
to give precepts must of course regard themselves as pos-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 7
sessed of greater skill than those to whom they prescribe;
and if they err in the slightest particular, they subject them-
selves to censure. But as this Tract is put forth merely as
a history, or, if you will, as a tale, in which, amid some
examples worthy of imitation, there will be found, perhaps,
as many more which it were advisable not to follow, I hope
it will prove useful to some without being hurtful to any, and
that my openness will find some favour with all.
From my childhood, I have been familiar with letters;
and as I was given to believe that by their help a clear and
certain knowledge of all that is useful in life might be ac-
quired, I was ardently desirous of instruction. But as soon
as I had finished the entire course of study, at the close of
which it is customary to be admitted into the order of the
learned, I completely changed my opinion. For I found
myself involved in so many doubts and errors, that I was
convinced I had advanced no farther in all my attempts at
learning, than the discovery at every turn of my own igno-
rance. And yet I was studying in one of the most cele-
brated Schools in Europe, in which I thought there must be
learned men, if such were anywhere to be found. I had
been taught all that others learned there; and not contented
with the sciences actually taught us, I had, in addition, read
all the books that had fallen into my hands, treating of such
branches as are esteemed the most curious and rare. I
knew the judgment which others had formed of me; and
I did not find that I was considered inferior to my fellows,
although there were among them some who were already
marked out to fill the places of our instructors. And, in
fine, our age appears to me as flourishing, and as fertile
in powerful minds as any preceding one. I was thus led
to take the liberty of judging of all other men by myself,
and of concluding that there was no science in existence
that was of such a nature as I had previously been given
to believe.
I still continued, however, to hold in esteem the studies
of the Schools. I was aware that the Languages taught
in them are necessary to the understanding of the writings
of the ancients; that the grace of Fable stirs the mind; that
the memorable deeds of History elevate it; and, if read
8 DESCARTES
with discretion, aid in forming the judgment; that the
perusal of all excellent books is, as it were, to interview
with the noblest men of past ages, who have written them,
and even a studied interview, in which are discovered to us
only their choicest thoughts; that Eloquence has incompar-
able force and beauty; that Poesy has its ravishing graces
and delights ; that in the Mathematics there are many refined
discoveries eminently suited to gratify the inquisitive, as
well as further all the arts and lessen the labour of man;
that numerous highly useful precepts and exhortations to
virtue are contained in treatises on Morals; that Theology
points out the path to heaven; that Philosophy affords the
means of discoursing with an appearance of truth on all
matters, and commands the admiration of the more simple;
that Jurisprudence, Medicine, and the other Sciences, secure
for their cultivators honours and riches; and in fine, that
it is useful to bestow some attention upon all, even upon
those abounding the most in superstition and error, that we
may be in a position to determine their real value, and guard
against being deceived.
But I believed that I had already given sufficient time to
Languages, and likewise to the reading of the writings of
the ancients, to their Histories and Fables. For to hold
converse with those of other ages and to travel, are almost
the same thing. It is useful to know something of the man-
ners of different nations, that we may be enabled to form
a more correct judgment regarding our own, and be pre-
vented from thinking that everything contrary to our cus-
toms is ridiculous and irrational, — a conclusion usually
come to by those whose experience has been limited to
their own country. -On the other hand, when too much
time is occupied in travelling, we become strangers to our
native country; and the over curious in the customs of the
past are generally ignorant of those of the present. Be-
sides, fictitious narratives lead us to imagine the possibility
of many events that are impossible; and even the most
faithful histories, if they do not wholly misrepresent
matters, or exaggerate their importance to render the
account of them more worthy of perusal, omit, at least,
almost always the meanest and least striking of the at-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 9
tendant circumstances; hence it happens that the re-
mainder does not represent the truth, and that such as
regulate their conduct by examples drawn from this
source, are apt to fall into the extravagances of the
knight-errant s of Romance, and to entertain projects that
exceed their powers.
I esteemed Eloquence highly, and was in raptures with
Poesy; but I thought that both were gifts of nature rather
-Jf than fruits of study. -Those in whom the faculty of Reason
is predominant, and who most skilfully dispose their
thoughts with a view to render them clear and intelligible,
are always the best able to persuade others of the truth
of what they lay down, though they should speak only in the
language of Lower Brittany, and be wholly ignorant of
the rules of Rhetoric; and those whose minds are stored
with the most agreeable fancies, and who can give ex-
pression to them with the greatest embellishment and har-
mony, are still the best poets, though unacquainted with the
Art of Poetry.
(I was especially delighted with the Mathematics, on ac-
count of the certitude and evidence of their reasonings:
but I had not as yet a precise knowledge of their true use;
and thinking that they but contributed to the advancement
of the mechanical arts, I was astonished that foundations,
so strong and solid, should have had no loftier super-
structure reared on them. On the other hand, I compare* 1
the disquisitions of the ancient Moralists to very towering
and magnificent palaces with no better foundation than sand
and mud: they laud the virtues very highly, and exhibit
them as estimable far above anything on earth; but they
give us no adequate criterion of virtue, and frequently that
which they designate with so fine a name is but apathy, or
pride, or despair, or parricide.
I revered our Theology, and aspired as much as any one
to reach heaven: but being given assuredly to understand
that the way is not less open to the most ignorant than to
the most learned, and that the revealed truths which lead
to heaven are above our comprehension, I did not presume
to subject them to the impotency of my Reason; and I
thought that in order competently to undertake their exam-
10 DESCARTES
ination, there was need of some special help from heaven,
and of being more than man.
Of philososphy I will say nothing, except that when
I saw that it had been cultivated for many ages by the
most distinguished men, and that yet there is not a single
matter within its sphere which is not still in dispute, and
nothing, therefore, which is above doubt, I did not presume
to anticipate that my success would be greater in it than
that of others; and further, when I considered the number
of conflicting opinions touching a single matter that may
be upheld by learned men, while there can be but one true,
I reckoned as well-nigh false all that was only probable.
As to the other Sciences, inasmuch as these borrow their
principles from Philosophy, I judged that no solid super-
structures could be reared on foundations so infirm; and
neither the honour nor the gain held out by them was
sufficient to determine me to their cultivation: for I was
not, thank Heaven, in a condition which compelled me to
make merchandise of Science for the bettering of my for-
tune; and though I might not profess to scorn glory as a
Cynic, I yet made very slight account of that honour which
I hoped to acquire only through fictitious titles. And, in
fine, of false Sciences I thought I knew the worth sufficiently
to escape being deceived by the professions of an alchemist,
the predictions of an astrologer, the impostures of a ma-
gician, or by the artifices and boasting of any of those who
profess to know things of which they are ignorant.
For these reasons, as soon as my age permitted me to
pass from under the control of my instructors, I entirely
abandoned the study of letters, and resolved no longer to
seek any other science than the knowledge of myself, or of
the great book of the world. I spent the remainder of my
youth in travelling, in visiting courts and armies, in holding
intercourse with men of different dispositions and ranks,
in collecting varied experience, in proving myself in the
different situations into which fortune threw me, and, above
all, in making such reflection on the matter of my experi-
ence as to secure my improvement. For it occurred to me
that I should find much more truth in the reasonings of
each individual with reference to the affairs in which he is
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 11
personally interested, and the issue of which must presently
punish him if he has judged amiss, than in those conducted
by a man of letters in his study, regarding speculative mat-
ters that are of no practical moment, and followed by no
consequences to himself, farther, perhaps, than that they
foster his vanity the better the more remote they are from
common sense; requiring, as they must in this case, the
exercise of greater ingenuity and art to render them
probable. In addition, I had always a most earnest desire
to know how to distinguish the true from the false, in
order that I might be able clearly to discriminate the right
path in life, and proceed in it with confidence.
It is true that, while busied only in considering the
._ manners of other men, I found here, too, scarce any ground
for settled conviction, and remarked hardly less contradic-
tion among them than in the opinions of the philosophers.
So that the greatest advantage I derived from the study
consisted in this, that, observing many things which, how-
ever extravagant and ridiculous to our apprehension, are
yet by common consent received ar*d approved by other
_^great nations, I learned to entertain too decided a belief
in regard to nothing of the truth oi which I had been
persuaded merely by example and custom: and thus I
gradually extricated myself from many errors powerful
enough to darken our Natural Intelligence, and inca-
pacitate us in great measure from listening to Reason. But
after I had been occupied several years in thus studying the
book of the world, and in essaying to gather some experi-
ence, I at length resolved to make myself an object of study,
— -and to employ all the powers of my mind in choosing the
paths I ought to follow; an undertaking which was ac-
companied with greater success than it would have been had
I never quitted my country or my books.
PART II
I WAS then in Germany, attracted thither by the wars in
that country, which have not yet been brought to a ter-
mination ; and as I was returning to the army from the
coronation of the Emperor, the setting in of winter ar-
rested me in a locality where, as I found no society to in-
terest me, and was besides fortunately undisturbed by any
cares or passions, I remained the whole day in seclusion, 1
with full opportunity to occupy my attention with my own
thoughts. Of these one of the very first that occurred to
me was, that there is seldom so much perfection in works
composed of many separate parts, upon which different
hands have been employed, as in those completed by a
single master. Thus it is observable that the buildings which
a single architect has planned and executed, are generally
more elegant and commodious than those which several
have attempted to improve, by making old walls serve for
purposes for which they were not originally built. Thus
also, those ancient cities which, from being at first only
villages, have become, in course of time, large towns, are
usually but ill laid out compared with the regularly con-
structed towns which a professional architect has freely
planned on an open plain; so that although the several
buildings of the former may often equal or surpass in
beauty those of the latter, yet when one observes their in-
discriminate juxtaposition, there a large one and here a
small, and the consequent crookedness and irregularity of
the streets, one is disposed to allege that chance rather than
any human will guided by reason, must have led to such an
arrangement. And if we consider that nevertheless there
have been at all times certain officers whose duty it was to
see that private buildings contributed to public ornament,
1 Literally, in a room heated by means of a stove. — Tr,
12
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 13
the difficulty of reaching high perfection with but the ma-
terials of others to operate on, will be readily acknowledged.
In the same way I fancied that those nations which, start-
ing from a semi-barbarous state and advancing to civilisa-
tion by slow degrees, have had their laws successively
determined, and, as it were, forced upon them simply by
experience of the hurtfulness of particular crimes and
disputes, would by this process come to be possessed of less
perfect institutions than those which, from the commence-
ment of their association as communities, have followed
the appointments of some wise legislator. It is thus quite
certain that the constitution of the true religion, the ordi-
nances of which are derived from God, must be incompar-
ably superior to that of every other. And, to speak of
human affairs, I believe that the past pre-eminence of Sparta
was due not to the goodness of each of its laws in particular,
for many of these were very strange, and even opposed to
good morals, but to the circumstance that, originated by a
single individual, they all tended to a single end. In the
same way I thought that the sciences contained in books,
(such of them at least as are made up of probable reason-
ings, without demonstrations,) composed as they are of the
opinions of many different individuals massed together, are
farther removed from truth than the simple inferences
which a man of good sense using his natural and un-
prejudiced judgment draws respecting the matters of his
experience. And because we have all to pass through a
state of infancy to manhood, and have been of necessity,
for a length of time, governed by our desires and preceptors,
(whose dictates were frequently conflicting, while neither
perhaps always counselled us for the best,) I farther
concluded that it is almost impossible that our judgments
can be so correct or solid as they would have been, had our
Reason been mature from the moment of our birth, and
had we always been guided by it alone
It is true, however, that it is not customary to pull down
all the houses of a town with the single design of rebuild-
ing them differently, and thereby rendering the streets more
.x^— handsome ; but it often happens that a private individual
takes down his own with the view of erecting it anew,
14 DESCARTES
and that people are even sometimes constrained to this when
their houses are in danger of falling from age, or when the
foundations are insecure. With this before me by way of
example, I was persuaded that it would indeed be pre-
posterous for a private individual to think of reforming a
state by fundamentally changing it throughout, and over-
turning it in order to set it up amended; and the same I
thought was true of any similar project for reforming the
body of the Sciences, or the order of teaching them estab-
lished in the Schools: but as for the opinions which up to
that time I had embraced, I thought that I could not do
better than resolve at once to sweep them wholly away,
that I might afterwards be in a position to admit either
others more correct, or even perhaps the same when they
had undergone the scrutiny of Reason. I firmly believed
that in this way I should much better succeed in the con-
duct of my life, than if I built only upon old foundations,
and leant upon principles which, in my youth, I had
taken upon trust. For although I recognised various dif-
ficulties in this undertaking, these were not, however, with-
out remedy, nor once to be compared with such as attend
the slightest reformation in public affairs. Large bodies,
if once overthrown, are with great difficulty set up again,
or even kept erect when once seriously shaken, and the
fall of such is always disastrous. Then if there are any
imperfections in the constitutions of states, (and that
many such exist the diversity of constitutions is alone
sufficient to assure us,) custom has without doubt materially
smoothed their inconveniences, and has even managed to
steer altogether clear of, or insensibly corrected a number
which sagacity could not have provided against with equal
effect; and, in fine, the defects are almost always more
tolerable than the change necessary for their removal; in
the same manner that highways which wind among moun-
tains, by being much frequented, become gradually so
smooth and commodious, that it is much better to follow
them than to seek a straighter path by climbing over the
tops of rocks and descending to the bottoms of precipices.
Hence it is that I cannot in any degree approve of those
restless and busy meddlers who, called neither by birth nor
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 15
fortune to take part in the management of public affairs,
are yet always projecting reforms; and if I thought that
this Tract contained aught which might justify the sus-
picion that I was a victim of such folly, I would by no
means permit its publication. I have never contemplated
anything higher than the reformation of my own opinions,
and basing them on a foundation wholly my own. And
although my own satisfaction with my work has led me
to present here a draft of it, I do not by any means
therefore recommend to every one else to make a sim-
ilar attempt. Those whom God has endowed with a
larger measure of genius will entertain, perhaps, designs
still more exalted; but for the many I am much afraid lest
even the present undertaking be more than they can safely
venture to imitate. The single design to strip one's self
of all past beliefs is one that ought not to be taken by every
one. The majority of men is composed of two classes, for
neither of which would this be at all a befitting resolution:
in the first place, of those who with more than a due con-
fidence in their own powers, are precipitate in their judg-
ments and want the patience requisite for orderly and cir-
cumspect thinking; whence it happens, that if men of this
class once take the liberty to doubt of their accustomed
opinions, and quit the beaten highway, they will never be
able to thread the byeway that would lead them by a shorter
course, and will lose themselves and continue to wander
for life; in the second place, of those who, possessed of
sufficient sense or modesty to determine that there are
others who excel them in the power of discriminating be-
tween truth and error, and by whom they may be instructed,
ought rather to content themselves with the opinions of such
than trust for more correct to their own Reason.
For my own part, I should doubtless have belonged to
the latter class, had I received instruction from but one
master, or had I never known the diversities of opinion
that from time immemorial have prevailed among men of
the greatest learning. But I had become aware, even so
early as during my college life, that no opinion, however
absurd and incredible, can be imagined, which has not been
maintained by some one of the philosophers; and after-
16 DESCARTES
wards in the course of my travels I remarked that all those
whose opinions are decidedly repugnant to ours are not
on that account barbarians and savages, but on the contrary
that many of these nations make an equally good, if not a
better, use of their Reason than we do. I took into account
also the very different character which a # person brought
up from infancy in France or Germany exhibits, from that
which, with the same mind originally, this individual would
have possessed had he lived always among the Chinese or
with savages, and the circumstance that in dress itself the
fashion which pleased us ten years ago, and which may
again, perhaps, be received into favour before ten years
have gone, appears to us at this moment extravagant and
ridiculous. I was thus led to infer that the ground of our
opinions is far more custom and example than any certain
knowledge. And, finally, although such be the ground of
cur opinions, I remarked that a plurality of suffrages is no
guarantee of truth where it is at all of difficult discovery,
as in such cases it is much more likely that it will be found
by one than by many. I could, however, select from the
crowd no one whose opinions seemed worthy of preference,
and thus I found myself constrained, as it were, to use
my own Reason in the conduct of my life.
But like one walking alone and in the dark, I resolved
to proceed so slowly and with such circumspection, that if
I did not advance far, I would at least guard against fall-
ing. I did not even choose to dismiss summarily any of the
opinions that had crept into my belief without having been
introduced by Reason, but first of all took sufficient time
carefully to satisfy myself of the general nature of the
task I was setting myself, and ascertain the true Method
by which to arrive at the knowledge of whatever lay within
the compass of my powers.
Among the branches of Philosophy, I had, at an earlier
period, given some attention to Logic, and among those of
the Mathematics to Geometrical Analysis and Algebra, —
three Arts or Sciences which ought, as I conceived, to con-
tribute something to my design. But, on examination, I
found that, as for Logic, its syllogisms and the majority of
its other precepts are of avail rather in the communication
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 17
of what we already know, or even as the Art of Lully, in
speaking without judgment of things of which we are igno-
rant, than in the investigation of the unknown; and although
this Science contains indeed a number of correct and very
excellent precepts, there are, nevertheless, so many others,
and these either injurious or superfluous, mingled with the
former, that it is almost quite as difficult to effect a severance
of the true from the false as it is to extract a Diana or a
Minerva from a rough block of marble. Then as to the
Analysis of the ancients and the Algebra of the moderns,
besides that they embrace only matters highly abstract, and,
to appearance, of no use, the former is so exclusively re-
stricted to the consideration of figures, that it can exercise
the Understanding only on condition of greatly fatiguing the
Imagination; 2 and, in the latter, there is so complete a sub-
jection to certain rules and formulas, that there results an
art full of confusion and obscurity calculated to embarrass,
instead of a science fitted to cultivate the mind. By these
considerations I was induced to seek some other Method
which would comprise the advantages of the three and
be exempt from their defects. And as a multitude of laws
often only hampers justice, so that a state is best governed
when, with few laws, these are rigidly administered; in like
manner, instead of the great number of precepts of which
Logic is composed, I believed that the four following would
prove perfectly sufficient for me, provided I took the firm
and unwavering resolution never in a single instance to fail
in observing them.
- The first was never to accept anything for true which I
did not clearly know to be such; that is to say, carefully to
avoid precipitancy and prejudice, and to comprise nothing
more in my judgment than what was presented to my mind
so clearly and distinctly as to exclude all ground of doubt.
* m The second, to divide each of the difficulties under exam-
ination into as many parts as possible, and as might be neces-
sary for its adequate solution.
The third, to conduct my thoughts in such order that, by
commencing with objects the simplest and easiest to know,
8 The Imagination must here be taken as equivalent simply to the Repre-
sentative Faculty. — Tr.
13 DESCARTES
I might ascend by little and little, and, as it were, step by
step, to the knowledge of the more complex; assigning in
thought a certain order even to those objects which in their
own nature do not stand in a relation of antecedence and
sequence.
* And the last, in every case to make enumerations so com-
plete, and reviews so general, that I might be assured that
nothing was omitted.
The long chains of simple and easy reasonings by means
of which geometers are accustomed to reach the conclusions
of their most difficult demonstrations, had led me to imagine
that all things, to the knowledge of which man is competent,
are mutually connected in the same way, and that there is
nothing so far removed from us as to be beyond our reach,
or so hidden that we cannot discover it, provided only we
abstain from accepting the false for the true, and always
preserve in our thoughts the order necessary for the deduc-
tion of one truth from another. And I had little difficulty in
determining the objects with which it was necessary to com-
mence, for I was already persuaded that it must be with the
simplest and easiest to know, and, considering that of all
those who have hitherto sought truth in the Sciences, the
mathematicians alone have been able to find any demonstra-
tions, that is, any certain anc^ evident reasons, I did not
doubt but that such must have been the rule of their inves-
tigations. I resolved to commence, therefore, with the ex-
amination of the simplest objects, not anticipating, however,
from this any other advantage than that to be found in accus-
toming my mind to the love and nourishment of truth, and to
a distaste for all such reasonings as were unsound. But I
had no intention on that account of attempting to master all
the particular Sciences commonly denominated Mathematics:
but observing that, however different their objects, they all
agree in considering only the various relations or proportions
subsisting among those objects, I thought it best for my pur-
pose to consider these proportions in the most general form
possible, without referring them to any objects in particular,
except such as would most facilitate the knowledge of them,
and without by any means restricting them to these, that
afterwards I might thus be the better able to apply them to
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 19
every other class of objects to which they are legitimately
applicable. Perceiving further, that in order to understand
these relations I should sometimes have to consider them one
by one, and sometimes only to bear them in mind, or em-
brace them in the aggregate, I thought that, in order the
better to consider them individually, I should view them as
subsisting between straight lines, than which I could find no
objects more simple, or capable of being more distinctly rep-
resented to my imagination and senses; and on the other
hand, that in order to retain them in the memory, or embrace
an aggregate of many, I should express them by certain
characters the briefest possible. In this way I believed that
I could borrow all that was best both in Geometrical Analy-
sis and in Algebra, and correct all the defects of the one by
help of the other.
^And, in point of fact, the accurate observance of these few
precepts gave me, I take the liberty of saying, such ease in
unravelling all the questions embraced in these two sciences,
that in the two or three months I devoted to their examina-
tion, not only did I reach solutions of questions I had for-
merly deemed exceedingly difficult, but even as regards ques-
tions of the solution of which I continued ignorant, I was
enabled, as it appeared to me, to determine the means
whereby, and the extent to which, a solution was possible;
results attributable to the circumstance that I commenced
with the simplest and most general truths, and that thus each
truth discovered was a rule available in the discovery of
subsequent ones. Nor in this perhaps shall I appear too
vain if it be considered that, as the truth on any particular
point is one, whoever apprehends the truth, knows all that
on that point can be known. The child, for example, who
has been instructed in the elements of Arithmetic, and has
made a particular addition, according to rule, may be assured
that he has found, with respect to the sum -of the numbers
before him, all that in this instance is within the reach of
human genius. Now, in conclusion, the Method which
teaches adherence to the true order, and an exact enumera-
tion of all the conditions of the thing sought includes all that
gives certitude to the rules of Arithmetic.
But the chief ground of my satisfaction with this Method,
20 DESCARTES
was the assurance I had of thereby exercising my reason in
all matters, if not with absolute perfection, at least with the
greatest attainable by me: besides, I was conscious that by
its use my mind was becoming gradually habituated to
clearer and more distinct conceptions of its objects; and I
hoped also, from not having restricted this Method to any
particular matter, to apply it to the difficulties of the other
Sciences, with not less success than to those of Algebra. I
should not, however, on this account have ventured at once
on the examination of all the difficulties of the Sciences
which presented themselves to me, for this would have been
contrary to the order prescribed in the Method, but observing
that the knowledge of such is dependent on principles bor-
rowed from Philosophy, in which I found nothing certain, I
thought it necessary first of all to endeavour to establish its
principles. And because I observed, besides, that an inquiry
of this kind was of all others of the greatest moment, and
one in which precipitancy and anticipation in judgment were
most to be dreaded, I thought that I ought not to approach
it till I had reached a more mature age, (being at that time
but twenty-three,) and had first of all employed much of my
time in preparation for the work, as well by eradicating
from my mind all the erroneous opinions I had up to that
moment accepted, as by amassing variety of experience to
afford materials for my reasonings, and by continually exer-
cising myself in my chosen Method with a view to increased
skill in its application.
PART III
AND, finally, as it is not enough, before commencing to
l\ rebuild the house in which we live, that it be pulled
-*- A_ down, and materials and builders provided, or that we
engage in the work ourselves, according to a plan which we
have beforehand carefully drawn out, but as it is likewise
necessary that we be furnished with some other house in
which we may live commodiously during the operations, so
that I might not remain irresolute in my actions, while my
Reason compelled me to suspend my judgment, and that I
might not be prevented from living thenceforward in the
greatest possible felicity, I formed a provisory code of
Morals, composed of three or four maxims, with which I
am desirous to make you acquainted.
#The first was to obey the laws and customs of my country,
adhering firmly to the Faith in which, by the grace of God,
I had been educated from my childhood, and regulating my
conduct in every other matter according to the most mod-
erate opinions, and the farthest removed from extremes,
which should happen to be adopted in practice with general
consent of the most judicious of those among whom I might
be living. For, as I had from that time begun to hold my
own opinions for nought because I wished to subject them
all to examination, I was convinced that I could not do
better than follow in the meantime the opinions of the most
judicious; and although there are some perhaps among the
Persians and Chinese as judicious as among ourselves, ex-
pediency seemed to dictate that I should regulate my prac-
tice conformably to the opinions of those with whom I
should have to live ; and it appeared to me that, in order to
ascertain the real opinions of such, I ought rather to take
cognizance of what they practised than of what they said,
not only because, in the corruption of our manners, there
are few disposed to speak exactly as they believe, but also
21
22 DESCARTES
because very many are not aware of what it is that they
really believe; for, as the act of mind by which a thing is
believed is different from that by which we know that we
believe it, the one act is often found without the other.
Also, amid many opinions held in equal repute, I chose
always the most moderate, as much for the reason that these
are always the most convenient for practice, and probably
the best, (for all excess is generally vicious,) as that, in the
event of my falling into error, I might be at less distance
from the truth than if, having chosen one of the extremes, it
should turn out to be the other which I ought to have
adopted. And I placed in the class of extremes especially
all promises by which somewhat of our freedom is abridged;
not that I disapproved of the laws which, to provide against
the instability of men of feeble resolution, when what is
sought to be accomplished is some good, permit engagements
by vows and contracts binding the parties to persevere in it,
or even, for the security of commerce, sanction similar en-
gagements where the purpose sought to be realized is in-
different : but because I did not find anything on earth which
was wholly superior to change, and because, for myself in
particular, I hoped gradually to perfect my judgments, and
not to suffer them to deteriorate, I would have deemed it a
grave sin against good sense, if, for the reason that I ap-
proved of something at a particular time, I therefore bound
myself to hold it for good at a subsequent time, when per-
haps it had ceased to be so, or I had ceased to esteem it
such.
My second maxim was to be as firm and resolute in my
actions as I was able, and not to adhere less steadfastly to
the most doubtful opinions, when once adopted, than if they
had been highly certain; imitating in this the example of
travellers who, when they have lost their way in a forest,
ought not to wander from side to side, far less remain in
one place, but proceed constantly towards the same side in as
straight a line as possible, without changing their direction
for slight reasons, although perhaps it might be chance alone
which at first determined the selection; for in this way, if
they do not exactly reach the point they desire, they will
come at least in the end to some place that will probably be
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 23
preferable to the middle of a forest. In the same wayr since
in action it frequently happens that no delay is permissible,
it is very certain that, when it is not in our power to de-
termine what is true, we ought to act according to what Is
most probable; and even although we should not remark a
greater probability in one opinion than in another, we ought
notwithstanding to choose one or the other, and afterwards
consider it, in so far as it relates to practice, as no longer
dubious, but manifestly true and certain, since the reason
by which our choice has been determined is itself possessed
of these qualities. This principle was sufficient thencefor-
ward to rid me of all those repentings and pangs of remorse
that usually disturb the consciences of such feeble and un-
certain minds as, destitute of any clear and determinate
principle of choice, allow themselves one day to adopt a
course of action as the best, which they abandon the next,
as the opposite.
*TMy third maxim was to endeavour always to conquer my-
self rather than fortune, and change my desires rather than
the order of the world, and in general, accustom myself to
the persuasion that, except our own thoughts, there is noth-
ing absolutely in our power; so that when we have done
our best in respect of things external to us, all wherein we
fail of success is to be held, as regards us, absolutely im-
possible: and this single principle seemed to me sufficient to
prevent me from desiring for the future anything which I
could not obtain, and thus render me contented; for since
our will naturally seeks those objects alone which the under-
standing represents as in some way possible of attainment/
it is plain, that if we consider all external goods as equally
beyond our power, we shall no more regret the absence of
such goods as seem due to our birth, when deprived of them
without any fault of ours, than our not possessing the king-
doms of China or Mexico; and thus making, so to speak, a
virtue of necessity, we shall no more desire health in disease,
or freedom in imprisonment, than we now do bodies incor-
ruptible as diamonds, or the wings of birds to fly with. But
I confess there is need of prolonged discipline and frequently
repeated meditation to accustom the mind to view all objects
in this light; and I believe that in this chiefly consisted the
24 DESCARTES
secret of the power of such philosophers as in former times
were enabled to rise superior to the influence of fortune, and
amid suffering and poverty, enjoy a happiness which their
gods might have envied. For, occupied incessantly with the
consideration of the limits prescribed to their power by na-
ture, they became so entirely convinced that nothing was at
their disposal except their own thoughts, that this conviction
was of itself sufficient to prevent their entertaining any de-
sire of other objects; and over their thoughts they acquired
a sway so absolute, that they had some ground on this ac-
count for esteeming themselves more rich and more powerful,
more free and more happy, than other men who, whatever
be the favours heaped on them by nature and fortune, if
destitute of this philosophy, can never command the realiza-
tion of all their desires.
In fine, to conclude this code of Morals, I thought of
reviewing the different occupations of men in this life, with
the view of making choice of the best. And, without wish-
ing to offer any remarks on the employments of others, (i
may state that it was my conviction that I could not do bet-
ter than continue in that in which I was engaged, viz., in
devoting my whole life to the culture of my Reason, and in
making the greatest progress I was able in the knowledge
of truth, on the principles of the Method which I had pre-
scribed to myself. This Method, from the time I had begun
to apply it, had been to me the source of satisfaction so in-
tense as to lead me to believe that more perfect or more
innocent could not be enjoyed in this life; and as by its,
means I daily discovered truths that appeared to me of somey
importance, and of which other men were generally ignorant,
the gratification thence arising so occupied my mind that I
was wholly indifferent to every other object. Besides, the
three preceding maxims were founded singly on the design
of continuing the work of self-instruction. For since God
has endowed each of us with some Light of Reason by which
to distinguish truth from error, I could not have believed
that I ought for a single moment to rest satisfied with the
opinions of another, unless I had resolved to exercise my
own judgment in examining these whenever I should be duly
qualified for the task. Nor could I have proceeded on such
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 25
opinions without scruple, had I supposed that I should there-
by forfeit any advantage for attaining still more accurate,
should such exist. And, in fine, I could not have restrained
my desires, nor remained satisfied, had I not followed a path
in which I thought myself certain of attaining all the knowl-
edge to the acquisition of which I was competent, as well
as the largest amount of what is truly good which I could
ever hope to secure. Inasmuch as we neither seek nor shun
any object except in so far as our understanding represents
it as good or bad, all that is necessary to right action is right
judgment, and to the best action the most correct judgment,
— that is, to the acquisition of all the virtues with all else
that is truly valuable and within our reach; and the assur-
ance of such an acquisition cannot fail to render us con-
tented.
Having thus provided myself with these maxims, and
having placed them in reserve along with the truths of
Faith, which have ever occupied the first place in my belief,
I came to the conclusion that I might with freedom set about
ridding myself of what remained of my opinions. And, in-
asmuch as I hoped to be better able successfully to accom-
plish this work by holding intercourse with mankind, than by
remaining longer shut up in the retirement where these
thoughts had occurred to me, I betook me again to travelling
before the winter was well ended. And, during the nine
subsequent years, I did nothing but roam from one place to
another, desirous of being a spectator rather than an actor
in the plays exhibited on the theatre of the world; and, as I
made it my business in each matter to reflect particularly
upon what might fairly be doubted and prove a source of
error, I gradually rooted out from my mind all the errors
which had hitherto crept into it. Not that in this I imitated
the Sceptics who doubt only that they may doubt, and seek
nothing beyond uncertainty itself; for, on the contrary, my
design was singly to find ground of assurance, and cast
aside the loose earth and sand, that I might reach the rock
or the clay. In this, as appears to me, I was successful
enough; for, since I endeavoured to discover the falsehood
or incertitude of the propositions I examined, not by feeble
conjectures, but by clear and certain reasonings, I met with
26 DESCARTES
nothing so doubtful as not to yield some conclusion of ade-
quate certainty, although this were merely the inference,
that the matter in question contained nothing certain. And,
just as in pulling down an old house, we usually reserve the
ruins to contribute towards the erection, so, in destroying
such of my opinions as I judged to be ill-founded, I made a
variety of observations and acquired an amount of ex-
perience of which I availed myself in the establishment of
more certain. And further, I continued to exercise myself^
in the Method I had prescribed; for, besides taking care in
general to conduct all my thoughts according to its rules, I
reserved some hours from time to time which I expressly \
devoted to the employment of the Method in the solution off
Mathematical difficulties, or even in the solution likewise of
some questions belonging to other Sciences, but which, by my\
having detached them from such principles of these Sciencesj
as were of inadequate certainty, were rendered almost
Mathematical: the truth of this will be manifest from the
numerous examples contained in this volume. 3 And thus,
without in appearance living otherwise than those who, with
no other occupation than that of spending their lives agreea-
bly and innocently, study to sever pleasure from vice, and
who, that they may enjoy their leisure without ennui, have
recourse to such pursuits as are honourable, I was neverthe-
less prosecuting my design, and making greater progress in
the knowledge of truth, than I might, perhaps, have made
had I been engaged in the perusal of books merely, or in
holding converse with men of letters.
These nine years passed away, however, before I had
come to any determinate judgment respecting the difficulties
which form matter of dispute among the learned, or had
commenced to seek the principles of any Philosophy more
certain than the vulgar. And the examples of many men of
the highest genius, who had, in former times, engaged in this
inquiry, but, as appeared to me, without success, led me to
imagine it to be a work of so much difficulty, that I would
not perhaps have ventured on it so soon had I not heard it
currently rumoured that I had already completed the in-
s The Discourse on Method was originally published along with the Dicp*
tries, the Meteorics, and the Geometry. — Tr.
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 27
quiry. I know not what were the grounds of this opinion;
and, if my conversation contributed in any measure to its
rise, this must have happened rather from my having con-
fessed my ignorance with greater freedom than those are
accustomed to do who have studied a little, and expounded,
perhaps, the reasons that led me to doubt of many of those
things that by others are esteemed certain, than from my
having boasted of any system of Philosophy. But, as I am
of a disposition that makes me unwilling to be esteemed dif-
ferent from what I really am, I thought it necessary to en-
deavour by all means to render myself worthy of the repu-
tation accorded to me; and it is now exactly eight years since
this desire constrained me to remove from all those places
where interruption from any of my acquaintances was pos-
sible, and betake myself to this country, 4 in which the long
duration of the war has led to the establishment of such
discipline, that the armies maintained seem to be of use only
in enabling the inhabitants to enjoy more securely the bless-
ings of peace; and where, in the midst of a great crowd
actively engaged in business, and more careful of their own
affairs than curious about those of others, I have been en-
abled to live without being deprived of any of the conven-
iences to be had in the most populous cities, and yet as soli-
tary and as retired as in the midst of the most remote
deserts.
* Holland; to which country he withdrew in 1629. — 7>.
\
PART IV
I AM in doubt as to the propriety of making my first
meditations in the place above mentioned matter of dis-
course; for these are so metaphysical, and so uncom-
mon, as not, perhaps, to be acceptable to every one. And yet,
that it may be determined whether the foundations that I have
laid are sufficiently secure, I find myself in a measure con-
strained to advert to them. I had long before remarked that,
in (relation to) practice, it is sometimes necessary to adopt,
as if above doubt, opinions which we discern to be highly
uncertain, as has been already said; but as I then desired to
give my attention solely to the search after truth, I thought
that a procedure exactly the opposite was called for, and
that I ought to reject as absolutely false all opinions in
regard to which I could suppose the least ground for doubt,
in order to ascertain whether after that there remained
aught in my belief that was wholly indubitable. Accordingly,
seeing that our senses sometimes deceive us, I was willing
to suppose that there existed nothing really such as they
presented to us; and because some men err in reasoning,
and fall into paralogisms, even on the simplest matters of
Geometry, I, convinced that I was as open to error as any
other, rejected as false all the reasonings I had hitherto
taken for demonstrations ; and finally, when I considered that
the very same thoughts (presentations) which we experience
when awake may also be experienced when we are asleep,
while there is at that time not one of them true, I supposed
that all the objects (presentations) that had ever entered
into my mind when awake, had in them no more truth than
the illusions of my dreams. But immediately upon this I
observed that, whilst I thus wished to think that all was false,
it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus thought, should
be somewhat; and as I observed that this truth, / think,
hence I am, was so certain and of such evidence, that no
28
/T??3
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 29
ground of doubt, however extravagant, could be alleged by
the Sceptics capable of shaking it, I concluded that I might,
without scruple, accept it as the first principle of the Philoso-
phy of which I was in search.
In the next place, I attentively examined what I was,. and
as I observed that I could suppose that I had no body, and
that there was no world nor any place in which I might be ;
but that I could not therefore suppose that I was not; and
that, on the contrary, from the very circumstance that I
thought to doubt of the truth of other things, it most clearly
and certainly followed that I was ; while, on the other hand,
if I had only ceased to think, although all the other objects
which I had ever imagined had been in reality existent, I
would have had no reason to believe that I existed; I thence
concluded that I was a substance whose whole essence or
nature consists only in thinking, and which, that it may exist,
has need of no place, nor is dependent on any material thing;
so that " I," that is to say, the mind by which I am what I
am, is wholly distinct from the body, and is even more
easily known than the latter, and is such, that although the
latter were not, it would still continue to be all that it is.
After this I inquired in general into what is essential to
the truth and certainty of a proposition; for since I had dis-
covered one which I knew to be true, I thought that I must
likewise be able to discover the ground of this certitude.
And as I observed that in the words i" think, hence I am,
there is nothing at all which gives me assurance of their
truth beyond this, that I see very clearly that in order to
think it is necessary to exist, I concluded that I might take,
as a general rule, the principle, that all the things which we
very clearly and distinctly conceive are true, only observing,
however, that there is some difficulty in rightly determining
the objects which we distinctly conceive.
In the next place, from reflecting on the circumstance that
I doubted, and that consequently my being was not wholly
perfect, (for I clearly saw that it was a greater perfection to
know than to doubt,) I was led to inquire whence I had
learned to think of something more perfect than myself; and
I clearly recognised that I must hold this notion from some
Nature which in reality was more perfect. As for the
SO DESCARTES
thoughts of many other objects external to me, as of the sky,
the earth, light, heat, and a thousand more, I was less at a
loss to know whence these came; for since I remarked in
them nothing which seemed to render them superior to my-
self, I could believe that, if these were true, they were
dependencies on my own nature, in so far as it possessed a
certain perfection, and, if they were false, that I held them
from nothing, that is to say, that they were in me because of
a certain imperfection of my nature. But this could not be
the case with the idea of a Nature more perfect than myself;
for to receive it from nothing was a thing manifestly impos-
sible; and, because it is not less repugnant that the more
perfect should be an effect of, and dependence on the less
perfect, than that something should proceed from nothing,
it was equally impossible that I could hold it from myself:
accordingly, it but remained that it had been placed in me by
a Nature which was in reality more perfect than mine, and
which even possessed within itself all the perfections of
which I could form any idea ; that is to say, in a single word,
which was God. And to this I added that, since I knew some
perfections which I did not possess, I was not the only being
in existence, (I will here, with your permission, freely use
the terms of the schools) ; but, on the contrary, that there
was of necessity some other more perfect Being upon whom
I was dependent, and from whom I had received all that I
possessed; for if I had existed alone, and independently of
every other being, so as to have had from myself all the
perfection, however little, which I actually possessed, I
should have been able, for the same reason, to have had
from myself the whole remainder of perfection, of the want
of which I was conscious, and thus could of myself have be-
come infinite, eternal, immutable, omniscient, all-powerful,
and, in fine, have possessed all the perfections which I could
recognise in God. For in order to know the nature of God,
(whose existence has been established by the preceding
reasonings,) as far as my own nature permitted, I had only
to consider in reference to all the properties of which I
found in my mind some idea, whether their possession was a
mark of perfection; and I was assured that no one which
indicated any imperfection was in him, and that none of the
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 31
rest was awanting. Thus I perceived that doubt, incon-
stancy, sadness, and such like, could not be found in God,
since I myself would have been happy to be free from them.
Besides, I had ideas of many sensible and corporeal things ;
for although I might suppose that I was dreaming, and that
all which I saw or imagined was false, I could not, never-
theless, deny that the ideas were in reality in my thoughts.
But, because I had already very clearly recognised in myself
that the intelligent nature is distinct from the corporeal, and
as I observed that all composition is an evidence of depend-
ency, and that a state of dependency is manifestly a state of
imperfection, I therefore determined that it could not be a
perfection in God to be compounded of these two natures,
and that consequently he was not so compounded; but that
if there were any bodies in the world, or even any intel-
ligences, or other natures that were not wholly perfect, their
existence depended on his power in such a way that they
could not subsist without him for a single moment.
\I was disposed straightway to search for other truths; and
when I had represented to myself the object of the
geometers, which I conceived to be a continuous body, or a
space indefinitely extended in length, breadth, and height or
depth, divisible into divers parts which admit of different
figures and sizes, and of being moved or transposed in all
manner of ways, (for all this the geometers suppose to be
in the object they contemplate,) I went over some of their
simplest demonstrations. And, in the first place, I observed,
that the great certitude which by common consent is ac-
corded to these demonstrations, is founded solely upon this,
that they are clearly conceived in accordance with the rules
I have already laid down. In the next place, I perceived
that there was nothing at all in these demonstrations which
could assure me of the existence of their object: thus, for
example, supposing a triangle to be given, I distinctly per-
ceived that its three angles were necessarily equal to two
right angles, but I did not on that account perceive any-
thing which could assure me that any triangle existed :)while,
on the contrary, recurring to the examination of the idea of
a Perfect Being, I found that the existence of the Being was
comprised in the idea in the same way that the equality of
32 DESCARTES
(its three angles to two right angles is comprised in the idea
of a triangle, or as in the idea of a sphere, the equidistance
of all points on its surface from the centre, or even still
more clearly; and that consequently it is at least as certain
that God, who is this Perfect Being, is, or exists, as any
demonstration of Geometry can be.
But the reason which leads many to persuade themselves
that there is a difficulty in knowing this truth, and even also
in knowing what their mind really is, is that they never raise
their thoughts above sensible objects, and are so accustomed
to consider nothing except by way of imagination, which is
a mode of thinking limited to material objects, that all that
is not imaginable seems to them not intelligible. The truth
of this is sufficiently manifest from the single circumstance,
that the philosophers of the Schools accept as a maxim that
there is nothing in the Understanding which was not pre-
viously in the Senses, in which however it is certain that
the ideas of God and of the soul have never been; and it
appears to me that they who make use of their imagination
to comprehend these ideas do exactly the same thing as if,
in order to hear sounds or smell odours, they strove to avail
themselves of their eyes; unless indeed that there is this
difference, that the sense of sight does not afford us an
inferior assurance to those of smell or hearing; in place of
which, neither our imagination ncr our senses can give us
assurance of anything unless our Understanding intervene.
Finally, if there be, still persons who are not sufficiently
persuaded of the existence of God and of the soul, by the
reasons I have adduced, I am desirous that they should know
that all the other propositions, of the truth of which they
deem themselves perhaps more assured, as that we have a
body, and that there exist stars and an earth, and such like,
are less certain ; for, although we have a moral assurance of
these things, which is so strong that there is an appearance
of extravagance in doubting of their existence, yet at the
same time no one, unless his intellect is impaired, can deny,
when the question relates to a metaphysical certitude, that
there is sufficient reason to exclude entire assurance, in the
observation that when asleep we can in the same way
imagine ourselves possessed of another body and that we see
(A) HC— Vol. 34
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 33
other stars and another earth, when there is nothing of the
kind. For how do we know that the thoughts which occur
in dreaming are false rather than those other which we
experience when awake, since the former are often not less
vivid and distinct than the latter? And though men of the
highest genius study this question as long as they please, I
do not believe that they will be able to give any reason which
can be sufficient to remove this doubt, unless they presuppose
the existence of God. For, in the first place, even the prin-
ciple which I have already taken as a rule, viz., that all the
things which we clearly and distinctly conceive are true, is
certain only because God is or exists, and because he is a
Perfect Being, and because all that we possess is derived
from him : whence it follows that our ideas or notions, which
to the extent of their clearness and distinctness are real,
and proceed from God, must to that extent be true. Accord-
ingly, whereas we not unfrequently have ideas or notions in
which some falsity is contained, this can only be the case
with such as are to some extent confused and obscure, and
in this proceed from nothing, (participate of negation,) that
is, exist in us thus confused because we are not wholly per-
fect. And it is evident that it is not less repugnant that
falsity or imperfection, in so far as it is imperfection, should
proceed from God, than that truth or perfection should pro-
ceed from nothing. But if we did not know that all which
we possess of real and true proceeds from a Perfect and
Infinite Being, however clear and distinct our ideas might be,
we should have no ground on that account for the assurance
that they possessed the perfection of being true.
But after the knowledge of God and of the soul has ren-
dered us certain of this rule, we can easily understand that
the truth of the thoughts we experience when awake, ought
not in the slightest degree to be called in question on account
of the illusions of our dreams. For if it happened that an
individual, even when asleep, had some very distinct idea, as,
for example, if a geometer should discover some new demon-
stration, the circumstance of his being asleep would not
militate against its truth ; and as for the most ordinary error
of our dreams, which consists in their representing to us
various objects in the same way as our external senses, this
(B) HC— Vol. 34
34 DESCARTES
is not prejudicial, since it leads us very properly to suspect
the truth of the ideas of sense; for we are not unfrequently
deceived in the same manner when awake ; as when persons
in the jaundice see all objects yellow, or when the stars
or bodies at a great distance appear to us much smaller
than they are. For, in fine, whether awake or asleep, we
ought never to allow ourselves to be persuaded of the truth
of anything unless on the evidence of our Reason. And it
must be noted that I say of our Reason, and not of our
imagination or of our senses : thus, for example, although we
very clearly see the sun, we ought not therefore to determine
that it is only of the size which our sense of sight presents ;
and we may very distinctly imagine the head of a lion joined
to the body of a goat, without being therefore shut up to the
conclusion that a chimsera exists; for it is not a dictate of
Reason that what we thus see or imagine is in reality
existent; but it plainly tells us that all our ideas or notions
contain in them some truth; for otherwise it could not be
that God, who is wholly perfect and veracious, should have
placed them in us. And because our reasonings are never
so clear or so complete during sleep as when we are awake,
although sometimes the acts of our imagination are then as
lively and distinct, if not more so than in our waking
moments, Reason further dictates that, since all our thoughts
cannot be true because of our partial imperfection, those
possessing truth must infallibly be found in the experience
of our waking moments rather than i» that of our dreams.
PART V
I WOULD here willingly have proceeded to exhibit the
whole chain of truths which I deduced from these
primary ; but as with a view to this it would have been
necessary now to treat of many questions in dispute among
the learned, with whom I do not wish to be embroiled, I be-
lieve that it will be better for me to refrain from this exposi-
tion, and only mention in general what these truths are, that
the more judicious may be able to determine whether a more
special account of them would conduce to the public ad-
vantage. I have ever remained firm in my original resolu-
tion to suppose no other principle than that of which I have
recently availed myself in demonstrating the existence of
God and of the soul, and to accept as true nothing that did
not appear to me more clear and certain than the demonstra-
tions of the geometers had formerly appeared; and yet I
venture to state that not only have I found means to satisfy
myself in a short time on all the principal difficulties which
are usually treated of in Philosophy, but I have also observed
certain laws established in nature by God in such a manner,
and of which he has impressed on our minds such notions,
that after we have reflected sufficiently upon these, we can-
not doubt that they are accurately observed in all that exists
or takes place in the world: and farther, by considering the
concatenation of these laws, it appears to me that I have dis-
covered many truths more useful and more important than
all I had before learned, or even had expected to learn.
But because I have essayed to expound the chief of these
discoveries in a Treatise which certain considerations prevent
me from publishing, I cannot make the results known more
conveniently than by here giving a summary of the contents
of this Treatise. It was my design to comprise in it all that,
before I set myself to write it, I thought I knew of the nature
of material objects. But like the painters who, finding them*
35
36 DESCARTES
selves unable to represent equally well on a plain surface all
the different faces of a solid body, select one of the chief,
on which alone they make the light fall, and throwing the
rest into the shade, allow them to appear only in so far as
they can be seen while looking at the principal one ; so, fear-
ing lest I should not be able to comprise in my discourse all
that was in my mind, I resolved to expound singly, though
at considerable length, my opinions regarding light; then to
take the opportunity of adding something on the sun and the
fixed stars, since light almost wholly proceeds from them;
on the heavens since they transmit it ; on the planets, comets,
and earth, since they reflect it; and particularly on all the
bodies that are upon the earth, since they are either coloured,
or transparent, or luminous; and finally on man, since he is
the spectator of these objects. Further, to enable me to cast
this variety of subjects somewhat into the shade, and to ex-
press my judgment regarding them with greater freedom,
without being necessitated to adopt or refute the opinions of
the learned, I resolved to leave all the people here to their
disputes, and to speak only of what would happen in a new
world, if God were now to create somewhere in the imaginary
spaces matter sufficient to compose one, and were to agitate
variously and confusedly the different parts of this matter,
so that there resulted a chaos as disordered as the poets ever
feigned, and after that did nothing more than lend his or-
dinary concurrence to nature, and allow her to act in ac-
cordance with the laws which he had established. On this
supposition, I, in the first place, described this matter, and
essayed to represent it in such a manner that to my mind
there can be nothing clearer and more intelligible, except
what has been recently said regarding God and the soul;
for I even expressly supposed that it possessed none of those
forms or qualities which are so debated in the Schools, nor
in general anything the knowledge of which is not so natural
to our minds that no one can so much as imagine himself
ignorant of it. Besides, I have pointed out what are the
laws of nature; and, with no other principle upon which to
found my reasonings except the infinite perfection of God,
I endeavoured to demonstrate all those about which there
Could be any room for doubt, and to prove that they are
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 37
such, that even if God had created more worlds, there could
have been none in which these laws were not observed.
Thereafter, I showed how the greatest part of the matter
of this chaos must, in accordance with these laws, dispose
and arrange itself in such a way as to present the appearance
of heavens; how in the meantime some of its parts must com-
pose an earth and some planets and comets, and others a
sun and fixed stars. And, making a digression at this stage
on the subject of light, I expounded at considerable length
what the nature of that light must be which is found in the
sun and the stars, and how thence in an instant of time it
traverses the immense spaces of the heavens, and how from
the planets and comets it is reflected towards the earth. To
this I likewise added much respecting the substance, the
situation, the motions, and all the different qualities of these
heavens and stars; so that I thought I had said enough
respecting them to show that there is nothing observable in
the heavens or stars of our system that must not, or at least
may not appear precisely alike in those of the system which
I described. I came next to speak of the earth in particular,
and to show how, even though I had expressly supposed that
God had given no weight to the matter of which it is com-
posed, this should not prevent all its parts from tending
exactly to its centre; how with water and air on its surface,
the disposition of the heavens and heavenly bodies, more
especially of the moon, must cause a flow and ebb, like in all
its circumstances to that observed in our seas, as also a
certain current both of water and air from east to west,
such as is likewise observed between the tropics; how the
mountains, seas, fountains, and rivers might naturally be
formed in it, and the metals produced in the mines, and the
plants grow in the fields ; and in general, how all the bodies
which are commonly denominated mixed or composite might
be generated: and, among other things in the discoveries
alluded to, inasmuch as besides the stars, I knew nothing
except fire which produces light, I spared no pains to set
forth all that pertains to its nature, — the manner of its pro-
duction and support, and to explain how heat is sometimes
found without light, and light without heat ; to show how it
can induce various colours upon different bodies and other
38 DESCARTES
diverse qualities; how it reduces some to a liquid state and
hardens others; how it can consume almost all bodies, or
convert them into ashes and smoke; and finally, how from
these ashes, by the mere intensity of its action, it forms
glass: for as this transmutation of ashes into glass appeared
to me as wonderful as any other in nature, I took a special
pleasure in describing it.
I was not, however, disposed, from these circumstances,
to conclude that this world had been created in the manner
I described; for it is much more likely that God made it at
the first such as it was to be. But this is certain, and an
opinion commonly received among theologians, that the
action by which he now sustains it is the same with that by
which he originally created it ; so that even although he had
from the beginning given it no other form than that of
chaos, provided only he had established certain laws of
nature, and had lent it his concurrence to enable it to act as
it is wont to do, it may be believed, without discredit to the
miracle of creation, that, in this way alone, things purely
material might, in course of time, have become such as we
observe them at present; and their nature is much more
easily conceived when they are beheld coming in this manner
gradually into existence, than when they are only considered
as produced at once in a finished and perfect state.
From the description of inanimate bodies and plants, I
passed to animals, and particularly to man. But since I had
not as yet sufficient knowledge to enable me to treat of these
in the same manner as of the rest, that is to say, by deducing
effects from their causes, and by showing from what ele-
ments and in what manner Nature must produce them, I
remained satisfied with the supposition that God formed the
body of man wholly like to one of ours, as well in the ex-
ternal shape of the members as in the internal conformation
of the organs, of the same matter with that I had described,
and at first placed in it no Rational Soul, nor any other prin-
ciple, in room of the Vegetative or Sensitive Soul, beyond
kindling in the heart one of those fires without light, such as
I had already described, and which I thought was not dif-
ferent from the heat in hay that has been heaped together
before it is dry, or that which causes fermentation in new
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 39
wines before they are run clear of the fruit. For, when I
examined the kind of functions which might, as consequences
of this supposition, exist in this body, I found precisely all
those which may exist in us independently of all power of
thinking, and consequently without being in any measure
owing to the soul ; in other words, to that part of us which is
distinct from the body, and of which it has been said above
that the nature distinctively consists in thinking, — functions
in which the animals void of Reason may be said wholly to
resemble us; but among which I could not discover any of
those that, as dependent on thought alone, belong to us as
men, while, on the other hand, I did afterwards discover
these as soon as I supposed God to have created a Rational
Soul, and to have annexed it to this body in a particular
manner which I described.
But, in order to show how I there handled this matter, I
mean here to give the explication of the motion of the heart
and arteries, which, as the first and most general motion ob-
served in animals, will afford the means of readily deter-
mining what should be thought of all the rest. And that
there may be less difficulty in understanding what I am
about to say on this subject, I advise those who are not
versed in Anatomy, before they commence the perusal of
these observations, to take the trouble of getting dissected in
their presence the heart of some large animal possessed of
lungs, (for this is throughout sufficiently like the human,)
and to have shewn to them its two ventricles or cavities : in
the first place, that in the right side, with which correspond
two very ample tubes, viz., the hollow vein, (vena cava,)
which is the principal receptacle of the blood, and the trunk
of the tree, as it were, of which all the other veins in the
body are branches; and the arterial vein, (vena arteriosa,)
inappropriately so denominated, since it is in truth only an
artery, which, taking its rise in the heart, is divided, after
passing out from it, into many branches which presently
disperse themselves all over the lungs ; in the second place,
the cavity in the left side, with which correspond in the
same manner two canals in size equal to or larger than the
preceding, viz., the venous artery, (arteria venosa,) likewise
inappropriately thus designated, because it is simply a vein
40 DESCARTES
which comes from the lungs, where it is divided into many
branches, interlaced with those of the arterial vein, and
those of the tube called the windpipe, through which the air
we breathe enters ; and the great artery which, issuing from
the heart, sends its branches all over the body. I should
wish also that such persons were carefully shewn the eleven
pellicles which, like so many small valves, open and shut the
four orifices that are in these two cavities, viz., three at the
entrance of the hollow vein, where they are disposed in such
a manner as by no means to prevent the blood which it con-
tains from flowing into the right ventricle of the heart, and
yet exactly to prevent its flowing out; three at the entrance
to the arterial vein, which, arranged in a manner exactly the
opposite of the former, readily permit the blood contained in
this cavity to pass into the lungs, but hinder that contained in
the lungs from returning to this cavity ; and, in like manner,
two others at the mouth of the venous artery, which allow the
blood from the lungs to flow into the left cavity of the heart,
but preclude its return; and three at the mouth of the great
artery, which suffer the blood to flow from the heart, but
prevent its reflux. Nor do we need to seek any other reason
for the number of these pellicles beyond this that the orifice
of the venous artery being of an oval shape from the nature
of its situation, can be adequately closed with two, whereas
the others being round are more conveniently closed with
three. Besides, I wish such persons to observe that the
grand artery and the arterial vein are of much harder and
firmer texture than the venous artery and the hollow vein;
and that the two last expand before entering the heart, and
there form, as it were, two pouches denominated the auricles
of the heart, which are composed of a substance similar to
that of the heart itself; and that there is always more warmth
in the heart than in any other part of the body; and, finally,
that this heat is capable of causing any drop of blood that
passes into the cavities rapidly to expand and dilate, just as
all liquors do when allowed to fall drop by drop into a highly
heated vessel.
For, after these things, it is not necessary for me to say
anything more with a view to explain the motion of the
heart, except that when its cavities are not full of blood, into
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 41
these the blood of necessity flows, — from the hollow vein
into the right, and from the venous artery into the left;
because these two vessels are always full of blood, and their
orifices, which are turned towards the heart, cannot then be
closed. But as soon as two drops of blood have thus passed,
one into each of the cavities, these drops which cannot but be
very large, because the orifices through which they pass are
wide, and the vessels from which they come full of blood,
are immediately rarefied, and dilated by the heat they meet
with. In this way they cause the whole heart to expand, and
at the same time press home and shut the five small valves
that are at the entrances of the two vessels from which they
flow, and thus prevent any more blood from coming down
into the heart, and becoming more and more rarefied, they
push open the six small valves that are in the orifices of the
other two vessels, through which they pass out, causing in
this way all the branches of the arterial vein and of the
grand artery to expand almost simultaneously with the heart
— which immediately thereafter begins to contract, as do
also the arteries, because the blood that has entered them has
cooled, and the six small valves close, and the five of the
hollow vein and of the venous artery open anew and allow
a passage to other two drops of blood, which cause the heart
and the arteries again to expand as before. And, because
the blood which thus enters into the heart passes through
these two pouches called auricles, it thence happens that their
motion is the contrary of that of the heart, and that when it
expands they contract. But lest those who are ignorant of
the force of mathematical demonstrations, and who are not
accustomed to distinguish true reasons from mere verisimili-
tudes, should venture, without examination, to deny what has
been said, I wish it to be considered that the motion which
I have now explained follows as necessarily from the very ar-
rangement of the parts, which may be observed in the heart by
the eye alone, and from the heat which may be felt with the
fingers, and from the nature of the blood as learned from ex-
perience, as does the motion of a clock from the power, the
situation, and shape of its counter-weights and wheels.
But if it be asked how it happens that the blood in the
veins, flowing in this way continually into the heart, is not
42 DESCARTES
exhausted, and why the arteries do not become too full,
since all the blood which passes through the heart flows into
them, I need only mention in reply what has been written by
a physician 5 of England, who has the honour of having
broken the ice on this subject, and of having been the first
to teach that there are many small passages at the extremities
of the arteries, through which the blood received by them
from the heart passes into the small branches of the veins,
whence it again returns to the heart; so that its course
amounts precisely to a perpetual circulation. Of this we have
abundant proof in the ordinary experience of surgeons, who,
by binding the arm with a tie of moderate straitness above
the part where they open the vein, cause the blood to flow
more copiously than it would have done without any ligature ;
whereas quite the contrary would happen were they to bind
it below ; that is, between the hand and the opening, or were
to make the ligature above the opening very tight. For it is
manifest that the tie, moderately straitened, while adequate
to hinder the blood already in the arm from returning
towards the heart by the veins, cannot on that account pre-
vent new blood from coming forward through the arteries,
because these are situated below the veins, and their cover-
ings, from their greater consistency, are more difficult to
compress; and also that the blood which comes from the
heart tends to pass through them to the hand with greater
force than it does to return from the hand to the heart
through the veins. And since the latter current escapes
from the arm by the opening made in one of the veins, there
must of necessity be certain passages below the ligature,
that is, towards the extremities of the arm through which it
can come thither from the arteries. This physician likewise
abundantly establishes what he has advanced respecting the
motion of the blood, from the existence of certain pellicles,
so disposed in various places along the course of the veins,
in the manner of small valves, as not to permit the blood to
pass from the middle of the body towards the extremities,
but only to return from the extremities to the heart; and
farther, from experience which shows that all the blood
which is in the body may flow out of it in a very short time
5 Harvey.
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 43
through a single artery that has been cut, even although this
had been closely tied in the immediate neighbourhood of the
heart, and cut between the heart and the ligature, so as to
prevent the supposition that the blood flowing out of it could
come from any other quarter than the heart.
But there are many other circumstances which evince that
what I have alleged is the true cause of the motion of the
blood : thus, in the first place, the difference that is observed
between the blood which flows from the veins, and that from
the arteries, can only arise from this, that being rarefied,
and, as it were, distilled by passing through the heart, it is
thinner, and more vivid, and warmer immediately after
leaving the heart, in other words, when in the arteries, than
it was a short time before passing into either, in other
words, when it was in the veins; and if attention be given,
it will be found that this difference is very marked only
in the neighbourhood of the heart; and is not so evident
in parts more remote from it. In the next place, the con-
sistency of the coats of which the arterial vein and the
great artery are composed, sufficiently shows that the blood
is impelled against them with more force than against the
veins. And why should the left cavity of the heart and the
great artery be wider and larger than the right cavity and
the arterial vein, were it not that the blood of the venous
artery, having only been in the lungs after it has passed
through the heart, is thinner, and rarefies more readily, and
in a higher degree, than the blood which proceeds imme-
diately from the hollow vein? And what can physicians
conjecture from feeling the pulse unless they know that ac-
cording as the blood changes its nature it can be rarefied
by the warmth of the heart, in a higher or lower degree,
and more or less quickly than before? And if it be in-
quired how this heat is communicated to the other members,
must it not be admitted that this is effected by means of the
blood, which, passing through the heart, is there heated
anew, and thence diffused over all the body? Whence it
happens, that if the blood be withdrawn from any part, the
heat is likewise withdrawn by the same means ; and although
the heart were as hot as glowing iron, it would not be
capable of warming the feet and hands as at present, unless
44 DESCARTES
it continually sent thither new blood. We likewise perceive
from this, that the true use of respiration is to bring suffi-
cient fresh air into the lungs, to cause the blood which
flows into them from the right ventricle of the heart, where
it has been rarefied and, as it were, changed into vapours,
to become thick, and to convert it anew into blood, before
it flows into the left cavity, without which process it would
be unfit for the nourishment of the Are that is there. This
receives confirmation from the circumstance, that it is ob-
served of animals destitute of lungs that they have also but
one cavity in the heart, and that in children who cannot
use them while in the womb, there is a hole through which
the blood flows from the hollow vein into the left cavity of
the heart, and a tube through which it passes from the
arterial vein into the grand artery without passing through
the lung. In the next place, how could digestion be carried
on in the stomach unless the heart communicated heat to it
through the arteries, and along with this certain of the more
fluid parts of the blood, which assists in the dissolution of
the food that has been taken in? Is not also the operation
which converts the juice of food into blood easily compre-
hended, when it is considered that it is distilled by passing
and repassing through the heart perhaps more than one or
two hundred times in a day? And what more need be ad-
duced to explain nutrition, and the production of the dif-
ferent humours of the body, beyond saying, that the force
with which the blood, in being rarefied, passes from the
heart towards the extremities of the arteries, causes certain
of its parts to remain in the members at which they arrive,
and there occupy the place of some others expelled by them ;
and that according to the situation, shape, or smallness of
the pores with which they meet, some rather than others
flow into certain parts, in the same way that some sieves
are observed to act, which, by being variously perforated,
serve to separate different species of grain ? And, in the last
place, what above all is here worthy of observation, is the
generation of the animal spirits, which are like a very subtle
wind, or rather a very pure and vivid flame which, con-
tinually ascending in great abundance from the heart to
the brain, thence penetrates through the nerves into the
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 45
muscles, and gives motion to all the members; so that to
account for other parts of the blood which, as most agitated
and penetrating, are the fittest to compose these spirits, pro-
ceeding towards the brain, it is not necessary to suppose
any other cause, than simply, that the arteries which carry
them thither proceed from the heart in the most direct
lines, and that, according to the rules of Mechanics, which
are the same with those of Nature, when many objects tend
at once to the same point where there is not sufficient room
for all, (as is the case with the parts of the blood which
flow forth from the left cavity of the heart and tend towards
the brain,) the weaker and less agitated parts must neces-
sarily be driven aside from that point by the stronger which
alone in this way reach it.
I had expounded all these matters with sufficient minute-
ness in the Treatise which I formerly thought of publishing.
And after these, I had shewn what must be the fabric of
the nerves and muscles of the human body to give the
animal spirits contained in it the power to move the mem-
bers, as when we see heads shortly after they have been
struck off still move and bite the earth, although no longer
animated ; what changes must take place in the brain to pro-
duce waking, sleep, and dreams ; how light, sounds, odours,
tastes, heat, and all the other qualities of external objects
impress it with different ideas by means of the senses ; how
hunger, thirst, and the other internal affections can likewise
impress upon it divers ideas; what must be understood by
the common sense (sensus communis) in which these ideas
are received, by the memory which retains them, by the
fantasy which can change them in various ways, and out of
them compose new ideas, and which, by the same means,
distributing the animal spirits through the muscles, can
cause the members of such a body to move in as many dif-
ferent ways, and in a manner as suited, whether to the
objects that are presented to its senses or to its internal
affections, as can take place in our own case apart from the
guidance of the will. Nor will this appear at all strange
to those who are acquainted with the variety of movements
performed by the different automata, or moving machines
fabricated by; human industry, and that with help of but
46 DESCARTES
few pieces compared with the great multitude of bones,
muscles, nerves, arteries, veins, and other parts that are
found in the body of each animal. Such persons will look
upon this body as a machine made by the hands of God,
which is incomparably better arranged, and adequate to
movements more admirable than is any machine of human
invention. And here I specially stayed to show that, were
there such machines exactly resembling in organs and out-
ward form an ape or any other irrational animal, we could
have no means of knowing that they were in any respect
of a different nature from these animals ; but if there were
machines bearing the image of our bodies, and capable of
imitating our actions as far as it is morally possible, there
would still remain two most certain tests whereby to know
that they were not therefore really men. Of these the first
is that they could never use words or other signs arranged
in such a manner as is competent to us in order to declare
our thoughts to others: for we may easily conceive a ma-
chine to be so constructed that it emits vocables, and even
that it emits some correspondent to the action upon it of
external objects which cause a change in its organs; for
example, if touched in a particular place it may demand
what we wish to say to it; if in another it may cry out that
it is hurt, and such like ; but not that it should arrange them
variously so as appositely to reply to what is said in its pres-
ence, as men of the lowest grade of intellect can do. The
second test is, that although such machines might execute
many things with equal or perhaps greater perfection than
any of us, they would, without doubt, fail in certain others
from which it could be discovered that they did not act from
knowledge, but solely from the disposition of their organs:
for while Reason is an universal instrument that is alike
available on every occasion, these organs, on the contrary,
need a particular arrangement for each particular action;
whence it must be morally impossible that there should
exist in any machine a diversity of organs sufficient to en-
able it to act in all the occurrences of life, in the way in
which our reason enables us to act. Again, by means of
these two tests we may likewise know the difference be-
tween men and brutes. For it is highly deserving of re-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 47
mark, that there are no men so dull and stupid, not even
idiots, as to be incapable of joining together different words,
and thereby constructing a declaration by which to make
their thoughts understood; and that on the other hand,
there is no other animal, however perfect or happily cir-
cumstanced which can do the like. Nor does this inability
arise from want of organs: for we observe that mag-
pies and parrots can utter words like ourselves, and are
yet unable to speak as we do, that is, so as to show
that they understand what they say; in place of which
men born deaf and dumb, and thus not less, but rather
more than the brutes, destitute of the organs which others
use in speaking, are in the habit of spontaneously inventing
certain signs by which they discover their thoughts to those
who, being usually in their company, have leisure to learn
their language. And this proves not only that the brutes
have less Reason than man, but that they have none at all :
for we see that very little is required to enable a person to
speak; and since a certain inequality of capacity is observable
among animals of the same species, as well as among men,
and since some are more capable of being instructed than
others, it is incredible that the most perfect ape or parrot
of its species, should not in this be equal to the most stupid
infant of its kind, or at least to one that was crack-brained,
unless the soul of brutes were of a nature wholly different
from ours. And we ought not tQ confound speech with the
natural movements which indicate the passions, and can be
imitated by machines as well as manifested by animals; nor
must it be thought with certain of the ancients, that the
brutes speak, although we do not understand their language.
For if such were the case, since they are endowed with
many organs analogous to ours, they could as easily com-
municate their thoughts to us as to their fellows. It is
also very worthy of remark, that, though there are many
animals which manifest more industry than we in certain
of their actions, the same animals are yet observed to show
none at all in many others: so that the circumstance that
they do better than we does not prove that they are en-
dowed with mind, for it would thence follow that they
possessed greater Reason that any of us, and could sur-
48 DESCARTES
pass ns in all things; on the contrary, it rather proves that
they are destitute of Reason, and that it is Nature which
acts in them according to the disposition of their organs:
thus it is seen, that a clock composed only of wheels and
weights can number the hours and measure time more
exactly than we with all our skill.
I had after this described the Reasonable Soul, and
shewn that it could by no means be educed from the power
of matter, as the other things of which I had spoken, but
that it must be expressly created ; and that it is not sufficient
that it be lodged in the human body exactly like a pilot in
a ship, unless perhaps to move its members, but that it is
necessary for it to be joined and united more closely to che
body, in order to have sensations and appetites similar to
ours, and thus constitute a real man. I here entered, in
conclusion, upon the subject of the soul at considerable
length, because it is of the greatest moment: for after the
error of those who deny the existence of God, an error
which I think I have already sufficiently refuted, there is
none that is more powerful in leading feeble minds astray
from the straight path of virtue than the supposition that
the soul of the brutes is of the same nature with our own;
and consequently that after this life we have nothing to
hope for or fear, more than flies and ants; in place of
which, when we know how far they differ we much better
comprehend the reasons which establish that the soul is of
a nature wholly independent of the body, and that conse-
quently it is not liable to die with the latter; and, finally,
because no other causes are observed capable of destroying
it, we are naturally led thence to judge that it is immortal.
PART VI
Three years have now elapsed since I finished the
Treatise containing all these matters; and I was beginning
to revise it, with the view to put it into the hands of a
printer, when I learned that persons to whom I greatly
defer, and whose authority over my actions is hardly less
influential than is my own Reason over my thoughts, had
condemned a certain doctrine in Physics, published a short
time previously by another individual, 6 to which I will not
say that I adhered, but only that, previously to their cen-
sure, I had observed in it nothing which I could imagine
to be prejudicial either to religion or to the state, and
nothing therefore which would have prevented me from
giving expression to it in writing, if Reason had persuaded
me of its truth; and this led me to fear lest among my
own doctrines likewise some one might be found in which
I had departed from the truth, notwithstanding the great
care I have always taken not to accord belief to new opinions
of which I had not the most certain demonstrations, and not
to give expression to aught that might tend to the hurt of
any one. This has been sufficient to make me alter my
purpose of publishing them; for although the reasons by
which I had been induced to take this resolution were very
strong, yet my inclination, which has always been hostile
to writing books, enabled me immediately to discover other
considerations sufficient to excuse me for not undertaking
the task. And these reasons, on one side and the other,
are such, that not only is it in some measure my interest
here to state them, but that of the public, perhaps, to know
them.
I have never made much account of what has proceeded
from my own mind; and so long as I gathered no other
advantage from the Method I employ beyond satisfying my-
6 Galileo.— Tr.
49
50 DESCARTES
self on some difficulties belonging to the speculative sciences,
or endeavouring to regulate my actions according to the
principles it taught me, I never thought myself bound to
publish anything respecting it. For in what regards man-
ners, every one is so full of his own wisdom, that there
might be found as many reformers as heads, if any were
allowed to take upon themselves the task of mending them,
except those whom God has constituted the supreme rulers
of his people, or to whom he has given sufficient grace and
zeal to be prophets; and although my speculations greatly
pleased myself, I believed that others had theirs, which
perhaps pleased them still more. But as soon as I had
acquired some general notions respecting Physics, and
beginning to make trial of them in various particular dif-
ficulties, had observed how far they can carry us, and how
much they differ from the principles that have been em-
ployed up to the present time, I believed that I could not
keep them concealed without sinning grievously against
the law by which we are bound to promote, as far as in
us lies, the general good of mankind. For by them I per-
ceived it to be possible to arrive at knowledge highly use-
ful in life; and in room of the Speculative Philosophy
usually taught in the Schools, to discover a Practical,
by means of which, knowing the force and action of fire,
water, air, the stars, the heavens, and all the other bodies
that surround us, as distinctly as we know the various
crafts of our artizans, we might also apply them in the
same way to all the uses to which they are adapted, and
thus render ourselves the lords and possessors of nature.
And this is a result to be desired, not only in order to the
invention of an infinity of arts, by which we might be
enabled to enjoy without any trouble the fruits of the earth,
and all its comforts, but also and especially for the preser-
vation of health, which is without doubt, of all the blessings
of this life, the first and fundamental one; for the mind
is so intimately dependent upon the condition and relation
of the organs of the body, that if any means can ever be
found to render men wiser and more ingenious than hither-
to, I believe that it is in Medicine they must be sought for.
It is true that the science of Medicine, as it now exists,
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 51
contains few things whose utility is very remarkable: but
without any wish to depreciate it, I am confident that there
is no one, even among those whose profession it is, who
does not admit that all at present known in it is almost
nothing in comparison of what remains to be discovered;
and that we could free ourselves from an infinity of mala-
dies of body as well as of mind, and perhaps also even
from the debility of age, if we had sufficiently ample knowl-
edge of their causes, and of all the remedies provided for
us by Nature. But since I designed to employ my whole
life in the search after so necessary a Science, and since
I had fallen in with a path which seems to me such, that if
any one follow it he must inevitably reach the end desired,
unless he be hindered either by the shortness of life or the
want of experiments, I judged that there could be no more
effectual provision against these two impediments than if
I were faithfully to communicate to the public all the little
I might myself have found, and incite men of superior
genius to strive to proceed farther, by contributing, each
according to his inclination and ability, to the experiments
which it would be necessary to make, and also by informing
the public of all they might discover, so that, by the last
beginning where those before them had left off, and thus
connecting the lives and labours of many, we might col-
lectively proceed much farther than each by himself could do.
I remarked, moreover, with respect to experiments, that
they become always more necessary the more one is ad-
vanced in knowledge; for, at the commencement, it is bet-
ter to make use only of what is spontaneously presented to
our senses, and of which we cannot remain ignorant, pro-
vided we bestow on it any reflection, however slight, than
to concern ourselves about more uncommon and recondite
phenomena: the reason of which is, that the more uncom-
mon often only mislead us so long as the causes of the more
ordinary are still unknown; and the circumstances upon
which they depend are almost always so special and minute
as to be highly difficult to detect. But in this I have adopted
the following order : first, I have essayed to find in general
the principles, or first causes of all that is or can be in
the world, without taking into consideration for this end
52 DESCAUTES
anything but God himself who has created it, and without
educing them from any other source than from certain
germs of truths naturally existing in our minds. In the
second place, I examined what were the first and most
ordinary effects that could be deduced from these causes;
and it appears to me that, in this way, I have found heavens,
stars, an earth, and even on the earth, water, air, fire,
minerals, and some other things of this kind, which of all
others are the most common and simple, and hence the
easiest to know. Afterwards, when I wished to descend
to the more particular, so many diverse objects presented
themselves to me, that I believed it to be impossible for the
human mind to distinguish the forms or species of bodies
that are upon the earth, from an infinity of others which
might have been, if it had pleased God to place them there,
or consequently to apply them to our use, unless we rise
to causes through their effects, and avail ourselves of many
particular experiments. Thereupon, turning over in my
mind all the objects that had ever been presented to my
senses, I freely venture to state that I have never observed
any which I could not satisfactorily explain by the principles
I had discovered. But it is necessary also to confess that
the power of nature is so ample and vast, and these prin-
ciples so simple and general, that I have hardly observed a
single particular effect which I cannot at once recognise
as capable of being deduced in many different modes from
the principles, and that my greatest difficulty usually is to
discover in which of these modes the effect is dependent
upon them; for out of this difficulty I cannot otherwise
extricate myself than by again seeking certain experiments,
which may be such that their result is not the same, if it
is in the one of these modes that we must explain it, as
it would be if it were to be explained in the other. As
to what remains, I am now in a position to discern, as I
think, with sufficient clearness what course must be taken
to make the majority of those experiments which may con-
duce to this end: but I perceive likewise that they are such
and so numerous, that neither my hands nor my income,
though it were a thousand times larger than it is, would
be sufficient for them all; so that, according as hencefor-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD S3
ward I shall have the means of making more or fewer
experiments, I shall in the same proportion make greater
or less progress in the knowledge of nature. This was
what I had hoped to make known by the Treatise I had
written, and so clearly to exhibit the advantage that would
thence accrue to the public, as to induce all who have the
common good of man at heart, that is, all who are virtuous
in truth, and not merely in appearance, or according to
opinion, as well to communicate to me the experiments they
had already made, as to assist me in those that remain to
be made.
But since that time other reasons have occurred to me,
by which I have been led to change my opinion, and to think
that I ought indeed to go on committing to writing all the
results which I deemed of any moment, as soon as I should
have tested their truth, and to bestow the same care upon
them as I would have done had it been my design to publish
them. This course commended itself to me, as well because
I thus afforded myself more ample inducement to examine
them thoroughly, for doubtless that is always more nar-
rowly scrutinized which we believe will be read by many,
than that which is written merely for our private use,
(and frequently what has seemed to me true when I first
conceived it, has appeared false when I have set about com-
mitting it to writing;) as because I thus lost no opportunity
of advancing the interests of the public, as far as in me
lay, and since thus likewise, if my writings possess any
value, those into whose hands they may fall after my death
may be able to put them to what use they deem proper.
But I resolved by no means to consent to their publication
during my lifetime, lest either the oppositions or the con-
troversies to which they might give rise, or even the reputa-
tion, such as it might be, which they would acquire for
me, should be any occasion of my losing the time that I
had set apart for my own improvement. For though it
be true that every one is bound to prothote to the extent of
his ability the good of others, and that to be useful to no
one is really to be worthless, yet it is likewise true that our
cares ought to extend beyond the present; and it is good
to omit doing what might perhaps bring some profit to
54 DESCARTES
the living, when we have in view the accomplishment of
other ends that will be of much greater advantage to
posterity. And in truth, I am quite willing it should be
known that the little I have hitherto learned is almost
nothing in comparison with that of which I am ignorant,
and to the knowledge of which I do not despair of being
able to attain; for it is much the same with those who
gradually discover truth in the Sciences, as with those
who when growing rich find less difficulty in making great
acquisitions, than they formerly experienced when poor
in making acquisitions of much smaller amount. Or they
may be compared to the commanders of armies, whose
forces usually increase in proportion to their victories,
and who need greater prudence to keep together the residue
of their troops after a defeat than after a victory to take
towns and provinces. For he truly engages in battle who
endeavors to surmount all the difficulties and errors which
prevent him from reaching the knowledge of truth, and
he is overcome in fight who admits a false opinion touch-
ing a matter of any generality and importance, and he re-
quires thereafter much more skill to recover his former
position than to make gheat advances when once in posses-
sion of thoroughly ascertained principles. As for myself,
if I have succeeded in discovering any truths in the Sciences,
(and I trust that what is contained in this volume will
show that I have found some,) I can declare that they are
but the consequences and results of five or six principal
difficulties which I have surmounted, and my encounters
with which I reckoned as battles in which victory declared
for me. I will not hesitate even to avow my belief that
nothing further is wanting to enable me fully to realize
my designs than to gain two or three similar victories;
and that I am not so far advanced in years but that,
according to the ordinary course of nature, I may still
have sufficient leisure for this end. But I conceive myself
the more bound to husband the time that remains the greater
my expectation of being able to employ it aright, and I
should doubtless have much to rob me of it, were I to pub-
lish the principles of my Physics: for although they are
almost all so evident that to assent to them no more is
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 55
needed than simply to understand them, and although there
is not one of them of which I do not expect to be able to
give demonstration, yet, as it is impossible that they can
be in accordance with all the diverse opinions of others, I
foresee that I should frequently be turned aside from my
grand design, on occasion of the opposition which they
would be sure to awaken.
It may be said, that these oppositions would be useful
both in making me aware of my errors, and, if my specu-
lations contain anything of value, in bringing others to a
fuller understanding of it; and still farther, as many can
see better than one, in leading others who are now begin-
ning to avail themselves of my principles, to assist me in
turn with their discoveries. But though I recognise my
extreme liability to error, and scarce ever trust to the first
thoughts which occur to me, yet the experience I have had
of possible objections to my views prevents me from antic-
ipating any profit from them. For I have already had
frequent proof of the judgments, as well of those I esteemed
friends, as of some others to whom I thought I was an
object of indifference, and even of some whose malignity
and envy would, I knew, determine them to endeavour to
discover what partiality concealed from the eyes of my
friends. But it has rarely happened that anything has
been objected to me which I had myself altogether over-
looked, unless it were something far removed from the sub-
ject: so that I have never met with a single critic of my
opinions who did not appear to me either less rigorous or
less equitable than myself. And further, I have never
observed that any truth before unknown has been brought
to light by the disputations that are practised in the Schools ;
for while each strives for the victory, each is much more
occupied in making the best of mere verisimilitude, than in
weighing the reasons on both sides of the question; and
those who have been long good advocates are not afterwards
on that account the better judges.
As for the advantage that others would derive from the
communication of my thoughts, it could not be very great;
because I have not yet so far prosecuted them as that much
does not remain to be added before they can be applied to
56 DESCARTES
practice. And I think I may say without vanity, that if
there is any one who can carry thern out that length, it must
be myself rather than another : not that there may not be in
the world many minds incomparably superior to mine, but
because one cannot so well seize a thing and make it one's
own, when it has been learned from another, as when one
has himself discovered it. And so true is this of the present
subject that, though I have often explained some of my
opinions to persons of much acuteness, who, whilst I was
speaking, appeared to understand them very distinctly, yet,
when they repeated them, I have observed that they almost
always changed them to such an extent that I could no
longer acknowledge them as mine. I am glad, by the way,
to take this opportunity of requesting posterity never to be-
lieve on hearsay that anything has proceeded from me which
has not been published by myself; and I am not at all as-
tonished at the extravagances attributed to those ancient
philosophers whose own writings we do not possess; whose
thoughts, however, I do not on that account suppose to have
been really absurd, seeing they were among the ablest men
of their times, but only that these have been falsely repre-
sented to us. It is observable, accordingly, that scarcely in a
single instance has any one of their disciples surpassed
them; and I am quite sure that the most devoted of the pres-
ent followers of Aristotle would think themselves happy if
they had as much knowledge of nature as he possessed, were
it even under the condition that they should never afterwards
attain to higher. In this respect they are like the ivy which
never strives to rise above the tree that sustains it, and
which frequently even returns downwards when it has
reached the top; for it seems to me that they also sink, in
other words, render themselves less wise than they would be
if they gave up study, who, not contented with knowing all
that is intelligibly explained in their author, desire in addi-
tion to find in him the solution of many difficulties of which
he says not a word, and never perhaps so much as thought.
Their fashion of philosophizing, however/ is well suited co
persons whose abilities fall below mediocrity; for the ob-
scurity of the distinctions and principles of which they make
use enables them to speak of ali things with as much con-
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 57
fidence as if they really knew them, and to defend all that
they say on any subject against the most subtle and
skilful, without its being possible for any one to convict them
of error. In this they seem to me to be like a blind man,
who, in order to fight on equal terms with a person that sees,
should have made him descend to the bottom of an intensely
dark cave : and I may say that such persons have an interest
in my refraining from publishing the principles of the
Philosophy of which I make use; for, since these are of a
kind the simplest and most evident, I should, by publishing
them, do much the same as if I were to throw open the win-
dows, and allow the light of day to enter the cave into which
the combatants had descended. But even superior men have
no reason for any great anxiety to know these principles, for
if what they desire is to be able to speak of all things, and
to acquire a reputation for learning, they will gain their end
more easily by remaining satisfied with the appearance of
truth, which can be found without much difficulty in all sorts
of matters, than by seeking the truth itself which unfolds
itself but slowly and that only in some departments, while
it obliges us, when we have to speak of others, freely to
confess our ignorance. If, however, they prefer the knowl-
edge of some few truths to the vanity of appearing ignorant
of none, as such knowledge is undoubtedly much to be pre-
ferred, and, if they choose to follow a course similar to
mine, they do not require for this that I should say any-
thing more than I have already said in this Discourse. For
if they are capable of making greater advancement than I
have made, they will much more be able of themselves to
discover all that I believe myself to have found; since as I
have never examined aught except in order, it is certain that
what yet remains to be discovered is in itself more difficult
and recondite, than that which I have already been enabled
to find, and the gratification would be much less in learning
it from me than in discovering it for themselves. Besides
this, the habit which they will acquire, by seeking first what
is easy, and then passing onward slowly and step by step to
the more difficult, will benefit them more than all my in-
structions. Thus, in my own case, I am persuaded that if I
had been taught from my youth all the truths of which I
58 DESCARTES
have since sought out demonstrations, and had thus learned
them without labour, I should never, perhaps, have known
any beyond these ; at least, I should never have acquired the
habit and the facility which I think I possess in always dis-
covering new truths in proportion as I give myself to the
search. And, in a single word, if there is any work in the
world which cannot be so well finished by another as by him
who has comrn enced it, it is that at which I labour.
It is true, indeed, as regards the experiments which may
conduce to this end, that one man is not equal to the task of
making them all; but yet he can advantageously avail him-
self, in this work, of no hands besides his own, unless those
of artisans, or parties of the same kind, whom he could
pay, and whom the hope of gain (a means of great ef-
ficacy) might stimulate to accuracy in the performance of
what was prescribed to them. For as to those who, through
curiosity or a desire of learning, of their own accord, per-
haps, offer him their services, besides that in general their
promises exceed their performance, and that they sketch out
fine designs of which not one is ever realized, they will,
without doubt, expect to be compensated for their trouble
by the explication of some difficulties, or, at least, by com-
pliments and useless speeches, in which he cannot spend any
portion of his time without loss to himself. And as for the
experiments that others have already made, even although
these parties should be willing of themselves to communicate
them to him, (which is what those who esteem them secrets
will never do,) the experiments are, for the most part, ac-
companied with so many circumstances and superfluous ele-
ments, as to make it exceedingly difficult to disentangle the
truth from its adjuncts; besides, he will find almost all of
them so ill described, or even so false, (because those who
made them have wished to see in them only such facts as
they deemed conformable to their principles,) that, if in the
entire number there should be some of a nature suited to his
purpose, still their value could not compensate for the time
that would be necessary to make the selection. So that if
there existed any one whom we assuredly knew to be capa-
ble of making discoveries of the highest kind, and of the
greatest possible utility to the public; and if all other men
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 59
were therefore eager by all means to assist him In success-
fully prosecuting his designs, I do not see that they could
do aught else for him beyond contributing to defray the ex-
penses of the experiments that might be necessary; and for
the rest, prevent his being deprived of his leisure by the un-
seasonable interruptions of any one. But besides that I
neither have so high an opinion of myself as to be willing
to make promise of anything extraordinary, nor feed on
imaginations so vain as to fancy that the public must be much
interested in my designs ; I do not, on the other hand, own a
soul so mean as to be capable of accepting from any one a
favour of which it could be supposed that I was unworthy.
These considerations taken together were the reason why,
for the last three years, I have been unwilling to publish the
Treatise I had on hand, and why I even resolved to give
publicity during my life to no other that was so general, or
by which the principles of my Physics might be understood.
But since then, two other reasons have come into operation
that have determined me here to subjoin some particular
specimens, and give the public some account of my doings
and designs. Of these considerations, the first is, that if I
failed to do so, many who were cognizant of my previous
intention to publish some writings, might have imagined that
the reasons which induced me to refrain from so doing, were
less to my credit than they really are ; for although I am not
immoderately desirous of glory, or even, if I may venture so
to say, although I am averse from it in so far as I deem it
hostile to repose which I hold in greater account than aught
else, yet, at the same time, I have never sought to conceal
my actions as if they were crimes, nor made use of many
precautions that I might remain unknown; and this partly
because I should have thought such a course of conduct a
wrong against myself, and partly because it would have
occasioned me some sort of uneasiness which would again
have been contrary to the perfect mental tranquillity which I
court. And forasmuch as, while thus indifferent to the
thought alike of fame or of forgetfulness, I have yet been
unable to prevent myself from acquiring some sort of reputa-
tion, I have thought it incumbent on me to do my best to
save myself at least from being ill-spoken of. The other
60 DESCARTES
reason that has determined me to commit to writing these
specimens of philosophy is, that I am becoming daily more
and more alive to the delay which my design of self-instruc-
tion suffers, for want of the infinity of experiments I re-
quire, and which it is impossible for me to make without the
assistance of others : and, without flattering myself so much
as to expect the public to take a large share in my interests,
I am yet unwilling to be found so far wanting in the duty
I owe to myself, as to give occasion to those who shall sur-
vive me to make it matter of reproach against me some day,
that I might have left them many things in a much more
perfect state than I have done, had I not too much neglected
to make them aware of the ways in which they could have
promoted the accomplishment of my designs.
And I thought that it was easy for me to select some
matters which should neither be obnoxious to much contro-
versy, nor should compel me to expound more of my prin-
ciples than I desired, and which should yet be sufficient
clearly to exhibit what I can or cannot accomplish in the
Sciences. Whether or not I have succeeded in this it is not
for me to say; and I do not wish to forestall the judgments
of others by speaking myself of my writings; but it will
gratify me if they be examined, and, to afford the greater
inducement to this, I request all who may have any objec-
tions to make to them, to take the trouble of forwarding
these to my publisher, who will give me notice of them,
that I may endeavour to subjoin at the same time my reply ;
and in this way readers seeing both at once will more easily
determine where the truth lies; for I do not engage in any
case to make prolix replies, but only with perfect frankness
to avow my errors if I am convinced of them, or if I can-
not perceive them, simply to state what I think is required
for defence of the matters I have written, adding thereto
no explication of any new matter that it may not be neces-
sary to pass without end from one thing to another.
If some of the matters of which I have spoken in the be-
ginning of the Dioptrics and Meteorics should offend at first
sight, because I call them hypotheses and seem indifferent
about giving proof of them, I request a patient and attentive
reading of the whole, from which I hope those hesitating
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 61
will derive satisfaction ; for it appears to me that the reason-
ings are so mutually connected in these Treatises, that, as the
last are demonstrated by the first which are their causes,
the first are in their turn demonstrated by the last which are
their effects. Nor must it be imagined that I here commit
the fallacy which the logicians call a circle; for since ex-
perience renders the majority of these effects most certain,
the causes from which I deduce them do not serve so much
to establish their reality as to explain their existence ; but on
the contrary, the reality of the causes is established by the
reality of the effects. Nor have I called them hypotheses
with any other end in view except that it may be known
that I think I am able to deduce them from those first truths
which I have already expounded; and yet that I have ex-
pressly determined not to do so, to prevent a certain class of
minds from thence taking occasion to build some extravagant
Philosophy upon what they may take to be my principles, and
my being blamed for it. I refer to those who imagine that
they can master in a day all that another has taken twenty
years to think out, as soon as he has spoken two or three
words to them on the subject; or who are the more liable to
error and the less capable of perceiving truth in very pro-
portion as they are more subtle and lively. As to the opin-
ions which are truly and wholly mine, I offer no apology
for them as new, — persuaded as I am that if their reasons
be well considered they will be found to be so simple and so
conformed to common sense as to appear less extraordinary
and less paradoxical than any others which can be held on
the same subjects; nor do I even boast of being the earliest
discoverer of any of them, but only of having adopted them,
neither because they had nor because they had not been held
by others, but solely because Reason has convinced me of
their truth.
Though artisans may not be able at once to execute the
invention which is explained in the Dioptrics, I do not think
that any one on that account is entitled to condemn it; for
since address and practice are required in order so to make
and adjust the machines described by me as not to overlook
the smallest particular, I should not be less astonished if they
succeeded on the first attempt than if a person were in one
62 DISCOURSE ON METHOD
day to become an accomplished performer on the guitar, by
merely having excellent sheets of music set up before him.
And if I write in French, which is the language of my
country, in preference to Latin, which is that of my precep-
tors, it is because I expect that those who make use of their
unprejudiced natural Reason will be better judges of my
opinions than those who give heed to the writings of the
ancients only; and as for those who unite good sense with
habits of study, whom alone I desire for judges, they will
not, I feel assured, be so partial to Latin as to refuse to listen
to my reasonings merely because I expound them in the
vulgar Tongue.
In conclusion, I am unwilling here to say anything very
specific of the progress which I expect to make for the future
in the Sciences, or to bind myself to the public by any prom-
ise which I am not certain of being able to fulfil; but this
only will I say, that I have resolved to devote what time I
may still have to live to no other occupation than that of
endeavouring to acquire some knowledge of Nature, which
shall be of such a kind as to enable us therefrom to deduce
rules in Medicine of greater certainty than those at present
in use ; and that my inclination is so much opposed to all other
pursuits, especially to such as cannot be useful to some with-
out being hurtful to others, that if, by any circumstances, I
had been constrained to engage in such, I do not believe
that I should have been able to succeed. Of this I here make
a public declaration, though well aware that it cannot serve
to procure for me any consideration in the world, which,
however, I do not in the least affect ; and I shall always hold
myself more obliged to those through whose favour I am
permitted to enjoy my retirement without interruption than
to any who might offer me the highest earthly preferments.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH
(LETTRES PHILOSOPHIQUES)
BY
VOLTAIRE
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Francois -Marie Arouet, known by his assumed name of
Voltaire, zvas born at Paris, November 21, 1694. His father
was a well-to-do notary, and Franqois was educated under the
Jesuits in the College Louis-le -Grand. He began writing verse
early, and was noted for his freedom of speech, a tendency
which led to his being twice exiled from Paris and twice im-
prisoned in the Bastile. In 1726 he took refuge in England,
and the two years spent there had great influence upon his later
development. Some years after his return he became historiog-
rapher of France, and gentleman of the king's bedchamber;
from 1750 to 1753 he lived at the court of Frederick the Great,
with whom he ultimately quarreled; and he spent the last period
of his life, from 1758 to 1778, on his estate of Ferney, near
Geneva, where he produced much of his best work. He died
at Paris, May 30, 1778.
It will be seen that Voltaire's active life covers nearly the
whole eighteenth century, of which he was the dominant and
typical literary figure. Every department of letters then in vogue
was cultivated by him; in all he showed brilliant powers; and
in several he reached all but the highest rank. Apart from his
"Henriade" an epic on the classical model, and the burlesque
"La Pucelle," most of his verse belongs to the class of satire,
epigram, and vers de socicte. Of real poetical quality it has
little, but abundant technical cleverness. For the stage he was
the most prominent writer of the time, his most successful
dramas including "Zaire," "CEdipe," "La Mort de Cesar"
"Alzire" and "Merope." His chief contribution in this field
was the development of the didactic and philosophic element.
In prose fiction he wrote "Zadig," "Candide," and many ad-
mirable short stories; in history, his "Age of Louis XIV " is
only the best known of four or five considerable works; in
criticism, his commentary on Comeille is notable. His scien-
tific and philosophic interests are to some extent indicated in
the following "Letters," which also show his admiration for the
tolerance and freedom of speech in England, which it was his
greatest service to strive to introduce into his own country.
64
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH
(LETTRES PHILOSOPHIQUES)
Letter I
ON THE QUAKERS
I WAS of opinion that the doctrine and history of so
extraordinary a people were worthy the attention of
the curious. To acquaint myself with them I made a
visit to one of the most eminent Quakers in England, who,
after having traded thirty years, had the wisdom to prescribe
limits to his fortune and to his desires, and was settled in
a little solitude not far from London. Being come into it,
I perceived a small but regularly built house, vastly neat,
but without the least pomp of furniture. The Quaker who
owned it was a hale, ruddy complexioned old man, who had
never been afflicted with sickness because he had always
been insensible to passions, and a perfect stranger to intem-
perance. I never in my life saw a more noble or a more
engaging aspect than his. He was dressed like those of his
persuasion, in a plain coat without pleats in the sides, or
buttons on the pockets and sleeves ; and had on a beaver, the
brims of which were horizontal like those of our clergy.
He did not uncover himself when I appeared, and advanced
towards me without once stooping his body; but there ap-
peared more politeness in the open, humane air of his
countenance, than in the custom- of drawing one leg behind
the other, and taking that from the head which is made to
cover it. "Friend," says he to me, "I perceive thou art a
stranger, but if I can do any thing for thee, only tell me."
"Sir," said I to him, bending forwards and advancing, as is
usual with us, one leg towards him, "I flatter myself that
my just curiosity will not give you the least offense, and that
(CJ 65 HC— Vol. 34
66 VOLTAIRE
you'll do me the honour to inform me of the particulars of
your religion." "The people of thy country," replied the
Quaker, "are too full of their bows and compliments, but
I never yet met with one of them who had so much curiosity
as thy self. Come in, and let us first dine together." I still
continued to make some very unseasonable ceremonies, it
not being easy to disengage one's self at once from habits
we have been long used to ; and after taking part in a frugal
meal, which began and ended with a prayer to God, I began
to question my courteous host. I opened with that which
good Catholics have more than once made to Huguenots.
" My dear sir," said I, " were you ever baptised? " " I never
was," replied the Quaker, "nor any of my brethren."
" Zounds ! " said I to him, " you are not Christians, then."
" Friend," replies the old man in a soft tone of voice, " swear
not ; we are Christians, and endeavour to be good Christians,
but we are not of opinion that the sprinkling water on a
child's head makes him a Christian." " Heavens ! " said I,
shocked at his impiety, "you have then forgot that Christ
was baptised by St. John." " Friend," replies the mild
Quaker once again, " swear not ; Christ indeed was baptised
by John, but He himself never baptised anyone. We are
the disciples of Christ, not of John." I pitied very much
the sincerity of my worthy Quaker, and was absolutely for
forcing him to get himself christened. "Were that all,"
replied he very gravely, "we would submit cheerfully to
baptism, purely in compliance with thy weakness, for we
don't condemn any person who uses it; but then we think
that those who profess a religion of so holy, so spiritual a
nature as that of Christ, ought to abstain to the utmost of
their power from the Jewish ceremonies." "O unaccount-
able ! " said I : " what ! baptism a Jewish ceremony? " " Yes,
my friend," says he, " so truly Jewish, that a great many
Jews use the baptism of John to this day. Look into an-
cient authors, and thou wilt find that John only revived this
practice; and that it had been used by the Hebrews, long
before his time, in like manner as the Mahometans imitated
the Ishmaelites in their pilgrimages to Mecca. Jesus indeed
submitted to the baptism of John, as He had suffered Him-
self to be circumcised; but circumcision and the washing
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 67
with water ought to be abolished by the baptism of Christ,
that baptism of the Spirit, that ablution of the soul, which
is the salvation of mankind. Thus the forerunner said, ' I
indeed baptise you with water unto repentance ; but He that
cometh after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not
worthy to bear: He shall baptise you with the Holy Ghost
and with fire/ Likewise Paul, the great apostle of the Gen-
tiles, writes as follows to the Corinthians, ' Christ sent me
not to baptise, but to preach the Gospel ; ' and indeed Paul
never baptised but two persons with water, and that very
much against his inclinations. He circumcised his disciple
Timothy, and the other disciples likewise circumcised all
who were willing to submit to that carnal ordinance. u But
art thou circumcised? " added he. "I have not the honour
to be so," said I. " Well, friend," continued the Quaker,
"thou art a Christian without being circumcised, and I am
one without being baptised." Thus did this pious man make
a wrong, but very specious application of four or five texts
of Scripture which seemed to favour the tenets of his sect;
but at the same time forgot very sincerely a hundred texts
which made directly against them. I had more sense than to
contest with him, since there is no possibility of convincing
an enthusiast. A man should never pretend to inform a
lover of his mistress's faults, no more than one who is at
law of the badness of his cause ; nor attempt to win over a
fanatic by strength of reasoning. Accordingly I waived the
subject.
"Well," said I to him, "what sort of a communion have
you?" "We have none like that thou hintest at among
us," replied he. "How! no communion ?" said I. "Only
that spiritual one," replied he, "of hearts." He then began
again to throw out his texts of Scripture; and preached a
most eloquent sermon against that ordinance. He harangued
in a tone as though he had been inspired, to prove that the
sacraments were merely of human invention, and that the
word " sacrament " was not once mentioned in the Gospel.
" Excuse," said he, " my ignorance, for I have not employed
a hundredth part of the arguments which might be brought
to prove the truth of our religion, but these thou thyself
mayest peruse in the Exposition of our Faith written by
68 VOLTAIRE
Robert Barclay. It is one of the best pieces that ever was
penned by man; and as our adversaries confess it to be of
dangerous tendency, the arguments in it must necessarily
be very convincing." I promised to peruse this piece, and
my Quaker imagined he had already made a convert of me.
He afterwards gave me an account in few words of some
singularities which make this sect the contempt of others.
" Confess," said he, " that it was very difficult for thee to
refrain from laughter, when I answered all thy civilities
without uncovering my head, and at the same time said
' thee ' and l thou ' to thee. However, thou appearest to me
too well read not to know that in Christ's time no nation was
so ridiculous as to put the plural number for the singular.
Augustus Caesar himself was spoken to in such phrases as
these : ' I love thee/ * I beseech thee/ ' I thank thee / but
he did not allow any person to call him ' Domine/ sir. It
was not till many ages after that men would have the word
'you/ as though they were double, instead of ' thou 9 em-
ployed in speaking to them ; and usurped the flattering titles
of lordship, of eminence, and of holiness, which mere worms
bestow on other worms by assuring them that they are with
a most profound respect, and an infamous falsehood, their
most obedient humble servants. It is to secure ourselves
more strongly from such a shameless traffic of lies and
flattery, that we ' thee ' and c thou ' a king with the same
freedom as we do a beggar, and salute no person ; we owing
nothing to mankind but charity, and to the laws respect and
obedience.
" Our apparel is also somewhat different from that of
others, and this purely, that it may be a perpetual warning
to us not to imitate them. Others wear the badges and
marks of their several dignities, and we those of Christian
humility. We fly from all assemblies of pleasure, from di-
versions of every kind, and from places where gaming is
practised; and, indeed, our case would be very deplorable,
should we fill with such levities as those I have mentioned
the heart which ought to be the habitation of God. We
never swear, not even in a court of justice, being of opinion
that the most holy name of God ought not to be prostituted
in the miserable contests betwixt man and man. When we
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 69
are obliged to appear before a magistrate upon other people's
account (for lawsuits are unknown among the Friends),
we give evidence to the truth by sealing it with our yea or
nay; and the judges believe us on our bare affirmation,
whilst so many other Christians forswear themselves on
the holy Gospels. We never war or fight in any case; but
it is not that we are afraid, for so far from shuddering at
the thoughts of death, we on the contrary bless the moment
which* unites us with the Being of Beings; but the reason
of our not using the outward sword is, that we are neither
wolves, tigers, nor mastiffs, but men and Christians. Our
God, who has commanded us to love our enemies, and to
suffer without repining, would certainly not permit us to
cross the seas, merely because murderers clothed in scarlet,
and wearing caps two foot high, enlist citizens by a noise
made with two little sticks on an ass's skin extended. And
when, after a victory is gained, the whole city of London
is illuminated; when the sky is in a blaze with fireworks,
and a noise is heard in the air, of thanksgivings, of bells,
of organs, and of the cannon, we groan in silence, and are
deeply affected with sadness of spirit and brokenness of
heart, for the sad havoc which is the occasion of those public
rejoicings/'
Letter II
ON THE QUAKERS
Such was the substance of the conversation I had with
this very singular person; but I was greatly surprised to
see him come the Sunday following and take me with him
to the Quakers' meeting. There are several of these in
London, but that which he carried me to stands near the
famous pillar called The Monument. The brethren were
already assembled at my entering it with my guide. There
might be about four hundred men and three hundred women
in the meeting. The women hid their faces behind their
fans, and the men were covered with their broad-brimmed
hats. All w r ere seated, and the silence was universal. I
passed through them, but did not perceive so much as one
lift up his eyes to look at me. This silence lasted a quarter
70 VOLTAIRE
of an hour, when at last one of them rose up, took off his
hat, and, after making a variety of wry faces and groaning
in a most lamentable manner, he, partly from his nose and
partly from his mouth, threw out a strange, confused jumble
of words (borrowed, as he imagined, from the Gospel)
which neither himself nor any of his hearers understood.
When this distorter had ended his beautiful soliloquy, and
that the stupid, but greatly edified, congregation were
separated, I asked my friend how it was possible for the
judicious part of their assembly to suffer such a babbling?
" We are obliged/* said he, " to suffer it, because no one
knows when a man rises up to hold forth whether he will
be moved by the Spirit or by folly. In this doubt and un-
certainty we listen patiently to everyone; we even allow our
women to hold forth. Two or three of these are often in-
spired at one and the same time, and it is then that a most
charming noise is heard in the Lord's house." " You have,
then, no priests?" said I to him. "No, no, friend," replies
the Quaker, " to our great happiness." Then opening one
of the Friends' books, as he called it, he read the following
words in an emphatic tone : — " ' God forbid we should pre-
sume to ordain anyone to receive the Holy Spirit on the
Lord's Day to the prejudice of the rest of the brethren.'
Thanks to the Almighty, we are the only people upon earth
that have no priests. Wouldst thou deprive us of so happy
a distinction? /Why should we abandon our babe to mer-
cenary nurses, when we ourselves have milk enough for it?
These mercenary creatures would soon domineer in our
houses and destroy both the mother and the babe. God has
said, ' Freely you have received, freely give.' Shall we,
after these words, cheapen, as it were, the Gospel, sell the
Holy Ghost, and make of an assembly of Christians a mere
shop of traders? We don't pay a set of men clothed in black
to assist our poor, to bury our dead, or to preach to the
brethren. These offices are all of too tender a nature for us
ever to entrust them to others." " But how is it possible for
you," said I, with some warmth, "to know whether your
discourse is really inspired by the Almighty ? " " Whoso-
ever," says he, " shall implore Christ to enlighten him, and
shall publish the Gospel truths, he may feel inwardly, such
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 71
a one may be assured that he is inspired by the Lord." He
then poured forth a numberless multitude of Scripture texts
which proved, as he imagined, that there is no such thing
as Christianity without an immediate revelation, and added
these remarkable words: "When thou movest one of thy
limbs, is it moved by thy own power? Certainly not; for
this limb is often sensible to involuntary motions. Conse-
quently He who created thy body gives motion to this earthly
tabernacle. And are the several ideas of which thy soul
receives the impression formed by thyself? Much less are
they, since these pour in upon thy mind whether thou wilt
or no : consequently thou receivest thy ideas from Him who
created thy soul. But as He leaves thy affections at full
liberty, He gives thy mind such ideas as thy affections may
deserve ; if thou livest in God, thou actest, thou thinkest in
God. After this thou needest only but open thine eyes to
that light which enlightens all mankind, and it is then thou
wilt perceive the truth, and make others perceive it." "Why,
this," said I, " is Malebranche's doctrine to a tittle." " I am
acquainted with thy Malebranche," said he ; " he had some-
thing of the Friend in him, but was not enough so." These
are the most considerable particulars I learned concerning
the doctrine of the Quakers. In my next letter I shall
acquaint you with their history, which you will find more
singular than their opinions.
Letter III
ON THE QUAKERS
You have already heard that the Quakers date from
Christ, who, according to them, was the first Quaker. Reli-
gion, say these, was corrupted a little after His death, and
remained in that state of corruption about sixteen hundred
years. But there were always a few Quakers concealed in
the world, who carefully preserved the sacred fire, which
was extinguished in all but themselves, until at last this
light spread itself in England in 1642.
It was at the time when Great Britain was torn to pieces
by the intestine wars which three or four sects had raised
72 VOLTAIRE
in the name of God, that one George Fox, born in Leicester-
shire, and son to a silk weaver, took it into his head to
preach, and, as he pretended, with all the requisites of a
true apostle — that is, without being able either to read or
write. He was about twenty-five years of age, irreproach-
able in his life and conduct, and a holy madman. He was
equipped in leather from head to foot, and travelled from
one village to another, exclaiming against war and the
clergy. Had his invectives been levelled against the soldiery
only he would have been safe enough, but he inveighed
against ecclesiastics. Fox was seized at Derby, and being
carried before a justice of peace, he did not once offer to
pull off his leathern hat, upon which an officer gave him a
great box of the ear, and cried to him, " Don't you know
you are to appear uncovered before his worship?" Fox
presented his other cheek to the officer, and begged him to
give him another box for God's sake. The justice would
have had him sworn before he asked him any questions.
" Know, friend," says Fox to him, " that I never swear."
The justice, observing he " thee'd " and " thou'd " him, sent
him to the House of Correction, in Derby, with orders that
he should be whipped there. Fox praised the Lord all the
way he went to the House of Correction, where the justice's
order was executed with the utmost severity. The men
who whipped this enthusiast were greatly surprised to hear
him beseech them- to give him a few more lashes for the
good of his soul. There was no need of entreating these
people; the lashes were repeated, for which Fox thanked
them very cordially, and began to preach. At first the spec-
tators fell a-laughing, but they afterwards listened to him;
and as enthusiasm is an epidemical distemper, many were
persuaded, and those who scourged him became his first
disciples. Being set at liberty, he ran up and down the
country with a dozen proselytes at his heels, still declaiming
against the clergy, and was whipped from time to time.
Being one day set in the pillory, he harangued the crowd in
so strong and moving a manner, that fifty of the auditors
became his converts, and he won the rest so much in his
favour that, his head being freed tumultuously from the
hole where it was fastened, the populace went and searched
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 73
for the Churefo of England clergyman who had been chiefly
instrumental in bringing him to this punishment, and set
him on the same pillory where Fox had stood.
Fox was bold enough to convert some of Oliver Crom-
well's soldiers, who thereupon quitted the service and re-
fused to take the oaths. Oliver, having as great a contempt
for a sect which would not allow its members to fight, as
Sixtus Quintus had for another sect, Dove non si chiavava, 1
began to persecute these new converts. The prisons were
crowded with them, but persecution seldom has any other
effect than to increase the number of proselytes. These
came, therefore, from their confinement more strongly con-
firmed in the principles they had imbibed, and followed by
their gaolers, whom they had brought over to their belief.
But the circumstances which contributed chiefly to the
spreading of this sect were as follows: — Fox thought him-
self inspired, and consequently was of opinion that he must
speak in a manner different from the rest of mankind. He
thereupon began to writhe his body, to screw up his face,
to hold in his breath, and to exhale it in a forcible manner,
insomuch that the priestess of the Pythian god at Delphos
could not have acted her part to better advantage. Inspira-
tion soon became so habitual to him that he could scarce
deliver himself in any other manner. This was the first gift he
communicated to his disciples. These aped very sincerely their
master's several grimaces, and shook in every limb the instant
the fit of inspiration came upon them, whence they were called
Quakers. The vulgar attempted to mimic them ; they trembled,
they spake through the nose, they quaked and fancied them-
selves inspired by the Holy Ghost. The only thing now want-
ing was a few miracles, and accordingly they wrought some.
Fox, this modern patriarch, spoke thus to a justice of
peace before a large assembly of people: " Friend, take care
what thou dost; God will soon punish thee for persecuting
His saints." This magistrate, being one who besotted him-
self every day with bad beer and brandy, died of an apoplexy
two days after, the moment he had signed a mittimus for
imprisoning some Quakers. The sudden death with which
this justice was seized was not ascribed to his intemperance,
*" Where there were no clandestine doings."
74 VOLTAIRE
but was universally looked upon as the effect of the holy
man's predictions; so that this accident made more converts
to Quakerism than a thousand sermons and as many shaking
fits could have done. Oliver, finding them increase daily,
was desirous of bringing them over to his party, and for
that purpose attempted to bribe them by money. However,
they were incorruptible, which made him one day declare
that this religion was the only one he had ever met with that
had resisted the charms of gold.
The Quakers were several times persecuted under Charles
II.; not upon a religious account, but for refusing to pay
the tithes, for " theeing " and " thouing " the magistrates,
and for refusing to take the oaths enacted by the laws.
At last Robert Barclay, a native of Scotland, presented
to the King, in 1675, his "Apology for the Quakers," a work
as well drawn up as the subject could possibly admit. The
dedication to Charles II. is not filled with mean, flattering
encomiums, but abounds with bold touches in favour of
truth and with the wisest counsels. " Thou hast tasted,"
said he to the King at the close of his epistle dedicatory,
"of prosperity and adversity; thou knowest what it is to be
banished thy native country; to be overruled as well as to
rule and sit upon the throne ; and, being oppressed, thou hast
reason to know how hateful the oppressor is both to God
and man. If, after all these warnings and advertisements,
thou dost not turn unto the Lord with all thy heart, but
forget Him who remembered thee in thy distress, and give
up thyself to follow lust and vanity, surely great will be thy
condemnation.
"Against which snare, as well as the temptation of those
that may or do feed thee and prompt thee to evil, the most
excellent and prevalent remedy will be, to apply thyself to
that light of Christ which shineth in thy conscience, which
neither can nor will flatter thee nor suffer thee to be at ease
in thy sins, but doth and will deal plainly and faithfully with
thee, as those that are followers thereof have plainly done. —
Thy faithful friend and subject, Robert Barclay."
A more surprising circumstance is, that this epistle,
written by a private man of no figure, was so happy in its
effects, as to put a stop to the persecution.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 75
Letter IV
ON THE QUAKERS
About this time arose the illustrious William Penn, who
established the power of the Quakers in America, and
would have made them appear venerable in the eyes of the
Europeans, were it possible for mankind to respect virtue
when revealed in a ridiculous light. He was the only son
of Vice-Admiral Penn, favourite of the Duke of York, after-
wards King James II.
William Penn, at twenty years of age, happening to meet
with a Quaker 2 in Cork, whom he had known at Oxford,
this man made a proselyte of him; and William being a
sprightly youth, and naturally eloquent, having a winning
aspect, and a very engaging carriage, he soon gained over
some of his intimates. He carried matters so far, that he
formed by insensible degrees a society of young Quakers,
who met at his house ; so that he was at the head of a sect
when a little above twenty.
Being returned, after his leaving Cork, to the Vice-
Admiral his father, instead of falling upon his knees to ask
his blessing, he went up to him with hiz hat on, and said,
" Friend, I am very glad to see thee in good health. " The
Vice-Admiral imagined his son to be crazy, but soon finding
he was turned Quaker, he employed all the methods that
prudence could suggest to engage him to behave and act like
other people. The youth made no other answer to his father,
than by exhorting him to turn Quaker also. At last his
father confined himself to this single request, viz., u that
he should wait upon the King and the Duke of York with
his hat under his arm, and should not * thee ' and ' thou '
them." William answered, "that he could not do these
things, for conscience' sake," which exasperated his father
to such a degree, that he turned him out of doors. Young
Penn gave God thanks for permitting him to suffer so early
in His cause, after which he went into the city, where he
held forth, and made a great number of converts.
The Church of England clergy found their congregations
8 Thomas Loe-
76 VOLTAIRE
dwindle away daily; and Penn being young, handsome, and
of a graceful stature, the court as well as the city ladies
flocked very devoutly to his meeting. The patriarch, George
Fox, hearing of his great reputation, came to London
(though the journey was very long) purely to see and con-
verse with him. Both resolved to go upon missions into
foreign countries, and accordingly they embarked for Hol-
land, after having left labourers sufficient to take care of
the London vineyard.
Their labours were crowned with success in Amsterdam,
but a circumstance which reflected the greatest honour on
them, and at the same time put their humility to the greatest
trial, was the reception they met with from Elizabeth, the
Princess Palatine, aunt to George I. of Great Britain, a
lady conspicuous for her genius and knowledge, and to
whom Descartes had dedicated his Philosophical Romance.
She was then retired to The Hague, where she received
these Friends, for so the Quakers were at that time called
in Holland. This princess had several conferences with
them in her palace, and she at last entertained so favour-
able an opinion of Quakerism, that they confessed she was
not far from the kingdom of heaven. The Friends sowed
likewise the good seed in Germany, but reaped very little
fruit; for the mode of "theeing" and "thouing" was not
approved of in a country where a man is perpetually obliged
to employ the titles of " highness " and " excellency." Will-
iam Penn returned soon to England upon hearing of his
father's sickness, in order to see him before he died. The
Vice-Admiral was reconciled to his son, and though of a
different persuasion, embraced him tenderly. William made
a fruitless exhortation to his father not to receive the
sacrament, but to die a Quaker, and the good old man
entreated his son William to wear buttons on his sleeves,
and a crape hatband in his beaver, but all to no purpose.
William Penn inherited very large possessions, part of
which consisted in Crown debts due to the Vice-Admiral
for sums he had advanced for the sea service. No moneys
were at that time more insecure than those owing from the
king. Penn was obliged to go more than once, and " thee "
and "thou" King Charles and his Ministers, in order to
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 77
recover the debt; and at last, instead of specie, the Govern-
ment invested him with the right and sovereignty of a
province of America, to the south of Maryland. Thus was
a Quaker raised to sovereign power. Penn set sail for his
new dominions with two ships freighted with Quakers, who
followed his fortune. The country was then called Penn-
sylvania from William Penn, who there founded Philadel-
phia, now the most flourishing city in that country. The
first step he took was to enter into an alliance with his
American neighbours, and this is the only treaty between
those people and the Christians that was not ratified by an
oath, and was never infringed. The new sovereign was at
the same time the legislator of Pennsylvania, and enacted
very wise and prudent laws, none of which have ever been
changed since his time. The first is, to injure no person
upon a religious account, and to consider as brethren all
those who believe in one God.
He had no sooner settled his government, but several
American merchants came and peopled this colony. The
natives of the country, instead of flying into the woods,
cultivated by insensible degrees a friendship with the peace-
able Quakers. They loved these foreigners as much as they
detested the other Christians who had conquered and laid
waste America. In a little time a great number of these
savages (falsely so called), charmed with the mild and
gentle disposition of their neighbours, came in crowds to
William Penn, and besought him to admit them into the
number of his vassals. It was very rare and uncommon for
a sovereign to be "thee'd" and "thou'd" by the meanest
of his subjects, who never took their hats off when they
came into his presence; and as singular for a Government
to be without one priest in it, and for a people to be without
arms, either offensive or defensive; for a body of citizens
to be absolutely undistinguished but by the public employ-
ments, and for neighbours not to entertain the least jealousy
one against the other.
William Penn might glory in having brought down upon
earth the so much boasted golden age, which in all proba-
bility never existed but in Pennsylvania. He returned to
England to settle some affairs relating to his new dominions.
78 VOLTAIRE
After the death of King Charles II., King James, who had
loved the father, indulged the same affection to the son,
and no longer considered him as an obscure sectary, but as
a very great man. The king's politics on this occasion
agreed with his inclinations. He was desirous of pleasing
the Quakers by annulling the laws made against Noncon-
formists, in order to have an opportunity, by this universal
toleration, of establishing the Romish religion. All the
sectarists in England saw the snare that was laid for them,
but did not give into it; they never failing to unite when
the Romish religion, their common enemy, is to be opposed.
But Penn did not think himself bound in any manner to
renounce his principles, merely to favour Protestants to
whom he was odious, in opposition to a king who loved
him. He had established a universal toleration with regard
to conscience in America, and would not have it thought
that he intended to destroy it in Europe, for which reason
he adhered so inviolably to King James, that a report
prevailed universally of his being a Jesuit. This calumny
affected him very strongly, and he was obliged to justify
himself in print. However, the unfortunate King James
II., in whom, as in most princes of the Stuart family,
grandeur and weakness were equally blended, and who,
like them, as much overdid some things as he was short
in others, lost his kingdom in a manner that is hardly to be
accounted for.
All the English sectarists accepted from William III. and
his Parliament the toleration and indulgence which they
had refused when offered by King James. It was then the
Quakers began to enjoy, by virtue of the laws, the several
privileges they possess at this time. Penn having at last
seen Quakerism firmly established in his native country,
went back to Pennsylvania. His own people and the Amer-
icans received him with tears of joy, as though he had been
a father who was returned to visit his children. All the
laws had been religiously observed in his absence, a cir-
cumstance in which no legislator had ever been happy but
himself. After having resided some years in Pennsylvania
he left it, but with great reluctance, in order to return to
England, there to solicit some matters in favour of the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 79
commerce of Pennsylvania. But he never saw it again, he
dying in Ruscombe, in Berkshire, in 1718.
I am not able to guess what fate Quakerism may have in
America, but I perceive it dwindles away daily in England.
In all countries where liberty of conscience is allowed, the
established religion will at last swallow up all the rest.
Quakers are disqualified from being members of Parliament;
nor can they enjoy any post or preferment, because an oath
must always be taken on these occasions, and they never
swear. They are therefore reduced to the necessity of sub-
sisting upon traffic. Their children, whom the industry of
their parents has enriched, are desirous of enjoying honours,
of wearing buttons and ruffles; and quite ashamed of being
called Quakers they become converts to the Church of
England, merely to be in the fashion.
Letter V
ON THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND
England is properly the country of sectarists. Multce
sunt mansiones in domo patris mei (in my Father's house
are many mansions). An Englishman, as one to whom
liberty is natural, may go to heaven his own way.
Nevertheless, though every one is permitted to serve God
in whatever mode or fashion he thinks proper, yet their
true religion, that in which a man makes his fortune, is the
sect of Episcopalians or Churchmen, called the Church of
England, or simply the Church, by way of eminence. No
person can possess an employment either in England or
Ireland unless he be ranked among the faithful, that is,
professes himself a member of the Church of England.
This reason (which carries mathematical evidence with it)
has converted such numbers of Dissenters of all persuasions,
that not a twentieth part of the nation is out of the pale of
the Established Church. The English clergy have retained a
great number of the Romish ceremonies, and especially that
of receiving, with a most scrupulous attention, their tithes.
They also have the pious ambition to aim at superiority.
Moreover, they inspire very religiously their flock with a
80 VOLTAIRE
holy zeal against Dissenters of all denominations. This
zeal was pretty violent under the Tories in the four last
years of Queen Anne; but was productive of no greater mis-
chief than the breaking the windows of some meeting-
houses and the demolishing of a few of them. For religious
rage ceased in England with the civil wars, and was no
more under Queen Anne than the hollow noise of a sea
whose billows still heaved, though so long after the storm
when the Whigs and Tories laid waste their native country,
in the same manner as the Guelphs and Ghibelliries formerly
did theirs. It was absolutely necessary for both parties to
call in religion on this occasion; the Tories declared for
Episcopacy, and the Whigs, as some imagined, were for
abolishing it; however, after these had got the upper hand,
they contented themselves with only abridging it.
At the time when the Earl of Oxford and the Lord
Bolingbroke used to drink healths to the Tories, the Church
of England considered those noblemen as the defenders of
its holy privileges. The lower House of Convocation (a
kind of House of Commons) composed wholly of the clergy,
was in some credit at that time; at least the members of it
had the liberty to meet, to dispute on ecclesiastical matters,
to sentence impious books from- time to time to the flames,
that is, books written against themselves. The Ministry
which is now composed of Whigs does not so much as allow
those genlemen to assemble, so that they are at this time
reduced (in the obscurity of their respective parishes) to
the melancholy occupation of praying for the prosperity of
the Government whose tranquillity they would willingly
disturb. With regard to the bishops, who are twenty-six in
all, they still have seats in the House of Lords in spite of the
Whigs, because the ancient abuse of considering them as
barons subsists to this day. There is a clause, however,
in the oath which the Government requires from these
gentlemen, that puts their Christian patience to a very great
trial, viz., that they shall be of the Church of England as
by law established. There are few bishops, deans, or other
dignitaries, but imagine they are so jure divino; it is con-
sequently a great mortification to them to be obliged to con-
fess that they owe their dignity to a pitiful law enacted by
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 81
a set of profane laymen. A learned monk (Father Courayer)
wrote a book lately to prove the validity and succession of
English ordinations. This book was forbid in France, but
do you believe that the English Ministry were pleased with
it? Far from it. Those damned Whigs don't care a straw
whether the episcopal succession among them hath been in-
terrupted or not, or whether Bishop Parker was consecrated
(as it is pretended) in a tavern or a church; for these
Whigs are much better pleased that the Bishops should
derive their authority from the Parliament than from the
Apostles. The Lord Bolingbroke observed that this notion
of divine right would only make so many tyrants in lawn
sleeves, but that the laws made so many citizens.
With regard to the morals of the English clergy, they are
more regular than those of France, and for this reason.
All the clergy (a very few excepted) are educated in the
Universities of Oxford or Cambridge, far from the de-
pravity and corruption which reign in the capital. They
are not called to dignities till very late, at a time of life when
men are sensible of no other passion but avarice, that is,
when their ambition craves a supply. Employments are here
bestowed both in the Church and the army, as a reward for
long services; and we never see youngsters made bishops
or colonels immediately upon their laying aside the aca-
demical gown; and besides most of the clergy are married.
The stiff and awkward air contracted by them at the Uni-
versity, and the little familiarity the men of this country
have with the ladies, commonly oblige a bishop to confine
himself to, and rest contented with, his own. Clergymen
sometimes take a glass at the tavern, custom giving them a
sanction on this occasion; and if they fuddle themselves it
is in a very serious manner, and without giving the least
scandal.
That fable-mixed kind of mortal (not to be defined), who
is neither of the clergy nor of the laity; in a word, the thing
called Abbe in France; is a species quite unknown in Eng-
land. All the clergy here are very much upon the reserve,
and most of them pedants. When these are told that in
France young fellows famous for their dissoluteness, and
raised to the highest dignities of the Church by female
82 VOLTAIRE
intrigues, address the fair publicly in an amorous way,
amuse themselves in writing tender love songs, entertain
their friends very splendidly every night at their own houses,
and after the banquet is ended withdraw to invoke the assist-
ance of the Holy Ghost, and call themselves boldly the suc-
cessors of the Apostles, they bless God for their being Prot-
estants. But these are shameless heretics, who deserve to
be blown hence through the flames to old Nick, as Rabelais
says, and for this reason I don't trouble myself about them.
Letter VI
ON THE PRESBYTERIANS
The Church of England is confined almost to the kingdom
whence it received its name, and to Ireland, for Presby-
terianism is the established religion in Scotland. This
Presbyterianism is directly the same with Calvinism, as it
was established in France, and is now professed at Geneva.
As the priests of this sect receive but very inconsiderable
stipends from their churches, and consequently cannot emu-
late the splendid luxury of bishops, they exclaim very natu-
rally against honours which they can never attain to.
Figure to yourself the haughty Diogenes trampling under
foot the pride of Plato. The Scotch Presbyterians are not
very unlike that proud though tattered reasoner. Diogenes
did not use Alexander half so impertinently as these treated
King Charles II. ; for when they took up arms in his cause
in opposition to Oliver, who had deceived them, they forced
that poor monarch to undergo the hearing of three or four
sermons every day, would not suffer him to play, reduced
him to a state of penitence and mortification, so that Charles
soon grew sick of these pedants, and accordingly eloped
from them- with as much joy as a youth does from school.
A Church of England minister appears as another Cato
in presence of a juvenile, sprightly French graduate, who
bawls for a whole morning together in the divinity schools,
and hums a song in chorus with ladies in the evening; but
this Cato is a very spark when before a Scotch Presby-
terian. The latter affects a serious gait, puts on a sour look,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 83
wears a vastly broad-brimmed hat and a long cloak over a
very short coat, preaches through the nose, and gives the
name of the whore of Babylon to all churches where the
ministers are so fortunate as to enjoy an annual revenue of
five or six thousand pounds, and where the people are weak
enough to suffer this, and to give them the titles of my lord,
your lordship, or your eminence.
These gentlemen, who have also some churches in Eng-
land, introduced there the mode of grave and severe ex-
hortations. To them is owing the sanctification of Sunday
in the three kingdoms. People are there forbidden to
work or take any recreation on that day, in which the
severity is twice as great as that of the Romish Church.
No operas, plays, or concerts are allowed in London on
Sundays, and even cards are so expressly forbidden that
none but persons of quality, and those we call the genteel,
play on that day; the rest of the nation go either to church,
to the tavern, or to see their mistresses.
Though the Episcopal and Presbyterian sects are the
two prevailing ones in Great Britain, yet all others are
very welcome to come and settle in it, and live very sociably
together, though most of their preachers hate one another
almost as cordially as a Jansenist damns a Jesuit.
Take a view of the Royal Exchange in London, a place
more venerable than many courts of justice, where the rep-
resentatives of all nations meet for the benefit of mankind.
There the Jew, the Mahometan, and the Christian transact
together, as though they all professed the same religion, and
give the name of infidel to none but bankrupts. There the
Presbyterian confides in the Anabaptist, and the Churchman
depends on the Quaker's word. At the breaking up of
this pacific and free assembly, some withdraw to the syna-
gogue, and others to take a glass. This man goes and is
baptized in a great tub, in the name of the Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost: that man has his son's foreskin cut off, whilst
a set of Hebrew words (quite unintelligible to him) are
mumbled over his child. Others retire to their churches,
and there wait for the inspiration of heaven with their hats
on, and all are satisfied.
If one religion only were allowed in England, the Gov-
84 VOLTAIRE
ernment would very possibly become arbitrary ; if there were
but two, the people would cut one another's throats; but as
there are such a multitude, they all live happy and in peace.
Letter VII
ON THE SOCINIANS, OR ARIANS, OR
ANTITRINITARIANS
There is a little sect here composed of clergymen, and
of a few very learned persons among the laity, who, though
they don't call themselves Arians or Socinians, do yet dis-
sent entirely from St. Athanasius with regard to their notions
of the Trinity, and declare very frankly that the Father is
greater than the Son.
Do you remember what is related of a certain orthodox
bishop, who in order to convince an emperor of the reality
of consubstantiation, put his hand under the chin of the
monarch's son, and took him by the nose in presence of his
sacred majesty? The emperor was going to order his at-
tendants to throw the bishop out of the window, when the
good old man gave him this handsome and convincing
reason: "Since your majesty," said he, "is angry when
your son has not due respect shown him, what punishment
do you think will God the Father inflict on those who refuse
His Son Jesus the titles due to Him?" The persons I
just now mentioned declare that the holy bishop took a very
wrong step, that his argument was inconclusive, and that the
emperor should have answered him thus : " Know that there
are two ways by which men may be wanting in respect to
me — first, in not doing honour sufficient to my son; and,
secondly, in paying him the same honour, as to me."
Be this as it will, the principles of Arius begin to revive,
not only in England, but in Holland and Poland. The
celebrated Sir Isaac Newton honoured this opinion so far as
to countenance it. This philosopher thought that the Unitari-
ans argued more mathematically than we do. But the most
sanguine stickler for Arianism is the illustrious Dr. Clark.
This man is rigidly virtuous, and of a mild disposition, is
more fond of his tenets than desirous of propagating them,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 85
and absorbed so entirely in problems and calculations that
he is a mere reasoning machine.
It is he who wrote a book which is much esteemed and
little understood, on the existence of God, and another, more
intelligible, but pretty much contemned, on the truth of the
Christian religion. He never engaged in scholastic disputes,
which our friend calls venerable trifles. He only published a
work containing all the testimonies of the primitive ages for
and against the Unitarians, and leaves to the reader the
counting of the voices and the liberty of forming a judg-
ment. This book won the doctor a great number of parti-
sans, and lost him the See of Canterbury but, in my humble
opinion, he was out in his calculation, and had better have
been Primate of all England than merely an Arian parson.
You see that opinions are subject to revolutions as well
as empires. Arianism, after having triumphed during three
centuries, and been forgot twelve, rises at last out of its
own ashes; but it has chosen a very improper season to
make its appearance in, the present age being quite cloyed
with disputes and sects. The members of this sect are, be-
sides, too few to be indulged the liberty of holding public
assemblies, which, however, they will, doubtless, be permitted
to do in case they spread considerably. But people are now
so very cold with respect to all things of this kind, that there
is little probability any new religion, or old one, that may
be revived, v/ill meet with favour. Is it not whimsical
enough that Luther, Calvin, and Zuinglius, all of 'em
wretched authors, should have founded sects which are now
spread over a great part of Europe, that Mahomet, though
so ignorant, should have given a religion to Asia and Africa,
and that Sir Isaac Newton, Dr. Clark, Mr. Locke, Mr. Le
Clerc, etc., the greatest philosophers, as well as the ablest
writers of their ages, should scarce have been able to raise
a little flock, which even decreases daily.
This it is to be born at a proper period of time. Were
Cardinal de Retz to return again into the world neither his
eloquence nor his intrigues would draw together ten wome\x
in Paris. Were Oliver Cromwell, he wha beheaded his
sovereign, and seized upon the kingly dignity, to rise from
the dead, he would be a wealthy City trader, and no more.
86 VOLTAIRE
Letter VIII
ON THE PARLIAMENT
The members of the English Parliament are fond of com-
paring themselves to the old Romans.
Not long since Mr. Shippen opened a speech in the House
of Commons with these words, " The majesty of the people
of England would be wounded." The singularity of the
expression occasioned a loud laugh; but this gentleman, so
far from being disconcerted, repeated the same words with a
resolute tone of voice, and the laugh ceased. In my opinion,
the majesty of the people of England has nothing in common
with that of the people of Rome, much less is there any
affinity between their Governments. There is in London
a senate, some of the members whereof are accused (doubt-
less very unjustly) of selling their voices on certain oc-
casions, as was done in Rome; this is the only resemblance.
Besides, the two nations appear to me quite opposite in char-
acter, with regard both to good and evil. The Romans
never knew the dreadful folly of religious wars, an abomi-
nation reserved for devout preachers of patience and hu-
mility. Marious and Sylla, Csesar and Pompey, Anthony and
Augustus, did not draw their swords and set the world in
a blaze merely to determine whether the flamen should wear
his shirt over his robe, or his robe over his shirt, or whether
the sacred chickens should eat and drink, or eat only, in
order to take the augury. The English have hanged one
another by law, and cut one another to pieces in pitched
battles, for quarrels of as trifling nature. The sects of the
Episcopalians and Presbyterians quite distracted these very
serious heads for a time. But I fancy they will hardly ever
be so silly again, they seeming to be grown wiser at their
own expense ; and I do not perceive the least inclination in
them to murder one another merely about syllogisms, as
some zealots among them once did.
But here follows a more essential difference between
Rome and England, which gives the advantage entirely to
the latter — viz., that the civil wars of Rome ended in
slavery, and those of the English in liberty. The English
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 87
are the only people upon earth who have been able to pre-
scribe limits to the power of kings by resisting them; and
who, by a series of struggles, have at last established that
wise Government where the Prince is all powerful to do
good, and, at the same time, is restrained from committing
evil; where the nobles are great without insolence, though
there are no vassals ; and where the people share in the
Government without confusion.
The House of Lords and that of the Commons divide the
legislative power under the king, but the Romans had no
such balance. The patricians and plebeians in Rome were
perpetually at variance, and there was no intermediate power
to reconcile them. The Roman senate, who were so unjustly,
so criminally proud as not to suffer the plebeians to share
with them in anything, could find no other artifice to keep
the latter out of the administration than by employing them
in foreign wars. They considered the plebeians as a wild
beast, whom it behoved them to let loose upon their neigh-
bours, for fear they should devour their masters. Thus the
greatest defect in the Government of the Romans raised
them to be conquerors. By being unhappy at home, they
triumphed over and possessed themselves of the world, till
at last their divisions sunk them to slavery.
The Government of England will never rise to so exalted
a pitch of glory, nor will its end be so fatal. The English
are not fired with the splendid folly of making conquests,
but would only prevent their neighbours from conquering.
They are not only jealous of their own liberty, but even of
that of other nations. The English were exasperated against
Louis XIV. for no other reason but because he was ambitious,
and declared war against him merely out of levity, not from
any interested motives.
The English have doubtless purchased their liberties at a
very high price, and waded through seas of blood to drown
the idol of arbitrary power. Other nations have been in-
volved in as great calamities, and have shed as much blood;
but then the blood they spilt in defence of their liberties only
enslaved them the more.
That which rises to a revolution in England is no more
than a sedition in other countries. A city in Spain, in
88 VOLTAIRE
Barbary, or in Turkey, takes up arms in defence of its
privileges, when immediately it is stormed by mercenary
troops, it is punished by executioners, and the rest of the
nation kiss the chains they are loaded with. The French
are of opinion that the government of this island is more
tempestuous than the sea which surrounds it, which indeed
is true; but then it is never so but when the king raises
the storm — when he attempts to seize the ship of which he
is only the chief pilot. The civil wars of France lasted
longer, were more cruel, and productive of greater evils
than those of England; but none of these civil wars had a
wise and prudent liberty for their object.
In the detestable reigns of Charles IX. and Henry III.
the whole affair was only whether the people should be slaves
to the Guises. With regard to the last war of Paris, it
deserves only to be hooted at. Methinks I see a crowd of
schoolboys rising up in arms against their master, and after-
wards whipped for it. Cardinal de Retz, who was witty and
brave (but to no purpose), rebellious without a cause,
factious without design, and head of a defenseless party,
caballed for caballing's sake, and seemed to foment the
civil war merely out of diversion. The parliament did not
know what he intended, nor what he did not intend. He
levied troops by Act of Parliament, and the next moment
cashiered them. He threatened, he begged pardon; he set
a price upon Cardinal Mazarin's head, and afterwards con-
gratulated him in a public manner. Our civil wars under
Charles VI. were bloody and cruel, those of the League
execrable, and that of the Frondeurs 8 ridiculous.
That for which the French chiefly reproach the English
nation is the murder of King Charles L, whom his subjects
treated exactly as he would have treated them had his
reign been prosperous. After all, consider on one side
Charles I., defeated in a pitched battle, imprisoned, tried,
sentenced to die in Westminster Hall, and then beheaded.
And on the other, the Emperor Henry VII., poisoned by
his chaplain at his receiving the Sacrament; Henry III.
stabbed by a monk ; thirty assassinations projected against
3 Frondenrs, in its proper sense Sling ers, and figuratively Cavillers, or
lovers of contradiction, was a name given to a league or party that opposed
the French Ministry; •'. e., Cardinal Mazarin, in 1648.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 89
Henry IV., several of them put in execution, and the last
bereaving that great monarch of his life. Weigh, I say, all
these wicked attempts and then judge.
Letter IX
ON THE GOVERNMENT
That mixture in the English Government, that harmony
between King, Lords, and Commons, did not always subsist.
England was enslaved for a long series of years by the
Romans, the Saxons, the Danes, and the French successively.
William the Conqueror particularly, ruled them with a rod
of iron. He disposed as absolutely of the lives and fortunes
of his conquered subjects as an eastern monarch; and for-
bade, upon pain of death, the English either fire or candle
in their houses after eight o'clock ; whether he did this to pre-
vent their nocturnal meetings, or only to try, by this odd and
whimsical prohibition, how far it was possible for one man
to extend his power over his fellow-creatures. It is true,
indeed, that the English had Parliaments before and after
William the Conqueror, and they boast of them, as though
these assemblies then called Parliaments, composed of eccle-
siastical tyrants and of plunderers entitled barons, had been
the guardians of the public liberty and happiness.
The barbarians who came from the shores of the Baltic,
and settled in the rest of Europe, brought with them the
form of government called States or Parliaments, about
which so much noise is made, and which are so little under-
stood. Kings, indeed, were not absolute in those days; but
then the people were more wretched upon that very account,
and more completely enslaved. The chiefs of these savages,
who had laid waste France, Italy, Spain, and England, made
themselves monarchs. Their generals divided among them-
selves the several countries they had conquered, whence
sprung those margraves, those peers, those barons, those
petty tyrants, who often contested with their sovereigns for
the spoils of whole nations. These were birds of prey
fighting with an eagle for doves whose blood the victorious
was to suck. Every nation, instead df being governed by
90 VOLTAIRE
one master, was trampled upon by a hundred tyrants. The
priests soon played a part among them. Before this it had
been the fate of the Gauls, the Germans, and the Britons,
to be always governed by their Druids and the chiefs of
their villages, an ancient kind of barons, not so tyrannical as
their successors. These Druids pretended to be mediators
between God and man. They enacted laws, they fulminated
their excommunications, and sentenced to death. The bishops
succeeded, by insensible degrees, to their temporal authority
in the Goth and Vandal government. The popes set them-
selves at their head, and armed with their briefs, their bulls,
and reinforced by monks, they made even kings tremble,
deposed and assassinated them at pleasure, and employed
every artifice to draw into their own purses moneys from
all parts of Europe. The weak Ina, one of the tyrants of
the Saxon Heptarchy in England, was the first monarch who
submitted, in his pilgrimage to Rome, to pay St. Peter's
penny (equivalent very near to a French crown) for every
house in his dominions. The whole island soon followed
his example; England became insensibly one of the Pope's
provinces, and the Holy Father used to send from time to
time his legates thither to levy exorbitant taxes. At last
King John delivered up by a public instrument the kingdom
of England to the Pope, who had excommunicated him; but
the barons, not finding their account in this resignation, de-
throned the wretched King John and seated Louis, father
to St Louis, King of France, in his place. However, they
were scon weary of their new monarch, and accordingly
obliged him to return to France.
Whilst that the barons, the bishops, and the popes, all laid
waste England, where all were for ruling; the most numer-
ous, the most useful, even the most virtuous, and conse-
quently the most venerable part of mankind, consisting of
those who study the laws and the sciences, of traders, of
artificers, in a word, of all who were not tyrants — that is,
those who are called the people: these, I say, were by them
looked upon as so many animals beneath the dignity of the
human species. The Commons in those ages were far from
sharing in the government, they being villains or peasants,
whose labour, whose blood, were the property of their rnas-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 91
ters who entitled themselves the nobility. The major part
of men in Europe were at that time what they are to this
day in several parts of the world — they were villains or
bondsmen of lords — that is, a kind of cattle bought and sold
with the land. Many ages passed away before justice could
be done to human nature — before mankind were conscious
that it was abominable for many to sow, and but few reap.
And was not France very happy, when the power and au-
thority of those petty robbers was abolished by the lawful
authority of kings and of the people?
Happily, in the violent shocks which the divisions between
kings and the nobles gave to empires, the chains of nations
were more or less heavy. Liberty in England sprang from
the quarrels of tyrants. The barons forced King John and
King Henry III. to grant the famous Magna Charta, the
chief design of which was indeed to make kings dependent
on the Lords; but then the rest of the nation were a little
favoured in it, in order that they might join on proper oc-
casions with their pretended masters. This great Charter,
which is considered as the sacred origin of the English
liberties, shows in itself how little liberty was known.
The title alone proves that the king thought he had a just
right to be absolute; and that the barons, and even the
clergy, forced him to give up the pretended right, for no
other reason but because they were the most powerful.
Magna Charta begins in this style: " We grant, of our own
free will, the following privileges to the archbishops, bishops,
priors, and barons of our kingdom/' etc.
The House of Commons is not once mentioned in the ar-
ticles of this Charter — a proof that it did not yet exist, or
that it existed without power. Mention is therein made, by
name, of the freemen of England — a melancholy proof that
some were not so. It appears, by Article XXXII., that these
pretended freemen owed service to their lords. Such a lib-
erty as this was not many removes from slavery.
By Article XXL, the king ordains that his officers shall
not henceforward seize upon, unless they pay for them, the
horses and carts of freemen. The people considered this
ordinance as a real liberty, though it was a greater tyranny.
Henry VII., that happy usurper and great politician, who
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pretended to love the barons, though he in reality hated and
feared them, got their lands alienated. By this means the
villains, afterwards acquiring riches by their industry, pur-
chased the estates and country seats of the illustrious peers
who had ruined themselves by their folly and extravagance,
and all the lands got by insensible degrees into other hands.
The power of the House of Commons increased every day.
The families of the ancient peers were at last extinct ; and as
peers only are properly noble in England, there would be no
such thing in strictness of law as nobility in that island, had
not the kings created new barons from time to time, and
preserved the body of peers, once a terror to them, to oppose
them to the Commons, since become so formidable.
All these new peers who compose the Higher House re-
ceive nothing but their titles from the king, and very few
of them, have estates in those places whence they take their
titles. One shall be Duke of D , though he has not a
foot of land in Dorsetshire; and another is Earl of a vil-
lage, though he scarce knows where it is situated. The
peers have power, but it is only in the Parliament House.
There is no such thing here as haute, moyenne, and basse
justice — that is, a power to judge in all matters civil and
criminal; nor a right or privilege of hunting in the grounds
of a citizen, who at the same time is not permitted to fire a
gun in his own field.
No one is exempted in this country from paying certain
taxes because he is a nobleman or a priest. All duties and
taxes are settled by the House of Commons, whose power
is greater than that of the Peers, though inferior to it in
dignity. The spiritual as well as temporal Lords have the
liberty to reject a Money Bill brought in by the Commons;
but they are not allowed to alter anything in it, and must
either pass or throw it out without restriction. When the
Bill has passed the Lords and is signed by the king, then the
whole nation pays, every man in proportion to his revenue
or estate, not according to his title, which would be absurd.
There is no such thing as an arbitrary subsidy or poll-tax,
but a real tax on the lands, of all which an estimate was
made in the reign of the famous King William III.
The land-tax continues still upon the same foot, though
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 93
the revenue of the lands is increased. Thus no one is tyr-
annised over, and every one is easy. The feet of the peas-
ants are not bruised by wooden shoes ; they eat white bread,
are well clothed, and are not afraid of increasing their stock
of cattle, nor of tiling their houses, from any apprehension
that their taxes will be raised the year following. The an-
nual income of the estates of a great many commoners in
England amounts to two hundred thousand livres, and yet
these do not think it beneath them to plough the lands which
enrich them, and on which they enjoy their liberty.
Letter X
ON TRADE
As trade enriched the citizens in England, so it contributed
to their freedom, and this freedom on the other side extended
their commerce, whence arose the grandeur of the State.
Trade raised by insensible degrees the naval power, which
gives the English a superiority over the seas, and they now
are masters of very near two hundred ships of war. Pos-
terity will very probably be surprised to hear that an island
whose only produce is a little lead, tin, fuller's-earth, and
coarse wool, should become so powerful by its commerce, as
to be able to send, in 1723, three fleets at the same time to
three different and far distanced parts of the globe. One
before Gibraltar, conquered and still possessed by the Eng-
lish; a second to Porto Bello, to dispossess the King of Spain
of the treasures of the West Indies; and a third into the
Baltic, to prevent the Northern Powers from coming to an
engagement.
At the time when Louis XIV. made all Italy tremble, and
that his armies, which had already possessed themselves of
Savoy and Piedmont, were upon the point of taking Turin;
Prince Eugene was obliged to march from the middle of
Germany in order to succour Savoy. Having no money,
without which cities car not be either taken or defended, he
addressed himself to some English merchants. These, at
an hour and a half's warning, lent him five millions, whereby
he was enabled to deliver Turin, and to beat the French;
94 VOLTAIRE
after which he wrote the following short letter to the per-
sons who had disbursed him the above-mentioned sums:
" Gentlemen, I received your money, and flatter myself
that I have laid it out to your satisfaction." Such a circum-
stance as this raises a just pride in an English merchant, and
makes him presume (not without some reason) to compare
himself to a Roman citizen; and, indeed, a peer's brother
does not think traffic beneath him. When the Lord Town-
shend was Minister of State, a brother of his was content to
be a City merchant ; and at the time that the Earl of Oxford
governed Great Britain, his younger brother was no more
than a factor in Aleppo, where he chose to live, and where he
died. This custom, which begins, however, to be laid aside,
appears monstrous to Germans, vainly puffed up with their
extraction. These think it morally impossible that the son
of an English peer should be no more than a rich and power-
ful citizen, for all are princes in Germany. There have been
thirty highnesses of the same name, all whose patrimony con-
sisted only in their escutcheons and their pride.
In France the title of marquis is given gratis to any one
who will accept of it; and whosoever arrives at Paris from
the midst of the most remote provinces with money in his
purse, and a name terminating in ac or Me, may strut about,
and cry, " Such a man as I ! A man of my rank and figure !"
and may look down upon a trader with sovereign contempt;
whilst the trader on the other side, by thus often hearing his
profession treated so disdainfully, is fool enough to blush at
it. However, I need not say which is most useful to a na-
tion; a lord, powdered in the tip of the mode, who knows
exactly at what o'clock the king rises and goes to bed, and
who gives himself airs of grandeur and state, at the same
time that he is acting the slave in the ante-chamber of a
prime minister; or a merchant, who enriches his country,
despatches orders from his counting-house to Surat and
Grand Cairo, and contributes to the felicity of the world.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 95
Letter XI
ON INOCULATION
It is inadvertently affirmed in the Christian countries of
Europe that the English are fools and madmen. Fools, be-
cause they give their children the small-pox to prevent their
catching it; and madmen, because they wantonly communi-
cate a certain and dreadful distemper to their children,
merely to prevent an uncertain evil. The English, on the
other side, call the rest of the Europeans cowardly and un-
natural. Cowardly, because they are afraid of putting their
children to a little pain ; unnatural, because they expose them
to die one time or other of the small-pox. But that the
reader may be able to judge whether the English or those
who differ from them in opinion are in the right, here follows
the history of the famed inoculation, which is mentioned
with so much dread in France.
The Circassian women have, from time immemorial, com-
municated the small-pox to their children when not above
six months old by making an incision in the arm, and by
putting into this incision a pustule, taken carefully from the
body of another child. This pustule produces the same
effect in the arm it is laid in as yeast in a piece of dough;
it ferments, and diffuses through the whole mass of blood
the qualities with which it is impregnated. The pustules of
the child in whom the artificial small-pox has been thus
inoculated are employed to communicate the same distemper
to others. There is an almost perpetual circulation of it in
Circassia; and when unhappily the small-pox has quite left
the country, the inhabitants of it are in as great trouble and
perplexity as other nations when their harvest has fallen
short.
The circumstance that introduced a custom in Circassia,
which appears so singular to others, is nevertheless a cause
common to all nations, I mean maternal tenderness and
interest.
The Circassians are poor, and their daughters are beau-
tiful, and indeed, it is in them they chiefly trade. They
furnish with beauties the seraglios of the Turkish Sultan,
96 VOLTAIRE
of the Persian Sophy, and of all those who are wealthy
enough to purchase and maintain such precious merchandise.
These maidens are very honourably and virtuously instructed
to fondle and caress men; are taught dances of a very polite
and effeminate kind ; and how to heighten by the most volup-
tuous artifices the pleasures of their disdainful masters for
whom they are designed. These unhappy creatures repeat
their lesson to their mothers, in the same manner as little
girls among us repeat their catechism without understanding
one word they say.
Now it often happened that, after a father and mother had
taken the utmost care of the education of their children, they
were frustrated of all their hopes in an instant. The small-
pox getting into the family, one daughter died of it, another
lost an eye, a third had a great nose at her recovery, and the
unhappy parents were completely ruined. Even, frequently,
when the small-pox became epidemical, trade was suspended
for several years, which thinned very considerably the
seraglios of Persia and Turkey.
A? trading nation is always watchful over its own interests,
and grasps at every discovery that may be of advantage to
its commerce. The Circassians observed that scarce one
person in a thousand was ever attacked by a small-pox of a
violent kind. That some, indeed, had this distemper very
favourably three or four times, but never twice so as to
prove fatal ; in a word, that no one ever had it in a violent
degree twice in his life. They observed farther, that when
the small-pox is of the milder sort, and the pustules have
only a tender, delicate skin to break through, they never leave
the least scar in the face. From these natural observations
they concluded, that in case an infant of six months or a
year old should have a milder sort of small-pox, he would
not die of it, would not be marked, nor be ever afflicted with
it again.
In order, therefore, to preserve the life and beauty of
their children, the only thing remaining was to give them
the small-pox in their infant years. This they did by in-
oculating in the body of a child a pustule taken from the
most regular and at the same time the most favourable sort
of small-pox that could be procured.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 97
The experiment could not possibly fail. The Turks, who
are people of good sense, soon adopted this custom, insomuch
that at this time there is not a bassa in Constantinople but
communicates the small-pox to his children of both sexes
immediately upon their being weaned.
Some pretend that the Circassians borrowed this custom
anciently from the Arabians ; but we shall leave the clearing
up of this point of history to some learned Benedictine, who
will not fail to compile a great many folios on this subject,
with the several proofs or authorities. All I have to say
upon it is that, in the beginning of the reign of King George
I., the Lady Wortley Montague, a woman of as fine a genius,
and endued with as great a strength of mind, as any of her
sex in the British Kingdoms, being with her husband, who
was ambassador at the Porte, made no scruple to communi-
cate the small-pox to an infant of which she was delivered
in Constantinople.
The chaplain represented to his lady, but to no pur-
pose, that this was an un-Christian operation, and there-
fore that it could succeed with none but infidels. How-
ever, it had the most happy effect upon the son of the Lady
Wortley Montague, who, at her return to England, com-
municated the experiment to the Princess of Wales, now
Queen of England. It must be confessed that this princess,
abstracted from her crown and titles, was born to encourage
the whole circle of arts, and to do good to mankind. She
appears as an amiable philosopher on the throne, having
never let slip one opportunity of improving the great talents
she received from Nature, nor of exerting her beneficence.
It is she who, being informed that a daughter of Milton was
living, but in miserable circumstances, immediately sent her
a considerable present. It is she who protects the learned
Father Courayer. It is she who condescended to attempt a
reconciliation between Dr. Clark and Mr. Leibnitz. The
moment this princess heard of inoculation, she caused an
experiment of it to be made on four criminals sentenced to
die, and by that means preserved their lives doubly ; for she
not only saved them from the gallows, but by means of this
artificial small-pox prevented their ever having that distem-
per in a natural way, with which they would very probably
(D) HC— Vol. 34
93 VOLTAIRE
have been attacked one time or other, and might have died
of in a more advanced age.
The princess being assured of the usefulness of this opera-
tion, caused her own children to be inoculated. A great part
of the kingdom followed her example, and since that time
ten thousand children, at least, of persons of condition owe
in this manner their lives to her Majesty and to the Lady
Wortley Montague; and as many of the fair sex are obliged
to them for their beauty.
Upon a general calculation, threescore persons in every
hundred have the small-pox. Of these threescore, twenty
die of it in the most favourable season of life, and as many
more wear the disagreeable remains of it in their faces so
long as they live. Thus, a fifth part of mankind either die
or are disfigured by this distemper. But it does not prove
fatal to so much as one among those who are inoculated in
Turkey or in England, unless the patient be infirm, or would
have died had not the experiment been made upon him. Be-
sides, no one is disfigured, no one has the small-pox a second
time, if the inoculation was perfect. It is therefore certain,
that had the lady of some French ambassador brought this
secret from Constantinople to Paris, the nation would have
been for ever obliged to her. Then the Duke de Villequier,
father to the Duke d'Aumont, who enjoys the most vigorous
constitution, and is the healthiest man in France, would not
have been cut off in the flower of his age.
The Prince of Soubise, happy in the finest flush of health,
would not have been snatched away at five-and-twenty, nor
the Dauphin, grandfather to Louis XV., have been laid in
his grave in his fiftieth year. Twenty thousand persons
whom the small-pox swept away at Paris in 1723 would have
been alive at this time. But are not the French fond of life,
and is beauty so inconsiderable an advantage as to be disre-
garded by the ladies? It must be confessed that we are an
odd kind of people. Perhaps our nation will imitate ten
years hence this practice of the English, if the clergy and
the physicians will but give them leave to do it; or possibly
our countrymen may introduce inoculation three months
hence in France out of mere whim, in case the English
should discontinue it through fickleness.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 99
I am informed that the Chinese have practised inoculation
these hundred years, a circumstance that argues very much
in its favour, since they are thought to be the wisest and
best governed people in the world. The Chinese, indeed, do
not communicate this distemper by inoculation, but at the
nose, in the same manner as we take snuff. This is a more
agreeable way, but then it produces the like effects; and
proves at the same time that had inoculation been practised
in France it would have saved the lives of thousands.
Letter XII
ON THE LORD BACON
Not long since the trite and frivolous question following was
debated in a very polite and learned company, viz., Who was
the greatest man, Gesar, Alexander. Tamerlane, Cromwell,
&c?
Somebody answered that Sir Isaac Newton excelled them
all. The gentleman's assertion was very just; for if true
greatness consists in having received from heaven a mighty
genius, and in having employed it to enlighten our own mind
and that of others, a man like Sir Isaac Newton, whose equal
is hardly found in a thousand years, is the truly great man.
And those politicians and conquerors (and all ages produce
some) were generally so many illustrious wicked men. That
man claims our respect who commands over the minds of
the rest of the world by the force of truth, not those who
enslave their fellow-creatures : he who is acquainted with the
universe, not they who deface it.
Since, therefore, you desire me to give you an account of
the famous personages whom England has given birth to, I
shall begin with Lord Bacon, Mr. Locke, Sir Isaac Newton,
&c. Afterwards the warriors and Ministers of State shall
come in their order.
I must begin with the celebrated Viscount Verulam, known
in Europe by the name of Bacon, which was that of his
family. His father had been Lord Keeper, and himself was
a great many years Lord Chancellor under King James I.
Nevertheless, amidst the intrigues of a Court, and the affairs
100 VOLTAIRE
of his exalted employment, which alone were enough to en-
gross his whole time, he yet found so much leisure for study
as to make himself a great philosopher, a good historian, and
an elegant writer; and a still more surprising circumstance
is that he lived in an age in which the art of writing justly
and elegantly was little known, much less true philosophy.
Lord Bacon, as is the fate of man, was more esteemed after
his death than in his lifetime. His enemies were in the
British Court, and his admirers were foreigners.
When the Marquis d'Effiat attended in England upon the
Princess Henrietta Maria, daughter to Henry IV., whom
King Charles I. had married, that Minister went and visited
the Lord Bacon, who, being at that time sick in his bed, re-
ceived him with the curtains shut close. " You resemble the
angels," said the Marquis to him ; " we hear those beings
spoken of perpetually, and we believe them superior to men,
but are never allowed the consolation to see them."
You know that this great man was accused of a crime
very unbecoming a philosopher: I mean bribery and extor-
tion. You know that he was sentenced by the House of Lords
to pay a fine of about four hundred thousand French livres,
to lose his peerage and his dignity of Chancellor; but in
the present age the English revere his memory to such a
degree, that they will scarce allow him to have been guilty.
In case you should ask what are my thoughts on this head,
I shall answer you in the words which I heard the Lord
Bolingbroke use on another occasion. Several gentlemen
were speaking, in his company, of the avarice with which
the late Duke of Marlborough had been charged, some ex-
amples whereof being given, the Lord Bolingbroke was ap-
pealed to (who, having been in the opposite party, might
perhaps, without the imputation of indecency, have been
allowed to clear up that matter) : " He was so great a man,"
replied his lordship, " that I have forgot his vices."
I shall therefore confine myself to those things which so
justly gained Lord Bacon the esteem of all Europe.
The most singular and the best of all his pieces is that
which, at this time, is the most useless and the least read, I
mean his Novum Scientiarum Organum. This is the scaffold
with which the new philosophy was raised; and when the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 101
edifice was built, part of it at least, the scaffold was no
longer of service.
The Lord Bacon was not yet acquainted with Nature, but
then he knew, and pointed out, the several paths that lead
to it. He had despised in his younger years the thing called
philosophy in the Universities, and did all that lay in his
power to prevent those societies of men instituted to improve
human reason from depraving it by their quiddities, their
horrors of the vacuum, their substantial forms, and all those
impertinent terms which not only ignorance had rendered
venerable, but which had been made sacred by their being
ridiculously blended with religion.
He is the father of experimental philosophy. It must,
indeed, be confessed that very surprising secrets had been
found out before his time — the sea-compass, printing, en-
graving on copper plates, oil-painting, looking-glasses ; the
art of restoring, in some measure, old men to their sight
by spectacles; gunpowder, &c, had been discovered. A new
world has been sought for, found, and conquered. Would
not one suppose that these sublime discoveries had been made
by the greatest philosophers, and in ages much more en-
lightened than the present ? But it was far otherwise; all
these great changes happened in the most stupid and bar-
barous times. Chance only gave birth to most of those in-
ventions; and it is very probable that what is called chance
contributed very much to the discovery of America; at least,
it has been always thought that Christopher Columbus under-
took his voyage merely on the relation of a captain of a ship
which a storm had driven as far westward as the Caribbean
Islands. Be this as it will, men had sailed round the world,
and could destroy cities by an artificial thunder more dread-
ful than the real one; but, then, they were not acquainted
with the circulation of the blood, the weight of the air, the
laws of motion, light, the number of our planets, &c. And
a man who maintained a thesis on Aristotle's " Categories,"
on the universals a parte rex, or such-like nonsense, was
looked upon as a prodigy.
The most astonishing, the most useful inventions, are
not those which reflect the greatest honour on the human
mind. It is to a mechanical instinct, which is found in
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many men, and not to true philosophy, that most arts owe
their origin.
The discovery of fire, the art of making bread, of melting
and preparing metals, of building houses, and the invention
of the shuttle, are infinitely more beneficial to mankind than
printing or the sea-compass : and yet these arts were invented
by uncultivated, savage men.
What a prodigious use the Greeks and Romans made
afterwards of mechanics! Nevertheless, they believed that
there were crystal heavens, that the stars were small lamps
which sometimes fell into the sea, and one of their greatest
philosophers, after long researches, found that the stars were
so many flints which had been detached from the earth.
In a word, no one before the Lord Bacon was acquainted
with experimental philosophy, nor with the several physical
experiments which have been made since his time. Scarce
one of them but is hinted at in his work, and he himself had
made several. He made a kind of pneumatic engine, by
which he guessed the elasticity of the air. He approached,
on all sides as it were, to the discovery of its weight, and
had very near attained it, but some time after Torricelli seized
upon this truth. In a little time experimental philosophy
began to be cultivated on a sudden in most parts of Europe.
It was a hidden treasure which the Lord Bacon had some
notion of, and which all the philosophers, encouraged by his
promises, endeavoured to dig up.
But that which surprised me most was to read in his work,
in express terms, the new attraction, the invention of which
is ascribed to Sir Isaac Newton.
We must search, says Lord Bacon, whether there may not
be a kind of magnetic power which operates between the
earth and heavy bodies, between the moon and the ocean,
between the planets, &c. In another place he says either
heavy bodies must be carried towards the centre of the earth,
or must be reciprocally attracted by it ; and in the latter case
it is evident that the nearer bodies, in their falling, draw
towards the earth, the stronger they will attract one another.
We must, says he, make an experiment to see whether the
same clock will go faster on the top of a mountain or at
the bottom of a mine; whether the strength of the weights
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 103
decreases on the mountain and increases in the mine. It is
probable that the earth has a true attractive power.
This forerunner in philosophy was also an elegant writer,
an historian, and a wit.
His moral essays are greatly esteemed, but they were
drawn up in the view of instructing rather than of pleasing;
and, as they are not a satire upon mankind, like Rochefou-
cauld's " Maxims," nor written upon a sceptical plan, like
Montaigne's " Essays," they are not so much read as those
two ingenious authors.
His History of Henry VII. was looked upon as a master-
piece, but how is it possible that some persons can presume
to compare so little a work with the history of our illustrious
Thuanus ?
Speaking about the famous impostor Perkin, son to a con-
verted Jew, who assumed boldly the name and title of Richard
IV., King of England, at the instigation of the Duchess
of Burgundy, and who disputed the crown with Henry VII.,
the Lord Bacon writes as follows : —
" At this time the King began again to be haunted with
sprites, by the magic and curious arts of the Lady Margaret,
who raised up the ghost of Richard, Duke of York, second
son to King Edward IV., to walk and vex the King.
"After such time as she (Margaret of Burgundy) thought
he (Perkin Warbeck) was perfect in his lesson, she began
to cast with herself from what coast this blazing star should
first appear, and at what time it must be upon the horizon of
Ireland; for there had the like meteor strong influence
before."
Methinks our sagacious Thuanus does not give in to such
fustian, which formerly was looked upon as sublime, but in
this age is justly called nonsense.
Letter XIII
ON MR. LOCKE
Perhaps no man ever had a more judicious or more method-
ical genius, or was a more acute logician than Mr. Locke, and
yet he was not deeply skilled in the mathematics. This great
104 VOLTAIRE
man could never subject himself to the tedious fatigue of
calculations, nor to the dry pursuit of mathematical truths,
which do not at first present any sensible objects to the mind;
and no one has given better proofs than he, that it is pos-
sible for a man to have a geometrical head without the as-
sistance of geometry. Before his time, several great philoso-
phers had declared, in the most positive terms, what the
soul of man is; but as these absolutely knew nothing about
it, they might very well be allowed to differ entirely in
opinion from one another.
In Greece, the infant seat of arts and of errors, and where
the grandeur as well as folly of the human mind went such
prodigious lengths, the people used to reason about the soul
in the very same manner as we do.
The divine Anaxagoras, in whose honour an altar was
erected for his having taught mankind that the sun was
greater than Peloponnesus, that snow was black, and that
the heavens were of stone, affirmed that the soul was an
aerial spirit, but at the same time immortal. Diogenes
(not he who was a cynical philosopher after having coined
base money) declared that the soul was a portion of the
substance of God: an idea which we must confess was very
sublime. Epicurus maintained that it was composed of parts
in the same manner as the body.
Aristotle, who has been explained a thousand ways, be-
cause he is unintelligible, was of opinion, according to some
of his disciples, that the understanding in all men is one and
the same substance.
The divine Plato, master of the divine Aristotle, — and the
divine Socrates, master of the divine Plato, — used to say
that the soul was corporeal and eternal. No doubt but the
demon of Socrates had instructed him in the nature of it.
Some people, indeed, pretend that a man who boasted his
being attended by a familiar genius must infallibly be either
a knave or a madman, but this kind of people are seldom
satisfied with anything but reason.
With regard to the Fathers of the Church, several in the
primitive ages believed that the soul was human, and the
angels and God corporeal. Men naturally improve upon
every system. St. Bernard, as Father Mabillon confesses,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 105
taught that the soul after death does not see God in the
celestial regions, but converses with Christ's human nature
only. However, he was not believed this time on his bare
word; the adventure of the crusade having a little sunk
the credit of his oracles. Afterwards a thousand school-
men arose, such as the Irrefragable Doctor, the Subtile
Doctor, the Angelic Doctor, the Seraphic Doctor, and the
Cherubic Doctor, who were all sure that they had a very
clear and distinct idea of the soul, and yet wrote in such a
manner, that one would conclude they were resolved no one
should understand a word in their writings. Our Descartes,
born to discover the errors of antiquity, and at the same
time to substitute his own ; and hurried away by that system-
atic spirit which throws a cloud over the minds of the
greatest men, thought he had demonstrated that the soul is
the same thing as thought, in the same manner as matter,
in his opinion, is the same as extension. He asserted, that
man thinks eternally, and that the soul, at its coming into
the body, is informed with the whole series of metaphysical
notions : knowing God, infinite space, possessing all abstract
ideas — in a word, completely endued with the most sublime
lights, which it unhappily forgets at its issuing from the
womb.
Father Malebranche, in his sublime illusions, not only
admitted innate ideas, but did not doubt of our living wholly
in God, and that God is, as it were, our soul.
Such a multitude of reasoners having written the
romance of the soul, a sage at last arose, who gave, with
an air of the greatest modesty, the history of it. Mr. Locke
has displayed the human soul in the same manner as an
excellent anatomist explains the springs of the human body.
He everywhere takes the light of physics for his guide. He
sometimes presumes to speak affirmatively, but then he
presumes also to doubt. Instead of concluding at once what
we know not, he examines gradually what we would know.
He takes an infant at the instant of his birth; he traces,
step by step, the progress of his understanding; examines
what things he has in common with beasts, and what he
possesses above them. Above all, he consults himself: the
being conscious that he himself thinks.
106 VOLTAIRE
"l shall leave," says he, " to those who know more of
this matter than myself, the examining whether the soul
exists before or after the organisation of our bodies. But
I confess that it is my lot to be animated with one of those
heavy souls which do not think always; and I am even so
unhappy as not to conceive that it is more necessary the soul
should think perpetually than that bodies should be for
ever in motion. ,,
With regard to myself, I shall boast that I have the
honour to be as stupid in this particular as Mr. Locke. No
one shall ever make me believe that I think always: and I
am as little inclined as he could be to fancy that some weeks
after I was conceived I was a very learned soul; knowing
at that time a thousand things which I forgot at my birth;
and possessing when in the womb (though to no manner of
purpose) knowledge which I lost the instant I had occasion
for it; and which I have never since been able to recover
perfectly.
Mr. Locke, after having destroyed innate ideas; after
having fully renounced the vanity of believing that we think
always; after having laid down, from the most solid prin-
ciples, that ideas enter the mind through the senses; having
examined our simple and complex ideas; having traced the
human mind through its several operations ; having shown
that all the languages in the world are imperfect, and the
great abuse that is made of words every moment, he at last
comes to consider the extent or rather the narrow limits
of human knowledge. It was in this chapter he presumed
to advance, but very modestly, the following words : * We
shall, perhaps, never be capable of knowing whether a being,
purely material, thinks or not." This sage assertion was,
by more divines than one, looked upon as a scandalous
declaration that the soul is material and mortal. Some
Englishmen, devout after their way, sounded an alarm. The
superstitious are the same in society as cowards in an army;
they themselves are seized with a panic fear, and com-
municate it to others. It was loudly exclaimed that Mr.
Locke intended to destroy religion; nevertheless, religion
had nothing to do in the affair, it being a question purely
philosophical, altogether independent of faith and revela-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 107
tion. Mr. Locke's opponents needed but to examine, calmly
and impartially, whether the declaring that matter can think,
implies a contradiction; and whether God is able to com-
municate thought to matter. But divines are too apt to
begin their declarations with saying that God is offended
when people differ from them in opinion; in which they
too much resemble the bad poets, who used to declare
publicly that Boileau spake irreverently of Louis XIV., be-
cause he ridiculed their stupid productions. Bishop Stil-
lingfleet got the reputation of a calm and unprejudiced
divine because he did not expressly make use of injurious
terms in his dispute with Mr. Locke. That divine entered
the lists against him, but was defeated; for he argued as a
schoolman, and Locke as a philosopher, who was perfectly
acquainted with the strong as well as the weak side of the
human mind, and who fought with weapons whose temper
he knew. If I might presume to give my opinion on so
delicate a subject after Mr. Locke, I would say, that men
have long disputed on the nature and the immortality of the
soul. With regard to its immortality, it is impossible to
give a demonstration of it, since its nature is still the
subject of controversy; which, however, must be thoroughly
understood before a person can be able to determine
whether it be immortal or not. Human reason is so little
able, merely by its own strength, to demonstrate the im-
mortality of the soul, that it was absolutely necessary
religion should reveal it to us. It is of advantage to society
in general, that mankind should believe the soul to be im-
mortal; faith commands us to do this; nothing more is
required, and the matter is cleared up at once. But it is
otherwise with respect to its nature ; it is of little importance
to religion, which only requires the soul to be virtuous,
whatever substance it may be made of. It is a clock which
is given us to regulate, but the artist has not told us of what
materials the spring of this clock is composed.
I am a body, and, I think, that's all I know of the matter.
Shall I ascribe to an unknown cause, what I can so easily
impute to the only second cause I am acquainted with ? Here
all the school philosophers interrupt me with their argu-
ments, and declare that there is only extension and solidity
308 VOLTAIRE
in bodies, and that there they can have nothing but motion
and figure. Now motion, figure, extension and solidity can-
not form a thought, and consequently the soul cannot be
matter. All this so often repeated mighty series of reason-
ing, amounts to no more than this : I am absolutely ignorant
what matter is; I guess, but imperfectly, some properties
of it; now I absolutely cannot tell whether these properties
may be joined to thought. As I therefore know nothing,
I maintain positively that matter cannot think. In this
manner do the schools reason.
Mr. Locke addressed these gentlemen in the candid,
sincere manner following: At least confess yourselves to
be as ignorant as I. Neither your imaginations nor mine
are able to comprehend in what manner a body is sus-
ceptible of ideas; and do you conceive better in what man-
ner a substance, of what kind soever, is susceptible of
them ? As you cannot comprehend either matter or spirit,
why will you presume to assert anything?
The superstitious man comes afterwards and declares,
that all those must be burnt for the good of their souls,
who so much as suspect that it is possible for the body to
think without any foreign assistance. But what would
these people say should they themselves be proved ir-
religious? And indeed, what man can presume to assert,
without being guilty at the same time of the greatest impiety,
that it is impossible for the Creator to form matter with
thought and sensation? Consider only, I beg you, what a
dilemma you bring yourselves into, you who confine in this
manner the power of the Creator. Beasts have the same
organs, the same sensations, the same perceptions as we;
they have memory, and combine certain ideas. In case it
was not in the power of God to animate matter, and inform
it with sensation, the consequence would be, either that
beasts are mere machines, or that they have a spiritual soul.
Methinks it is clearly evident that beasts cannot be mere
machines, which I prove thus. God has given to them the
very same organs of sensation as to us: if therefore they
have no sensation, God has created a useless thin;?; now
according to your own confession God does nothing in
vain; He therefore did not create so many organs of sensa-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 109
tion, merely for them to be uninformed with this faculty;
consequently beasts are not mere machines. Beasts, accord-
ing to your assertion, cannot be animated with a spiritual
soul; you will, therefore, in spite of yourself, be reduced
to this only assertion, viz., that God has endued the organs
of beasts, who are mere matter, with the faculties of sen-
sation and perception, which you call instinct in them. But
why may not God, if He pleases, communicate to our more
delicate organs, that faculty of feeling, perceiving, and
thinking, which we call human reason? To whatever side
you turn, you are forced to acknowledge your own igno-
rance, and the boundless power of the Creator. Exclaim
therefore no more against the sage, the modest philosophy
of Mr. Locke, which so far from interfering with religion,
would be of use to demonstrate the truth of it, in case
religion wanted any such support. For what philosophy can
be of a more religious nature than that, which affirming
nothing but what it conceives clearly, and conscious of its
own weakness, declares that we must always have recourse
to God in our examining of the first principles ?
Besides, we must not be apprehensive that any philo-
sophical opinion will ever prejudice the religion of a country.
Though our demonstrations clash directly with our
mysteries, that is nothing to the purpose, for the latter are
not less revered upon that account by our Christian philos-
ophers, who know very well that the objects of reason and
those of faith are of a very different nature. Philosophers
will never form a religious sect, the reason of which is,
their writings are not calculated for. the vulgar, and they
themselves are free from enthusiasm. If we divide man-
kind into twenty parts, it will be found that nineteen of
these consist of persons employed in manual labour, who
will never know that such a man as Mr. Locke existed. In
the remaining twentieth part how few are readers ? And
among such as are so, twenty amuse themselves with
romances to one who studies philosophy. The thinking part
of mankind is confined to a very small number, and these ,
will never disturb the peace and tranquillity of the world.
Neither Montaigne, Locke, Bayle, Spinoza, Hobbes, the
Lord Shaftesbury, Collins, nor Toland lighted up the fire-
1
110 VOLTAIRE
brand of discord in their countries; this has generally been
the work of divines, who being at first puffed up with the
ambition of becoming chiefs of a sect, soon grew very
desirous of being at the head of a party. But what do I
say ? All the works of the modern philosophers put to-
gether will never make so much noise as even the dispute
which arose among the Franciscans, merely about the
fashion of their sleeves and of their cowls.
Letter XIV
ON DESCARTES AND SIR ISAAC NEWTON
A Frenchman who arrives in London, will find philosophy,
like everything else, very much changed there. He had left
the world a plenum, and he now finds it a vacuum. At
Paris the universe is seen composed of vortices of subtile
matter; but nothing like it is seen in London. In France,
it is the pressure of the moon that causes the tides; but in
England it is the sea that gravitates towards the moon; so
that when you think that the moon should make it flood
with us, those gentlemen fancy it should be ebb, which very
unluckily cannot be proved. For to be able to do this, it is
necessary the moon and the tides should have been inquired
into at the very instant of the creation.
You will observe farther, that the sun, which in France
is said to have nothing to do in the affair, comes in here for
very near a quarter of its assistance. According to your
Cartesians, everything is performed by an impulsion, of which
we have very little notion; and according to Sir Isaac
Newton, it is by an attraction, the cause of which is as much
unknown to us. At Paris you imagine that the earth is
shaped like a melon, or of an oblique figure; at London it
has an oblate one. A Cartesian declares that light exists in
the air ; but a Newtonian asserts that it comes from the sun
in six minutes and a half. The several operations of your
chemistry are performed by acids, alkalies and subtile mat-
ter; but attraction prevails even in chemistry among the
English.
The very essence of things is totally changed. You
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH HI
neither are agreed upon the definition of the soul, nor on
that of matter. Descartes, as I observed in my last, main-
tains that the soul is the same thing with thought, and Mr.
Locke has given a pretty good proof of the contrary.
Descartes asserts farther, that extension alone constitutes
matter, but Sir Isaac adds solidity to it.
How furiously contradictory are these opinions !
" Non nostrum inter vos tantas componere lites."
Virgil, Eclog. III.
" 'Tis not for us to end such great disputes."
This famous Newton, this destroyer of the Cartesian
system, died in March, anno 1727. His countrymen honoured
him in his lifetime, and interred him as though he had been
a king who had made his people happy.
The English read with the highest satisfaction, and trans-
lated into their tongue, the Elogium of Sir Isaac Newton,
which M. de Fontenelle spoke in the Academy of Sciences.
M. de Fontenelle presides as judge over philosophers; and
the English expected his decision, as a solemn declaration
of the superiority of the English philosophy over that of
the French. But when it was found that this gentleman
had compared Descartes to Sir Isaac, the whole Royal
Society in London rose up in arms. So far from acquiescing
with M. Fontenelle's judgment, they criticised his discourse.
And even several (who, hov/ever, were not the ablest phi-
losophers in that body) were offended at the comparison,
and for no other reason but because Descartes was a
Frenchman.
It must be confessed that these two great men differed
very much in conduct, in fortune, and in philosophy.
Nature had indulged Descartes with a shining and strong
imagination, whence he became a very singular person both
in private life and in his manner of reasoning. This imagina-
tion could not conceal itself even in his philosophical
works, which are everywhere adorned with very shining,
ingenious metaphors and figures. Nature had almost made
him a poet; and indeed he wrote a piece of poetry for the
entertainment of Christina, Queen of Sweden, which how-
ever was suppressed in honour to his memory.
112 VOLTAIRE
He embraced a military life for some time, and afterwards
becoming a complete philosopher, he did not think the
passion of love derogatory to his character. He had by his
mistress a daughter called Froncine, who died young, and
was very much regretted by him. Thus he experienced
every passion incident to mankind.
He was a long time of opinion that it would be necessary
for him to fly from the society of his fellow creatures, and
especially from his native country, in order to enjoy the
happiness of cultivating his philosophical studies in full
liberty.
Descartes was very right, for his contemporaries were
not knowing enough to improve and enlighten his under-
standing, and were capable of little else than of giving him
uneasiness.
He left France purely to go in search of truth, which was
then persecuted by the wretched philosophy of the schools.
However, he found that reason was as much disguised and
depraved in the universities of Holland, into which he with-
drew, as in his own country. For at the time that the French
condemned the only propositions of his philosophy which
were true, he was persecuted by the pretended philosophers
of Holland, who understood him no better ; and who, having
a nearer view of his glory, hated his person the more, so
that he was obliged to leave Utrecht. Descartes was in-
juriously accused of being an atheist, the last refuge of
religious scandal : and he who had employed all the sagacity
and penetration of his genius, in searching for new proofs
of the existence of a God, was suspected to believe there
was no such Being.
Such a persecution from all sides, must necessarily sup-
pose a most exalted merit as well as a very distinguished
reputation, and indeed he possessed both. Reason at that
time darted a ray upon the world through the gloom of the
schools, and the prejudices of popular superstition. At last
his name spread so universally, that the French were de-
sirous of bringing him back into his native country by
rewards, and accordingly offered him an annual pension of a
thousand crowns. Upon these hopes Descartes returned to
France; paid the fees of his patent, which was sold at that
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 113
time, but no pension was settled upon him. Thus disap-
pointed, he returned to his solitude in North Holland, where
he again pursued the study of philosophy, whilst the great
Galileo, at fourscore years of age, was groaning in the
prisons of the Inquisition, only for having demonstrated the
earth's motion.
At last Descartes was snatched from the world in the
flower of his age at Stockholm. His death was owing to a
bad regimen, and he expired in the midst of some literati
who were his enemies, and under the hands of a physician
to whom he was odious.
The progress of Sir Isaac Newton's life was quite dif-
ferent. He lived happy, and very much honoured in his
native country, to the age of fourscore and five years.
It was his peculiar felicity, not only to be born in a
country of liberty, but in an age when all scholastic imper-
tinences were banished from the world. Reason alone was
cultivated, and mankind could only be his pupil, not his
enemy.
One very singular difference in the lives of these two great
men is, that Sir Isaac, during the long course of years he
enjoyed, was never sensible to any passion, was not subject
to the common frailties of mankind, nor ever had any com-
merce with women — a circumstance which was assured me
by the physician and surgeon who attended him in his last
moments.
We may admire Sir Isaac Newton on this occasion, but
then we must not censure Descartes.
The opinion that generally prevails in England with re-
gard to these new philosophers is, that the latter was a
dreamer, and the former a sage.
Very few people in England read Descartes, whose works
indeed are now useless. On the other side, but a small
number peruse those of Sir Isaac, because to do this the
student must be deeply skilled in the mathematics, other-
wise those works will be unintelligible to him. But not-
withstanding this, these great men are the subject of every-
one's discourse. Sir Isaac Newton is allowed every advan-
tage, whilst Descartes is not indulged a single one. Accord-
ing to some, it is to the former that we owe the discovery
114 VOLTAIRE
of a vacuum, that the air is a heavy body, and the invention
of telescopes. In a word, Sir Isaac Newton is here as the
Hercules of fabulous story, to whom the ignorant ascribed
all the feats of ancient heroes.
In a critique that was made in London on M. de Fon-
tenelle's discourse, the writer presumed to assert that
Descartes was not a great geometrician. Those who make
such a declaration may justly be reproached with flying in
their master's face. Descartes extended the limits of geom-
etry as far beyond the place where he found them, as Sir
Isaac did after him. The former first taught the method of
expressing curves by equations. This geometry which,
thanks to him for it, is now grown common, was so abstruse
in his time, that not so much as one professor would under-
take to explain it; and Schotten in Holland, and Format
in France, were the only men who understood it.
He applied this geometrical and inventive genius to diop-
trics, which, when treated of by him, became a new art.
And if he was mistaken in some things, the reason of that
is, a man who discovers a new tract of land cannot at once
know all the properties of the soil. Those who come after
him, and make these lands fruitful, are at least obliged to
him for the discovery. I will not deny but that there are
innumerable errors in the rest of Descartes' works.
Geometry was a guide he himself had in some measure
fashioned, which would have conducted him safely through
the several paths of natural philosophy. Nevertheless, he
at last abandoned this guide, and gave entirely into the
humour of forming hypotheses; and then philosophy was
no more than an ingenious romance, fit only to amuse the
ignorant. He was mistaken in the nature of the soul, in the
proofs of the existence of a God, in matter, in the laws of
motion, and in the nature of light. He admitted innate
ideas, he invented new elements, he created a world; he
made man according to his own fancy ; and it is justly said,
that the man of Descartes is, in fact, that of Descartes only,
very different from the real one.
He pushed his metaphysical errors so far, as to declare
that two and two make four for no other reason but be-
cause God would have it so. However, it will not be making
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH US
him too great a compliment if we affirm that he was valuable
even in his mistakes. He deceived himself, but then it was
at least in a methodical way. He destroyed all the absurd
chimeras with which youth had been infatuated for two
thousand years. He taught his contemporaries how to
reason, and enabled them to employ his own weapons against
himself. If Descartes did not pay in good money, he how-
ever did great service in crying down that of a base alloy.
I indeed believe that very few will presume to compare
his philosophy in any respect with that of Sir Isaac Newton.
The former is an essay, the latter a masterpiece. But then
the man who first brought us to the path of truth, was per-
haps as great a genius as he who afterwards conducted us
through it.
Descartes gave sight to the blind. These saw the errors
of antiquity and of the sciences. The path he struck out is
since become boundless. Robaulfs little work was, during
some years, a complete system of physics; but now all the
Transactions of the several academies in Europe put to-
gether do not form so much as the beginning of a system.
In fathoming this abyss no bottom has been found. We are
now to examine what discoveries Sir Isaac Newton has
made in it.
Letter XV.
ON ATTRACTION
The discoveries which gained Sir Isaac Newton so universal
a reputation, relate to the system of the world, to light, to
geometrical infinities ; and, lastly, to chronology, with which
he used to amuse himself after the fatigue of his severer
studies.
I will now acquaint you (without prolixity if possible)
with the few things I have been able to comprehend of all
these sublime ideas. With regard to the system of our world
disputes were a long time maintained, on the cause that turns
the planets, and keeps them in their orbits; and on those
causes which make all bodies here below descend towards
the surface of the earth.
116 VOLTAIRE
The system of Descartes, explained and improved since
his time, seemed to give a plausible reason for all those
phenomena; and this reason seemed more just, as it is simple
and intelligible to all capacities. But in philosophy, a stu-
dent ought to doubt of the things he fancies he understands
too easily, as much as of those he does not understand.
Gravity, the falling of accelerated bodies on the earth,
the revolution of the planets in their orbits, their rotations
round their axis, all this is mere motion. Now motion can-
not perhaps be conceived any otherwise than by impulsion;
therefore all those bodies must be impelled. But by what
are they impelled? All space is full, it therefore is filled
with a very subtile matter, since this is imperceptible to us;
this matter goes from west to east, since r.ll the planets are
carried from west to east. Thus from hypothesis to hy-
pothesis, from one appearance to another, philosophers
have imagined a vast whirlpool of subtile matter, in which
the planets are carried round the sun : they also have created
another particular vortex which floats in the great one, and
which turns daily round the planets. When all this is done,
it is pretended that gravity depends on this diurnal motion;
for, say these, the velocity of the subtile matter that turns
round our little vortex, must be seventeen times more rapid
than that of the earth; or, in case its velocity is seventeen
times greater than that of the earth, its centrifugal force
must be vastly greater, and consequently impel all bodies
towards the earth. This is the cause of gravity, according
to the Cartesian system. But the theorist, before he cal-
culated the centrifugal force and velocity of the subtile mat-
ter, should first have been certain that it existed.
Sir Isaac Newton seems to have destroyed all these great
and little vortices, both that which carries the planets round
the sun, as well as the other which supposes every planet to
turn on its own axis.
First, with regard to the pretended little vortex of the
earth, it is demonstrated that it must lose its motion by in-
sensible degrees ; it is demonstrated, that if the earth swims
in a fluid, its density must be equal to that of the earth ; and
in case its density be the same, all the bodies we endeavour
to move must meet with an insuperable resistance.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 117
With regard to the great vortices, they are still more
chimerical, and it is impossible to make them agree with
Kepler's law, the' truth of which has been demonstrated.
Sir Isaac shows, that the revolution of the fluid in which
Jupiter is supposed to be carried, is not the same with re-
gard to the revolution of the fluid of the earth, as the revo-
lution of Jupiter with respect to that of the earth. He
proves, that as the planets make their revolutions in ellipses,
and consequently being at a much greater distance one from
the other in their Aphelia, and a little nearer in their Peri-
helia; the earth's velocity, for instance, ought to be greater
when it is nearer Venus and Mars, because the fluid that
carries it along, being then more pressed, ought to have a
greater motion; and yet it is even then that the earth's
motion is slower.
He proves that there is no such thing as a celestial matter
which goes from west to east since the comets traverse
those spaces, sometimes from east to west, and at other times
from north to south.
In fine, the better to resolve, if possible, every difficulty,
he proves, and even by experiments, that it is impossible
there should be a plenum; and brings back the vacuum,
which Aristotle and Descartes had banished from the world.
Having by these and several other arguments destroyed
the Cartesian vortices, he despaired of ever being able to dis-
cover whether there is a secret principle in nature which, at
the same time, is the cause of the motion of all celestial
bodies, and that of gravity on the earth. But being retired
in 1666, upon account of the Plague, to a solitude near Cam-
bridge; as he was walking one day in his garden, and saw
some fruits fall from a tree, he fell into a profound medita-
tion on that gravity, the cause of which had so long been
sought, but in vain, by all the philosophers, whilst the vulgar
think there is nothing mysterious in it. He said to himself,
that from what height soever in our hemisphere, those bodies
might descend, their fall would certainly be in the progres-
sion discovered by Galileo ; and the spaces they run through
would be as the square of the times. Why may not this
power which causes heavy bodies to descend, and is the same
without any sensible diminution at the remotest distance from
118 VOLTAIRE
the centre of the earth, or on the summits of the highest
mountains, why, said Sir Isaac, may not this power extend
as high as the moon? And in case its influence reaches so
far, is it not very probable that this power retains it in its
orbit, and determines its motion? But in case the moon
obeys this principle (whatever it be) may we not conclude
very naturally that the rest of the planets are equally sub-
ject to it ? In case this power exists (which besides is proved)
it must increase in an inverse ratio of the squares of the
distances. All, therefore, that remains is, to examine how
far a heavy body, which should fall upon the earth from a
moderate height, would go ; and how far in the same time, a
body which should fall from the orbit of the moon, would
descend. To find this, nothing is wanted but the measure of
the earth, and the distance of the moon from it.
Thus Sir Isaac Newton reasoned. But at that time the
English had but a very imperfect measure of our globe, and
depended on the uncertain supposition of mariners, who com-
puted a degree to contain but sixty English miles, whereas
it consists in reality of near seventy. As this false compu-
tation did not agree with the conclusions which Sir Isaac
intended to draw from them, he laid aside this pursuit. A
half-learned philosopher, remarkable only for his vanity,
would have made the measure of the earth agree, anyhow,
with his system. Sir Isaac, however, chose rather to quit
the researches he was then engaged in. But after Mr.
Picard had measured the earth exactly, by tracing that
meridian which redounds so much to the honour of the
French, Sir Isaac Newton resumed his former reflections,
and found his account in Mr. Picard's calculation.
A circumstance which has always appeared wonderful to
me, is that such sublime discoveries should have been made
by the sole assistance of a quadrant and a little arithmetic.
The circumference of the earth is 123,249,600 feet. This,
among other things, is necessary to prove the system of
attraction.
The instant we know the earth's circumference, and the
distance of the moon, we know that of the moon's orbit, and
the diameter of this orbit. The moon performs its revolu-
tion in that orbit in twenty-seven days, seven hours, forty-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 119
three minutes. It is demonstrated, that the moon in its mean
motion makes an hundred and fourscore and seven thou-
sand nine hundred and sixty feet (of Paris) in a minute.
It is likewise demonstrated, by a known theorem, that the
central force which should make a body fall from the height
of the moon, would make its velocity no more than fifteen
Paris feet in a minute of time. Now if the law by which
bodies gravitate and attract one another in an inverse ratio
to the squares of the distances be true, if the same power
acts according to that law throughout all nature, it is evident
that as the earth is sixty semi-diameters distant from the
moon, a heavy body must necessarily fall (on the earth)
fifteen feet in the first second, and fifty-four thousand feet
in the first minute.
Now a heavy body falls, in reality, fifteen feet in the first
second, and goes in the first minute fifty-four thousand feet,
which number is the square of sixty multiplied by fifteen.
Bodies, therefore, gravitate in an inverse ratio of the squares
of the distances ; consequently, what causes gravity on earth,
and keeps the moon in its orbit, is one and the same power;
it being demonstrated that the moon gravitates on the earth,
which is the centre of its particular motion, it is demon-
strated that the earth and the moon gravitate on the sun
which is the centre of their annual motion.
The rest of the planets must be subject to this general
law; and if this law exists, these planets must follow the
laws which Kepler discovered. All these laws, all these
relations are indeed observed by the planets with the utmost
exactness; therefore, the power of attraction causes all the
planets to gravitate towards the sun, in like manner as the
moon gravitates towards our globe.
Finally as in all bodies re-action is equal to action, it is
certain that the earth gravitates also towards the moon;
and that the sun gravitates towards both. That every one
of the satellites of Saturn gravitates towards the other four,
and the other four towards it; all five towards Saturn, and
Saturn towards all. That it is the same with regard to
Jupiter; and that all these globes are attracted by the sun,
which is reciprocally attracted by them.
This power of gravitation acts proportionably to the
120
VOLTAIRE
quantity of matter in bodies, a truth, which Sir Isaac has
demonstrated by experiments. This new discovery has been
of use to show that the sun (the centre of the planetary
system) attracts them all in a direct ratio of their quantity
of matter combined with their nearness. From hence Sir
Isaac, rising by degrees to discoveries which seemed not to
be formed for the human mind, is bold enough to compute
the quantity of matter contained in the sun and in every
planet; and in this manner shows, from the simple laws of
mechanics, that every celestial globe ought necessarily to be
where it is placed.
His bare principle of the laws of gravitation accounts for
all the apparent inequalities in the course of the celestial
globes. The variations of the moon are a necessary conse-
quence of those laws. Moreover, the reason is evidently
seen why the nodes of the moon perform their revolutions
in nineteen years, and those of the earth in about twenty-
six thousand. The several appearances observed in the
tides are also a very simple effect of this attraction. The
proximity of the moon, when at the full, and when it is
new, and its distance in the quadratures or quarters, com-
bined with the action of the sun, exhibit a sensible reason
why the ocean swells and sinks.
After having shown by his sublime theory the course and
inequalities of the planets, he subjects comets to the same
law. The orbit of these fires (unknown for so great a series
of years), which was the terror of mankind and the rock
against which philosophy split, placed by Aristotle below the
moon, and sent back by Descartes above the sphere of
Saturn, is at last placed in its proper seat by Sir Isaac
Newton.
He proves that comets are solid bodies which move in the
sphere of the sun's activity, and that they describe an
ellipsis so very eccentric, and so near to parabolas, that cer-
tain comets must take up above five hundred years in their
revolution.
The learned Dr. Halley is of opinion that the comet seen
in 1680 is the same which appeared in Julius Caesar's time.
This shows more than any other that comets are hard,
opaque bodies; for it descended so near to the sun, as to
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 121
come within a sixth part of the diameter of this planet from
it, and consequently might have contracted a degree of heat
two thousand times stronger than that of red-hot iron; and
would have been soon dispersed in vapour, had it not been
a firm, dense body. The guessing the course of comets be-
gan then to be very much in vogue. The celebrated Ber-
noulli concluded by his system that the famous comet of
1680 would appear again the 17th of May, 1719. Not a
single astronomer in Europe went to bed that night. How-
ever, they needed not to have broke their rest, for the famous
comet never appeared. There is at least more cunning, if
not more certainty, in fixing its return to so remote a dis-
tance as five hundred and seventy-five years. As to Mr.
Whiston, he affirmed very seriously that in the time of the
Deluge a comet overflowed the terrestrial globe. And he was
so unreasonable as to wonder that people laughed at him for
making such an assertion. The ancients were almost in the
same way of thinking with Mr. Whiston, and fancied that
comets were always the forerunners of some great calamity
which was to befall mankind. Sir Isaac Newton, on the
contrary, suspected that they are very beneficent, and that
vapours exhale from them merely to nourish and vivify the
planets, which imbibe in their course the several particles
the sun has detached from the comets, , an opinion which, at
least, is more probable than the former. But this is not all.
If this power of gravitation or attraction acts on all the
celestial globes, it acts undoubtedly on the several parts of
these globes. For in case bodies attract one another in pro-
portion to the quantity of matter contained in them, it can
only be in proportion to the quantity of their parts; and if
this power is found in the whole, it is undoubtedly in the
half, in the quarter, in the eighth part, and so on in in-
finitum.
This is attraction, the great spring by which all Nature is
moved. Sir Isaac Newton, after having demonstrated the
existence of this principle, plainly foresaw that its very name
would offend; and, therefore, this philosopher, in more places
than one of his books, gives the reader some caution about
it. He bids him beware of confounding this name with
what the ancients called occult qualities, but to be satisfied
122 VOLTAIRE
with knowing that there is in all bodies a central force,
which acts to the utmost limits of the universe, according to
the invariable laws of mechanics.
It is surprising, after the solemn protestations Sir Isaac
made, that such eminent men as Mr. Sorin and M. de
Fontenelle should have imputed to this great philosopher the
verbal and chimerical way of reasoning of the Aristotelians;
Mr. Sorin in the Memoirs of the Academy of 1709, and M.
de Fontenelle in the very eulogium of Sir Isaac Newton.
Most of the French (the learned and others) have re-
peated this reproach. Theje are for ever crying out, " Why
did he not employ the word impulsion, which is so well un-
derstood, rather than that of attraction, which is unintelligi-
ble ?"
Sir Isaac might have answered these critics thus : — " First,
you have as imperfect an idea of the word impulsion as of
that of attraction; and in case you cannot conceive how one
body tends towards the centre of another body, neither can
you conceive by what power one body can impel another.
" Secondly, I could not admit of impulsion; for to do this
I must have known that a celestial matter was the agent.
But so far from knowing that there is any such matter, I
have proved it to be merely imaginary.
" Thirdly, I use the word attraction for no other reason
but to express an effect which I discovered in Nature— a
certain and indisputable effect of an unknown principle — a
quality inherent in matter, the cause of which persons of
greater abilities than I can pretend to may, if they can, find
out."
" What have you, then, taught us ? " will these people say
further ; " and to what purpose are so many calculations to
tell us what you yourself do not comprehend ? "
" I have taught you," may Sir Isaac rejoin, " that all bodies
gravitate towards one another in proportion to their quan-
tity of matter; that these central forces alone keep the
planets and comets in their orbits, and cause them to move
in the proportion before set down. I demonstrate to you
that it is impossible there should be any other cause which
keeps the planets in their orbits than that general phenome-
non of gravity. For heavy bodies fall on the earth accord-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 123
ing to the proportion demonstrated of central forces; and
the planets finishing their course according to these same
proportions, in case there were another power that acted
upon all those bodies, it would either increase their velocity
or change their direction. Now, not one of those bodies
ever has a single degree of motion or velocity, or has any
direction but what is demonstrated to be the effect of the
central forces. Consequently it is impossible there should
be any other principle."
Give me leave once more to introduce Sir Isaac speaking.
Shall he not be allowed to say, " My case and that of the
ancients is very different. These saw, for instance, water
ascend in pumps, and said. ' the water rises because it abhors
a vacuum/ But with regard to myself, I am in the case of
a man who should have first observed that water ascends
in pumps, but should leave others to explain the cause of this
effect. The anatomist, who first declared that the motion of
the arm is owing to the contraction of the muscles, taught
mankind an indisputable truth. But are they less obliged
to him because he did not know the reason why the muscles
contract? The cause of the elasticity of the air is unknown,
but he who first discovered this spring performed a very
signal service to natural philosophy. The spring that I dis-
covered was more hidden and more universal, and for that
very reason mankind ought to thank me the more. I have
discovered a new property of matter — one of the secrets of
the Creator — and have calculated and discovered the effects
of it. After this, shall people quarrel with me about the
name I give it?"
Vortices may be called an occult quality because their ex-
istence was never proved. Attraction, on the contrary, is a
real thing because its effects are demonstrated, and the pro-
portions of it are calculated. The cause of this cause is
among the Arcana of the Almighty.
"Procedes hue, et non amplius."
(Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.)
124 VOLTAIRE
Letter XVI
ON SIR ISAAC NEWTON'S OPTICS
The philosophers of the last age found out a new universe:
and a circumstance which made its discovery more difficult
was that no one had so much as suspected its existence.
The most sage and judicious were of opinion that it was a
frantic rashness to dare so much as to imagine that it was
possible to guess the laws by which the celestial bodies move
and the manner how light acts. Galileo, by his astronomical
discoveries, Kepler, by his calculation, Descartes (at least, in
his dioptrics), and Sir Isaac Newton, in all his works,
severally saw the mechanism of the springs of the world.
The geometricians have subjected infinity to the laws of cal-
culation. The circulation of the blood in animals, and of
the sap in vegetables, have changed the face of Nature with
regard to us. A new kind of existence has been given to
bodies in the air-pump. By the assistance of telescopes bodies
have been brought nearer to one another. Finally, the sev-
eral discoveries which Sir Isaac Newton has made on light
are equal to the boldest things which the curiosity of man
could expect after so many philosophical novelties.
Till Antonio de Dominis the. rainbow was considered as
an inexplicable miracle. This philosopher guessed that it
was a necessary effect of the sun and rain. Descartes gained
immortal fame by his mathematical explication of this sc
natural a phenomenon. He calculated the reflections and
refractions of light in drops of rain. And his sagacity on
this occasion was at that time looked upon as next to divine.
But what would he have said had it been proved to him
that he was mistaken in the nature of light; that he had not
the least reason to maintain that it is a globular body? That
it is false to assert that this matter, spreading itself through
the whole, waits only to be projected forward by the sun, in
order to be put in action, in like manner as a long staff
acts at one end when pushed forward by the other. Thai
light is certainly darted by the sun; in fine, that light is
transmitted from the sun to the earth in about seven minutes
though a cannon-ball, which were not to lose any of its
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 125
velocity, could not go that distance in less than twenty-
five years How great would have been his astonishment
had he been told that light does not reflect directly by im-
pinging against the solid parts of bodies, that bodies are
not transparent when they have large pores, and that a
man should arise who would demonstrate all these paradoxes,
and anatomise a single ray of light with more dexterity
than the ablest artist dissects a human body. This man
is come. Sir Isaac Newton has demonstrated to the eye, by
the bare assistance of the prism, that light is a composition
of coloured rays, which, being united, form white colour.
A single ray is by him divided into seven, which all fall upon
a piece of linen, or a sheet of white paper, in their order,
one above the other, and at unequal distances. The first
is red, the second orange, the third yellow, the fourth green,
the fifth blue, the sixth indigo, the seventh a violet-purple.
Each of these rays, transmitted afterwards by a hundred
other prisms, will never change the colour it bears; in like
manner, as gold, when completely purged from its dross, will
never change afterwards in the crucible. As a superabundant
proof that each of these elementary rays has inherently
in itself that which forms its colour to the eye, take a small
piece of yellow wood, for instance, and set it in the ray of
a red colour ; this wood will instantly be tinged red. But set
it in the ray of a green colour, it assumes a green colour,
and so of all the rest.
From what cause, therefore, do colours arise in Nature?
It is nothing but the disposition of bodies to reflect the rays
of a certain order and to absorb all the rest.
What, then, is this secret disposition? Sir Isaac Newton
demonstrates that it is nothing more than the density of the
small constituent particles of which a body is composed.
And how is this reflection performed? It was supposed to
arise from the rebounding of the rays, in the same manner
as a ball on the surface of a solid body. But this is a mistake,
for Sir Isaac taught the astonished philosophers that bodies
are opaque for no other reason but because their pores are
large, that light reflects on our eyes from the very bosom
of those pores, that the smaller the pores of a body are the
more such a body is transparent. Thus paper, which reflects
126 VOLTAIRE
the light when dry, transmits it when oiled, because the
oil, by filling its pores, makes them much smaller.
It is there that examining the vast porosity of bodies,
every particle having its pores, and every particle of those
particles having its own, he shows we are not certain that
there is a cubic inch of solid matter in the universe, so far
are we from conceiving what matter is. Having thus divided,
as it were, light into its elements, and carried the sagacity
of his discoveries so far as to prove the method of distin-
guishing compound colours from such as are primitive, he
shows that these elementary rays, separated by the prism,
are ranged in their order for no other reason but because
they are refracted in that very order; and it is this property
(unknown till he discovered it) of breaking or splitting in
this proportion; it is this unequal refraction of rays, this
power of refracting the red less than the orange colour, &c,
which he calls the different refrangibility. The most re-
flexible rays are the most refrangible, and from hence he
evinces that the same power is the cause both of the reflec-
tion and refraction of light.
But all these wonders are merely but the opening of his
discoveries. He found out the secret to see the vibrations
or fits of light which come and go incessantly, and which
either transmit light or reflect it, according to the density
of the parts they meet with. He has presumed to calculate
the density of the particles of air necessary between two
glasses, the one flat, the other convex on one side, set one
upon the other, in order to operate such a transmission or
reflection, or to form such and such a colour.
From all these combinations he discovers the proportion
in which light acts on bodies and bodies act on light.
He saw light so perfectly, that he has determined to what
degree of perfection the art of increasing it, and of assist-
ing our eyes by telescopes, can be carried.
Descartes, from a noble confidence that was very excus-
able, considering how strongly he was fired at the first
discoveries he made in an art which he almost first found
out; Descartes, I say, hoped to discover in the stars, by the
assistance of telescopes, objects as small as those we discern
upon the earth.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 127
But Sir Isaac has shown that dioptric telescopes cannot
be brought to a greater perfection, because of that refrac-
tion, and of that very refrangibility, which at the same time
that they bring objects nearer to us, scatter too much the
elementary rays. He has calculated in these glasses the
proportion of the scattering of the red and of the blue
rays; and proceeding so far as to demonstrate things which
were not supposed even to exist, he examines the inequalities
which arise from the shape or figure of the glass, and that
which arises from the refrangibility. He finds that the ob-
ject glass of the telescope being convex on one side and flat
on the other, in case the flat side be turned towards the ob-
ject, the error which arises from the construction and posi-
tion of the glass is above five thousand times less than the
error which arises from the refrangibility; and, therefore,
that the shape or figure of the glasses is not the cause why
telescopes cannot be carried to a greater perfection, but
arises wholly from the nature of light.
For this reason he invented a telescope, which discovers
objects by reflection, and not by refraction. Telescopes of
this new kind are very hard to make, and their use is not
easy; but, according to the English, a reflective telescope of
but five feet has the same effect as another of a hundred
feet in length.
Letter XVII
ON INFINITES IN GEOMETRY, AND SIR ISAAC
NEWTON'S CHRONOLOGY
The labyrinth and abyss of infinity is also a new course Sir
Isaac Newton has gone through, and we are obliged to him
for the clue, by whose assistance we are enabled to trace
its various windings.
Descartes got the start of him also in this astonishing
invention. He advanced with mighty steps in his geometry,
and was arrived at the very borders of infinity, but went
no farther. Dr. Wailis, about the middle of the last century,
was the first who reduced a fraction by a perpetual division
to an infinite series.
The Lord Brouncker employed this series to square the
hyperbola.
128 VOLTAIRE
Mercator published a demonstration of this quadrature;
much about which time Sir Isaac Newton, being then twenty-
three years of age, had invented a general method, to per-
form on all geometrical curves what had just before been
tried on the hyperbola.
It is to this method of subjecting everywhere infinity to
algebraical calculations, that the name is given of differential
calculations or of fluxions and integral calculation. It is the
art of numbering and measuring exactly a thing whose
existence cannot be conceived.
And, indeed, would you not imagine that a man laughed
at you who should declare that there are lines infinitely great
which form an angle infinitely little?
That a right line, which is a right line so long as it is
finite, by changing infinitely little its direction, becomes an
infinite curve; and that a curve may become infinitely less
than another curve?
That there are infinite squares, infinite cubes, and infinites
of infinites, all greater than one another, and the last but
one of which is nothing in comparison of the last?
All these things, which at first appear to be the utmost
excess of frenzy, are in reality an effort of the sublety and
extent of the human mind, and the art of finding truths
which till then had been unknown.
This so bold edifice is even founded on simple ideas. The
business is to measure the diagonal of a square, to give the
area of a curve, to find the square root of a number, which
has none in common arithmetic. After all, the imagination
ought not to be startled any more at so many orders of
infinites than at the so well-known proposition, viz., that
curve lines may always be made to pass between a circle
and a tangent, or at that other, namely, that matter is
divisible in infinitum. These two truths have been demon-
strated many years, and are no less incomprehensible than
the things we have been speaking of.
For many years the invention of this famous calculation
was denied to Sir Isaac Newton. In Germany Mr. Leibnitz
was considered as the inventor of the differences or moments,
called fluxions, and Mr. Bernoulli claimed the integral cal-
culus. However, Sir Isaac is now thought to have first
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 129
macle the discovery, and the other two have the glory of
having once made the world doubt whether it was to be
ascribed to him or them. Thus some contested with Dr.
Harvey the invention of the circulation of the blood, as
others disputed with Mr. Perrault that of the circulation
of the sap.
Hartsocher and Leuwenhoek disputed with each other the
honour of having first seen the vermiculi of which mankind
are formed. This Hartsocher also contested with Huygens
the invention of a new method of calculating the distance
of a fixed star. It is not yet known to what philosopher we
owe the invention of the cycloid.
Be this as it will, it is by the help of this geometry
of infinites that Sir Isaac Newton attained to the most
sublime discoveries. I am now to speak of another work,
which, though more adapted to the capacity of the hu-
man mind, does nevertheless display some marks of that
creative genius with which Sir Isaac Newton was informed
in all his researches. The work I mean is a chronology of
a new kind, for what province soever he undertook he was
sure to change the ideas and opinions received by the rest
of men.
Accustomed to unravel and disentangle chaos, he was
resolved to convey at least some light into that of the fables
of antiquity which are blended and confounded with history,
and fix an uncertain chronology. It is true that there is no
family, city, or nation, but endeavours to remove its original
as far backward as possible. Besides, the first historians
were the most negligent in setting down the eras: books
were infinitely less common than they are at this time, and,
consequently, authors being not so obnoxious to censure, they
therefore imposed upon the world with greater impunity;
and, as it is evident that these have related a great number
of fictitious particulars, it is probable enough that they also
gave us several false eras.
It appeared in general to Sir Isaac that the world was
five hundred years younger than chronologers declare it to
be. He grounds his opinion on the ordinary course of
Nature, and on the observations which astronomers have
made.
(E) HC — Vol. 34
130 VOLTAIRE
By the course of Nature we here understand the time that
every generation of men lives upon the earth. The Egyp-
tians first employed this vague and uncertain method of cal-
culating when they began to write the beginning of their
history. These computed three hundred and forty-one gener-
ations from Menes to Sethon ; and, having no fixed era, they
supposed three generations to consist of a hundred years.
In this manner they computed eleven thousand three hun-
dred and forty years from Menes's reign to that of Sethon.
The Greeks before they counted by Olympiads followed
the method of the Egyptians, and even gave a little more ex-
tent to generations, making each to consist of forty years.
Now, here, both the Egyptians and the Greeks made an
erroneous computation. It is true, indeed, that, according to
the usual course of Nature, three generations last about
a hundred and twenty years; but three reigns are far from
taking up so many. It is very evident that mankind in
general live longer than kings are found to reign, so that
an author who should write a history in which there were no
dates fixed, and should know that nine kings had reigned
over a nation ; such a historian would commit a great error
should he allow three hundred years to these nine monarchs.
Every generation takes about thirty-six years; every reign
is, one with the other, about twenty. Thirty kings of Eng-
land have swayed the sceptre from William the Conqueror
to George I., the years of whose reigns added together
amount to six hundred and forty-eight years; which, being
divided equally among the thirty kings, give to every one a
reign of twenty-one years and a half very near. Sixty-
three kings of France have sat upon the throne; these have,
one with another, reigned about twenty years each. This is
the usual course of Nature. The ancients, therefore, were
mistaken when they supposed the durations in general of
reigns to equal that of generations. They, therefore, al-
lowed too great a number of years, and consequently some
years must be subtracted from their computation.
Astronomical observations seem to have lent a still greater
assistance to our philosopher. He appears to us stronger
when he fights upon his own ground.
You know that the earth, besides its annual motion which
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 131
carries it round the sun from west to east in the space of a
year, has also a singular revolution which was quite unknown
till within these late years. Its poles have a very slow ret-
rograde motion from east to west, whence it happens that
their position every day does not correspond exactly with the
same point of the heavens. This difference which is so in-
sensible in a year, becomes pretty considerable in time; and
in threescore and twelve years the difference is found to be
of one degree, that is to say, the three hundred and sixtieth
part of the circumference of the whole heaven. Thus after
seventy-two years the colure of the vernal equinox which
passed through a fixed star, corresponds with another fixed
star. Hence it is that the sun, instead of being in that part
of the heavens in which the Ram was situated in the time of
Hipparchus, is found to correspond with that part of the
heavens in which the Bull was situated; and the Twins are
placed where the Bull then stood. All the signs have changed
their situation, and yet we still retain the same manner of
speaking as the ancients did. In this age we say that the sun
is in the Ram in the spring, from the same principle of con-
descension that we say that the sun turns round.
Hipparchus was the first among the Greeks who observed
some change in the constellations with regard to the equi-
noxes, or rather who learnt it from the Egyptians. Philoso-
phers ascribed this motion to the stars; for in those ages
people were far from imagining such a revolution in the
earth, which was supposed to be immovable in every re-
spect. They therefore created a heaven in which they fixed
the several stars, and gave this heaven a particular motion
by which it was carried towards the east, whilst that all the
stars seemed to perform their diurnal revolution from east
to west. To this error they added a second of much greater
consequence, by imagining that the pretended heaven of the
fixed stars advanced one degree eastward every hundred
years. In this manner they were no less mistaken in their
astronomical calculation than in their system of natural
philosophy. As for instance, an astronomer in that age
would have said that the vernal equinox was in the time of
such and such an observation, in such a sign, and in such a
Star. It has advanced two degrees of each since the time
132 VOLTAIRE
that observation was made to the present. Now two de-
grees are equivalent to two hundred years; consequently the
astronomer who made that observation lived just so many
years before me. It is certain that an astronomer who had
argued in this manner would have mistook just fifty-four
years; hence it is that the ancients, who were doubly
deceived, made their great year of the world, that is, the
revolution of the whole heavens, to consist of thirty-six
thousand years. But the moderns are sensible that this
imaginary revolution of the heaven of the stars is nothing
else than the revolution of the poles of the earth, which is
performed in twenty-five thousand nine hundred years. It
may be proper to observe transiently in this place, that Sir
Isaac, by determining the figure of the earth, has very hap-
pily explained the cause of this revolution.
All this being laid down, the only thing remaining to settle
chronology is to see through what star the colure of the
equinoxes passes, and where it intersects at this time the
ecliptic in the spring; and to discover whether some an-
cient writer does not tell us in what point the ecliptic was
intersected in his time, by the same colure of the equinoxes.
Clemens Alexandrinus informs us, that Chiron, who went
with the Argonauts, observed the constellations at the time
of that famous expedition, and fixed the vernal equinox to
the middle of the Ram; the autumnal equinox to the middle
of Libra; our summer solstice to the middle of Cancer, and
our winter solstice to the middle of Capricorn.
A long time after the expedition of the Argonauts, and a
year before the Peloponnesian war, M'ethon observed that
the point of the summer solstice passed through the eighth
degree of Cancer.
Now every sign of the zodiac contains thirty degrees. In
Chiron's time, the solstice was arrived at the middle of the
sign, that is to say to the fifteenth degree. A year before the
Peloponnesian war it was at the eighth, and therefore it had
retarded seven degrees. A degree is equivalent to seventy-
two years; consequently, from the beginning of the Pelo-
ponnesian war to the expedition of the Argonauts, there
is no more than an interval of seven times seventy-
two years, which make five hundred and four years, and
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 133
not seven hundred years, as the Greeks computed. Thus
in comparing the position of the heavens at this time
with their position in that age, we find that the ex-
pedition of the Argonauts ought to be placed about nine
hundred years before Christ, and not about fourteen hun-
dred; and consequently that the world is riot so old by five
hundred years as it was generally supposed to be. By this
calculation all the eras are drawn nearer, and the several
events are found to have happened later than is computed.
I don't know whether this ingenious system will be favoura-
bly received; and whether these notions will prevail so far
with the learned, as to prompt them to reform the chronology
of the world. Perhaps these gentlemen would think it too
great a condescension to allow one and the same man the
glory of having improved natural philosophy, geometry, and
history. This would be a kind of universal monarchy, with
which the principle of self-love that is in man will scarce
suffer him to indulge his fellow-creature; and, indeed, at the
same time that some very great philosophers attacked Sir
Isaac Newton's attractive principle, others fell upon his
chronological system. Time, that should discover to which
of these the victory is due, may perhaps only leave the dis-
pute still more undetermined.
Letter XVIII
ON TRAGEDY
The English as well as the Spaniards were possessed of
theatres at a time when the French had no more than mov-
ing, itinerant stages. Shakspeare, who was considered as
the Corneille of the first-mentioned nation, was pretty nearly
contemporary with Lope de Vega, and he created, as it
were, the English theatre. Shakspeare boasted a strong
fruitful genius. He was natural and sublime, but had not
so much as a single spark of good taste, or knew one rule
of the drama. I will now hazard a random, but, at the
same time, true reflection, which is, that the great merit of
this dramatic poet has been the ruin of the English stage.
There are such beautiful, such noble, such dreadful scenes
134 VOLTAIRE
in this writer's monstrous farces, to which the name of
tragedy is given, that they have always been exhibited with
great success. Time, which alone gives reputation to
writers, at last makes their very faults venerable. Most
of the whimsical gigantic images of this poet, have, through
length of time (it being a hundred and fifty years since they
were first drawn) acquired a right of passing for sublime.
Most of the modern dramatic writers have copied him;
but the touches and descriptions which are applauded in
Shakspeare, are hissed at in these writers; and you will
easily believe that the veneration in which this author is
held, increases in proportion to the contempt which is
shown to the moderns. Dramatic writers don't consider
that they should not imitate him; and the ill-success of
Shakespeare's imitators produces no other effect, than to
make him be considered as inimitable. You remember
that in the tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice, a most ten-
der piece, a man strangles his wife on the stage; and that
the poor woman, whilst she is strangling, cries aloud that
she dies very unjustly. You know that in Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark, two grave-diggers make a grave, and are all the
time drinking, singing ballads, and making humorous re-
flections (natural indeed enough to persons of their pro-
fession) on the several skulls they throw up with their
spades; but a circumstance which will surprise you is,
that this ridiculous incident has been imitated. In the
reign of King Charles II., which was that of politeness,
and the Golden Age of the liberal arts; Otway, in his
Venice Preserved, introduces Antonio the senator, and
Naki, his courtesan, in the midst of the horrors of the
Marquis of Bedemar's conspiracy. Antonio, the super-
annuated senator plays, in his mistress's presence, all the
apish tricks of a lewd, impotent debauchee, who is quite
frantic and out of his senses. He mimics a bull and a dog,
and bites his mistress's legs, who kicks and whips him.
However, the players have struck these buffooneries (which
indeed were calculated merely for the dregs of the people)
out of Otway's tragedy; but they have still left in Shaks-
peare's Julius Ccesar the jokes of the Roman shoemakers and
cobblers, who are introduced in the same scene with Brutus
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 135
and Cassius. You will undoubtedly complain, that those
who have hitherto discoursed with you on the English stage,
and especially on the celebrated Shakspeare, have taken
notice only of his errors; and that no one has translated
any of those strong, those forcible passages which atone
for all his faults. But to this I will answer, that nothing
is easier than to exhibit in prose all the silly impertinences
which a poet may have thrown out; but that it is a very
difficult task to translate his fine verses. All your junior
academical sophs, who set up for censors of the eminent
writers, compile whole volumes; but methinks two pages
which display some of the beauties of great geniuses, are
of infinitely more value than all the idle rhapsodies of those
commentators; and I will join in opinion with all persons
of good taste in declaring, that greater advantage may be
reaped from a dozen verses of Homer or Virgil, than from
all the critiques put together which have been made on
those two great poets.
I have ventured to translate some passages of the most
celebrated English poets, and shall now give you one from
Shakspeare. Pardon the blemishes of the translation for
the sake of the original; and remember always that when
you see a version, you see merely a faint print of a beauti-
ful picture. I have made choice of part of the celebrated
soliloquy in Hamlet, which you may remember is as fol-
lows : —
" To be, or not to be ? that is the question !
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them ? To die ! to sleep !
No more ! and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to ! 'T is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die ! to sleep !
To sleep ; perchance to dream ! Ay, there's the rub ;
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There 's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the poor man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
136 VOLTAIRE
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought :
And enterprises of great weight and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action — "
My version of it runs thus: —
" Demeure, il faut choisir et passer a l'instant
De la vie a la mort, ou de l'etre au neant.
Dieux cruels, s'il en est, eclairez mon courage.
Faut-il vieillir courbe sous la main qui m'outrage,
Supporter, ou finir mon malheur et mon sort?
Qui suis je? Qui m'arrete ! et qu'est-ce que la mort?
Cest la fin 6Te nos maux, c'est mon unique asile
Apres de longs transports, c'est un sommeil tranquile»
On s'endort, et tout meurt, mais un affreux reveil
Doit succeder peut etre aux douceurs du sommeil !
On nous menace, on dit que cette courte vie,
De tourmens eternels est aussi-tot suivie.
O mort ! moment fatal ! affreuse eternite !
Tout coeur a ton seul nom se glace epouvante.
Eh ! qui pourroit sans toi supporter cette vie,
De nos pretres menteurs benir l'hypocrisie ;
D'une indigne maitresse encenser les erreurs,
Ramper sous un ministre, adorer ses hauteurs;
Et montrer les langueurs de son ame abattiie,
A des amis ingrats qui detournent la vue?
La mort seroit trop douce en ces extremitez,
Mais le scrupule parle, et nous crie, arretez ;
II defend a nos mains cet heureux homicide
Et d'un heros guerrier, fait un Chretien timide," &c.
Do not imagine that I have translated Shakspeare in
a servile manner. Wde to the writer who gives a literal
version; who by rendering every word of his original, by
that very means enervates the sense, and extinguishes all
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 137
the fire of it. It is on such an occasion one may justly
affirm, that the letter kills, but the Spirit quickens.
Here follows another passage copied from a celebrated
tragic writer among the English. It is Dryden, a poet
in the reign of Charles II. — a writer whose genius was
too exuberant, and not accompanied with judgment enough.
Had he written only a tenth part of the works he left
behind him, his character would have been conspicuous in
every part; but his great fault is his having endeavoured
to be universal.
The passage in question is as follows : — »
"When I consider life, 't is all a cheat,
Yet fooled by hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on and think, to-morrow will repay ;
To-morrow's falser than the former day ;
Lies more ; and whilst it says we shall be blest
With some new joy, cuts off what we possessed;
Strange cozenage ! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain,
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I'm tired with waiting for this chymic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old."
I shall now give you my translation: —
" De desseins en regrets et d'erreurs en desirs
Les mortels insenses promenent leur folie.
Dans des malheurs presents, dans Tespoir des plaisirs
Nous ne vivons jamais, nous attendons la vie.
Demain, demain, dit-on, va combler tous nos voeux.
Demain vient, et nous laisse encore plus malheureux.
Quelle est l'erreur, helas ! du soin qui nous devore,
Nul de nous ne voudroit recommencer son cours.
De nos premiers momens nous maudissons l'aurore,
Et de la nuit qui vient nous attendons encore,
Ce qu'ont en vain promis les plus beaux de nos jours," &c.
It is in these detached passages that the English have
hitherto excelled. Their dramatic pieces, most of which are
barbarous and without decorum, order, or verisimilitude,
dart such resplendent flashes through this gleam, as amaze
and astonish. The style is too much inflated, too unnatural,
too closely copied from the Hebrew writers, who abound
so much with the Asiatin fustian. But then it must be also
133 VOLTAIRE
confessed that the stilts of the figurative style, on which
the English tongue is lifted up, raises the genius at the same
time very far aloft, though with an irregular pace. The
first English writer who composed a regular tragedy, and
infused a spirit of elegance through every part of it, was
the illustrious Mr. Addison. His " Cato " is a masterpiece,
both with regard to the diction and to the beauty and har-
mony of the numbers. The character of Cato is, in my
opinion, vastly superior to that of Cornelia in the " Pompey "
of Corneille, for Cato is great without anything like fus-
tian, and Cornelia, who besides is not a necessary character,
tends sometimes to bombast. Mr. Addison's Cato appears
to me the greatest character that was ever brought upon
any stage, but then the rest of them do not correspond to
the dignity of it, and this dramatic piece, so excellently
well writ, is disfigured by a dull love plot, which spreads
a certain languor over the whole, that quite murders it.
The custom of introducing love at random and at any
rate in the drama passed from Paris to London about 1660,
with our ribbons and our perruques. The ladies who
adorn the theatrical circle there, in like manner as in this
city will suffer love only to be the theme of every conversa-
tion. The judicious Mr. Addison had the effeminate com-
plaisance to soften the severity of his dramatic character,
so as to adapt it to the manners of the age, and, from, an
endeavour to please, quite ruined a masterpiece in its kind.
Since his time the drama is become more regular, the
audience more difficult to be pleased, and writers more
correct and less bold. I have seen some new pieces that
were written with great regularity, but which, at the same
time, were very flat and insipid. One would think that the
English had been hitherto formed to produce irregular
beauties only. The shining monsters of Shakspeare give
infinite more delight than the judicious images of the
moderns. Hitherto the poetical genius of the English re-
sembles a tufted tree planted by the hand of Nature, that
throws out a thousand branches at random, and spreads
unequally, but with great vigour. It dies if you attempt
to force its nature, and to lop and dress it in the same man-
ner as the trees of the Garden of Marli.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 139
Letter XIX
ON COMEDY
I am surprised that the judicious and ingenious Mr. de
Muralt, who has published some letters on the English and
French nations, should have confined himself, in treating
of comedy, merely to censure Shadwell the comic writer.
This author was had in pretty great contempt in Mr. de
Muralt/s time, and was not the poet of the polite part of
the nation. His dramatic pieces, which pleased some time
in acting, were despised by all persons of taste, and might
be compared to many plays which I have seen in France,
that drew crowds to the play-house, at the same time that
they were intolerable to read; and of which it might be
said, that the whole city of Paris exploded them, and yet
all flocked to see them represented on the stage. Me-
thinks Mr. de Muralt should have mentioned an excellent
comic writer (living when he was in England), I mean
Mr. Wycherley, who was a long time known publicly to be
happy in the good graces of the most celebrated mistress
of King Charles II. This gentleman, who passed his life
among persons of the highest distinction, was perfectly
well acquainted with their lives and their follies, and painted
them with the strongest pencil, and in the truest colours.
He has drawn a misanthrope or man-hater, in imitation
of that of Moliere. All Wycherley's strokes are stronger
and bolder than those of our misanthrope, but then they
are less delicate, and the rules of decorum are not so well
observed in this play. The English writer has corrected
the only defect that is in Moliere's comedy, the thinness of
the plot, which also is so disposed that the characters in it
do not enough raise our concern. The English comedy
affects us, and the contrivance of the plot is very ingenious,
but at the same time it is too bold for the French manners.
The fable is this: — A captain of a man-of-war, who is very
brave, open-hearted, and inflamed with a spirit of contempt
for all mankind, has a prudent, sincere friend, whom he
yet is suspicious of, and a mistress that loves him with the
utmost excess of passion. The captain so far from return-
140 VOLTAIRE
ing her love, will not even condescend to look upon her,
but confides entirely in a false friend, who is the most
worthless wretch living. At the same time he has given his
heart to a creature, who is the greatest coquette and the
most perfidious of her sex, and he is so credulous as to
be confident she is a Penelope, and his false friend a
Cato. He embarks on board his ship in order to go and
fight the Dutch, having left all his money, his jewels, and
everything he had in the world to this virtuous creature,
whom at the same time he recommends to the care of his
supposed faithful friend. Nevertheless the real man of
honour, whom he suspects so unaccountably, goes on board
the ship with him, and the mistress, on whom he would
not bestow so much as one glance, disguises herself in the
habit of a page, and is with him the whole voyage, with-
out his once knowing that she is of a sex different from that
she attempts to pass for, which, by the way, is hot over
natural.
The captain having blown up his own ship in an en-
gagement, returns to England abandoned and undone, ac-
companied by his page and his friend, without knowing
the friendship of the one or the tender passion of the
other. Immediately he goes to the jewel among women,
who he expected had preserved her fidelity to him and the
treasure he had left in her hands. He meets with her
indeed, but married to the honest knave in whom he had
reposed so much confidence, and finds she had acted as
treacherously with regard to the casket he had entrusted
her with. The captain can scarce think it possible that a
woman of virtue and honour can act so vile a part; but to
convince him still more of the reality of it, this very worthy
lady falls in love with the little page, and will force him to
her embraces. But as it is requisite justice should be
done, and that in a dramatic piece virtue ought to be re-
warded and vice punished, it is at last found that the captain
takes his page's place and lies with his faithless mistress,
cuckolds his treacherous friend, thrusts his sword through
his body, recovers his casket, and marries his page. You
will observe that this play is also larded with a petulant,
litigious old woman (a relation of the captain), who is
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 141
the most comical character that was ever brought upon the
stage.
Wycherley has also copied from Moliere another play,
of as singular and bold a cast, which is a kind of Ecole des
Femmes, or, School for Married Women.
The principal character in this comedy is one Horner,
a sly fortune hunter, and the terror of all the City hus-
bands. This fellow, in order to play a surer game, causes
a report to be spread, that in his last illness, the surgeons
had found it necessary to have him made a eunuch. Upon
his appearing in this noble character, all the husbands in
town flocked to him with their wives, and now poor Horner
is only puzzled about his choice. However, he gives the
preference particularly to a little female peasant, a very
harmless, innocent creature, who enjoys a fine flush of
health, and cuckolds her husband with a simplicity that
has infinitely more merit than the witty malice of the most
experienced ladies. This play cannot indeed be called the
school of good morals, but it is certainly the school of wit
and true humour.
Sir John Vanbrugh has written several comedies, which
are more humorous than those of Mr. Wycherley, but not
so ingenious. Sir John was a man of pleasure, and like-
wise a poet and an architect. The general opinion is,
that he is as sprightly in his writings as he is heavy in
his buildings. It is he who raised the famous Castle of
Blenheim, a ponderous and lasting monument of our unfor-
tunate Battle of Hochstet. Were the apartments but as
spacious as the walls are thick, this castle would be com-
modious enough. Some wag, in an epitaph he made on Sir
John Vanbrugh, has these lines: —
M Earth lie light on him, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee."
Sir John having taken a tour into France before the
glorious war that broke out in 1701, was thrown into the
Bastille, and detained there for some time, without being
ever able to discover the motive which had prompted our
ministry to indulge him with this mark of their distinction.
He wrote a comedy during his confinement; and a cir-
142 VOLTAIRE
cumstance which appears to me very extraordinary is, that
we don't meet with so much as a single satirical stroke
against the country in which he had been so injuriously
treated.
The late Mr. Congreve raised the glory of comedy to a
greater height than any English writer before or since his
time. He wrote only a few plays, but they are all ex-
cellent in their kind. The laws of the drama are strictly
observed in them ; they abound with characters all which are
shadowed with the utmost delicacy, and we don't meet with
so much as one low or coarse jest. The language is every-
where that of men of honour, but their actions are those
of knaves — a proof that he was perfectly well acquainted
with human nature, and frequented what we call polite com-
pany. He was infirm and come to the verge of life when I
knew him. Mr. Congreve had one defect, which was his
entertaining too mean an idea of his first profession (that
of a writer), though it was to this he owed his fame and
fortune. He spoke of his works as of trifles that were
beneath him; and hinted to me, in our first conversation,
that I should visit him upon no other footing than that of
a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplicity. I
answered, that had he been so unfortunate as to be a mere
gentleman, I should never have come to see him; and I
was very much disgusted at so unseasonable a piece of
vanity.
Mr. Congreve's comedies are the most witty and regular,
those of Sir John Vanbrugh most gay and humorous, and
those of Mr. Wycherley have the greatest force and spirit.
It may be proper to observe that these fine geniuses never
spoke disadvantageously of Moliere; and that none but
the contemptible writers among the English have en-
deavoured to lessen the character of that great comic poet.
Such Italian musicians as despise Lully are themselves per-
sons of no character or ability; but a Buononcini esteems
that great artist, and does justice to his merit.
The English have some other good comic writers living,
such as Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Cibber, who is an
excellent player, and also Poet Laureate — a title which,
how ridiculous soever it may be thought, is yet worth a
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 143
thousand crowns a year (besides some considerable
privileges) to the person who enjoys it. Our illustrious
Corneille had not so much.
To conclude. Don't desire me to descend to particulars
with regard to these English comedies, which I am so fond
of applauding; nor to give you a single smart saying or
humorous stroke from Wycherley or Congreve. We don't
laugh in reading a translation. If you have a mind to
understand the English comedy, the only way to do this
will be for you to go to England, to spend three years in
London, to make yourself master of the English tongue,
and to frequent the playhouse every night. I receive but
little pleasure from the perusal of Aristophanes and Plautus,
and for this reason because I am neither a Greek nor
a Roman. The delicacy of the humour, the allusion, the
a propos — all these are lost to a foreigner.
But it is different with respect to tragedy, this treating
only of exalted passions and heroical follies, which the
antiquated errors of fable or history have made sacred.
CEdipus, Electra, and such-like characters, may with as
much propriety be treated of by the Spaniards, the English,
or us, as by the Greeks. But true comedy is the speaking
picture of the follies and ridiculous foibles of a nation; so
that he only is able to judge of the painting who is perfectly
acquainted with the people it represents.
Letter XX
ON SUCH OF THE NOBILITY AS CULTIVATE
THE BELLES LETTRES
There once was a time in France when the polite arts
were cultivated by persons of the highest rank in the state.
The courtiers particularly were conversant in them, al-
though indolence, a taste for trifles, and a passion for
intrigue, were the divinities of the country. The Court me-
thinks at this time seems to have given into a taste quite
opposite to that of polite literature, but perhaps the mode
of thinking may be revived in a little time. The French are
of so flexible a disposition, may be moulded into such a
144 VOLTAIRE
variety of shapes, that the monarch needs but command
and he is immediately obeyed. The English generally think,
and learning is had in greater honour among them than in
our country — an advantage that results naturally from the
form of their government. There are about eight hundred
persons in England who have a right to speak in public,
and to support the interest of the kingdom and near five or
'six thousand may in their turns aspire to the same honour.
The whole nation set themselves up as judges over these,
and every man has the liberty of publishing his thoughts
with regard to public affairs, which shows that all the people
in general are indispensably obliged to cultivate their
understandings. In England the governments of Greece
and Rome are the subject of every conversation, so that
every man is under a necessity of perusing such authors
as treat of them, how disagreeable soever it may be to
him; and this study leads naturally to that of polite litera-
ture. Mankind in general speak well in their respective
professions. What is the reason why our magistrates, our
lawyers, our physicians, and a great number of the clergy,
are abler scholars, have a finer taste, and more wit, than
persons of all other professions ? The reason is, because
their condition of life requires a cultivated and enlightened
mind, in the same manner as a merchant is obliged to be
acquainted with his traffic. Not long since an English
nobleman, who was very young, came to see me at Paris
on his return from Italy. He had written a poetical
description of that country, which, for delicacy and polite-
ness, may vie with anything we meet with in the Earl of
Rochester, or in our Chaulieu, our Sarrasin, or Chapelle.
The translation I have given of it is so inexpressive of the
strength and delicate humour of the original, that I am
obliged seriously to ask pardon of the author and of all
who understand English. However, as this is the only
method I have to make his lordship's verses known, I
shall here present you with them in our tongue : —
" Qu'ay je done vu dans l'ltalie?
Orgueil, astuce, et pauvrete,
Grands complimens, peu de bonte
Et beaucoup de ceremonie
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 145
" L'extravagante comedie
Que souvent l'lnquisition
Veut qu'on nomme religion
Mais qu'ici nous nommons folie.
" La Nature en vain bienf aisante
Veut enricher ses lieux charmans.
Des pretres la main desolante
Etouffe ses plus beaux presens.
"Les monsignors, soy disant Grands,
Seuls dans leurs palais magnifiques
Y sont d'illustres faineants,
Sans argent, et sans domestiques.
u Pour les petits, sans liberte,
Martyrs du joug qui les domine,
lis ont fait voeu de pauvrete,
Priant Dieu par oisivete
Et tou jours jeunant par famine.
" Ces beaux lieux du Pape benis
Semblent habitez par les diables ;
Et les habitans miserables
Sont damnes dans le Paradis."
Letter XXI
ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER AND MR. WALLER
The Earl of Rochester's name is universally known. Mr.
de St. Evremont has made very frequent mention of him,
but then he has represented this famous nobleman in no
other light than as the man of pleasure, as one who was
the idol of the fair; but, with regard to myself, I would
willingly describe in him the man of genius, the great poet.
Among other pieces which display the shining imagination
his lordship only could boast, he wrote some satires on the
same subjects as those our celebrated Boileau made choice
of. I do not know any better method of improving the taste
than to compare the productions of such great geniuses as
have exercised their talent on the same subject. Boileau
declaims as follows against human reason in his " Satire
on Man:"
146 VOLTAIRE
" Cependant a le voir plein de vapeurs legeres,
Soi-meme se bercer de ses propres chimeres,
Lui seul de la nature est la baze et l'appui,
Et le dixieme ciel ne tourne que pour lui.
De tous les animaux il est ici le maitre ;
Qui pourroit le nier, poursuis tu ? Moi peut-etre
Ce maitre pretendu qui leur donne des loix,
Ce roi des animaux, combien a-t'il de rois ? "
*' Yet, pleased with idle whimsies of his brain,
And puffed with pride, this haughty thing would fain
Be think himself the only stay and prop
That holds the mighty frame of Nature up.
The skies and stars his properties must seem,
********
Of all the creatures he's the lord, he cries.
********
And who is there, say you, that dares deny
So owned a truth ? That may be, sir, do I.
This boasted monarch of the world who awes
The creatures here, and with his nod gives laws
This self-named king, who thus pretends to be
The lord of all, how many lords has he ? "
Oldham, a little altered.
The Lord Rochester expresses himself, in his ".Satire
against Man," in pretty near the following manner. But
I must first desire you always to remember that the ver-
sions I give you from the English poets are written with
freedom and latitude, and that the restraint of our versi-
fication, and the delicacies of the French tongue, will not.
allow a translator to convey into it the licentious im-
petuosity and fire of the English numbers: —
" Cet esprit que je hais, cet esprit plein d'erreur,
Ce n'est pas ma raison, c'est la tienne, docteur
Cest la raison frivole, inquiete, orgueilleuse
Des sages animaux, rivale dedaigneuse,
Qui croit entr'eux et l'Ange, occuper le milieu,
Et pense etre ici bas l'image de son Dieu.
Vil atome imparfait, qui croit, doute, dispute
Rampe, s'eleve, tombe, et nie encore sa chute,
Qui nous dit je suis libre, en nous montrant ses fers,
Et dont l'ceil trouble et faux, croit percer l'univers.
Allez, reverends fous, bienheureux fanatiques,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 147
Compilez bien l'amas de vos riens scholastiques,
Peres de visions, et d'enigmes sacres,
Auteurs du labirinthe, ou vous vous egarez.
Allez obscurement eclaircir vos misteres,
Et courez dans l'ecole adorer vos chimeres.
II est d'autres erreurs, il est de ces devots
Condamne par eux memes a l'ennui du repos.
Ce mystique encloitre, fier de son indolence
Tranquille, au sein de Dieu. Que peut il f aire ? II pense.
Non, tu ne penses point, miserable, tu dors :
Inutile a la terre, et mis au rang des morts.
Ton esprit enerve croupit dans la molesse.
Reveille toi, sois homme, et sors de ton ivresse.
L'homme est ne pour agir, et tu pretens penser ? " &c»
The original runs thus:
" Hold mighty man, I cry all this we know,
And 'tis this very reason I despise,
This supernatural gift that makes a mite
Think he's the image of the Infinite ;
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the eternal and the ever blest.
This busy, puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
Filling, with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
Those reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools;
Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe.
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcass through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whose business lies r
In nonsense and impossibilities.
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer ;
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts are given for action's government,
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent."
Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they
are expressed with an energy and fire which form the poet
I shall be very far from attempting to examine philosophi-
cally into these verses, to lay down the pencil, and take up
the rule and compass on this occasion; my only design
in this letter being to display the genius of the English
poets, and therefore I shall continue in the same view.
The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked
148 VOLTAIRE
of in France, and Mr. de la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and
Bayle have written his eulogium, but still his name only
is known. He had much the same reputation in London as
Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion deserved it better.
Voiture was born in an age that was just emerging from
barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant, the
people of which aimed at wit, though they had not the least
pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead
of sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than
diamonds. Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous genius,
was the first who shone in this aurora of French literature.
Had he come into the world after those great geniuses who
spread such a glory over the age of Louis XIV., he would
either have been unknown, would have been despised, or
would have corrected his style. Boileau applauded him,
but it was in his first satires, at a time when the taste of
that great poet was not yet formed. He was young, and
in an age when persons form a judgment of men from their
reputation, and not from their writings. Besides, Boileau
was very partial both in his encomiums and his censures.
He applauded Segrais, whose works nobody reads; he
abused Quinault, whose poetical pieces every one has got
by heart; and is wholly silent upon La Fontaine. Waller,
though a better poet than Voiture, was not yet a finished
poet. The graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are
writ in a tender strain; but then they are languid through
negligence, and often disfigured with false thoughts. The
English had not in his time attained the art of correct
writing. But his serious compositions exhibit a strength
and vigour which could not have been expected from the
softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an
elegy on Oliver Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is
nevertheless looked upon as a masterpiece. To understand
this copy of verses you are to know that the day Oliver
died was remarkable for a great storm. His poem begins
in this manner: —
" II n'est plus, s'en est fait, soumettons nous au sort,
Le ciel a signale ce jour par des tempetes,
Et la voix des tonnerres eclatant sur nos tetes
Vient d'annoncer sa mort.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 149
" Par 3es derniers soupirs i! ebranle cet lie ;
Cet He que son bras fit trembler tant de fois*
Quand dans le cours de ses exploits,
II brisoit la tete des Rois,
Et soumettoit un peuple a son joug seul docile.
' Mer tu t'en es trouble ; O mer tes flots emus
Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages
Que l'effroi de la terre et ton maitre n'est plus.
u Tel au ciel autrefois s'envola Romulus,
Tel il quitta la Terre, au milieu des orages,
Tel d'un peuple guerrier il re^ut les homages ;
Obei dans sa vie, a sa mort adore,
Son palais fut un Temple," &c.
" We must resign ! heaven his great soul does claim
In storms as loud as his immortal fame ;
His dying groans, his last breath shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile :
About his palace their broad roots are tost
Into the air ; so Romulus was lost !
New Rome in such a tempest missed her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On (Eta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruined oaks and pines about him spread.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swelled the sea with such a breath,
That to remotest shores the billows rolled,
Th' approaching fate of his great ruler told."
Waller.
It was this eulogium that gave occasion to the reply (taken
notice of in Bayle's Dictionary), which Waller made to
King Charles II. This king, to whom Waller had a little
before (as is usual with bards and monarchs) presented a
copy of verses embroidered with praises, reproached the
poet for not writing with so much energy and fire as when
he had applauded the Usurper (meaning Oliver). "Sir,"
replied Waller to the king, "we poets succeed better in
fiction than in truth." This answer was not so sincere as
that which a Dutch Ambassador made, who, when the same
monarch complained that his masters paid less regard to
him than they had done to Cromwell: "Ah, sir!" says
the Ambassador, " Oliver was quite another man "
ISO VOLTAIRE
It is not my intent to give a commentary on Waller's
character, nor on that of any other person; for I consider
men after their death in no other light than as they were
writers, and wholly disregard everything else. I shall only
observe that Waller, though born in a Court, and to an
estate of five or six thousand pounds sterling a year, was
never so proud or so indolent as to lay aside the happy
talent which Nature had indulged him. The Earls of
Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham,
the Lord Halifax, and so many other noblemen, did not
think the reputation they obtained of very great poets and
illustrious writers, any way derogatory to their quality.
They are more glorious for their works than for their titles.
These cultivated the polite arts with as much assiduity as
though they had been their whole dependence. They also
have made learning appear venerable in the eyes of the
vulgar, who have need to be led in all things by the great;
and who, nevertheless, fashion their manners less after
those of the nobility (in England I mean) than in any other
country in the world.
Letter XXII
ON MR. POPE AND SOME OTHER FAMOUS POETS
I intended to treat of Mr. Prior, one of the most amiable
English poets, whom you saw Plenipotentiary and Envoy
Extraordinary at Paris in 1712. I also designed to have
given you some idea of the Lord Roscommon's and the Lord
Dorset's muse ; but I find that to do this I should be obliged
to write a large volume, and that, after much pains and
trouble, you would have but an imperfect idea of all those
works. Poetry is a kind of music in which a man should
have some knowledge before he pretends to judge of it.
When I give you a translation of some passages from those
foreign poets, I only prick down, and that imperfectly, their
music; but then I cannot express the taste of their harmony.
There is one English poem especially which I should
despair of ever making you understand, the title whereof is
" Hudibras." The subject of it is the Civil War in the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 151
time of the grand rebellion, and the principles and practice
of the Puritans are therein ridiculed. It is Don Quixote,
it is our " Satire Menippee " blended together. I never
found so much wit in one single book as in that, which at
the same time is the most difficult to be translated. Who
would believe that a work which paints in such lively and
natural colours the several foibles and follies of mankind,
and where we meet with more sentiments than words, should
baffle the endeavours of the ablest translator? But the
reason of this is, almost every part of it alludes to par-
ticular incidents. The clergy are there made the principal
object of ridicule, which is understood but by few among the
laity. To explain this a commentary would be requisite, and
humour when explained is no longer humour. Whoever
sets up for a commentator of smart sayings and repartees
is himself a blockhead. This is the reason why the works
of the ingenious Dean Swift, who has been called the Eng-
lish Rabelais, will never be well understood in France. This
gentleman has the honour (in common with Rabelais) of
being a priest, and, like him, laughs at everything; but, in
my humble opinion, the title of the English Rabelais which
is given the dean is highly derogatory to his genius. The
former has interspersed his unaccountably fantastic and
unintelligible book with the most gay strokes of humour; but
which at the same time, has a greater proportion of imper-
tinence. He has been vastly lavish of erudition, of smut,
and insipid raillery. An agreeable tale of two pages is pur-
chased at the expense of whole volumes of nonsense. There
are but few persons, and those of a grotesque taste, who
pretend to understand and to esteem this work; for, as to
the rest of the nation, they laugh at the pleasant and diverting
touches which are found in Rabelais and despise his book.
He is looked upon as the prince of buffoons. The readers
are vexed to think that a man who was master of so much
wit should have made so wretched a use of it; he is an in-
toxicated philosopher who never wrote but when he was in
liquor.
Dean Swift is Rabelais in his senses, and frequently the
politest company. The former, indeed, is not so gay as the
latter, but then he possesses all the delicacy, the justness, the
152 VOLTAIRE
choice, the good taste, in all which particulars our giggling
rural Vicar Rabelais is wanting. The poetical numbers of
Dean Swift are of a singular and almost inimitable taste;
true humour, whether in prose or verse, seems to be his pe-
culiar talent; but whoever is desirous of understanding him
perfectly must visit the island in which he was born.
It will be much easier for you to form an idea of Mr.
Pope's works. He is, in my opinion, the most elegant, the
most correct poet; and, at the same time, the most harmoni-
ous (a circumstance which redounds very much to the
honour of this muse) that England ever gave birth to. He
has mellowed the harsh sounds of the English trumpet to
the soft accents of the flute. His compositions may be
easily translated, because they are vastly clear and perspicu-
ous; besides, most of his subjects are general, and relative
to all nations.
His " Essay on Criticism " will soon be known in France
by the translation which PAbbe de Renel has made of it.
Here is an extract from his poem entitled the " Rape of
the Lock," which I just now translated with the latitude I
usually take on these occasions ; for, once again, nothing
can be more ridiculous than to translate a poet literally: —
" Umbriel, a l'instant, vieil gnome rechigne,
Va (Tune aile pesante et d'un air renfrogne
Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde,
Ou loin des doux ra'ions que repand l'oeil du monde
La Deesse aux Vapeurs a choisi son sejour,
1 Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent a l'entour,
Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine
Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine.
Sur un riche sofa derriere un paravent
Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent
La quinteuse deesse incessamment repose, ■
Le cceur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause.
N'aiant pense jamais, l'esprit toujours trouble,
L'oeil charge, le teint pale, et l'hypocondre enfle.
La medisante Envie, est assise aupres d'elle,
Vieil spectre feminin, decrepite pucelle,
Avec un air devot dechirant son prochain,
Et chansonnant les Gens l'Evangile a. la main.
Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchce
Une jeune beaute non loin d'elle est couehee,
C'est l'Affectation qui grassaie en parlant,
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 153
Ecoute sans entendre, et lorgne en regardant.
Qui rougit sans pudeur, et rit de tout sans joie,
De cent maux differens pretend qu'elle est la proie;
Et pleine de sante sous le rouge et le fard,
Se plaint avec molesse, et se pame avec art."
"Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite
As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
Repairs to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome,
And in a vapour reached the dismal dome.
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows.
Here, in a grotto, sheltered close from air,
And screened in shades from day's detested glare,
She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head,
Two handmaids wait the throne. Alike in place,
But differing far in f?gure and in face,
Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid,
Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed;
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons
Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lampoons.
There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside,
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,
Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and for show."
This extract, in the original (not in the faint translation
I have given you of it), may be compared to the description
of La Molesse (softness or effeminacy), in Boileau's
" Lutrin."
Methinks I now have given you specimens enough from
the English poets. I have made some transient mention of
their philosophers, but as for good historians among them,
I don't know of any; and, indeed, a Frenchman was forced
to write their history. Possibly the English genius, which
is either languid or impetuous, has not yet acquired that un-
affected eloquence, that plain but majestic air which his-
tory requires. Possibly too, the spirit of party which exhibits
objects in a dim and confused light may have sunk the credit
of their historians. One half of the nation is always at
variance with the other half. I have met with people who
154 VOLTAIRE
assured me that the Duke of Marlborough was a coward,
and that Mr. Pope was a fool; just as some Jesuits in
France declare Pascal to have been a man of little or no
genius, and some Jansenists affirm Father Bourdaloue to have
been a mere babbler. The Jacobites consider Mary Queen
of Scots as a pious heroine, but those of an opposite party
look upon her as a prostitute, an adulteress, a murderer.
Thus the English have memorials of the several reigns, but
no such thing as a history. There is, indeed, now living,
one Mr. Gordon (the public are obliged to him for a trans-
lation of Tacitus), who is very capable of writing the his-
tory of his own country, but Rapin de Thoyras got the start
of him. To conclude, in my opinion the English have not
such good historians as the French, have no such thing as a
real tragedy, have several delightful comedies, some wonder-
ful passages in certain of their poems, and boast of philoso-
phers that are worthy of instructing mankind. The English
have reaped very great benefit from the writers of our na-
tion, and therefore we ought (since they have not scrupled
to be in our debt) to borrow from them. Both the English
and we came after the Italians, who have been our in-
structors in all the arts, and whom we have surpassed in
some. I cannot determine which of the three nations ought
to be honoured with the palm; but happy the writer who
could display their various merits.
Letter XXIII
ON THE REGARD THAT OUGHT TO BE SHOWN TO
MEN OF LETTERS
Neither the English nor any other people have foundations
established in favour of the polite arts like those in France.
There are Universities in most countries, but it is in France
only that we meet with so beneficial an encouragement for
astronomy and all parts of the mathematics, for physic, for
researches into antiquity, for painting, sculpture, and archi-
tecture. Louis XIV. has immortalised his name by these
several foundations, and this immortality did not cost him
two hundred thousand livres a year.
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 155
I must confess that one of the things I very much wonder
at is, that as the Parliament of Great Britain have promised
a reward of £20,000 sterling to any person who may dis-
cover the longitude, they should never have once thought to
imitate Louis XIV. in his munificence with regard to the
arts and sciences.
Merit, indeed, meets in England with rewards of another
kind, which redound more to the honour of the nation. The
English have so great a veneration for exalted talents, that
a man of merit in their country is always sure of making his
fortune. Mr. Addison in France would have been elected a
member of one of the academies, and, by the credit of some
women, might have obtained a yearly pension of twelve
hundred livres, or else might have been imprisoned in the
Bastile, upon pretence that certain strokes in his tragedy of
Cato had been discovered which glanced at the porter of
some man in power. Mr. Addison was raised to the post of
Secretary of State in England. Sir Isaac Newton was made
Warden of the Royal Mint. Mr. Congreve had a considerable
employment. Mr. Prior was Plenipotentiary. Dr. Swift is
Dean of St. Patrick in Dublin, and is more revered in Ire-
land than the Primate himself. The religion which Mr.
Pope professes excludes him, indeed, from preferments of
every kind, but then it did not prevent his gaining two hun-
dred thousand livres by his excellent translation of Homer.
I myself saw a long time in France the author of Rhada-
mistas ready to perish for hunger. And the son of one of
the greatest men our country ever gave birth to, and who
was beginning to run the noble career which his father had
set him, would have been reduced to the extremes of misery
had he not been patronised by Monsieur Fagon.
But the circumstance which mostly encourages the arts in
England is the great veneration which is paid them. The
picture of the Prime Minister hangs over the chimney of his
own closet, but I have seen that of Mr. Pope in twenty
noblemen's houses. Sir Isaac Newton was revered in his
lifetime, and had a due respect paid to him after his death;
the greatest men in the nation disputing who should have the
honour of holding up his pall. Go into Westminster Abbey,
and you will find that what raises the admiration of the
156 VOLTAIRE
spectator is not the mausoleums of the English kings, but
the monuments which the gratitude of the nation has erected
to perpetuate the memory of those illustrious men who con-
tributed to its glory. We view their statues in that abbey
in the same manner as those of Sophocles, Plato, and other
immortal personages were viewed in Athens; and I am per-
suaded that the bare sight of those glorious monuments has
fired more than one breast, and been the occasion of their
becoming great men.
The English have even been reproached with paying too
extravagant honours to mere merit, and censured for inter-
ring the celebrated actress Mrs. Oldfield in Westminster
Abbey, with almost the same pomp as Sir Isaac Newton.
Some pretend that the English had paid her these great
funeral honours, purposely to make us more strongly sensible
of the barbarity and injustice which they object to in us, for
having buried Mademoiselle Le Couvreur ignominiously in
the fields.
But be assured from me, that the English were prompted
by no other principle in burying Mrs. Oldfield in Westminster
Abbey than their good sense. They are far from being so
ridiculous as to brand with infamy an art which has immor-
talised a Euripides and a Sophocles; or to exclude from the
body of their citizens a set of people whose business is to
set off with the utmost grace of speech and action those
pieces which the nation is proud of.
Under the reign of Charles I. and in the beginning of the
civil wars raised by a number of rigid fanatics, who at last
were the victims to it; a great many pieces were published
against theatrical and other shows, which were attacked
with the greater virulence because that monarch and his
queen, daughter to Henry IV. of France, were passionately
fond of them.
One Mr. Prynne, a man of most furiously scrupulous prin-
ciples, who would have thought himself damned had he worn
a cassock instead of a short cloak, and have been glad to see
one-half of mankind cut the other to pieces for the glory of
God, and the Propaganda Fide; took it into his head to write
a most wretched satire against some pretty good comedies,
which were exhibited very innocently every night before
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 157
their majesties. He quoted the authority of the Rabbis, and
some passages from St. Bonaventure, to prove that the
CEdipus of Sophocles was the work of the evil spirit; that
Terence was excommunicated ipso facto; and added, that
doubtless Brutus, who was a very severe Jansenist, assassin-
ated Julius Caesar for no other reason but because he, who
was Pontifex Maximus, presumed to write a tragedy the
subject of which was (Edipus. Lastly, he declared that all
who frequented the theatre were excommunicated, as they
thereby renounced their baptism. This was casting the high-
est insult on the king and all the royal family; and as the
English loved their prince at that time, they could not bear
to hear a writer talk of excommunicating him, though they
themselves afterwards cut his head off. Prynne was sum-
moned to appear before the Star Chamber; his wonderful
book, from which Father Le Brun stole his, was sentenced
to be burnt by the common hangman, and himself to lose his
ears. His trial is now extant.
The Italians are far from attempting to cast a blemish on
the opera, or to excommunicate Signor Senesino or Signora
Cuzzoni. With regard to myself, I could presume to wish
that the magistrates would suppress I know not what con-
temptible pieces written against the stage. For when the
English and Italians hear that we brand with the greatest
mark of infamy an art in which we excel; that we excom-
municate persons who receive salaries from the king; that
we condemn as impious a spectacle exhibited in convents and
monasteries 7 that we dishonour sports in which Louis XIV.
and Louis XV., performed as actors; that we give the title
of the devil's works to pieces which are received by magis-
trates of the most severe character, and represented before
a virtuous queen; when, I say, foreigners are told of this
insolent conduct, this contempt for the royal authority, and
this Gothic rusticity which some presume to call Christian
severity, what an idea must they entertain of our nation?
And how will it be possible for them to conceive, either that
our laws give a sanction to an art which is declared infa-
mous, or that some persons dare to stamp with infamy an
art which receives a sanction from the laws, is rewarded by
kings, cultivated and encouraged by the greatest men, and
158 VOLTAIRE
admired by whole nations? And that Father Le B run's im-
pertinent libel against the stage is seen in a bookseller's shop,
standing the very next to the immortal labours of Racine, of
Corneille, of Moliere, &c.
Letter XXIV
ON THE ROYAL SOCIETY AND OTHER ACADEMIES
The English had an Academy of Sciences many years be-
fore us, but then it is not under such prudent regulations as
ours, the only reason of which very possibly is, because it was
founded before the Academy of Paris; for had it been
founded after, it would very probably have adopted some of
the sage laws of the former and improved upon others.
Two things, and those the most essential to man, are
wanting in the Royal Society of London, I mean rewards and
laws. A seat in the Academy at Paris is a small but secure
fortune to a geometrician or a chemist; but this is so far
from being the case at London, that the several members of
the Royal Society are at a continual, though indeed small
expense. Any man in England who declares himself a lover
of the mathematics and natural philosophy, and expresses an
inclination to be a member of the Royal Society, is immedi-
ately elected into it. But in France it is not enough that a
man who aspires to the honour of being a member of the
Academy, and of receiving the royal stipend, has a love for
the sciences; he must at the same time be deeply skilled in
them ; and is obliged to dispute the seat with competitors who
are so much the more formidable as they are fired by a prin-
ciple of glory, by interest, by the difficulty itself, and by that
inflexibility of mind which is generally found in those who de-
vote themselves to that pertinacious study, the mathematics.
The Academy of Sciences is prudently confined to the
study of Nature, and, indeed, this is a field spacious enough
for fifty or threescore persons to range in. That of London
mixes indiscriminately literature with physics; but methinks
the founding an academy merely for the polite arts is more
judicious, as it prevents confusion, and the joining, in some
measure, of heterogeneals, such as a dissertation on the
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 159
head-dresses of the Roman ladies with a hundred or more
new curves.
As there is very little order and regularity in the Royal
Sooiety, and not the least encouragement; and that the
Academy of Paris is on a quite different foot, it is no wonder
that our transactions are drawn up in a more just and beauti-
ful manner than those of the English. Soldiers who are under
a regular discipline, and besides well paid, must necessarily
at last perform more glorious achievements than others who
are mere volunteers. It must indeed be confessed that the
Royal Society boast their Newton, but then he did not owe
his knowledge and discoveries to that body; so far from it,
that the latter were intelligible to very few of his fellow
members. A genius like that of Sir Isaac belonged to all the
academies in the world, because all had a thousand things
to learn of him.
The celebrated Dean Swift formed a design, in the latter
end of the late Queen's reign, to found an academy for the
English tongue upon the model of that of the French. This
project was promoted by the late Earl of Oxford, Lord High
Treasurer, and much more by the Lord Bolingbroke, Secre-
tary of State, who had the happy talent of speaking without
premeditation in the Parliament House with as much purity
as Dean Swift wrote in his closet, and who would have
been the ornament and protector of that academy. Those
only would have been chosen members of it whose works
will last as long as the English tongue, such as Dean Swift,
Mr. Prior, whom we saw here invested with a public char-
acter, and whose fame in England is equal to that of La
Fontaine in France; Mr. Pope, the English Boileau, Mr.
Congreve, who may be called their Moliere, and several
other eminent persons whose names I have forgot ; all these
would have raised the glory of that body to a great height
even in its infancy. But Queen Anne being snatched sud-
denly from the world, the Whigs were resolved to ruin the
protectors of the intended academy, a circumstance that
was of the most fatal consequence to polite literature. The
members of this academy would have had a very great ad-
vantage over those who first formed that of the French, for
Swift, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Addison, &c. had
160 VOLTAIRE
fixed the English tongue by their writings ; whereas Chape-
lain, Colletet, Cassaigne, Faret, Perrin, Cotin, our first
academicians, were a disgrace to their country ; and so much
ridicule is now attached to their very names, that if an au-
thor of some genius in this age had the misfortune to' be
called Chapelain or Cotin, he would be under a necessity of
changing his name.
One circumstance, to which the English Academy should
especially have attended, is to have prescribed to themselves
occupations of a quite different kind from those with which
our academicians amuse themselves. A wit of this country
asked me for the memoirs of the French Academy. I an-
swered, they have no memoirs, but have printed threescore
or fourscore volumes in quarto of compliments. The gen-
tleman perused one or two of them, but without being able
to understand the style in which they were written, though
he understood all our good authors perfectly. "All," says
he, " I see in these elegant discourses is, that the member
elect having assured the audience that his predecessor was a
great man, that Cardinal Richelieu was a very great man,
that the Chancellor Seguier was a pretty great man, that
Louis XIV. was a more than great man, the director answers
in the very same strain, and adds, that the member elect may
also be a sort of great man, and that himself, in quality of
director, must also have some share in this greatness."
The cause why all these academical discourses have un-
happily done so little honour to this body is evident enough.
Vitiitm est temp oris p otitis quam hominis (the fault is owing
to the age rather than to particular persons). It grew up
insensibly into a custom for every academician to repeat
these eulogiums at his reception ; it was laid down as a kind
of law that the public should be indulged from time to time
in the sullen satisfaction of yawning over these productions.
If the reason should afterwards be sought, why the greatest
geniuses who have been incorporated into that body have
sometimes made the worst speeches, I answer, that it is
wholly owing to a strong propension, the gentlemen in ques-
tion had to shine, and to display a thread-bare, worn-out sub-
ject in a new and uncommon light. The necessity of saying
something, the perplexity of having nothing to say, and a de-
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 161
sire of being witty, are three circumstances which alone are
capable of making even the greatest writer ridiculous. These
gentlemen, not being able to strike out any new thoughts,
hunted after a new play of words, and delivered themselves
without thinking at all : in like manner as people who should
seem to chew with great eagerness, and make as though they
were eating, at the same time that they were just starved.
It is a law in the French Academy, to publish all those
discourses by which only they are known, but they should
rather make a law never to print any of them.
But the Academy of the Belles Lettres have a more pru-
dent and more useful object, which is, to present the public
with a collection of transactions that abound with curious
researches and critiques. These transactions are already
esteemed by foreigners; and it were only to be wished that
some subjects in them had been more thoroughly examined,
and that others had not been treated at all. As, for in-
stance, we should have been very well satisfied, had they
omitted I know not what dissertation on the prerogative of
the right hand over the left ; and some others, which, though
not published under so ridiculous a title, are yet written on
subjects that are almost as frivolous and silly.
The Academy of Sciences, in such of their researches as
are of a more difficult kind and a more sensible use, embrace
the knowledge of nature and the improvements of the arts.
We may presume that such profound, such uninterrupted pur-
suits as these, such exact calculations, such refined discover-
ies, such extensive and exalted views, will, at last, produce
something that may prove of advantage to the universe.
Hitherto, as we have observed together, the most useful dis-
coveries have been made in the most barbarous times. One
would conclude that the business of the most enlightened
ages and the most learned bodies, is, to argue and debate on
things which were invented by ignorant people. We know
exactly the angle which the sail of a ship is to make with
the keel in order to its sailing better; and yet Columbus
discovered America without having the least idea of the
property of this angle: however, I am far from inferring
from hence that we are to confine ourselves merely to a
blind practice, but happy it were, would naturalists and
(F) HC— Vol. 34
162 LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH
geometricians unite, as much as possible, the practice with
the theory.
Strange, but so it is, that those things which reflect the
greatest honour on the human mind are frequently of the
least benefit to it ! A man who understands the four funda-
mental rules of arithmetic, aided by a little good sense, shall
amass prodigious wealth in trade, shall become a Sir Peter
Delme, a Sir Richard Hopkins, a Sir Gilbert Heathcote,
whilst a poor algebraist spends his whole life in searching
for astonishing properties and relations in numbers, which
at the same time are of no manner of use, and will not ac-
quaint him with the nature of exchanges. This is very
nearly the case with most of the arts: there is a certain
point beyond which all researches serve to no other purpose
than merely to delight an inquisitive mind. Those ingenious
and useless truths may be compared to stars which, by being
placed at too great a distance, cannot afford us the least
light.
With regard to the French Academy, how great a service
would they do to literature, to the language, and the nation,
if, instead of publishing a set of compliments annually, they
would give us new editions of the valuable works written
in the age of Louis XIV., purged from the several errors
of diction which are crept into them. There are many of
these errors in Corneille and Moliere, but those in La Fon-
taine are very numerous. Such as could not be corrected
might at least be pointed out. By this means, as all the Euro-
peans read those works, they would teach them our language
in its utmost purity — which, by that means, would be fixed to
a lasting standard; and valuable French books being then
printed at the King's expense, would prove one of the most
glorious monuments the nation could boast. I have been
told that Boileau formerly made this proposal, and that it has
since been revived by a gentleman eminent for his genius,
his fine sense, and just taste for criticism; but this thought
has met with the fate of many other useful projects, of being-
applauded and neglected.
ON THE INEQUALITY AMONG
MANKIND
BY
J. J. ROUSSEAU
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Jean Jacques Rousseau was born at Geneva, June 28, 1712,
the son of a watchmaker of French origin. His education was
irregular, and though he tried many professions — including en-
graving, music, and teaching — he found it difficult to support
himself in any of them. The discovery of his talent as a writer
came with the winning of a prize offered by the Academy of
Dijon for a discourse on the question, "Whether the progress
of the sciences and of letters has tended to corrupt or to elevate
morals." He argued so brilliantly that the tendency of civi-
lization was degrading that he became at once famous. The
discourse here printed on the causes of inequality among men
was written in a similar competition.
He now concentrated his powers upon literature, producing
two novels, "La Nouvelle Heloise," the forerunner and parent
of endless sentimental and picturesque fictions; and "Emile, ou
I'Education," a work which has had enormous influence on the
theory and practise of pedagogy down to our own time and in
which the Savoyard Vicar appears, who is used as the mouthpiece
for Rousseau's own religious ideas. "Le Contrat Social" (1762)
elaborated the doctrine of the discourse on inequality. Both his-
torically and philosophically it is unsound; but it was the chief
literary source of the enthusiasm for liberty, fraternity, and
equality, which inspired the leaders of the French Revolution,
and its effects passed far beyond France.
His most famous work, the "Confessions," was published after
his death. This book is a mine of information as to his life,
but it is far from trustworthy; and the picture it gives of the
author's personality and conduct, though painted in such a
way as to make it absorbingly interesting, is often un pleasing
in the highest degree. But it is one of the great autobiographies
of the world.
During Rousseau's later years he was the victim of the de-
lusion of persecution; and although he was protected by a
succession of good friends, he came to distrust and quarrel with
each in turn. He died at Ermenonville, near Paris, July 2, 1778,
the most widely influential French writer of his age.
164
INTRODUCTION 165
The Savoyard Vicar and his "Profession of Faith" are intro-
duced into "Emile" not, according to the author, because he
wishes to exhibit his principles as those which should be taught,
but to give an example of the way in which religious matters
should be discussed with the young. Nevertheless, it is univer-
sally recognized that these opinions are Rousseau's own, and rep-
resent in short form his characteristic attitude toward religious
belief. The Vicar himself is believed to combine the traits of
two Savoyard priests whom Rousseau knew in his youth. The
more important was the Abbe Gaime, whom he had known at
Turin; the other, the Abbe Gdtier, who had taught him at
Annecy.
QUESTION
PROPOSED BY THE
ACADEMY OF DIJON
What is the Origin of the Inequality
among Mankind; and whether such
Inequality is authorized by the Law
of Nature?
A DISCOUP.SE
UPON THE ORIGIN AND
THE FOUNDATION OF THE INEQUALITY AMONG
MANKIND
r f | ^IS of man I am to speak; and the very question, in
answer to which I am to speak of him, sufficiently
JL informs me that I am going to speak to men;
for to those alone, who are not afraid of honouring truth,
it belongs to propose discussions of this kind. I shall
therefore maintain with confidence the cause of mankind
before the sages, who invite me to stand up in its defence;
and I shall think myself happy, if I can but behave in a
manner not unworthy of my subject and of my judges.
I conceive two species of inequality among men; one
which I call natural, or physical inequality, because it is
established by nature, and consists in the difference of age,
health, bodily strength, and the qualities of the mind, or
of the soul; the other which may be termed moral, or
political inequality, because it depends on a kind of con-
vention, and is established, or at least authorized, by the
common consent of mankind. This species of inequality
consists in the different privileges, which some men enjoy,
to the prejudice of others, such as that of being richer,
more honoured, more powerful, and even that of exacting
obedience from them.
It were absurd to ask, what is the cause of natural
inequality, seeing the bare definition of natural inequality
answers the question: it would be more absurd still to en-
quire, if there might not be some essential connection be-
tween the two species of inequality, as it would be asking,
in other words, if those who command are necessarily bet-
ter men than those who obey; and if strength of body or
of mind, wisdom or virtue are always to be found in indi-
167
163 ROUSSEAU
viduals, in the same proportion with power, or riches: a
question, fit perhaps to be discussed by slaves in the hearing
of their masters, but unbecoming free and reasonable be-
ings in quest of truth.
What therefore is precisely the subject of this discourse?
It is to point out, in the progress of things, that moment,
when, right taking place of violence, nature became sub-
ject to law; to display that chain of surprising events, in
consequence of which the strong submitted to serve the
weak, and the people to purchase imaginary ease, at the
expense of real happiness.
The philosophers, who have examined the foundations
of society, have, every one of them, perceived the necessity
of tracing it back to a state of nature, but not one of them
has ever arrived there. Some of them have not scrupled
to attribute to man in that state the ideas of justice and
injustice, without troubling their heads to prove, that he
really must have had such ideas, or even that such ideas
were useful to him: others have spoken of the natural
right of every man to keep what belongs to him, without
letting us know what they meant by the word belong;
others, without further ceremony ascribing to the strongest
an authority over the weakest, have immediately struck out
government, without thinking of the time requisite for
men to form any notion of the things signified by the words
authority and government. All of them, in fine, constantly
harping on wants, avidity, oppression, desires and pride,
have transferred to the state of nature ideas picked up in
the bosom of society. In speaking of savages they described
citizens. Nay, few of our own writers seem to have so
much as doubted, that a state of nature did once actually
exit ; though it plainly appears by Sacred History, that even
the first man, immediately furnished as he was by God him-
self with both instructions and precepts, never lived in
that state, and that, if we give to the books of Moses that
credit which every Christian philosopher ought to give to
them, we must deny that, even before the deluge, such a
state ever existed among men, unless they fell into it by
some extraordinary event: a paradox very difficult to main-
tain, and altogether impossible to prove.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 169
Let us begin therefore, by laying aside facts, for they
do not affect the question. The researches, in which we
may engage on this occasion, are not to be taken for
historical truths, but merely as hypothetical and condi-
tional reasonings, fitter to illustrate the nature of things,
than to show their true origin, like those systems, which
our naturalists daily make of the formation of the world.
Religion commands us to believe, that men, having been
drawn by God himself out of a state of nature, are un-
equal, because it is his pleasure they should be so; but
religion does not forbid us to draw conjectures solely
from the nature of man, considered in itself, and from that
of the beings which surround him, concerning the fate of
mankind, had they been left to themselves. This is then
the question I am to answer, the question I propose to
examine in the present discourse. As mankind in general
have an interest in my subject, I shall endeavour to use
a language suitable to all nations; or rather, forgetting the
circumstances of time and place in order to think of nothing
but the men I speak to, I shall suppose myself in the
Lyceum of Athens, repeating the lessons of my masters
before the Platos and the Xenocrates of that famous
seat of philosophy as my judges, and in presence of the
whole human species as my audience.
O man, whatever country you may belong to, whatever
your opinions may be, attend to my words; you shall hear
your history such as I think I have read it, not in books
composed by those like you, for they are liars, but in the
book of nature which never lies. All that I shall repeat
after her, must be true, without any intermixture of false-
hood, but where I may happen, without intending it, to
introduce my own conceits. The times I am going to
speak of are very remote. How much you are changed
from what you once were ! 'Tis in a manner the life of
your species that I am going to write, from the qualities
which you have received, and which your education and
your habits could deprave, but could not destroy. There
is, I am sensible, an age at which every individual of you
would choose to stop; and you will look out for the age
at which, had you your wish, your species had stopped.
170
ROUSSEAU
Uneasy at your present condition for reasons which
threaten your unhappy posterity with still greater un-
easiness, you will perhaps wish it were in your power to
go back; and this sentiment ought to be considered, as
the panegyric of your first parents, the condemnation of
your contemporaries, and a source of terror to all those who
may have the misfortune of succeeding you.
DISCOURSE
FIRST PART
HOWEVER important it may be, in order to form a
proper judgment of the natural state of man, to
consider him from his origin, and to examine him,
as it were, in the first embryo of the species; I shall not at-
tempt to trace his organization through its successive ap-
proaches to perfection: I shall not stop to examine in the
animal system what he might have been in the beginning,
to become at last what he actually is; I shall not inquire
whether, as Aristotle thinks, his neglected nails were no
better at first than crooked talons; whether his whole body
was not, bear-like, thick covered with rough hair; and
whether, 'walking upon all- fours, his eyes, directed to
the earth, and confined to a horizon of a few paces extent,
did not at once point out the nature and limits of his ideas.
I could only form vague, and almost imaginary, conjectures
on this subject. Comparative anatomy has not as yet been
sufficiently improved; neither have the observations of nat-
ural philosophy been sufficiently ascertained, to establish
upon such foundations the basis of a solid system. For
this reason, without having recourse to the supernatural in-
formations with which we have been favoured on this head,
or paying any attention to the changes, that must have hap-
pened in the conformation of the interior and exterior parts
of man's body, in proportion as he applied his members to
new purposes, and took to new aliments, I shall suppose his
conformation to have always been, what we now behold it;
that he always walked on two feet, made the same use of his
hands that we do of ours, extended his looks over the whole
face of nature, and measured with his eyes the vast extent
of the heavens.
171
172 ROUSSEAU
If I strip this being, thus constituted, of all the super-
natural gifts which he may have received, and of all the
artificial faculties, which we could not have acquired but by-
slow degrees ; if I consider him, in a word, such as he must
have issued from the hands of nature; I see an animal less
strong than some, and less active than others, but, upon the
whole, the most advantageously organized of any; I see
him satisfying the calls of hunger under the first oak, and
those of thirst at the first rivulet; I see him laying himself
down to sleep at the foot of the same tree that afforded him
his meal; and behold, this done, all his wants are com-
pletely supplied.
The earth left to its own natural fertility and covered with
immense woods, that no hatchet ever disfigured, offers at
every step food and shelter to every species of animals.
Men, dispersed among them, observe and imitate their in-
dustry, and thus rise to the instinct of beasts; with this ad-
vantage, that, whereas every species of beasts is confined to
one peculiar instinct, man, who perhaps has not any that
particularly belongs to him, appropriates to himself those
of all other animals, and lives equally upon most of the dif-
ferent aliments, which they only divide among themselves;
a circumstance which qualifies him to find his subsistence,
with more ease than any of them.
Men, accustomed from their infancy to the inclemency
of the weather, and to the rigour of the different seasons;
inured to fatigue, and obliged to defend, naked and
without arms, their life and their prey against the other
wild inhabitants of the forest, or at least to avoid their
fury by flight, acquire a robust and almost unalterable
habit of body; the children, bringing with them into the
world the excellent constitution of their parents, and
strengthening it by the same exercises that first produced
it, attain by this means all the vigour that the human
frame is capable of. Nature treats them exactly in the
same manner that Sparta treated the children of her citizens;
those who come well formed into the world she renders
strong and robust, and destroys all the rest; differing in
this respect from our societies, in which the state, by per-
mitting children to become burdensome to their par-
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 173
ents, murders them all without distinction, even in the
wombs of their mothers.
The body being the only instrument that savage man is
acquainted with, he employs it to different uses, of which
ours, for want of practice, are incapable ; and we may thank
our industry for the loss of that strength and agility, which
necessity obliges him to acquire. Had he a hatchet, would
his hand so easily snap off from an oak so stout a branch?
Had he a sling, would it dart a stone to so great a dis-
tance ? Had he a ladder, would he run so nimbly up a tree ?
Had he a horse, would he with such swiftness shoot along
the plain? Give civilized man but time to gather about him
all his machines, and no doubt he will be an overmatch for
the savage: but if you have a mind to see a contest still
more unequal, place them naked and unarmed one opposite
to the other; and you will soon discover the advantage there
is in perpetually having all our forces at our disposal, in
being constantly prepared against all events, and in always
carrying ourselves, as it were, whole and entire about us.
Hobbes would have it that man is naturally void of fear,
and always intent upon attacking and fighting. An illus-
trious philosopher thinks on the contrary, and Cumberland
and Puffendorff likewise affirm it, that nothing is more fear-
ful than man in a state of nature, that he is always in a
tremble, and ready to fly at the first motion he perceives,
at the first noise that strikes his ears. This, indeed, may be
very true in regard to objects with which he is not acquaint-
ed; and I make no doubt of his being terrified at every new
sight that presents itself, as often as he cannot distinguish
the physical good and evil which he may expect from it,
nor compare his forces with the dangers he has to encounter ;
circumstances that seldom occur in a state of nature, where
all things proceed in so uniform a manner, and the face of
the earth is not liable to those sudden and continual changes
occasioned in it by the passions and inconstancies of collected
bodies. But savage man living among other animals with-
out any society or fixed habitation, and finding himself early
under a necessity of measuring his strength with theirs, soon
makes a comparison between both, and finding that he sur-
passes them more in address, than they surpass him in
174 ROUSSEAU
strength, he learns not to be any longer in dread of them.
Turn out a bear or a wolf against a sturdy, active, resolute
savage, (and this they all are,) provided with stones and a
good stick ; and you will soon find that the danger is at least
equal on both sides, and that after several trials of this
kind, wild beasts, who are not fond of attacking each other,
will not be very fond of attacking man, whom they have
found every whit as wild as themselves. As to animals who
have really more strength than man has address, he is, in
regard to them, what other weaker species are, who find
means to subsist notwithstanding; he has even this great
advantage over such weaker species, that being equally fleet
with them, and finding on every tree an almost inviolable asy-
lum, he is always at liberty to take it or leave it, as he likes
best, and of course to fight or to fly, whichever is most agree-
able to him. To this we may add that no animal naturally
makes war upon man, except in the case of self-defence or
extreme hunger ; nor ever expresses against him any of these
violent antipathies, which seem to indicate that some par-
ticular species are intended by nature for the food of others.
But there are other more formidable enemies, and against
which man is not provided with the same means of defence;
I mean natural infirmities, infancy, old age, and sickness of
every kind, melancholy proofs of our weakness, whereof the
two first are common to all animals, and the last chiefly at-
tends man living in a state of society. It is even observable
in regard to infancy, that the mother being able to carry her
child about with her, wherever she goes, can perform the
duty of a nurse with a great deal less trouble, than the fe-
males of many other animals, who are obliged to be con-
stantly going and coming with no small labour and fatigue,
one way to look out for their own subsistence, and another
to suckle and feed their young ones. True it is that, if the
woman happens to perish, her child is exposed to the great-
est danger of perishing with her; but this danger is common
to a hundred other species, whose young ones require a
great deal of time to be able to provide for themselves ; and
if our infancy is longer than theirs, our life is longer like-
wise ; so that, in this respect too, all things are in a manner
equal; not but that there are other rules concerning the
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 175
duration of the first age of life, and the number of the young
of man and other animals, but they do not belong to my
subject. With old men, who stir and perspire but little, the
demand for food diminishes with their abilities to provide
it; and as a savage life would exempt them from the gout
and the rheumatism, and old age is of all ills that which
human assistance is least capable of alleviating, they would
at last go off, without its being perceived by others that they
ceased to exist, and almost without perceiving it themselves.
In regard to sickness, I shall not repeat the vain and false
declamations made use of to discredit medicine by most men,
while they enjoy their health ; I shall only ask if there are any
solid observations from which we may conclude that in those
countries where the healing art is most neglected, the mean
duration of man's life is shorter than in those where it is
most cultivated? And how is it possible this should be the
case, if we inflict more diseases upon ourselves than medi-
cine can supply us with remedies ! The extreme inequali-
ties in the manner of living of the several classes of man-
kind, the excess of idleness in some, and of labour in others,
the facility of irritating and satisfying our sensuality and
our appetites, the too exquisite and out of the way aliments
of the rich, which fill them with fiery juices, and bring on
indigestions, the unwholesome food of the poor, of which
even, bad as it is, they very often fall short, and the want of
which tempts them, every opportunity that offers, to eat
greedily and overload their stomachs; watchings, excesses of
every kind, immoderate transports of all the passions, fa-
tigues, waste of spirits, in a word, the numberless pains and
anxieties annexed to every condition, and which the mind of
man is constantly a prey to; these are the fatal proofs that
most of our ills are of our own making, and that we might
have avoided them all by adhering to the simple, uniform
and solitary way of life prescribed to us by nature. Allow-
ing that nature intended we should always enjoy good health,
I dare almost affirm that a state of reflection is a state against
nature, and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal.
We need only call to mind the good constitution of savages,
of those at least whom we have not destroyed by our strong
liquors ; we need only reflect, that they are strangers to almost
176 ROUSSEAU
every disease, except those occasioned by wounds and old age,
to be in a manner convinced that the history of human dis-
eases might be easily composed by pursuing that of civil so-
cieties. Such at least was the opinion of Plato, who con-
cluded from certain remedies made use of or approved by
Podalyrus and Macaon at the Siege of Troy, that several
disorders, which these remedies were found to bring on in
his days, were not known among men at that remote period.
Man therefore, in a state of nature where there are so
few sources of sickness, can have no great occasion for
physic, and still less for physicians; neither is the human
species more to be pitied in this respect, than any other
species of animals. Ask those who make hunting their rec-
reation or business, if in their excursions they meet with
many sick or feeble animals. They meet with many carry-
ing the marks of considerable wounds, that have been per-
fectly well healed and closed up; with many, whose bones
formerly broken, and whose limbs almost torn off, have com-
pletely knit and united, without any other surgeon but time,
any other regimen but their usual way of living, and whose
cures were not the less perfect for their not having been
tortured with incisions, poisoned with drugs, or worn out by
diet and abstinence. In a word, however useful medicine
well administered may be to us who live in a state of society,
it is still past doubt, that if, on the one hand, the sick sav-
age, destitute of help, has nothing to hope from nature, on
the other, he has nothing to fear but from his disease; a
circumstance, which oftens renders his situation preferable
to ours.
Let us therefore beware of confounding savage man
with the men, whom we daily see and converse with.
Nature behaves towards all animals left to her care with
a predilection, that seems to prove how jealous she is of
that prerogative. The horse, the cat, the bull, nay the ass
itself, have generally a higher stature, and always a more
robust constitution, more vigour, more strength and courage
in their forests than in our houses; they lose half these
advantages by becoming domestic animals; it looks as if
all our attention to treat them kindly, and to feed them
well, served only to bastardize them. It is thus with man
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 177
himself. In proportion as he becomes sociable and a slave
to others, he becomes weak, fearful, mean-spirited, and his
soft and effeminate way of living at once completes the
enervation of his strength and of his courage. We may
add, that there must be still a wider difference between
man and man in i savage and domestic condition, than
between beast and beast; for as men and beasts have been
treated alike by nature, all the conveniences with which men
indulge themselves more than they do the beasts tamed by
them, are so many particular causes which make them
degenerate more sensibly.
Nakedness therefore, the want of houses, and of all
these unnecessaries, which we consider as so very necessary,
are not such mighty evils in respect to these primitive men,
and much less still any obstacle to their preservation.
Their skins, it is true, are destitute of hair; but then they
have no occasion for any such covering in warm climates;
and in cold climates they soon learn to apply to that use
those of the animals they have conquered; they have but
two feet to run with, but they have two hands to defend
themselves with, and provide for all their wants; it costs
them perhaps a great deal of time and trouble to make
their children walk, but the mothers carry them with ease;
an advantage not granted to other species of animals, with
whom the mother, when pursued, is obliged to abandon
her young ones, or regulate her steps by theirs. In short,
unless we admit those singular and fortuitous concurrences
of circumstances, which I shall speak of hereafter, and
which, it is very possible, may never have existed, it is
evident, in every state of the question, that the man, who
first made himself clothes and built himself a cabin, supplied
himself with things which he did not much want, since he
had lived without them till then; and why should he not
have been able to support in his riper years, the same kind
of life, which he had supported from his infancy?
Alone, idle, and always surrounded with danger, savage
man must be fond of sleep, and sleep lightly like other
animals, who think but little, and may, in a manner, be
said to sleep all the time they do not think: self-preserva-
tion being almost his only concern, he must exercise those
178 ROUSSEAU
faculties most, which are most serviceable in attacking and
in defending, whether to subdue his prey, or to prevent his
becoming that of other animals: those organs, on the con-
trary, which softness and sensuality can alone improve,
must remain in a state of rudeness, utterly incompatible with
all manner of delicacy; and as his senses are divided on
this point, his touch and his taste must be extremely coarse
and blunt; his sight, his hearing, and his smelling equally
subtle: such is the animal state in general, and accordingly
if we may believe travellers, it is that of most savage
nations. We must not therefore be surprised, that the
Hottentots of the Cape of Good Hope, distinguish with
their naked eyes ships on the ocean, at as great a distance
as the Dutch can discern them with their glasses; nor that
the savages of America should have tracked the Spaniards
with their noses, to as great a degree of exactness, as the
best dogs could have done; nor that all these barbarous
nations support nakedness without pain, use such large
quantities of Piemento to give their food a relish, and
drink like water the strongest liquors of Europe.
As yet I have considered man merely in his physical
capacity; let us now endeavour to examine him in a meta-
physical and moral light.
I can discover nothing in any mere animal but an in-
genious machine, to which nature has given senses to wind
itself up, and guard, to a certain degree, against every-
thing that might destroy or disorder it. I perceive the very
same things in the human machine, with this difference,
that nature alone operates in all the operations of the
beast, whereas man, as a free agent, has a share in his.
One chooses by instinct ; the other by an act of liberty ; for
which reason the beast cannot deviate from the rules that
have been prescribed to it, even in cases where such
deviation might be useful, and man often deviates from
the rules laid down for him to his prejudice. Thus a
pigeon would starve near a dish of the best flesh-meat, and
a cat on a heap of fruit or corn, though both might very well
support life with the food which they thus disdain, did
they but bethink themselves to make a trial of it: it is in
this manner dissolute men run into excesses, which bring
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 179
on fevers and death itself; because the mind depraves the
senses, and when nature ceases to speak, the will still con-
tinues to dictate.
All animals must be allowed to have ideas, since all
animals have senses; they even combine their ideas to a
certain degree, and, in this respect, it is only the difference
of such degree, that constitutes the difference between man
and beast: some philosophers have even advanced, that
there is a greater difference between some men and some
others, than between some men and some beasts; it is not
therefore so much the understanding that constitutes, among
animals, the specifical distinction of man, as his quality of
a free agent. Nature speaks to all animals, and beasts obey
her voice. Man feels the same impression, but he at the
same time perceives that he is free to resist or to acquiesce;
and it is in the consciousness of this liberty, that the spirit-
uality of his soul chiefly appears: for natural philosophy
explains, in some measure, the mechanism of the senses
and the formation of ideas; but in the power of willing, or
rather of choosing, and in the consciousness of this power,
nothing can be discovered but acts, that are purely
spiritual, and cannot be accounted for by the laws of
mechanics.
But though the difficulties, in which all these questions are
involved, should leave some room to dispute on this dif-
ference between man and beast, there is another very
specific quality that distinguishes them, and a quality which
will admit of no dispute ; this is the faculty of improvement ;
a faculty which, as circumstances offer, successively un-
folds all the other faculties, and resides among us not only in
the species, but in the individuals that compose it; whereas
a beast is, at the end of some months, all he ever will be
during the rest of his life; and his species, at the end of
a thousand years, precisely what it was the first year of
that long period. Why is man alone subject to dotage?
Is it not, because he thus returns to his primitive condition ?
And because, while the beast, which has acquired nothing
and has likewise nothing to lose, continues always in pos-
session of his instinct, man, losing by old age, or by accident,
all the acquisitions he had made in consequence of his per-
180 ROUSSEAU
fectibility, thus falls back even lower than beasts them-
selves? It would be a melancholy necessity for us to be
obliged to allow, that this distinctive and almost unlimited
faculty is the source of all man's misfortunes; that it is
this faculty, which, though by slow degrees, draws them out
of their original condition, in which his days would slide
away insensibly in peace and innocence ; that it is this faculty,
which, in a succession of ages, produces his discoveries and
mistakes, his virtues and his vices, and, at long run, renders
him both his own and nature's tyrant. It would be
shocking to be obliged to commend, as a beneficent being,
whoever he was that first suggested to the Oronoco Indians
the use of those boards which they bind on the temples of
their children, and which secure to them the enjoyment of
some part at least of their natural imbecility and happiness.
Savage man, abandoned by nature to pure instinct, or
rather indemnified for that which has perhaps been denied
to him by faculties capable of immediately supplying the
place of it, and of raising him afterwards a great deal
higher, would therefore begin with functions that were
merely animal: to see and to feel would be his first
condition, which he would enjoy in common with other
animals. To will and not to will, to wish and to fear, would
be the first, and in a manner, the only operations of his soul,
till new circumstances occasioned new developments.
Let moralists say what they will, the human understanding
is greatly indebted to the passions, which, on their side,
are likewise universally allowed to be greatly indebted to
the human understanding. It is by the activity of our pas-
sions, that our reason improves : we covet knowledge merely
because we covet enjoyment, and it is impossible to conceive
why a man exempt from fears and desires should take the
trouble to reason. The passions, in their turn, owe their
origin to our wants, and their increase to our progress in
science; for we cannot desire or fear anything, but in
consequence of the ideas we have of it, or of the simple im-
pulses of nature; and savage man, destitute of every species
of knowledge, experiences no passions but those of this last
kind; his desires never extend beyond his physical wants;
he knows no goods but food, a female, and rest; he
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 181
fears no evil but pain, and hunger; I say pain, and not
death; for no animal, merely as such, will ever know what
it is to die, and the knowledge of death, and of its terrors,
is one of the first acquisitions made by man, in consequence
of his deviating from the animal state.
I could easily, were it requisite, cite facts in support of
this opinion, and show, that the progress of the mind has
everywhere kept pace exactly with the wants, to which
nature had left the inhabitants exposed, or to which cir-
cumstances had subjected them, and consequently to the
passions, which inclined them to provide for these wants.
I could exhibit in Egypt the arts starting up, and extending
themselves with the inundations of the Nile; I could pursue
them in their progress among the Greeks, where they were
seen to bud forth, grow, and rise to the heavens, in the
midst of the sands and rocks of Attica, without being able
to take root on the fertile banks of the Eurotas; I would ob-
serve that, in general, the inhabitants of the north are more
industrious than those of the south, because they can less
do without industry; as if nature thus meant to make all
things equal, by giving to the mind that fertility she has
denied to the soil.
But exclusive of the uncertain testimonies of history,
who does not perceive that everything seems to remove
from savage man the temptation and the means of altering
his condition? His imagination paints nothing to him;
his heart asks nothing from him. His moderate wants are
so easily supplied with what he everywhere finds ready
to his hand, and he stands at such a distance from the de-
gree of knowledge requisite to covet more, that he can
neither have foresight nor curiosity. The spectacle of nature,
by growing quite familiar to him, becomes at last equally
indifferent. It is constantly the same order, constantly the
same revolutions; he has not sense enough to feel surprise
at the sight of the greatest wonders; and it is not in his
mind we must look for that philosophy, which man must
have to know how to observe once, what he has every day
seen. His soul, which nothing disturbs, gives itself up
entirely to the consciousness of its actual existence, with-
out any thought of even the nearest futurity; and his pro-
182 ROUSSEAU
jects, equally confined with his views, scarce extend to
the end of the day. Such is, even at present, the degree of
foresight in the Caribbean: he sells his cotton bed in the
morning, and comes in the evening, with tears in his eyes,
to buy it back, not having foreseen that he should want it
again the next night.
The more we meditate on this subject, the wider does the
distance between mere sensation and the most simple knowl-
edge become in our eyes; and it is impossible to conceive
how man, by his own powers alone, without the assistance
of communication, and the spur of necessity, could have got
over so great an interval. How many ages perhaps re-
volved, before men beheld any other fire but that of the
heavens? How many different accidents must have con-
curred to make them acquainted with the most common
uses of this element? How often have they let it go out,
before they knew the art of reproducing it? And how
often perhaps has not every one of these secrets perished
with the discoverer? What shall we say of agriculture,
an art which requires so much labour and foresight; which
depends upon other arts; which, it is very evident, cannot
be practised but in a society, if not a formed one, at least
one of some standing, and which does not so much serve
to draw aliments from the earth, for the earth would yield
them without all that trouble, as to oblige her to produce
those things, which we like best, preferably to others? But
let us suppose that men had multiplied to such a degree, that
the natural products of the earth no longer sufficed for their
support; a supposition which, by the bye, would prove that
this kind of life would be very advantageous to the human
species ; let us suppose that, without forge or anvil, the in-
struments of husbandry had dropped from the heavens into
the hands of savages, that these men had got the better
of that mortal aversion they all have for constant labour;
that they had learned to foretell their wants at so great
a distance of time; that they had guessed exactly how they
were to break the earth, commit their seed to it, and plant
trees; that they had found out the art of grinding their
corn, and improving by fermentation the juice of their
grapes; all operations which we must allow them to have
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 183
learned from the gods, since we cannot conceive how they
should make such discoveries of themselves; after all these
fine presents, what man would be mad enough to cultivate
a field, that may be robbed by the first comer, man or beast,
who takes a fancy to the produce of it. And would any
man consent to spend his day in labour and fatigue, when
the rewards of his labour and fatigue became more and
more precarious in proportion to his want of them? In a
word, how could this situation engage men to cultivate the
earth, as long as it was not parcelled out among them, that
is, as long as a state of nature subsisted.
Though we should suppose savage man as well versed in the
art of thinking, as philosophers make him ; though we were,
after them, to make him a philosopher himself, discovering
of himself the sublimest truths, forming to himself, by the
most abstract arguments, maxims of justice and reason
drawn from the love of order in general, or from the known
will of his Creator: in a word, though we were to suppose his
mind as intelligent and enlightened, as it must, and is, in
fact, found to be dull and stupid; what benefit would the
species receive from all these metaphysical discoveries,
which could not be communicated, but must perish with the
individual who had made them? What progress could
mankind make in the forests, scattered up and down among
the other animals ? And to what degree could men mutually
improve and enlighten each other, when they had no fixed
habitation, nor any need of each other's assistance; when
the same persons scarcely met twice in their whole lives,
and on meeting neither spoke to, or so much as knew
each other?
Let us consider how many ideas we owe to the use of
speech; how much grammar exercises, and facilitates the
operations of the mind; let us, besides, reflect on the im-
mense pains and time that the first invention of languages
must have required: Let us add these reflections to the
preceding; and then we may judge how many thousand ages
must have been requisite to develop successively the opera-
tions, which the human mind is capable of producing.
I must now beg leave to stop one moment to consider the
perplexities attending the origin of languages. I might here
184 ROUSSEAU
barely cite or repeat the researches made, in relation to this
question, by the Abbe de Condillac, which all fully confirm
my system, and perhaps even suggested to me the first idea
of it. But, as the manner, in which the philosopher resolves
the difficulties of his own starting, concerning the origin of
arbitrary signs, shows that he supposes, what I doubt, namely
a kind of society already established among the inventors of
languages ; I think it my duty, at the same time that I refer
to his reflections, to give my own, in order to expose the
same difficulties in a light suitable to my subject. The first
that offers is how languages could become necessary ; for as
there was no correspondence between men, nor the least
necessity for any, there is no conceiving the necessity of this
invention, nor the possibility of it, if it was not indispensable.
I might say, with many others, that languages are the fruit
of the domestic intercourse between fathers, mothers, and
children : but this, besides its not answering any difficulties,
would be committing the same fault with those, who rea-
soning on the state of nature, transfer to it ideas collected in
society, always consider families as living together under
one roof, and their members as observing among themselves
an union, equally intimate and permanent with that which we
see exist in a civil state, where so many common interests con-
spire to unite them; whereas in this primitive state, as there
were neither houses nor cabins, nor any kind of property,
every one took up his lodging at random, and seldom con-
tinued above one night in the same place ; males and females
united without any premeditated design, as chance, occasion,
or desire brought them together, nor had they any great
occasion for language to make known their thoughts to each
other. They parted with the same ease. The mother
suckled her children, when just born, for her own sake; but
afterwards out of love and affection to them, when habit
and custom had made them dear to her; but they no sooner
gained strength enough to run about in quest of food than
they separated even from her of their own accord; and as
they scarce had any other method of not losing each other,
than that of remaining constantly in each other's sight, they
soon came to such a pass of forgetfulness, as not even to
know each other, when they happened to meet again. I must
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 185
further observe that the child having all his wants to ex-
plain, and consequently more things to say to his mother,
than the mother, can have to say to him, it is he that must
be at the chief expense of invention, and the language he
makes use of must be in a great measure his own work;
this makes the number of languages equal to that of the
individuals who are to speak them; and this multiplicity
of languages is further increased by their roving and vag-
abond kind of life, which allows no idiom time enough to
acquire any consistency; for to say that the mother would
have dictated to the child the words he must employ to
ask her this thing and that, may well enough explain in
what manner languages, already formed, are taught,
but it does not show us in what manner they are first
formed.
Let us suppose this first difficulty conquered : Let us for a
moment consider ourselves at this side of the immense space,
which must have separated the pure state of nature from that
in which languages became necessary, and let us, after allow-
ing such necessity, examine how languages could begin
to be established. A new difficulty this, still more stubborn
than the preceding; for if men stood in need of speech to
learn to think, they must have stood in still greater need of
the art of thinking to invent that of speaking; and though
we could conceive how the sounds of the voice came to be
taken for the conventional interpreters of our ideas we
should not be the nearer knowing who could have been the in-
terpreters of this convention for such ideas, as, in conse-
quence of their not having any sensible objects, could not
be made manifest by gesture or voice ; so that we can scarce
form any tolerable conjectures concerning the birth of this
art of communicating our thoughts, and establishing a cor-
respondence between minds : a sublime art which, though so
remote from its origin, philosophers still behold at such a
prodigious distance from its perfection, that I never met with
one of them bold enough to affirm it would ever arrive there,
though the revolutions necessarily produced by time were
suspended in its favour; though prejudice could be banished
from, or would be at least content to sit silent in the presence
of our academies, and though these societies should conse-
188 ROUSSEAU
crate themselves, entirely and during whole ages, to the
study of this intricate object.
The first language of man, the most universal and most
energetic of all languages, in short, the only language he
had occasion for, before there was a necessity of per-
suading assembled multitudes, was the cry of nature. As
this cry was never extorted but by a kind of instinct in the
most urgent cases, to implore assistance in great danger, or
relief in great sufferings, it was of little use in the common
occurrences of life, where more moderate sentiments gen-
erally prevail. When the ideas of men began to extend and
multiply, and a closer communication began to take place
among them, they laboured to devise more numerous signs,
and a more extensive language: they multiplied the inflec-
tions of the voice, and added to them gestures, which are,
in their own nature, more expressive, and whose meaning
depends less on any prior determination. They therefore
expressed visible and movable objects by gestures and those
which strike the ear, by imitative sounds : but as gestures
scarcely indicate anything except objects that are actually
present or can be easily described, and visible actions; as
they are not of general use, since darkness or the interposi-
tion of an opaque medium renders them useless; and as be-
sides they require attention rather than excite it: men at
length bethought themselves of substituting for them the ar-
ticulations of voice, which, without having the same relation
to any determinate object, are, in quality of instituted signs,
fitter to represent all our ideas; a substitution, which could
only have been made by common consent, and in a manner
pretty difficult to practise by men, whose rude organs were
unimproved by exercise; a substitution, which is in itself
more difficult to be conceived, since the motives to this
unanimous agreement must have been somehow or another
expressed, and speech therefore appears to have been ex-
ceedingly requisite to establish the use of speech.
We must allow that the words, first made use of by men,
had in their minds a much more extensive signification, than
those employed in languages of some standing, and that,
considering how ignorant they were of the division of
speech into its constituent parts; they at first gave every
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 187
word the meaning of an entire proposition. When after-
wards they began to perceive the difference between the
subject and attribute, and between verb and noun, a distinc-
tion which required no mean effort of genius, the sub-
stantives for a time were only so many proper names, the
infinitive was the only tense, and as to adjectives, great
difficulties must have attended the development of the idea
that represents them, since every adjective is an abstract
word, and abstraction is an unnatural and very painful
operation.
At first they gave every object a peculiar name, without
any regard to its genus or species, things which these first
institutors of language were in no condition to distinguish;
and every individual presented itself solitary to their minds,
as it stands in the table of nature. If they called one
oak A, they called another oak B : so that their dictionary
must have been more extensive in proportion as their knowl-
edge of things was more confined. It could not but be a
very difficult task to get rid of so diffuse and embarrassing
a nomenclature; as in order to marshal the several beings
under common and generic denominations, it was necessary
to be first acquainted with their properties, and their dif-
ferences; to be stocked with observations and definitions,
that is to say, to understand natural history and meta-
physics, advantages which the men of these times could
not have enjoyed.
Besides, general ideas cannot be conveyed to the mind
without the assistance of words, nor can the understanding
seize them without the assistance of propositions. This is
one of the reasons, why mere animals cannot form such
ideas, nor ever acquire the perfectibility which depends on
such an operation. When a monkey leaves without the
least hesitation one nut for another, are we to think he
has any general idea of that kind of fruit, and that he com-
pares these two individual bodies with his archetype notion
of them? No, certainly; but the sight of one of these nuts
calls back to his memory the sensations which he has re-
ceived from the other; and his eyes, modified after some
certain manner, give notice to his palate of the modification
it is in its turn going to receive. Every general idea is
188 ROUSSEAU
purely intellectual ; let the imagination tamper ever so little
with it, it immediately becomes a particular idea. Endeavour
to represent to yourself the image of a tree in general, you
never will be able to do it; in spite of all your efforts
it will appear big or little, thin or tufted, of a bright or a
deep colour; and were you master to see nothing in it, but
what can be seen in every tree, such a picture would no
longer resemble any tree. Beings perfectly abstract are
perceivable in the same manner, or are only conceivable by
the assistance of speech. The definition of a triangle can
alone give you a just idea of that figure: the moment you
form a triangle in your mind, it is this or that particular tri-
angle and no other, and you cannot avoid giving breadth to
its lines and colour to its area. We must therefore make use
of propositions; we must therefore speak to have general
ideas; for the moment the imagination stops, the mind must
stop too, if not assisted by speech. If therefore the first
inventors could give no names to any ideas but those they
had already, it follows that the first substantives could never
have been anything more than proper names.
But when by means, which I cannot conceive, our new
grammarians began to extend their ideas, and generalize
their words, the ignorance of the inventors must have con-
fined this method to very narrow bounds; and as they had
at first too much multiplied the names of individuals for
want of being acquainted with the distinctions called genus
and species, they afterwards made too few genera and
species for want of having considered beings in all their
differences ; to push the divisions far enough, they must have
had more knowledge and experience than we can allow them,
and have made more researches and taken more pains, than
we can suppose them willing to submit to. Now if, even
at this present time, we every day discover new species,
which had before escaped all our observations, how many
species must have escaped the notice of men, who judged
of things merely from their first appearances ! As to the
primitive classes and the most general notions, it were super-
fluous to add that these they must have likewise overlooked:
how, for example, could they have thought of or understood
the words, matter, spirit, substance, mode, figure, motion,
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 189
since even our philosophers, who for so long a time have
been constantly employing these terms, can themselves
scarcely understand them, and since the ideas annexed to
these words being purely metaphysical, no models of them
could be found in nature?
I stop at these first advances, and beseech my judges to
suspend their lecture a little, in order to consider, what
a great way language has still to go, in regard to the
invention of physical substantives alone, (though the easiest
part of language to invent,) to be able to express all the
sentiments of man, to assume an invariable form, to bear
being spoken in public and to influence society: I earnestly
entreat them to consider how much time and knowledge must
have been requisite to find out numbers, abstract words,
the aorists, and all the other tenses of verbs, the particles,
and syntax, the method of connecting propositions and argu-
ments, of forming all the logic of discourse. For my own
part, I am so scared at the difficulties that multiply at every
step, and so convinced of the almost demonstrated impos-
sibility of languages owing their birth and establishment to
means that were merely human, that I must leave to who-
ever may please to take it up, the task of discussing this
difficult problem. " Which was the most necessary, society
already formed to invent languages, or languages already
invented to form society ?"
But be the case of these origins ever so mysterious, we
may at least infer from the little care which nature has
taken to bring men together by mutual wants, and make the
use of speech easy to them, how little she has done towards
making them sociable, and how little she has contributed
to anything which they themselves have done to become
so. In fact, it is impossible to conceive, why, in this
primitive state, one man should have more occasion for the
assistance of another, than one monkey, or one wolf for
that of another animal of the same species; or supposing
that he had, what motive could induce another to assist
him; or even, in this last case, how he, w T ho wanted as-
sistance, and he from w r hom it was wanted, could agree
among themselves upon the conditions. Authors, I know,
are continually telling us, that in this state man would have
190 ROUSSEAU
been a most miserable creature; and if it is true, as I fancy
I have proved it, that he must have continued many ages
without either the desire or the opportunity of emerging
from such a state, this their assertion could only serve
to justify a charge against nature, and not any against the
being which nature had thus constituted; but, if I thoroughly
understand this term miserable, it is a word, that either
has no meaning, or signifies nothing, but a privation at-
tended with pain, and a suffering state of body or soul;
now I would fain know what kind of misery can be that of
a free being, whose heart enjoys perfect peace, and body
perfect health ? And which is aptest to become insupportable
to those who enjoy it, a civil or a natural life? In civil
life we can scarcely meet a single person who does not com-
plain of his existence; many even throw away as much of
it as they can, and the united force of divine and human laws
can hardly put bounds to this disorder. Was ever any free
savage known to have been so much as tempted to complain
of life^ and lay violent hands on himself? Let us therefore
judge with less pride on which side real misery is to be
placed. Nothing, on the contrary, must have been so unhappy
as savage man, dazzled by flashes of knowledge, racked
by passions, and reasoning on a state different from that
in which he saw himself placed. It was in consequence of
a very wise Providence, that the faculties, which he potenti-
ally enjoyed, were not to develop themselves but in propor-
tion as there offered occasions to exercise them, lest they
should be superfluous or troublesome to him when he did
not want them, or tardy and useless when he did. He had
in his instinct alone everything requisite to live in a state
of nature; in his cultivated reason he has barely what is
necessary to live in a state of society.
It appears at first sight that, as there was no kind of
moral relations between men in this state, nor any known
duties, they could not be either good or bad, and had neither
vices nor virtues, unless we take these words in a physical
sense, and call vices, in the individual, the qualities which
may prove detrimental to his own preservation, and virtues
those which may contribute to it; in which case we should
be obliged to consider him as most virtuous, who made
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 191
least resistance against the simple impulses of nature. But
without deviating from the usual meaning of these terms, it
is proper to suspend the judgment we might form of such
a situation, and be upon our guard against prejudice, till,
the balance in hand, we have examined whether there are
more virtues or vices among civilized men ; or whether
the improvement of their understanding is sufficient to com-
pensate the damage which they mutually do to each other,
in proportion as they become better informed of the services
which they ought to do; or whether, upon the whole, they
would not be much happier in a condition, where they
had nothing to fear or to hope from each other, than in that
where they had submitted to an universal subserviency, and
have obliged themselves to depend for everything upon the
good will of those, who do not think themselves obliged
to give anything in return.
But above all things let us beware concluding with
Hobbes, that man, as having no idea of goodness, must be
naturally bad; that he is vicious because he does not know
what virtue is; that he always refuses to do any service
to those of his own species, because he believes that none
is due to them; that, in virtue of that right which he justly
claims to everything he wants, he foolishly looks upon
himself as proprietor of the whole universe. Hobbes very
plainly saw the flaws in all the modern definitions of
natural right: but the consequences, which he draws from
his own definition, show that it is, in the sense he under-
stands it, equally exceptionable. This author, to argue
from his own principles, should say that the state of nature,
being that where the care of our own preservation interferes
least with the preservation of others, was of course the
most favourable to peace, and most suitable to mankind;
whereas he advances the very reverse in consequence of
his having injudiciously admitted, as objects of that care
wnich savage man should take of his preservation, the sat-
isfaction of numberless passions which are the work of
society, and have rendered laws necessary. A bad man,
says he, is a robust child. But this is not proving that
savage man is a robust child; and though we were to grant
that he was, what could this philosopher infer from such
192 ROUSSEAU
a concession? That if this man, when robust, depended on
others as much as when feeble, there is no excess that he
would not be guilty of. He would make nothing of striking
his mother when she delayed ever so little to give him the
breast; he would claw, and bite, and strangle without re-
morse the first of his younger brothers, that ever so acci-
dentally jostled or otherwise disturbed him. But these are
two contradictory suppositions in the state of nature, to be
robust and dependent. Man is weak when dependent,
and his own master before he grows robust. Hobbes did
not consider that the same cause, which hinders savages
from making use of their reason, as our jurisconsults
pretend, hinders them at the same time from making
an ill use of their faculties, as he himself pretends; so
that we may say that savages are not bad, precisely be-
cause they don't know what it is to be good ; for it is neither
the development of the understanding, nor the curb of the
law, but the calmness of their passions and their ignorance
of vice that hinders them from doing ill : tantus phis in Mis
proficit vitiorum ignorantia, quam in his cognito virtntis.
There is besides another principle that has escaped Hobbes,
and which, having been given to man to moderate, on cer-
tain occasions, the blind and impetuous sallies of self-love,
or the desire of self-preservation previous to the appear-
ance of that passion, allays the ardour, with which he
naturally pursues his private welfare, by an innate abhor-
rence to see beings suffer that resemble him. I shall not
surely be contradicted, in granting to man the only natural
virtue, which the most passionate detractor of human vir-
tues could not deny him, I mean that of pity, a disposition
suitable to creatures weak as we are, and liable to so many
evils; a virtue so much the more universal, and withal use-
ful to man, as it takes place in him of all manner of reflec-
tion; and so natural, that the beasts themselves sometimes
give evident signs of it. Not to speak of the tenderness
of mothers for their young; and of the dangers they face
to screen them from danger ; with what reluctance are horses
known to trample upon living bodies; one animal never
passes unmoved by the dead carcass of another animal of
the same species: there are even some who bestow a kind
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 193
of sepulture upon their dead fellows; and the mournful
lowings of cattle, on their entering the slaughter-house, pub-
lish the impression made upon them by the horrible spectacle
they are there struck with. It is with pleasure we see the
author of the fable of the bees, forced to acknowledge man
a compassionate and sensible being; and lay aside, in the
example he offers to confirm it, his cold and subtle style,
to place before us the pathetic picture of a man, who, with
his hands tied up, is obliged to behold a beast of prey tear
a child from the arms of his mother, and then with his
teeth grind the tender limbs, and with his claws rend the
throbbing entrails of the innocent victim. What horrible
emotions must not such a spectator experience at the sight
of an event which does not personally concern him? What
anguish must he not suffer at his not being able to assist
the fainting mother or the expiring infant?
Such is the pure motion of nature, anterior to all manner
of reflection; such is the force of natural pity, which the
most dissolute manners have as yet found it so difficult to
extinguish, since we every day see, in our theatrical repre-
sentation, those men sympathize with the unfortunate and
weep at their sufferings, who, if in the tyrant's place, would
aggravate the torments of their enemies. Mandeville was
very sensible that men, in spite of all their morality, would
never have been better than monsters, if nature had not given
them pity to assist reason: but he did not perceive that -
from this quality alone flow all the social virtues, which
he would dispute mankind the possession of. In fact, what
is generosity, what clemency, what humanity, but pity ap-
plied to the weak, to the guilty, or to the human species in
general? Even benevolence and friendship, if we judge
right, will appear the effects of a constant pity, fixed upon
a particular object: for to wish that a person may not suffer,
what is it but to wish that he may be happy ? Though it were
true that commiseration is no more than a sentiment, which L
puts us in the place of him who suffers, a sentiment obscure
but active in the savage, developed but dormant in civilized
man, how could this notion affect the truth of what I
advance, but to make it more evident. In fact, commisera-
tion must be so much the more energetic, the more inti-
(G) HC— Vol. 34
194 ROUSSEAU
mately the animal, that beholds any kind of distress, identifies
himself with the animal that labours under it. Now it is evi-
dent that this identification must have been infinitely more
perfect in the state of nature than in the state of reason. It
is reason that engenders self-love, and reflection that strength-
ens it ; it is reason that makes man shrink into himself ; it is
reason that makes him keep aloof from everything that can
trouble or afflict him : it is philosophy that destroys his con-
nections with other men ; it is in consequence of her dictates
that he mutters to himself at the sight of another in distress,
You may perish for aught I care, nothing can hurt me. Noth-
ing less than those evils, which threaten the whole species,
can disturb the calm sleep of the philosopher, and force him
from his bed. One man may with impunity murder another
under his windows ; he has nothing to do but clap his hands
to his ears, argue a little with himself to hinder nature, that
startles within him, from identifying him with the unhappy
sufferer. Savage man wants this admirable talent; and for
want of wisdom and reason, is always ready foolishly to
obey the first whispers of humanity. In riots and street-
brawls the populace flock together, the prudent man sneaks
off. They are the dregs of the people, the poor basket
and barrow-women, that part the combatants, and hinder
gentle folks from cutting one another's throats.
It is therefore certain that pity is a natural sentiment, which,
by moderating in every individual the activity of self-love,
contributes to the mutual preservation of the whole species.
It is this pity which hurries us without reflection to the as-
sistance of those we see in distress; it is this pity which, in
a state of nature, stands for laws, for manners, for virtue,
with this advantage, that no one is tempted to disobey her
sweet and gentle voice: it is this pity which will always
hinder a robust savage from plundering a feeble child, or
infirm old man, of the subsistence they have acquired with
pain and difficulty, if he has but the least prospect of pro-
viding for himself by any other means : it is this pity which,
instead of that sublime maxim of argumentative justice,
Do to others as you would have others do to you, inspires
all men with that other maxim of natural goodness a great
deal less perfect, but perhaps more useful, Consult your
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 195
own happiness with as little prejudice as you can to that of
others. It is in a word, in this natural sentiment, rather
than in fine-spun arguments, that we must look for the cause
of that reluctance which every man would experience to do
evil, even independently of the maxims of education. Though
it may be the peculiar happiness of Socrates and other
geniuses of his stamp, to reason themselves into virtue, the
human species would long ago have ceased to exist, had it
depended entirely for its preservation on the reasonings of
the individuals that compose it.
With passions so tame, and so salutary a curb, men,
rather wild than wicked, and more attentive to guard against
mischief than to do any to other animals, were not exposed
to any dangerous dissensions: As they kept up no manner
of correspondence with each other, and were of course
strangers to vanity, to respect, to esteem, to contempt; as
they had no notion of what we call Meum and Tuum, nor any
true idea of justice ; as they considered any violence they were
liable to, as an evil that could be easily repaired, and not
as an injury that deserved punishment; and as they never
so much as dreamed of revenge, unless perhaps mechanically
and unpremeditatedly, as a dog who bites the stone that has
been thrown at him ; their disputes could seldom be attended
with bloodshed, were they never occasioned by a more con-
siderable stake than that of subsistence: but there is a more
dangerotis subject of contention, which I must not leave
unnoticed.
Among the passions which ruffle the heart of man, there
is one of a hot and impetuous nature, which renders the
sexes necessary to each other; a terrible passion which de-
spises all dangers, bears down all obstacles, and to which in
its transports it seems proper to destroy the human species
which it is destined to preserve. What must become of
men abandoned to this lawless and brutal rage, without
modesty, without shame, and every day disputing the objects
of their passion at the expense of their blood?
We must in the first place allow that the more violent
the passions, the more necessary are laws to restrain them:
but besides that the disorders and the crimes, to which these
passions daily give rise among us, sufficiently prove the in-
196 ROUSSEAU
sufficiency of laws for that purpose, we would do well to
look back a little further and examine, if these evils did not
spring up with the laws themselves ; for at this rate, though
the laws were capable of repressing these evils, it is the
least that might be expected from them, seeing it is no
more than stopping the progress of a mischief which they
themselves have produced.
Let us begin by distinguishing between what is moral and
what is physical in the passion called love. The physical
part of it is that general desire which prompts the sexes
to unite with each other; the moral part is that which de-
termines that desire, and fixes it upon a particular object
to the exclusion of all others, or at least gives it a greater
degree of energy for this preferred object. Now it is easy
to perceive that the moral part of love is a factitious senti-
ment, engendered by society, and cried up by the women
with great care and address in order to establish their
empire, and secure command to that sex which ought to
obey. This sentiment, being founded on certain notions
of beauty and merit which a savage is not capable of
having, and upon comparisons which he is not capable
of making, can scarcely exist in him: for as his mind
was never in a condition to form abstract ideas of reg-
ularity and proportion, neither is his heart susceptible of
sentiments of admiration and love, which, even without
our perceiving it, are produced by our application of
these ideas; he listens solely to the dispositions implanted
in him by nature, and not to taste which he never
was in a way of acquiring; and every woman answers
his purpose.
Confined entirely to what is physical in love, and happy
enough not to know these preferences which sharpen the
appetite for it, at the same time that they increase the diffi-
culty of satisfying such appetite, men, in a state of nature,
must be subject to fewer and less violent fits of that passion,
and of course there must be fewer and less violent disputes
among them in consequence of it. The imagination which
causes so many ravages among us, never speaks to the heart
of savages, who peaceably wait for the impulses of nature,
yield to these impulses without choice and with more pleas-
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 197
ure than fury ; and whose desires never outlive their neces-
sity for the thing desired.
Nothing therefore can be more evident, than that it is
society alone, which has added even to love itself as well
as to all the other passions, that impetuous ardour, which
so often renders it fatal to mankind; and it is so much the
more ridiculous to represent savages constantly murder-
ing each other to glut their brutality, as this opinion is
diametrically opposite to experience, and the Caribbeans,
the people in the world who have as yet deviated least
from the state of nature, are to all intents and purposes
the most peaceable in their amours, and the least subject
to jealousy, though they live in a burning climate which
seems always to add considerably to the activity of these
passions.
As to the inductions which may be drawn, in respect to
several species of animals, from the battles of the males,
who in all seasons cover our poultry yards with blood, and
in spring particularly cause our forests to ring again with
the noise they make in disputing their females, we must
begin by excluding all those species, where nature has evi-
dently established, in the relative power of the sexes, rela-
tions different from those which exist among us: thus from
the battle of cocks we can form no induction that will affect
the human species. In the species, where the proportion is
better observed, these battles must be owing entirely to the
fewness of the females compared with the males, or, which
is all one, to the exclusive intervals, during which the fe-
males constantly refuse the addresses of the males; for if
the female admits the male but two months in the year, it is
all the same as if the number of females were five-sixths
less than what it is : now neither of these cases is applicable
to the human species, where the number of females gen-
erally surpasses that of males, and where it has never been
observed that, even among savages, the females had, like
those of other animals, stated times of passion and indiffer-
ence. Besides, among several of these animals the whole
species takes fire all at once, and for some days nothing is
to be seen among them but confusion, tumult, disorder and
bloodshed ; a state unknown to the human species where love
198 ROUSSEAU
is never periodical. We can not therefore conclude from
the battles of certain animals for the possession of their
females, that the same would be the case of man in a state of
nature ; and though we might, as these contests do not destroy
the other species, there is at least equal room to think they
would not be fatal to ours ; nay it is very probable that they
would cause fewer ravages than they do in society, espe-
cially in those countries where, morality being as yet held
in some esteem, the jealousy of lovers, and the vengeance
of husbands every day produce duels, murders and even
worse crimes; where the duty of an eternal fidelity serves
only to propagate adultery ; and the very laws of continence
and honour necessarily contribute to increase dissoluteness,
and multiply abortions.
Let us conclude that savage man, wandering about in the
forests, without industry, without speech, without any fixed
residence, an equal stranger to war and every social con-
nection, without standing in any shape in need of his fellows,
as well as without any desire of hurting them, and perhaps
even without ever distinguishing them individually one from
the other, subject to few passions, and finding in himself all
he wants, let us, I say, conclude that savage man thus cir-
cumstanced had no knowledge or sentiment but such as are
proper to that condition, that he was alone sensible of his
real necessities, took notice of nothing but what it was his
interest to see, and that his understanding made as little
progress as his vanity. If he happened to make any dis-
covery, he could the less communicate it as he did not even
know his children. The art perished with the inventor;
there was neither education nor improvement; generations
succeeded generations to no purpose ; and as all constantly set
out from the same point, whole centuries rolled on in the
rudeness and barbarity of the first age; the species was
grown old, while the individual still remained in a state of
childhood.
If I have enlarged so much upon the supposition of this
primitive condition, it is because I thought it my duty, con-
sidering what ancient errors and inveterate prejudices I
have to extirpate, to dig to the very roots, and show in a
true picture of the state of nature, how much even natural
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 199
inequality falls short in this state of that reality and in-
fluence which our writers ascribe to it.
In fact, we may easily perceive that among the differ-
ences, which distinguish men, several pass for natural, which
are merely the work of habit and the different kinds of life
adopted by men living in a social way. Thus a robust or
delicate constitution, and the strength and weakness which
depend on it, are oftener produced by the hardy or effem-
inate manner in which a man has been brought up, than by
the primitive constitution of his body. It is the same thus
in regard to the forces of the mind; and education not only
produces a difference between those minds which are culti-
vated and those which are not, but even increases that
which is found among the first in proportion to their
culture; for let a giant and a dwarf set out in the same
path, the giant at every step will acquire a new advantage
over the dwarf. Now, if we compare the prodigious variety
in the education and manner of living of the different orders
of men in a civil state, with the simplicity and uniformity
that prevails in the animal and savage life, where all the
individuals make use of the same aliments, live in the same
manner, and do exactly the same things, we shall easily con-
ceive how much the difference between man and man in the
state of nature must be less than in the state of society, and
how much every inequality of institution must increase the
natural inequalities of the human species.
But though nature in the distribution of her gifts should
really affect all the preferences that are ascribed to her, what
advantage could the most favoured derive from her partiality,
to the prejudice of others, in a state of things, which scarce
admitted any kind of relation between her pupils? Of what
service can beauty be, where there is no love ? What will wit
avail people who don't speak, or craft those who have no
affairs to transact ? Authors are constantly crying out, that
the strongest would oppress the weakest ; but let them explain
what they mean by the word oppression. One man will rule
with violence, another will groan under a constant subjec-
tion to all his caprices: this is indeed precisely what I ob-
serve among us, but I don't see how it can be said of savage
men, into whose heads it would be a harder matter to drive
200 ROUSSEAU
even the meaning of the words domination and servitude.
One man might, indeed, seize on the fruits which another had
gathered, on the game which another had killed, on the cav-
ern which another had occupied for shelter; but how is it
possible he should ever exact obedience from him, and what
chains of dependence can there be among men who possess
nothing? If I am driven from one tree, I have nothing to
do but look out for another; if one place is made uneasy to
me, what can hinder me from taking up my quarters else-
where ? But suppose I should meet a man so much superior
to me in strength, and withal so wicked, so lazy and so
barbarous as to oblige me to provide for his subsistence while
he remains idle; he must resolve not to take his eyes from
me a single moment, to bind me fast before he can take the
least nap, lest I should kill him or give him the slip during
his sleep : that is to say, he must expose himself voluntarily
to much greater troubles than what he seeks to avoid, than
any he gives me. And after all, let him abate ever so little
of his vigilance; let him at some sudden noise but turn his
head another way; I am already buried in the forest, my
fetters are broke, and he never sees me again.
But without insisting any longer upon these details, every
one must see that, as the bonds of servitude are formed
merely by the mutual dependence of men one upon another
and the reciprocal necessities which unite them, it is im-
possible for one man to enslave another, without having first
reduced him to a condition in which he can not live without
the enslaver's assistance; a condition which, as it does not
exist in a state of nature, must leave every man his own
master, and render the law of the strongest altogether vain
and useless.
Having proved that the inequality, which may subsist be-
tween man and man in a state of nature, is almost imper-
ceivable, and that it has very little influence, I must now
proceed to show its origin, and trace its progress, in the
successive developments of the human mind. After having
showed, that perfectibility, the social virtues, and the other
faculties, which natural man had received in potentia, could
never be developed of themselves, that for that purpose there
was a necessity for the fortuitous concurrence of several
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 201
foreign causes, which might never happen, and without
which he must have eternally remained in his primitive con-
dition; I must proceed to consider and bring together the
different accidents which may have perfected the human un-
derstanding by debasing the species, render a being wicked
by rendering him sociable, and from so remote a term bring
man at last and the world to the point in which we now
see them.
I must own that, as the events I am about to describe
might have happened many different ways, my choice of
these I shall assign can be grounded on nothing but mere
conjecture; but besides these conjectures becoming reasons,
when they are not only the most probable that can be drawn
from the nature of things, but the only means we can have
of discovering truth, the consequences I mean to deduce
from mine will not be merely conjectural, since, on the prin-
ciples I have just established, it is impossible to form any
other system, that would not supply me with the same results,
and from which I might not draw the same conclusions.
This will authorize me to be the more concise in my reflec-
tions on the manner, in which the lapse of time makes amends
for the little verisimilitude of events; on the surprising power
of very trivial causes, when they act without intermission;
on the impossibility there is on the one hand of destroying
certain Hypotheses, if on the other we can not give them
the degree of certainty which facts must be allowed to
possess; on its being the business of history, when two facts
are proposed, as real, to be connected by a chain of inter-
mediate facts which are either unknown or considered as
such, to furnish such facts as may actually connect them;
and the business of philosophy, when history is silent, to
point out similar facts which may answer the same purpose ;
in fine on the privilege of similitude, in regard to events, to
reduce facts to a much smaller number of different classes
than is generally imagined. It suffices me to offer these ob-
jects to the consideration of my judges; it suffices me to
have conducted my inquiry in such a manner as to save com-
mon readers the trouble of considering them.
SECOND PART
THE first man, who, after enclosing a piece of ground,
took it into his head to say, " This is mine," and found
people simple enough to believe him, was the true
founder of civil society. How many crimes, how many wars,
how many murders, how many misfortunes and horrors,
would that man have saved the human species, who pulling
up the stakes or filling up the ditches should have cried to
his fellows: Be sure not to listen to this imposter; you are
lost, if you forget that the fruits of the earth belong equally
to us all, and the earth itself to nobody! But it is highly
probable that things were now come to such a pass, that they
could not continue much longer in the same way; for as
this idea of property depends on several prior ideas which
could only spring up gradually one after another, it was
not formed all at once in the human mind: men must have
made great progress; they must have acquired a great
stock of industry and knowledge, and transmitted and in-
creased it from age to age before they could arrive at this
last term of the state of nature. Let us therefore take up
things a little higher, and collect into one point of view, and
in their most natural order, this slow succession of events
and mental improvements.
The first sentiment of man was that of his existence, his
first care that of preserving it. The productions of the earth
yielded him all the assistance he required; instinct prompted
him to make use of them. Among the various appetites,
which made him at different times experience different modes
of existence, there was one that excited him to perpetuate
his species; and this blind propensity, quite void of any-
thing like pure love or affection, produced nothing but an
act that was merely animal. The present heat once al-
layed, the sexes took no further notice of each other, and
even the child ceased to have any tie in his mother, the
moment he ceased to want her assistance.
Such was the condition of infant man; such was the life
of an animal confined at first to pure sensations, and so far
from harbouring any thought of forcing her gifts from
202
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 203
nature, that he scarcely availed himself of those which she
offered to him of her own accord. But difficulties soon
arose, and there was a necessity for learning how to surmount
them: the height of some trees, which prevented his reach-
ing their fruits; the competition of other animals equally
fond of the same fruits; the fierceness of many that even
aimed at his life ; these were so many circumstances, which
obliged him to apply to bodily exercise. There was a neces-
sity for becoming active, swift-footed, and sturdy in battle.
The natural arms, which are stones and the branches of
trees, soon offered themselves to his assistance. He learned
to surmount the obstacles of nature, to contend in case of
necessity with other animals, to dispute his subsistence even
with other men, or indemnify himself for the loss of what-
ever he found himself obliged to part with to the strongest.
In proportion as the human species grew more numerous,
and extended itself, its pains likewise multiplied and in-
creased. The difference of soils, climates and seasons,
might have forced men to observe some difference in their
way of living. Bad harvests, long and severe winters, and
scorching summers which parched up all the fruits of the
earth, required extraordinary exertions of industry. On
the sea shore, and the banks of rivers, they invented the line
and the hook, and became fishermen and ichthyophagous. In
the forests they made themselves bows and arrows, and be-
came huntsmen and warriors. In the cold countries they
covered themselves with the skins of the beasts they had
killed ; thunder, a volcano, or some happy accident made them
acquainted with fire, a new resource against the rigours of
winter: they discovered the method of preserving this ele-
ment, then that of reproducing it, and lastly the way of
preparing with it the flesh of animals, which heretofore
they devoured raw from the carcass.
This reiterated application of various beings to himself,
and to one another, must have naturally engendered in the
mind of man the idea of certain relations. These relations,
which we express by the words, great, little, strong, weak,
swift, slow, fearful, bold, and the like, compared occasionally,
and almost without thinking of it, produced in him some
kind of reflection, or rather a mechanical prudence, which
204
ROUSSEAU
pointed out to him the precautions most essential to his
preservation and safety.
The new lights resulting from this development increased
his superiority over other animals, by making him sensible of
it. He laid himself out to ensnare them; he played them a
thousand tricks; and though several surpassed him in strength
or in swiftness, he in time became the master of those that
could be of any service to him, and a sore enemy to those
that could do him any mischief. 'Tis thus, that the first
look he gave into himself produced the first emotion of
pride in him; 'tis thus that, at a time he scarce knew how
to distinguish between the different ranks of existence, by
attributing to his species the first rank among animals in
general, he prepared himself at a distance to pretend to it as
an individual among those of his own species in particular.
Though other men were not to him what they are to us,
and he had scarce more intercourse with them than with
other animals, they were not overlooked in his observations.
The conformities, which in time he might discover between
them, and between himself and his female, made him judge
of those he did not perceive; and seeing that they all behaved
as himself would have done in similar circumstances, he
concluded that their manner of thinking and willing was
quite conformable to his own; and this important truth,
when once engraved deeply on his mind, made him follow,
by a presentiment as sure as any logic, and withal much
quicker, the best rules of conduct, which for the sake of
his own safety and advantage it was proper he should ob-
serve towards them.
Instructed by experience that the love of happiness is
the sole principle of all human actions, he found himself
in a condition to distinguish the few cases, in which common
interest might authorize him to build upon the assistance
of his fellows, and those still fewer, in which a competition
of interests might justly render it suspected. In the first
case he united with them in the same flock, or at most by
some kind of free association which obliged none of its
members, and lasted no longer than the transitory necessity
that had given birth to it. In the second case every one
aimed at his own private advantage, either by open force
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 205
if he found himself strong enough, or by cunning and address
if he thought himself too weak to use violence.
Such was the manner in which men might have insensibly
acquired some gross idea of their mutual engagements and
the advantage of fulfilling them, but this only as far as
their present and sensible interest required; for as to fore-
sight they were utter strangers to it, and far from troubling
their heads about a distant futurity, they scarce , thought of
the day following. Was a deer to be taken? Every one
saw that to succeed he must faithfully stand to his post;
but suppose a hare to have slipped by within reach of any
one of them, it is not to be doubted but he pursued it with-
out scruple, and when he had seized his prey never re-
proached himself with having made his companions miss
theirs.
We may easily conceive that such an intercourse scarce
required a more refined language than that of crows and
monkeys, which flock together almost in the same manner.
Inarticulate exclamations, a great many gestures, and some
imitative sounds, must have been for a long time the univer-
sal language of mankind, and by joining to these in every
country some articulate and conventional sounds, of which,
as I have already hinted, it is not very easy to explain the
institution, there arose particular languages, but rude,
imperfect, and such nearly as are to be found at this day
among several savage nations. My pen straightened by the
rapidity of time, the abundance of things I have to say, and
the almost insensible progress of the first improvements,
flies like an arrow over numberless ages, for the slower
the succession of events, the quicker I may allow myself to
be in relating them.
At length, these first improvements enabled man to im-
prove at a greater rate. Industry grew perfect in proportion
as the mind became more enlightened. Men soon ceasing
to fall asleep under the first tree, or take shelter in the first
cavern, lit upon some hard and sharp kinds of stone re-
sembling spades or hatchets, and employed them to dig the
ground, cut down trees, and with the branches build huts,
which they afterwards bethought themselves of plastering
over with clay or dirt. This was the epoch of a first revOh
206
ROUSSEAU
lution, which produced the establishment and distinction oi
families, and which introduced a species of property,
and along with it perhaps a thousand quarrels and
battles. As the strongest however were probably the first
to make themselves cabins, which they knew they were able
to defend, we may conclude that the weak found it much
shorter and safer to imitate than to attempt to dislodge
them: and as to those, who were already provided with
cabins, no one could have any great temptation to
seize upon that of his neighbour, not so much because it
did not belong to him, as because it could be of no service
to him ; and as besides to make himself master of it, he must
expose himself to a very sharp conflict with the present
occupiers.
The first developments of the heart were the effects of
a new situation, which united husbands and wives, parents
and children, under one roof; the habit of living together
gave birth to the sweetest sentiments the human species is
acquainted with, conjugal and paternal love. Every family
became a little society, so much the more firmly united, as
a mutual attachment and liberty were the only bonds of it;
and it was now that the sexes, whose way of life had been
hitherto the same, began to adopt different manners and
customs. The women became more sedentary, and accus-
tomed themselves to stay at home and look after the children,
while the men rambled abroad in quest of subsistence for the
whole family. The two sexes likewise by living a little more
at their ease began to lose somewhat of their usual ferocity
and sturdiness; but if on the one hand individuals became
less able to engage separately with wild beasts, they on the
other were more easily got together to make a common
resistance against them.
In this new state of things, the simplicity and solitariness
of man's life, the limitedness of his wants, and the instru-
ments which he had invented to satisfy them, leaving him
a great deal of leisure, he employed it to supply himself
with several conveniences unknown to his* ancestors; and
this was the first yoke he inadvertently imposed upon him-
self, and the first source of mischief which he prepared for
his children; for besides continuing in this manner to soften
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 207
both body and mind, these conveniences having through
use lost almost all their aptness to please, and even degen-
erated into real wants, the privation of them became far
more intolerable than the possession of them had been
agreeable; to lose them was a misfortune, to possess them
no happiness.
Here we may a little better discover how the use of
speech insensibly commences or improves in the bosom of
every family, and may likewise from conjectures concerning
the manner in which divers particular causes might have
propagated language, and accelerated its progress by ren-
dering it every day more and more necessary. Great in-
undations or earthquakes surrounded inhabited districts
with water or precipices, portions of the continent were by
revolutions of the globe torn off and split into islands. It
is obvious that among men thus collected, and forced to
live together, a common idiom must have started up much
sooner, than among those who freely wandered through the
forests of the main land. Thus it is very possible that the
inhabitants of the islands formed in this manner, after their
first essays in navigation, brought among us the use of
speech; and it is very probable at least that society and
languages commenced in islands and even acquired perfec-
tion there, before the inhabitants of the continent knew
anything of either.
Everything now begins to wear a new aspect. Those
who heretofore wandered through the woods, by taking to a
more settled way of life, gradually flock together, coalesce
into several separate bodies, and at length form in every
country distinct nations, united in character and manners,
not by any laws or regulations, but by an uniform manner
of life, a sameness of provisions, and the common influence
of the climate. A permanent neighborhood must at last
infallibly create some connection between different fam-
ilies. The transitory commerce required by nature soon
produced, among the youth of both sexes living in con-
tiguous cabins, another kind of commerce, which besides
being equally agreeable is rendered more durable by mutual
intercourse. Men begin to consider different objects, and
to make comparisons; they insensibly acquire ideas of merit
208 ROUSSEAU
and beauty, and these soon produce sentiments of preference.
By seeing each other often they contract a habit, which
makes it painful not to see each other always. Tender and
agreeable sentiments steal into the soul, and are by the
smallest opposition wound up into the most impetuous fury:
Jealousy kindles with love; discord triumphs; and the gen-
tlest of passions requires sacrifices of human blood to
appease it.
In proportion as ideas and sentiments succeed each other,
and the head and the heart exercise themselves, men continue
to shake off their original wildness, and their connections
become more intimate and extensive. They now begin to
assemble round a great tree: singing and dancing, the gen-
uine offspring of love and leisure, become the amuse-
ment or rather the occupation of the men and women, free
from care, thus gathered together. Every one begins
to survey the rest, and wishes to. be surveyed himself ; and
public esteem acquires a value. He who sings or dances
best; the handsomest, the strongest, the most dexterous, the
most eloquent, comes to be the most respected: this was the
first step towards inequality, and at the same time towards
vice. From these first preferences there proceeded on one
side vanity and contempt, on the other envy and shame;
and the fermentation raised by these new leavens
at length produced combinations fatal to happiness and
innocence.
Men no sooner began to set a value upon each other, and
know what esteem was, than each laid claim to it, and it
was no longer safe for any man to refuse it to another.
Hence the first duties of civility and politeness, even among
savages; and hence every voluntary injury became an af-
front, as besides the mischief, which resulted from it as
an injury, the party offended was sure to find in it a con-
tempt for his person more intolerable than the mischief
itself. It was thus that every man, punishing the contempt
expressed for him by others in proportion to the value he
set upon himself, the effects of revenge became terrible, and
men learned to be sanguinary and cruel. Such precisely
was the degree attained by most of the savage nations with
whom we are acquainted. And it is for want of sufficiently
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 209
distinguishing ideas, and observing at how great a distance
these people were from the first state of nature, that so
many authors have hastily concluded that man is naturally
cruel, and requires a regular system of police to be reclaimed;
whereas nothing can be more gentle than he in his prim-
itive state, when placed by nature at an equal distance from
the stupidity of brutes, and the pernicious good sense of
civilized man; and equally confined by instinct and reason
to the care of providing against the mischief which threat-
ens him, he is withheld by natural compassion from doing
any injury to others, so far from being ever so little prone
even to return that which he has received. For according
to the axiom of the wise Locke, Where there is no prop-
erty, there can be no injury.
But we must take notice, that the society now formed and
the relations now established among men required in them
qualities different from those, which they derived from
their primitive constitution; that as a sense of morality
began to insinuate itself into human actions, and every
man, before the enacting of laws, was the only judge
and avenger of the injuries he had received, that good-
ness of heart suitable to the pure state of nature by no
means suited infant society; that it was necessary pun-
ishments should become severer in the same proportion
that the opportunities of offending became more frequent,
and the dread of vengeance add strength to the too weak
curb of the law. Thus, though men were become less
patient, and natural compassion had already suffered some
alteration, this period of the development of the human
faculties, holding a just mean between the indolence of the
primitive state, and the petulant activity of self-love, must
have been. the happiest and most durable epoch. The more
we reflect on this state, the more convinced we shall be, that
it was the least subject of any to revolutions, the best for
man, and that nothing could have drawn him out of
it but some fatal accident, which, for the public good, should
never have happened. The example of the savages, most of
whom have been found in this condition, seems to confirm
that mankind was formed ever to remain in it, that this
condition is the real youth of the world, and that all ulterior
210 ROUSSEAU
improvements have been so many steps, in appearance
towards the perfection of individuals, but in fact towards
the decrepitness of the species.
As long as men remained satisfied with their rustic cabins ;
as long as they confined themselves to the use of clothes
made of the skins of other animals, and the use of thorns
and fish-bones, in putting these skins together; as long as
they continued to consider feathers and shells as sufficient
ornaments, and to paint their bodies of different colours,
to improve or ornament their bows and arrows, to form and
scoop out with sharp-edged stones some little fishing boats,
or clumsy instruments of music ; in a word, as long as they
undertook such works only as a single person could finish,
and stuck to such arts as did not require the joint endeavours
of several hands, they lived free, healthy, honest and happy,
as much as their nature would admit, and continued to enjoy
with each other all the pleasures of an independent inter-
course; but from the moment one man began to stand in
need of another's assistance; from the moment it appeared
an advantage for one man to possess the quantity of provi-
sions requisite for two, all equality vanished; property
started up ; labour became necessary ; and boundless forests
became smiling fields, which it was found necessary to
water with human sweat, and in which slavery and misery
were soon seen to sprout out and grow with the fruits of
the earth.
Metallurgy and agriculture were the two arts whose in-
vention produced this great revolution. With the poet, it
is gold and silver, but with the philosopher it is iron and
corn, which have civilized men, and ruined mankind. Ac-
cordingly both one and the other were unknown to the
savages of America, who for that very reason have al-
ways continued savages; nay other nations seem to have
continued in a state of barbarism, as long as they continued
to exercise one only of these arts without the other; and
perhaps one of the best reasons that can be assigned, why
Europe has been, if not earlier, at least more constantly
and better civilized than the other quarters of the world,
is that she both abounds most in iron and is best qualified
to produce corn.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 211
It is a very difficult matter to tell how men came to
know anything of iron, and the art of employing it: for
we are not to suppose that they should of themselves think
of digging it out of the mines, and preparing it for fusion,
before they knew what could be the result of such a process.
On the other hand, there is the less reason to attribute this
discovery to any accidental fire, as mines are formed no-
where but in dry and barren places, and such as are bare
of trees and plants, so that it looks as if nature had taken
pains to keep from us so mischievous a secret. Nothing
therefore remains but the extraordinary circumstance of
some volcano, which, belching forth metallic substances
ready fused, might have given the spectators a notion of
imitating that operation of nature; and after all we must
suppose them endued with an extraordinary stock of
courage and foresight to undertake so painful a work, and
have, at so great a distance, an eye to the advantages they
might derive from it; qualities scarcely suitable but to
heads more exercised, than those of such discoverers can
be supposed to have been.
As to agriculture, the principles of it were known a long
time before the practice of it took place, and it is hardly
possible that men, constantly employed in drawing their
subsistence from trees and plants, should not have early
hit on the means employed by nature for the generation of
vegetables; but in all probability it was very late before
their industry took a turn that way, either because trees,
which with their land and water game supplied them with
sufficient food, did not require their attention; or because
they did not know the use of corn; or because they had no
instruments to cultivate it; or because they were destitute
of foresight in regard to future necessities; or in fine, be-
cause they wanted means to hinder others from running
away with the fruit of their labours. We may believe that
on their becoming more industrious they began their agri-
culture by cultivating with sharp stones and pointed sticks
a few pulse or roots about their cabins; and that it was
a long time before they knew the method of preparing corn,
and were provided with instruments necessary to raise it
in large quantities; not to mention the necessity there is,
212 ROUSSEAU
in order to follow this occupation and sow lands, to con-
sent to lose something at present to gain a great deal here-
after; a precaution very foreign to the turn of man's mind
in a savage state, in which, as I have already taken notice,
he can hardly foresee his wants from morning to night.
For this reason the invention of other arts must have
been necessary to oblige mankind to apply to that of agri-
culture. As soon as men were wanted to fuse and forge
iron, others were wanted to maintain them. The more
hands were employed in manufactures, the fewer hands were
left to provide subsistence for all, though the number of
mouths to be supplied with food continued the same; and as
some required commodities in exchange for their iron, the
rest at last found out the method of making iron subservient
to the multiplication of commodities. Hence on the one
hand husbandry and agriculture, and on the other the art
of working metals and of multiplying the uses of them.
To the tilling of the earth the distribution of it neces-
sarily succeeded, and to property once acknowledged, the
first rules of justice : for to secure every man his own,
every man must have something. Moreover, as men began
to extend their views to futurity, and all found themselves
in possession of more or less goods capable of being lost,
every one in particular had reason to fear, lest reprisals
should be made on him for any injury he might do to others.
This origin is so much the more natural, as it is impossible
to conceive how property can flow from any other source
but industry; for what can a man add but his labour to
things which he has not made, in order to acquire a property
in them? 'Tis the labour of the hands alone, which giving
the husbandman a title to the produce of the land he has
tilled gives him a title to the land itself, at least till he has
gathered in the fruits of it, and so on from year to year;
and this enjoyment forming a continued possession is easily
transformed into a property. The ancients, says Grotius,
by giving to Ceres the epithet of Legislatrix, and to a
festival celebrated in her honour the name of Thesmorphoria,
insinuated that the distribution of lands produced a new
kind of right; that is, the right of property different from
that which results from the law of nature.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 213
Things thus circumstanced might have remained equal,
if men's talents had been equal, and if, for instance, the
use of iron, and the consumption of commodities had always
held an exact proportion to each other; but as this propor-
tion had no support, it was soon broken. The man that had
most strength performed most labour; the most dexterous
turned his labour to best account; the most ingenious found
out methods of lessening his labour; the husbandman re-
quired more iron, or the smith more corn, and while both
worked equally, one earned a great deal by his labour, while
the other could scarce live by his. It is thus that natural
inequality insensibly unfolds itself with that arising from
a variety of combinations, and that the difference among
men, developed by the difference of their circumstances, be-
comes more sensible, more permanent in its effects, and be-
gins to influence in the same proportion the condition of
private persons.
Things once arrived at this period, it is an easy matter to
imagine the rest. I shall not stop to describe the successive
inventions of other arts, the progress of language, the trial
and employments of talents, the inequality of fortunes,
the use or abuse of riches, nor all the details which
follow these, and which every one may easily supply. I
shall just give a glance at mankind placed in this new order
of things.
Behold then all our faculties developed; our memory and
imagination at work, self-love interested; reason rendered
active; and the mind almost arrived at the utmost bounds
of that perfection it is capable of. Behold all our natural
qualities put in motion; the rank and condition of every man
established, not only as to the quantum of property and the
power of serving or hurting others, but likewise as to
genius, beauty, strength or address, merit or talents ; and as
these were the only qualities which could command respect, it
was found necessary to have or at least to affect them. It
was requisite for men to be thought what they really were
not. To be and to appear became two very different
things, and from this distinction sprang pomp and knavery,
and all the vices which form their train. On the other
hand, man, heretofore free and independent, was now in
214 "ROUSSEAU
consequence of a multitude of new wants brought under
subjection, as it were, to all nature, and especially to his
fellows, whose slave in some sense he became even by be-
coming their master; if rich, he stood in need of their ser-
vices, if poor, of their assistance; even mediocrity itself
could not enable him to do without them. He must there-
fore have been continually at work to interest them in his
happiness, and make them, if not really, at least apparently
find their advantage in labouring for his : this rendered him
sly and artful in his dealings with some, imperious and cruel
in his dealings with others, and laid him under the neces-
sity of using ill all those whom he stood in need of, as often
as he could not awe them into a compliance with his will,
and did not find it his interest to purchase it at the expense
of real services. In fine, an insatiable ambition, the rage of
raising their relative fortunes, not so much through real ne-
cessity, as to over-top others, inspire all men with a wicked
inclination to injure each other, and with a secret jealousy
so much the more dangerous, as to carry its point with the
greater security, it often puts on the face of benevolence. In
a word, sometimes nothing was to be seen but a contention of
endeavours on the one hand, and an opposition of interests on
the other, while a secret desire of thriving at the expense of
others constantly prevailed. Such were the first effects of
property, and the inseparable attendants of infant inequality.
Riches, before the invention of signs to represent them,
could scarce consist in anything but lands and cattle, the only
real goods which men can possess. But when estates in-
creased so much in number and in extent as to take in whole
countries and touch each other, it became impossible for one
man to aggrandise himself but at the expense of some other;
and the supernumerary inhabitants, who were too weak or
too indolent to make such acquisitions in their turn, impov-
erished without losing anything, because while everything
about them changed they alone remained the same, were
obliged to receive or force their subsistence from the hands
of the rich. And hence began to flow, according to the
different characters of each, domination and slavery, or
violence and rapine. The rich on their side scarce began
to taste the pleasure of commanding, when they preferred
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 215
it to every other; and making use of their old slaves to ac-
quire new ones, they no longer thought of anything but sub-
duing and enslaving their neighbours; like those ravenous
wolves, who having once tasted human flesh, despise every
other food, and devour nothing but men for the future.
It is thus that the most powerful or the most wretched,
respectively considering their power and wretchedness as
a kind of title to the substance of others, even equivalent to
that of property, the equality once broken was followed by
the most shocking disorders. It is thus that the usurpations
of the rich, the pillagings of the poor, and the unbridled pas-
sions of all, by stifling the cries of natural compassion, and
the as yet feeble voice of justice, rendered man avaricious,
wicked and ambitious. There arose between the title of
the strongest, and that of the first occupier a perpetual con-
flict, which always ended in battery and bloodshed. In-
fant society became a scene of the most horrible warfare:
Mankind thus debased and harassed, and no longer able to
retreat, or renounce the unhappy acquisitions it had made;
labouring, in short merely to its confusion by the abuse of
those faculties, which in themselves do it so much honour,
brought itself to the very brink of ruin and destruction.
Attonitus novitate mali, divesque miser que y
Effugere optat opes ; et que modh voverat, odit.
But it is impossible that men should not sooner or later
have made reflections on so wretched a situation, and upon
the calamities with which they were overwhelmed. The
rich in particular must have soon perceived how much they
suffered by a perpetual war, of which they alone supported
all the expense, and in which, though all risked life, they
alone risked any substance. Besides, whatever colour they
might pretend to give their usurpations, they sufficiently saw
that these usurpations were in the main founded upon false
and precarious titles, and that what they had acquired by
mere force, others could again by mere force wrest out of
their hands, without leaving them the least room to complain
of such a proceeding. Even those, who owed all their riches
to their own industry, could scarce ground their acquisitions
upon a better title. It availed them nothing to say, 'Twas I
216 ROUSSEAU
built this wall; I acquired this spot by my labour. Who
traced it out for you, another might object, and what right
have you to expect payment at our expense for doing that
we did not oblige you to do? Don't you know that num-
bers of your brethren perish, or suffer grievously for want of
what you possess more than suffices nature, and that you
should have had the express and unanimous consent of man-
kind to appropriate to yourself of their common, more than
was requisite for your private subsistence? Destitute of
solid reasons to justify, and sufficient force to defend him-
self; crushing individuals with ease, but with equal ease
crushed by numbers ; one against all, and unable, on account
of mutual jealousies, to unite with his equals against ban-
ditti united by the common hopes of pillage; the rich man,
thus pressed by necessity, at last conceived the deepest proj-
ect that ever entered the human mind: this was to employ
in his favour the very forces that attacked him, to make
allies of his enemies, to inspire them with other maxims, and
make them adopt other institutions as favourable to his
pretensions, as the law of nature was unfavourable to them.
With this view, after laying before his neighbours all the
horrors of a situation, which armed them all one against
another, which rendered their possessions as burdensome as
their wants were intolerable, and in which no one could
expect any safety either in poverty or riches, he easily
invented specious arguments to bring them over to his pur-
pose. " Let us unite," said he, " to secure the weak from op-
pression, restrain the ambitious, and secure to every man the
possession of what belongs to him: Let us form rules of jus-
tice and peace, to which all may be obliged to conform, which
shall not except persons, but may in some sort make amends
for the caprice of fortune, by submitting alike the powerful
and the weak to the observance of mutual duties. In a word,
instead of turning our forces against ourselves, let us collect
them into a sovereign power, which may govern us by wise
laws, may protect and defend all the members of the associa-
tion, repel common enemies, and maintain a perpetual con-
cord and harmony among us."
Much fewer words of this kind were sufficient to draw in
a parcel of rustics, whom it was an easy matter to impose
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 217
upon, who had besides too many quarrels among themselves
to live without arbiters, and too much avarice and ambi-
tion to live long without masters. All offered their necks
to the yoke in hopes of securing their liberty; for though
they had sense enough to perceive the advantages of a
political constitution, they had not experience enough to
see beforehand the dangers of it; those among them, who
were best qualified to foresee abuses, were precisely those
who expected to benefit by them; even the soberest
judged it requisite to sacrifice one part of their liberty
to ensure the other, as a man, dangerously wounded in
any of his limbs, readily parts with it to save the rest
of his body.
Such was, or must have been, had man been left to him-
self, the origin of society and of the laws, which increased
the fetters of the weak, and the strength of the rich;
irretrievably destroyed natural liberty, fixed for ever the
laws of property and inequality; changed an artful usurpation
into an irrevocable title; and for the benefit of a few am-
bitious individuals subjected the rest of mankind to per-
petual labour, servitude, and misery. We may easily con-
ceive how the establishment of a single society rendered
that of all the rest absolutely necessary, and how, to make
head against united forces, it became necessary for the rest
of mankind to unite in their turn. Societies once formed in
this manner, soon multiplied or spread to such a degree, as
to cover the face of the earth ; and not to leave a corner in
the whole universe, where a man could throw off the yoke,
and withdraw his head from under the often ill-conducted
sword which he saw perpetually hanging over it. The civil
law being thus become the common rule of citizens, the law
of nature no longer obtained but among the different so-
cieties, in which, under the name of the law of nations, it
was qualified by some tacit conventions to render com-
merce possible, and supply the place of natural compassion,
which, losing by degrees all that influence over societies
which it originally had over individuals, no longer exists
but in some great souls, who consider themselves as citizens
of the world, and forcing the imaginary barriers that sepa-
rate people from people, after the example of the Sovereign
218 ROUSSEAU
Being from whom we all derive our existence, make the
whole human race the object of their benevolence.
Political bodies, thus remaining in a state of nature among
themselves, soon experienced the inconveniences which had
obliged individuals to quit it; and this state became much
more fatal to these great bodies, than it had been before to
the individuals which now composed them. Hence those
national wars, those battles, those murders, those reprisals,
which make nature shudder and shock reason; hence all
those horrible prejudices, which make it a virtue and an
honour to shed human blood. The worthiest men learned to
consider the cutting the throats of their fellows as a duty;
at length men began to butcher each other by thousands
withou. knowing for what; and more murders were com-
mitted in a single action, and more horrible disorders at the
taking of a single town, than had been committed in the state
of nature during ages together upon the whole face of the
earth. Such are the first effects we may conceive to have
arisen from the division of mankind into different societies.
Let us return to their institution.
I know that several writers have assigned other origins of
political society ; as for instance, the conquests of the power-
ful, or the union of the weak; and it is no matter which of
these causes we adopt in regard to what I am going to
establish; that, however, which I have just laid down, seems
to me the most natural, for the following reasons: First,
because, in the first case, the right of conquest being in
fact no right at all, it could not serve as a foundation for any
other right, the conqueror and the conquered ever remaining
with respect to each other in a state of war, unless the con-
quered, restored to the full possession of their liberty, should
freely choose their conqueror for their chief. Till then,
whatever capitulations might have been made between them,
as these capitulations were founded upon violence, and of
course de facto null and void, there could not have existed in
this hypothesis either a true society, or a political body, or
any other law but that of the strongest. Second, because
these words strong and weak, are ambiguous in the second
case; for during the interval between the establishment of
the right of p-roperty or prior occupation and that of political
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 219
government, the meaning of these terms is better expressed
by the words poor and rich, as before the establishment of
laws men in reality had no other means of reducing their
equals, but by invading the property of these equals, or by
parting with some of their own property to them. Third,
because the poor having nothing but their liberty to lose, it
would have been the height of madness in them to give up
willingly the only bhssing they had left without obtaining
some consideration for it: whereas the rich being sensible,
if I may say so, in every part of their possessions, it was much
easier to do them mischief, and therefore more incumbent
upon them to guard against it ; and because, in fine, it is but
reasonable to suppose, that a thing has been invented by him
to whom it could be of service rather than by him to whom
it must prove detrimental.
Government in its infancy had no regular and permanent
form. For want of a sufficient fund of philosophy and ex-
perience, men could see no further than the present incon-
veniences, and never thought of providing remedies for fu-
ture ones, but in proportion as they arose. In spite of all
the labours of the wisest legislators, the political state still
continued imperfect, because it was in a manner the work of
chance ; and, as the foundations of it were ill laid, time, though
sufficient to discover its defects and suggest the remedies for
them, could never mend its original vices. Men were con-
tinually repairing; whereas, to erect a good edifice, they
should have begun as Lycurgus did at Sparta, by clearing the
area, and removing the old materials. Society at first con-
sisted merely of some general conventions which all the
members bound themselves to observe, and for the perform-
ance of which the whole body became security to every in-
dividual. Experience was necessary to show the great wealo
ness of such a constitution, and how easy it was for those,
who infringed it, to escape the conviction or chastisement of
faults, of which the public alone was to be both the witness
and the judge; the laws could not fail of being eluded a
thousand ways; inconveniences and disorders could not but
multiply continually, till it was at last found necessary to
think of committing to private persons the dangerous trust of
public authority, and to magistrates the cai;e of enforcing
220 ROUSSEAU
obedience to the people: for to say that chiefs were elected
before confederacies were formed, and that the ministers of
the laws existed before the laws themselves, is a supposition
too ridiculous to deserve I should seriously refute it.
It would be equally unreasonable to imagine that men at
first threw themselves into the arms of an absolute master,
without any conditions or consideration on his side ; and that
the first means contrived by jealous and unconquered men
for their common safety was to run hand over head into
slavery. In fact, why did they give themselves superiors, if
it was not to be defended by them against oppression, and pro-
tected in their lives, liberties, and properties, which are in a
manner the constitutional elements of their being? Now in
the relations between man and man, the worst that can hap-
pen to one man being to see himself at the discretion of an-
other, would it not have been contrary to the dictates of good
sense to begin by making over to a chief the only things for
the preservation of which they stood in need of his assist-
ance? What equivalent could he have offered them for so
fine a privilege? And had he presumed to exact it on pre-
tense of defending them, would he not have immediately re-
ceived the answer in the apologue? What worse treatment
can we expect from an enemy? It is therefore past dispute,
and indeed a fundamental maxim of political law, that people
gave themselves chiefs to defend their liberty and not be
enslaved by them. If we have a prince, said Pliny to Trajan,
it is in order that he may keep us from having a master.
Political writers argue in regard to the love of liberty with
the same philosophy that philosophers do in regard to the
state of nature; by the things they see they judge of things
very different which they have never seen, and they attribute
to men a natural inclination to slavery, on account of the
patience with which the slaves within their notice cany the
yoke ; not reflecting that it is with liberty as with innocence
and virtue, the value of which is not known but by those
who possess them, though the relish for them is lost with the
things themselves. I know the charms of your country,
said Brasidas to a satrap who was comparing the fife of the
Spartans with that of the Persepolites ; but you can not know
the pleasures of mine.
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 221
As an unbroken courser erects his mane, paws the ground,
and rages at the bare sight of the bit, while a trained horse
patiently suffers both whip and spur, just so the barbarian
will never reach his neck to the yoke which civilized man
carries without murmuring but prefers the most stormy
liberty to a calm subjection. It is not therefore by the ser-
vile disposition of enslaved nations that we must judge of
the natural dispositions of man for or against slavery, but by
the prodigies done by every free people to secure themselves
from oppression. I know that the first are constantly crying
up that peace and tranquillity they enjoy in their irons, and
that miserrimam servitutem pacem appellant: but when I see
the others sacrifice pleasures, peace, riches, power, and even
life itself to the preservation of that single jewel so much
slighted by those who have lost it; when I see free-born
animals through a natural abhorrence of captivity dash their
brains out against the bars of their prison; when I see mul-
titudes of naked savages despise European pleasures, and
brave hunger, fire and sword, and death itself to preserve
their independency; I feel that it belongs not to slaves to
argue concerning liberty.
As to paternal authority, from which several have derived
absolute government and every other mode of society, it is
sufficient, without having recourse to Locke and Sidney, to
observe that nothing in the world differs more from the
cruel spirit of despotism that the gentleness of that authority,
which looks more to the advantage of him who obeys than
to the utility of him who commands ; that by the law of na-
ture the father continues maste,r of his child no longer than
the child stands in need of his assistance; that after that
term they become equal, and that then the son, entirely inde-
pendent of the father, owes him no obedience, but only re-
spect. Gratitude is indeed a duty which we are bound to
pay, but which benefactors can not exact. Instead of saying
that civil society is derived from paternal authority, we
should rather say thac it is to the former that the latter owes
its principal force: No one individual was acknowledged as
the father of several other individuals, till they settled about
him. The father's goods, which he can indeed dispose of as
he pleases, are the ties which hold his children to their de-
222 KOUSSEAU
pendence upon him, and he may divide his substance among
them in proportion as they shall have deserved his attention
by a continual deference to his commands. Now the sub-
jects of a despotic chief, far from having any such favour to
expect from him, as both themselves and all they have are
his property, or at least are considered by him as such, are
obliged to receive as a favour what he relinquishes to them
of their own property. He does them justice when he
strips them ; he treats them with mercy when he suffers them
to live. By continuing in this manner to compare facts with
right, we should discover as little solidity as truth in the
voluntary establishment of tyranny; and it would be a hard
matter to prove the validity of a contract which was binding
only on one side, in which one of the parties should stake
everything and the other nothing, and which could turn out
to the prejudice of him alone who had bound himself.
This odious system is even, at this day, far from being
that of wise and good monarchs, and especially of the kings
of France, as may be seen by divers passages in their edicts,
and particularly by that of a celebrated piece published in
1667 in the name and by the orders of Louis XIV. " Let
it therefore not be said that the sovereign is not subject to
the laws of his realm, since, that he is, is a maxim of the
law of nations which flattery has sometimes attacked, but
which good princes have always defended as the tutelary
divinity of their realms. How much more reasonable is it
to say with the sage Plato, that the perfect happiness of
a state consists in the subjects obeying their prince, the
prince obeying the laws, and the laws being equitable and
always directed to the good of the public? I shall not stop
to consider, if, liberty being the most noble faculty of man,
it is not degrading one's nature, reducing one's self to the
level of brutes, who are the slaves of instinct, and even
offending the author of one's being, to renounce without
reserve the most precious of his gifts, and submit to the
commission of all the crimes he has forbid us, merely to
gratify a mad or a cruel master; and if this sublime artist
ought to be more irritated at seeing his work destroyed
than at seeing it dishonoured. I shall only ask what right
those, who were not afraid thus to degrade themselves,
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 223
could have to subject their dependants to the same ignominy,
and renounce, in the name of their posterity, blessings for
which it is not indebted to their liberality, and without which
life itself must appear a burthen to all those who are worthy
.to live.
Puffendorf says that, as we can transfer our property
from one to another by contracts and conventions, we may
likewise divest ourselves of our liberty in favour of other
men. This, in my opinion, is a very poor way of arguing;
for, in the first place, the property I cede to another be-
comes by such cession a thing quite foreign to me, and the
abuse of which can no way affect me; but it concerns me
greatly that my liberty is not abused, and I can not, without
incurring the guilt of the crimes I may be forced to commit,
expose myself to become the instrument of any. Besides,
the right of property being of mere human convention and
institution, every man may dispose as he pleases of what he
possesses : But the case is otherwise with regard to the essen-
tial gifts of nature, such as life and liberty, which every man
is permitted to enjoy, and of which it is doubtful at least
whether any man has a right to divest himself : By giving up
the one, we degrade our being; by giving up the other we
annihilate it as much as it is our power to do so ; and as no
temporal enjoyments can indemnify us for the loss of
either, it would be at once offending both nature and reason
to renounce them for any consideration. But though we
could transfer our liberty as we do our substance, the dif-
ference would be very great with regard to our children,
who enjoy our substance but by a cession of our right;
whereas liberty being a blessing, which as men they hold
from nature, their parents have no right to strip them of it;
so that as to establish slavery it was necessary to do violence
to nature, so it was necessary to alter nature to perpetuate
such a right; and the jurisconsults, who have gravely pro-
nounced that the child of a slave comes a slave into the
world, have in other words decided, that a man does not
come a man into the world.
It therefore appears to me incontestably true, that not only
governments did not begin by arbitrary power, which is but
the corruption and extreme term of government, and at
224 ROUSSEAU
length brings it back to the law of the strongest, against
which governments were at first the remedy, but even that,
allowing they had commenced in this manner, such power
being illegal in itself could never have served as a founda-
tion to the rights of society, nor of course to the inequality
of institution.
I shall not now enter upon the inquiries which still remain
to be made into the nature of the fundamental pacts of every
kind of government, but, following the common opinion, con-
fine myself in this place to the establishment of the political
body as a real contract between the multitude and the chiefs
elected by it. A contract by which both parties oblige them-
selves to the observance of the laws that are therein stipu-
lated, and form the bands of their union. The multitude
having, on occasion of the social relations between them,
concentered all their wills in one person, all the articles, in
regard to which this will explains itself, become so many
fundamental laws, which oblige without exception all the
members of the state, and one of which laws regulates the
choice and the power of the magistrates appointed to look
to the execution of the rest. This power extends to every-
thing that can maintain the constitution, but extends to
nothing that can alter it. To this power are added honours,
that may render the laws and the ministers of them respect-
able; and the persons of the ministers are distinguished
by certain prerogatives, which may make them amends for
the great fatigues inseparable from a good administration.
The magistrate, on his side, obliges himself not to use
the power with which he is intrusted but conformably to
the intention of his constituents, to maintain every one of
them in the peaceable possession of his property, and upon
all occasions prefer the good of the public to his own
private interest.
Before experience had demonstrated, or a thorough knowl-
edge of the human heart had pointed out, the abuses insepa-
rable from such a constitution, it must have appeared so much
the more perfect, as those appointed to look to its preserva-
tion were themselves most concerned therein ; for magistracy
and its rights being built solely on the fundamental laws, as
soon as these ceased to exist, the magistrates would cease
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 225
to be lawful, the people would no longer be bound to obey
them, and, as the essence of the state did not consist in the
magistrates but in the laws, the members of it would imme-
diately become entitled to their primitive and natural liberty.
A little reflection would afford us new arguments in con-
firmation of this truth, and the nature of the contract might
alone convince us that it can not be irrevocable : for if there
was no superior power capable of guaranteeing the fidelity
of the contracting parties and of obliging them to fulfil their
mutual engagements, they would remain sole judges in their
own cause, and each of them would always have a right to
renounce the contract, as soon as he discovered that the
other had broke the conditions of it, or that these conditions
ceased to suit his private convenience. Upon this principle,
the right of abdication may probably be founded. Now, to
consider as we do nothing but what is human in this in-
stitution, if the magistrate, who has all the power in his own
hands, and who appropriates to himself all the advantages of
the contract, has notwithstanding a right to divest himself
of his authority; how much a better right must the people,
who pay for all the faults of its chief, have to renounce
their dependence upon him. But the shocking dissensions
and disorders without number, which would be the necessary
consequence of so dangerous a privilege, show more than
anything else how much human governments stood in need
of a more solid basis than that of mere reason, and how
necessary it was for the public tranquillity, that the will of
the Almighty should interpose to give to sovereign authority,
a sacred and inviolable character, which should deprive sub-
jects of the mischievous right to dispose of it to whom they
pleased. If mankind had received no other advantages from
religion, this alone would be sufficient to make them adopt
and cherish it, since it is the means of saving more blood
than fanaticism has been the cause of spilling. But to re-
sume the thread of our hypothesis.
The various forms of government owe their origin to
the various degrees of inequality between the members, at
the time they first coalesced into a political body. Where
a man happened to be eminent for power, for virtue, for
riches, or for credit, he became sole magistrate, and the
(H) HC— Vol. 34
226 ROUSSEAU
state assumed a monarchical form; if many of pretty equal
eminence out-topped all the rest, they were jointly elected, and
this election produced an aristocracy; those, between whose
fortune or talents there happened to be no such dispropor-
tion, and who had deviated less from the state of nature, re-
tained in common the supreme administration, and formed
a democracy. Time demonstrated which of these forms
suited mankind best. Some remained altogether subject to
the laws; others soon bowed their necks to masters. The
former laboured to preserve their liberty ; the latter thought
of nothing but invading that of their neighbours, jealous at
seeing others enjoy a blessing which themselves had lost.
In a word, riches and conquest fell to the share of the one,
and virtue and happiness to that of the other.
In these various modes of government the offices at first
were all elective; and when riches did not preponderate, the
preference was given to merit, which gives a natural as-
cendant, and to age, which is the parent of deliberateness
in council, and experience in execution. The ancients
among the Hebrews, the Geronts of Sparta, the Senate of
Rome, nay, the very etymology of our word seigneur, show
how much gray hairs were formerly respected. The oftener
the choice fell upon old men, the oftener it became necessary
to repeat it, and the more the trouble of such repetitions be-
came sensible ; electioneering took place ; factions arose ; the
parties contracted ill blood; civil wars blazed forth; the lives
of the citizens were sacrificed to the pretended happiness of
the state; and things at last came to such a pass, as to be
ready to relapse into their primitive confusion. The ambi-
tion of the principal men induced them to take advantage
of these circumstances to perpetuate the hitherto temporary
charges in their families; the people already inured to de-
pendence, accustomed to ease and the conveniences of life,
and too much enervated to break their fetters, consented to
the increase of their slavery for the sake of securing their
tranquillity; and it is thus that chiefs, become hereditary,
contracted the habit of considering magistracies as a family
estate, and themselves as proprietors of those communities,
of which at first they were but mere officers; to call their
fellow-citizens their slaves; to look upon them, like so many
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 227
cows or sheep, as a part of their substance ; and to style them-
selves the peers of Gods, and Kings of Kings.
By pursuing the progress of inequality in these different
revolutions, we shall discover that the establishment of laws
and of the right of property was the first term of it; the
institution of magistrates the second; and the third and last
the changing of legal into arbitrary power; so that the dif-
ferent states of rich and poor were authorized by the first
epoch; those of powerful and weak by the second; and by
the third those of master and slave, which formed the last
degree of inequality, and the term in which all the rest at
last end, till new revolutions entirely dissolve the govern-
ment, or bring it back nearer to its legal constitution.
To conceive the necessity of this progress, we are not so
much to consider the motives for the establishment of
political bodies, as the forms these bodies assume in their
administration; and the inconveniences with which they are
essentially attended; for those vices, which render social
institutions necessary, are the same which render the abuse
of such institutions unavoidable; and as (Sparta alone ex-
cepted, whose laws chiefly regarded the education of chil-
dren, and where Lycurgus established such manners and
customs, as in a great measure made laws needless,) the
laws, in general less strong than the passions, restrain men
without changing them ; it would be no hard matter to prove
that every government, which carefully guarding against all
alteration and corruption should scrupulously comply with
the ends of its institution, was unnecessarily instituted; and
that a country, where no one either eluded the laws, or
made an ill use of magistracy, required neither laws nor
magistrates.
Political distinctions are necessarily attended with civil
distinctions. The inequality between the people and the chiefs
increase so fast as to be soon felt by the private members,
and appears among them in a thousand shapes according
to their passions, their talents, and the circumstances of
affairs. The magistrate can not usurp any illegal power
without making himself creatures, with whom he must
divide it. Besides, the citizens of a free state suffer them-
selves to be oppressed merely in proportion as, hurried on
228 ROUSSEAU
by a blind ambition, and looking rather below than above
them, they come to love authority more than independence.
When they submit to fetters, 'tis only to be the better able
to fetter others in their turn. It is no easy matter to make
him obey, who does not wish to command; and the most
refined policy would find it impossible to subdue those men,
who only desire to be independent; but inequality easily
gains ground among base and ambitious souls, ever ready
to run the risks of fortune, and almost indifferent whether
they command or obey, as she proves either favourable or
adverse to them. Thus then there must have been a time,
when the eyes of the people were bewitched to such a
degree, that their rulers needed only to have said to the
most pitiful wretch, " Be great you and all your posterity,"
to make him immediately appear great in the eyes of every
one as well as in his own; and his descendants took still
more upon them, in proportion to their removes from him:
the more distant and uncertain the cause, the greater the
effect; the longer line of drones a family produced, the more
illustrious it was reckoned.
Were this a proper place to enter into details, I could
easily explain in what manner inequalities in point of credit
and authority become unavoidable among private persons
the moment that, united into one body, they are obliged
to compare themselves one with another, and to note the
differences which they find in the continual use every man
must make of his neighbour. These differences are of several
kinds ; but riches, nobility or rank, power and personal merit,
being in general the principal distinctions, by which men
in society measure each other, I could prove that the
harmony or conflict between these different forces is the
surest indication of the good or bad original constitution of
any state: I could make it appear that, as among these four
kinds of inequality, personal qualities are the source of all
the rest, riches is that in which they ultimately terminate,
because, being the most immediately useful to the prosperity
of individuals, and the most easy to communicate, they are
made use of to purchase every other distinction. By this
observation we are enabled to judge with tolerable exact-
ness, how much any people has deviated from its primitive
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 229
institution, and what steps it has still to make to the ex-
treme term of corruption. I could show how much this
universal desire of reputation, of honours, of preference,
with which we are all devoured, exercises and compares our
talents and our forces: how much it excites and multiplies
our passions; and, by creating an universal competition,
rivalship, or rather enmity among men, how many dis-
appointments, successes, and catastrophes of every kind it
daily causes among the innumerable pretenders whom it
engages in the same career. I could show that it is to this
itch of being spoken of, to this fury of distinguishing our-
selves which seldom or never gives us a moment's respite,
that we owe both the best and the worst things among us,
our virtues and our vices, our sciences and our errors, our
conquerors and our philosophers; that is to say, a great
many bad things to a very few good ones. I could prove, in
short, that if we behold a handful of rich and powerful men
seated on the pinnacle of fortune and greatness, while the
crowd grovel in obscurity and want, it is merely because the
first prize what they enjoy but in the same degree that
others want it, and that, without changing their condition,
they would cease to be happy the minute the people ceased
to be miserable.
But these details would alone furnish sufficient matter for
a more considerable work, in which might be weighed the
advantages and disadvantages of every species of govern-
ment, relatively to the rights of man in a state of nature,
and might likewise be unveiled all the different faces under
which inequality has appeared to this day, and may here-
after appear to the end of time, according to the nature of
these several governments, and the revolutions time must
unavoidably occasion in them. We should then see the
multitude oppressed by domestic tyrants in consequence of
those very precautions taken by them to guard against
foreign masters. We should see oppression increase con-
tinually without its being ever possible for the oppressed
to know where it would stop, nor what lawful means they
had left to check its progress. We should see the rights of
citizens, and the liberties of nations extinguished by slow
degrees, and the groans, and protestations and appeals of the
230 ROUSSEAU
weak treated as seditious murmurings. We should see policy
confine to a mercenary portion of the people the honour of
defending the common cause. We should see imposts made
necessary by such measures, the disheartened husbandman
desert his field even in time of peace, and quit the plough
to take up the sword. We should see fatal and whimsical
rules laid down concerning the point of honour. We should
see the champions of their country sooner or later become
her enemies, and perpetually holding their poniards to the
breasts of their fellow citizens. Nay, the time would come
when they might be heard to say to the oppressor of their
country :
Pectore si fratris gladium juguloque parentis
Condere ?ne jubeas y gravidceque in viscera par tu
Conj'ugis, in vitd peragam tamen omnia dextrd.
From the vast inequality of conditions and fortunes, from
the great variety of passions and of talents, of useless arts,
of pernicious arts, of frivolous sciences, would issue clouds
of prejudices equally contrary to reason, to happiness, to
virtue. We should see the chiefs foment everything that
tends to weaken men formed into societies by dividing them ;
everything that, while it gives society an air of apparent
harmony, sows in it the seeds of real division; everything
that can inspire the different orders with mutual distrust
and hatred by an opposition of their rights and interest, and
of course strengthen that power which contains them all.
'Tis from the bosom of this disorder and these revolutions,
that despotism gradually rearing up her hideous crest, and
devouring in every part of the state all that still remained
sound and untainted, would at last issue to trample upon the
laws and the people, and establish herself upon the ruins
of the republic. The times immediately preceding this last
alteration would be times of calamity and trouble: but at
last everything would be swallowed up by the monster; and
the people would no longer have chiefs or laws, but only
tyrants. At this fatal period all regard to virtue and man-
ners would likewise disappear ; for despotism, cui ex konesto
nulla est spes, tolerates no other master, wherever it reigns ;
the moment it speaks, probity and duty lose all their in-
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 231
fluence, and the blindest obedience is the only virtue the
miserable slaves have left them to practise.
This is the last term of inequality, the extreme point which
closes the circle and meets that from which we set out
'Tis here that all private men return to their primitive
equality, because they are no longer of any account; and
that, the subjects having no longer any law but that of
their master, nor the master any other law but his passions,
all notions of good and principles of justice again dis-
appear. 'Tis here that everything returns to the sole law
of the strongest, and of course to a new state of nature
different from that with which we began, in as much as the
first was the state of nature in its purity, and the last the
consequence of excessive corruption. There is, in other
respects, so little difference between these two states, and
the contract of government is so much dissolved by des-
potism, that the despot is no longer master than he con-
tinues the strongest, and that, as soon as his slaves can
expel him, they may do it without his having the least right
to complain of their using him ill. The insurrection, which
ends in the death or despotism of a sultan, is as juridical
an act as any by which the day before he disposed of the
lives and fortunes of his subjects. Force alone upheld him,
force alone overturns him. Thus all things take place and
succeed in their natural order; and whatever may be the
upshot of these hasty and frequent revolutions, no one man
has reason to complain of another's injustice, but only of his
own indiscretion or bad fortune.
By thus discovering and following the lost and for-
gotten tracks, by which man from the natural must have
arrived at the civil state ; by restoring, with the intermediate
positions which I have been just indicating, those which
want of leisure obliges me to suppress, or which my imag-
ination has not suggested, every attentive reader must un-
avoidably be struck at the immense space which separates
these two states. 'Tis in this slow succession of things
he may meet with the solution of an infinite number of
problems in morality and politics, which philosophers are
puzzled to solve. He will perceive that, the mankind of one
age not being the mankind of another, the reason why
232 ROUSSEAU
Diogenes could not find a man was, that he sought among
his cotemporaries the man of an earlier period: Cato, he will
then see, fell with Rome and with liberty, because he did
not suit the age in which he lived; and the greatest of men
served only to astonish that world, which would have cheer-
fully obeyed him, had he come into it five hundred years
earlier. In a word, he will find himself in a condition to
understand how the soul and the passions of men by insen-
sible alterations change as it were their nature; how it
comes to pass, that at the long run our wants and our
pleasures change objects; that, original man vanishing by
degrees, society no longer offers to our inspection but an
assemblage of artificial men and factitious passions, which
are the work of all these new relations, and have no foun-
dation in nature. Reflection teaches us nothing on that
head, but what experience perfectly confirms. Savage
man and civilised man differ so much at bottom in point of
inclinations and passions, that what constitutes the supreme
happiness of the one would reduce the other to despair.
The first sighs for nothing but repose and liberty; he
desires only to live, and to be exempt from labour; nay,
the ataraxy of the most confirmed Stoic falls short of his
consummate indifference for every other object. On the
contrary, the citizen always in motion, is perpetually sweat-
ing and toiling, and racking his brains to find out occupa-
tions still more laborious : He continues a drudge to his last
minute; nay, he courts death to be able to live, cr re-
nounces life to acquire immortality. He cringes to men
in power whom he hates, and to rich men whom he despises ;
he sticks at nothing to have the honour of serving them;
he is not ashamed to value himself on his own weakness
and the protection they afford him ; and proud of his chains,
he speaks with disdain of those who have not the honour
of being the partner of his bondage. What a spectacle must
the painful and envied labours of an European minister
of state form in the eyes of a Caribbean ! How many cruel
deaths would not this indolent savage prefer to such a
horrid life, which very often is not even sweetened by the
pleasure of doing good? But to see the drift of so many
cares, his mind should first have affixed some meaning to
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 233
these words power and reputation; he should be apprised
that there are men who consider as something the looks of
the rest of mankind, who know how to be happy and satis-
fied with themselves on the testimony of others sooner than
upon their own. In fact, the real source of all those dif-
ferences, is that the savage lives within himself, whereas
the citizen, constantly beside himself, knows only how
to live in the opinion of others; insomuch that it is, if
I may say so, merely from their judgment that he derives
the consciousness of his own existence. It is foreign to my
subject to show how this disposition engenders so much
indifference for good and evil, notwithstanding so many and
such fine discourses of morality; how everything, being
reduced to appearances, becomes mere art and mummery;
honour, friendship, virtue, and often vice itself, which we
at last learn the secret to boast of; how, in short, ever
inquiring of others what we are, and never daring to ques-
tion ourselves on so delicate a point, in the midst of so
much philosophy, humanity, and politeness, and so many
sublime maxims, we have nothing to show for ourselves but
a deceitful and frivolous exterior, honour without virtue,
reason without wisdom, and pleasure without happiness.
It is sufficient that I have proved that this is not the original
condition of man, and that it is merely the spirit of society,
and the inequality which society engenders, that thus change
and transform all our natural inclinations.
I have endeavoured to exhibit the origin and progress of
inequality, the institution and abuse of political societies, as
far as these things are capable of being deduced from the
nature of man by the mere light of reason, and independ-
ently of those sacred maxims which give to the sovereign
authority the sanction of divine right. It follows from this
picture, that as there is scarce any inequality among men
in a state of nature, all that which we now behold owes
its force and its growth to the development of our faculties
and the improvement of our understanding, and at last
becomes permanent and lawful by the establishment of
property and of laws. It likewise follows that moral in-
equality, authorised by any right that is merely positive,
clashes with natural right, as often as it does not combine
234 DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY
in the same proportion with physical inequality: a distinc-
tion which sufficiently determines, what we are able to
think in that respect of that kind of inequality which obtains
in all civilised nations, since it is evidently against the law
of nature that infancy should command old age, folly con-
duct wisdom, and a handful of men should be ready to choke
with superfluities, while the famished multitude want the
commonest necessaries of life.
PROFESSION OF FAITH OF
A SAVOYARD VICAR
BY
J. J. ROUSSEAU
INTRODUCTION
About thirty years ago a young man, who had forsaken his
own country and rambled into Italy, found himself reduced to
a condition of great poverty and distress. He had been bred a
Calvinist; but in consequence of his misconduct and of being
unhappily a fugitive in a foreign country, without money or
friends, he was induced to change his religion for the sake of
subsistence. To this end he procured admittance into a hospice
for catechumens, that is to say, a house established for the re-
ception of proselytes. The instructions he here received con-
cerning some controversial points excited doubts he had not
before entertained, and first caused him to realize the evil of
the step he had taken. He was taught strange dogmas, and
was eye-witness to stranger manners; and to these he saw him-
self a destined victim. He now sought to make his escape, but
was prevented and more closely confined. If he complained, he
was punished for complaining; and, lying at the mercy of his
tyrannical oppressors, found himself treated as criminal because
he could not without reluctance submit to be so.
Let those who are sensible how much the first acts of violence
and injustice irritate young and inexperienced minds, judge of
the situation of this unfortunate youth. Swollen with indigna-
tion, the tears of rage burst from his eyes. He implored the
assistance of heaven and earth in vain; he appealed to the whole
world, but no one attended to his plea. His complaints could
reach the ears only of a number of servile domestics, — slaves to
the wretch by whom he was thus treated, or accomplices in the
same crime, — who ridiculed his non-conformity and endeavored
to secure his imitation. He would doubtless have been entirely
ruined had it not been for the good offices of an honest ecclesi-
astic, who came to the hospital on some business, and with whom
he found an opportunity for a private conference. The good
priest was himself poor, and stood in need of every one's assist-
237
238 INTRODUCTION
ance ; the oppressed proselyte, however, stood yet in greater need
of him. The former did not hesitate, therefore, to favor his
escape, even at the risk of making a powerful enemy.
Having escaped from vice only to return to indigence, this
young adventurer struggled against his destiny without success.
For a moment, indeed, he thought himself above it, and at the
first prospect of good fortune, his former distresses and his
protector were forgotten together. He was soon punished, how-
ever, for his ingratitude, as his groundless hopes soon vanished.
His youth stood in vain on his side ; his romantic notions proving
destructive to all his designs. Having neither capacity nor
address to surmount the difficulties that fell in his way, and
being a stranger to the virtues of moderation and the arts of
knavery, he attempted so many things that he could bring none
to perfection. Hence, having fallen into his former distress,
and being not only in want of clothes and lodging, but even
in danger of perishing with hunger, he recollected his former
benefactor.
To him he returned, and was well received. The sight of the
unhappy youth brought to the poor vicar's mind the remem-
brance of a good action; — a remembrance always grateful to
an honest mind. This good priest was naturally humane and
compassionate. His own misfortunes had taught him to feel for
those of others, nor had prosperity hardened his heart. In a
word, the maxims of true wisdom and conscious virtue had
confirmed the kindness of his natural disposition. He cordially
embraced the young wanderer, provided for him a lodging, and
shared with him the slender means of his own subsistence. Nor
was this all : he went still farther, freely giving him both in-
struction and consolation, and also endeavoring to teach him
the difficult art of supporting adversity with patience. Could
you believe, ye sons of prejudice! that a priest, and a priest in
Italy too, could be capable of this?
This honest ecclesiastic was a poor Savoyard, who having in
his younger days incurred the displeasure of his bishop, was
obliged to pass the mountains in order to seek that provision
which was denied him in his own country. He was neither
deficient in literature nor understanding; his talents, therefore,
joined with an engaging appearance, soon procured him a patron,
who recommended him as tutor to a young man of quality. He
INTRODUCTION 239
preferred poverty, however, to dependence ; and, being a stranger
to the manners and behavior of the great, he remained but a
short time in that situation. In quitting this service, however,
he fortunately did not lose the esteem of his friend; and, as he
behaved with great prudence and was universally beloved, he
flattered himself that he should in time regain the good opinion
of his bishop also, and be rewarded with some little benefice in
the mountains, where he hoped to spend in tranquillity and
peace the remainder of his days. This was the height of his
ambition.
Interested by a natural affinity in favor of the young fugi-
tive, he examined very carefully into his character and dispo-
sition. In this examination, he saw that his misfortunes had
already debased his heart; — that the shame and contempt to
which he had been exposed had depressed his ambition, and that
his disappointed pride, converted into indignation, had deduced,
from the injustice and cruelty of mankind, the depravity of
human nature and the emptiness of virtue. He had observed
religion made use of as a mask to self-interest, and its worship
as a cloak to hypocrisy. He had seen the terms heaven and hell
prostituted in the subtility of vain disputes; the joys of the one
and the pains of the other being annexed to a mere repetition
of words. He had observed the sublime and primitive idea of
the Divinity disfigured by the fantastical imaginations of men;
and, finding that in order to believe in God it was necessary to
give up that understanding he hath bestowed on us, he held
in the same disdain as well the sacred object of our idle reveries
as those idle reveries themselves. Without knowing anything of
natural causes, or giving himself any trouble to investigate them,
he remained in a condition of the most stupid ignorance, mixed
with profound contempt for those who pretended to greater
knowledge than his own.
A neglect of all religious duties leads to a neglect of all moral
obligations. The heart of this young vagabond had already
made a great progress from one toward the other. Not that he
was constitutionally vicious; but misfortune and incredulity,
having stifled by degrees the propensities of his natural dispo-
sition, were hurrying him on to ruin, adding to the manners
of a beggar the principles of an atheist.
His ruin, however, though almost inevitable, was not abso-
240 INTRODUCTION
lutely completed. His education not having been neglected, he
was not without knowledge. He had not yet exceeded that
happy term of life, wherein the youthful blood serves to stimu-
late the mind without inflaming the passions, which were as yet
unrelaxed and unexcited. A natural modesty and timidity of
disposition had hitherto supplied the place of restraint, and
prolonged the term of youthful innocence. The odious example
of brutal depravity, and of vices without temptation, so far
from animating his imagination, had mortified it. Disgust had
long supplied the place of virtue in the preservation of his
innocence, and to corrupt this required more powerful seductions.
The good priest saw the danger and the remedy. The diffi-
culties that appeared in the application did not deter him from
the attempt. He took a pleasure in the design, and resolved to
complete it by restoring to virtue the victim he had snatched
from infamy.
To this end he set out resolutely in the execution of his project.
The merit of the motive increased his hopes, and inspired means
worthy of his zeal. Whatever might be the success, he was sure
that he should not throw away his labor: — we are always sure
so far to succeed in well doing.
He began with striving to gain the confidence of the proselyte
by conferring on him his favors disinterestedly, — by never im-
portuning him with exhortations, and by descending always to
a level with his ideas and manner of thinking. It must have been
an affecting sight to see a grave divine become the comrade of
a young libertine — to see virtue affect the air of licentiousness
— in order to triumph the more certainly over it. Whenever the
heedless youth made him the confidant of his follies, and un-
bosomed himself freely to his benefactor, the good priest lis-
tened attentively to his stories; and, without approving the evil,
interested himself in the consequences. No ill-timed censure ever
indiscreetly checked the pupil's communicative temper. The
pleasure with which he thought himself heard increased that
which he took in telling all his secrets. Thus he was induced
to make a free and general confession without thinking he was
confessing anything.
Having thus made himself master of the youth's sentiments
and character, the priest was enabled to see clearly that, without
being ignorant for his years, he had forgotten almost everything
INTRODUCTION 241
of importance for him to know, and that the state of meanness
into which he had fallen had almost stifled in him the sense of
good and evil. There is a degree of low stupidity which deprives
the soul as it were of life; the voice of conscience is also but
little heard by those who think of nothing but the means of
subsistence. To rescue this unfortunate youth from the moral
death that so nearly threatened him, he began, therefore, by
awakening his self-love and exciting in him a due regard for
himself. He represented to his imagination a more happy suc-
cess, from the future employment of his talents ; he inspired him
with a generous ardor by a recital of the commendable actions
of others, and by raising his admiration of those who performed
them. In order to detach him insensibly from an idle and vaga-
bond life, he employed him in copying books; and under pretence
of having occasion for such extracts, cherished in him the noble
sentiment of gratitude for his benefactor. By this method he
also instructed him indirectly by the books he employed him to
copy; and induced him to entertain so good an opinion of him-
self as to think he was not absolutely good for nothing, and to
hold himself not quite so despicable in his own esteem as he had
formerly done.
A trifling circumstance may serve to show the art which this
benevolent instructor made use of to insensibly elevate the heart
of his disciple, without appearing to think of giving him instruc-
tion. This good ecclesiastic was so well known and esteemed
for his probity and discernment, that many persons chose rather
to entrust him with the distribution of their alms than the
richer clergy of the cities. Now it happened that receiving one
day a sum of money in charge for the poor, the young man had
the meanness to desire some of it, under that title, for himself.
" No," replied his kind benefactor, " you and I are brethren ; you
belong to me, and I should not apply the charity entrusted with
me to my own use." He then gave him the desired sum from
his private funds. Lessons of this kind are hardly ever thrown
away on young people, whose hearts are not entirely corrupted.
But I will continue to speak no longer in the third person,
which is indeed a superfluous caution ; as you, my dear country-
men, are very sensible that the unhappy fugitive I have been
speaking of is myself. I believe that I am now so far removed
from the irregularities of my youth as to dare to avow them, and
242 INTRODUCTION
think that the hand which extricated me from them is too well
deserving of my gratitude for me not to do it honour even at
the expense of a little shame.
The most striking circumstance of all was to observe in the
retired life of my worthy master virtue without hypocrisy and
humanity without weakness. His conversation was always honest
and simple, and his conduct ever conformable to his discourse.
I never found him troubling himself whether the persons he
assisted went constantly to vespers — whether they went fre-
quently to confession — or fasted on certain days of the week.
Nor did I ever know him to impose on them any of those con-
ditions without which a man might perish from want, and have
no hope of relief from the devout.
Encouraged by these observations, so far was I from affecting
in his presence the forward zeal of a new proselyte, that I took
no pains to conceal my thoughts, nor did I ever remark his being
scandalized at this freedom. Hence, I have sometimes said to
myself, he certainly overlooks my indifference for the new mode
of worship I have embraced, in consideration of the disregard
which he sees I have for that in which I was educated; as he
finds my indifference is not partial to either. But what could I
think when I heard him sometimes approve dogmas contrary to
those of the Romish church, and appear to hold its ceremonies
in little esteem? I should have been apt to consider him a
protestant in disguise, had I seen him less observant of those
very ceremonies which he seemed to think of so little account;
but knowing that he acquitted himself as punctually of his duties
as a priest in private as in public, I knew not how to judge of
these seeming contradictions. If we except the failing which
first brought him into disgrace with his superior, and of which
he was not altogether corrected, his life was exemplary, his
manners irreproachable, and his conversation prudent and sen-
sible. As I lived with him in the greatest intimacy, I learned
every day to respect him more and more ; and as he had entirely
won my heart by so many acts of kindness, I waited with an
impatient curiosity to know the principles on which a life and
conduct so singular and uniform could be founded.
It was some time, however, before this curiosity was satisfied,
as he endeavored to cultivate those seeds of reason and goodness
which he had endeavored to instill, before he would disclose
INTRODUCTION 243
himself to his disciple. The greatest difficulty he met with was to
eradicate from my heart a proud misanthropy, a certain ran-
corous hatred which I bore to the wealthy and fortunate, as if
they were made so at my expense, and had usurped apparent
happiness from what should have been my own. The idle
vanity of youth, which is opposed to all constraint and humilia-
tion, encouraged but too much my propensity to indulge this
splenetic humor; whilst that self-love, which my mentor strove
so earnestly to cherish, by increasing my pride, rendered man-
kind, in my opinion, still more detestable, and only added to my
hatred of them the most egregious contempt.
Without directly attacking this pride, he yet strove to pre-
vent it from degenerating into barbarity, and without diminishing
my self-esteem, made me less disdainful of my neighbors. In
withdrawing the gaudy veil of external appearances, and pre-
senting to my view the real evils it concealed, he taught me to
lament the failings of my fellow creatures, to sympathize with
their miseries, and to pity instead of envying them. Moved to
compassion for human frailties from a deep sense of his own, he
saw mankind everywhere the victims of either their own vices
or of the vices of others, — he saw the poor groan beneath the
yoke of the rich, and the rich beneath the tyranny of their own
idle habits and prejudices.
" Believe me," said he, " our mistaken notions of things are
so far from hiding our misfortunes from our view, that they
augment those evils by rendering trifles of importance, and mak-
ing us sensible of a thousand wants which we should never have
known but for our prejudices. Peace of mind consists in a
contempt for everything that may disturb it. The man who gives
himself the greatest concern about life is he who enjoys it least;
and he who aspires the most earnestly after happiness is always
the one who is the most miserable. ,,
" Alas ! " cried I, with all the bitterness of discontent, " what
a deplorable picture do you present of human life! If we may
indulge ourselves in nothing, to what purpose were we born? If
we must despise even happiness itself, who is there that can
know what it is to be happy ? *
" I know," replied the good priest, in a tone and manner that
struck me.
"You!" said I, "so little favored by fortune! so poor! ex-
244 INTRODUCTION
iled ! persecuted ! can you be happy ? And if you are, what have
you done to purchase happiness?"
" My dear child," he replied, embracing me, " I will willingly
tell you. As you have freely confessed to me, I will do the same
to you. I will disclose to you all the sentiments of my heart.
You shall see me, if not such as I really am, at least such as
I believe myself to be : and when you have heard my whole Pro-
fession of Faith — when you know fully the situation of my
heart — you will know why I think myself happy; and, if you
agree with me, what course you should pursue in order to become
so likewise.
" But this profession is not to be made in a moment. It will
require some time to disclose to you my thoughts on the situa-
tion of mankind and on the real value of human life. We will
therefore take a suitable opportunity for a few hours' uninter-
rupted conversation on this subject."
As I expressed an earnest desire for such an opportunity, an
appointment was made for the next morning. We rose at the
break of day and prepared for the journey. Leaving the town,
he led me to the top of a hill, at the foot of which ran the river
Po, watering in its course the fertile vales. That immense chain
of mountains, called the Alps, terminated the distant view. The
rising sun cast its welcome rays over the gilded plains, and, by
projecting the long shadows of the trees, the houses, and adjacent
hills, formed the most beautiful scene ever mortal eye beheld.
One might have been almost tempted to think that nature had at
this moment displayed all its grandeur and beauty as a subject
for our conversation. Here it was that, after contemplating for
a short time the surrounding objects in silence, my teacher and
benefactor confided to me with impressive earnestness the prin-
ciples and faith which governed his life and conduct.
PROFESSION OF FAITH OF
A SAVOYARD VICAR
EXPECT from me neither learned declamations nor
profound arguments. I am no great philosopher,
and give myself but little trouble in regard to becom-
ing such. Still I perceive sometimes the glimmering of good
sense, and have always a regard for the truth. I will not
enter into any disputation, or endeavor to refute you; but
only lay down my own sentiments in simplicity of heart.
Consult your own during this recital : this is all I require of
you. If I am mistaken, it is undesignedly, which is sufficient
to absolve me of all criminal error; and if I am right, reason,
which is common to us both, shall decide. We are equally
interested in listening to it, and why should not our views
agree ?
I was born a poor peasant, destined by my situation to the
business of husbandry. It was thought, however, much more
advisable for me to learn to get my bread by the profession
of a priest, and means were found to give me a proper edu-
cation. In this, most certainly, neither my parents nor I
consulted what was really good, true, or useful for me to
know; but only that I should learn what was necessary to
my ordination. I learned, therefore, what was required of
me to learn, — I said what was required of me to say — and,
accordingly, was made a priest. It was not long, however,
before I perceived too plainly that, in laying myself under
an obligation to be no longer a man, I had engaged for more
than I could possibly perform.
Some will tell us that conscience is founded merely on
our prejudices, but I know from my own experience that
its dictates constantly follow the order of nature, in contra-
diction to all human laws and institutions. We are in vain
245
246 ROUSSEAU
forbidden to do this thing or the other— we shall feel but
little remorse for doing any thing to which a well-regulated
natural instinct excites us, how strongly soever prohibited
by reason. Nature, my dear youth, hath hitherto in this
respect been silent in you. May you continue long in that
happy state wherein her voice is the voice of innocence !
Remember that you offend her more by anticipating her
instructions than by refusing to hear them. In order to
know when to listen to her without a crime, you should be-
gin by learning to check her insinuations.
I had always a due respect for marriage as the first and
most sacred institution of nature. Having given up my
right to enter into such an engagement, I resolved, there-
fore, not to profane it: for, notwithstanding my manner of
education, as I had always led a simple and uniform life, I
had preserved all that clearness of understanding in which
my first ideas were cultivated. The maxims of the world
had not obscured my primitive notions, and my poverty kept
me at a sufficient distance from those temptations that teach
us the sophistry of vice.
The virtuous resolution I had formed, was, however, the
very cause of my ruin, as my determination not to violate
the rights of others, left my faults exposed to detection.
To expiate the offence, I was suspended and banished;
falling a sacrifice to my scruples rather than to my incon-
tinence. From the reproaches made me on my disgrace, I
found that the way to escape punishment for an offence is
often by committing a greater.
A few instances of this kind go far with persons capable
of reflection. Finding by sorrowful experience that the
ideas I had formed of justice, honesty, and other moral
obligations were contradicted in practice, I began to give
up most of the opinions I had received, until at length the
few which I retained being no longer sufficient to support
themselves, I called in question the evidence on which they
were established. Thus, knowing hardly what to think, I
found myself at last reduced to your own situation of mind,
with this difference only, that my unbelief being the later
fruit of a maturer age, it was a work of greater difficulty
to remove it.
A SAVOYARD VICAR 247
I was in that state of doubt and uncertainty in which
Descartes requires the mind to be involved, in order to
enable it to investigate truth. This disposition of mind,
however, is too disquieting to long continue, its duration
being owing only to indolence or vice. My heart was not
so corrupt as to seek fresh indulgence; and nothing pre-
serves so well the habit of reflection as to be more content
with ourselves than with our fortune.
I reflected, therefore, on the unhappy lot of mortals
floating always on the ocean of human opinions, without
compass or rudder — left to the mercy of their tempestuous
passions, with no other guide than an inexperienced pilot,
ignorant of his course, as well as from whence he came,
and whither he is going. I often said to myself: I love the
truth — I seek, yet cannot find it. Let any one show it to me
and I will readily embrace it. Why doth it hide its charms
from a heart formed to adore them?
I have frequently experienced at times much greater evils ;
and yet no part of my life was ever so constantly disagree-
able to me as that interval of scruples and anxiety. Running
perpetually from one doubt and uncertainty to another, all
that I could deduce from my long and painful meditations
was incertitude, obscurity, and contradiction; as well with
regard to my existence as to my duty.
I cannot comprehend how any man can be sincerely a
skeptic on principle. Such philosophers either do not exist,
or they are certainly the most miserable of men. To be in
doubt, about things which it is important for us to know,
is a situation too perplexing for the human mind; it cannot
long support such incertitude; but will, in spite of itself,
determine one way or the other, rather deceiving itself than
being content to believe nothing of the matter.
What added further to my perplexity was, that as the
authority of the church in which I was educated was de-
cisive, and tolerated not the slightest doubt, in rejecting one
point, I thereby rejected in a manner all the others. The
impossibility of admitting so many absurd decisions, threw
doubt over those more reasonable. In being told I must
believe all, I was prevented from believing anything, and I
knew not what course to pursue.
248 ROUSSEAU
In this situation I consulted the philosophers. I turned
over their books, and examined their several opinions. I
found them vain, dogmatical and dictatorial — even in their
pretended skepticism. Ignorant of nothing, yet proving
nothing; but ridiculing one another instead; and in this last
particular only, in which they were all agreed, they seemed
to be in the right. Affecting to triumph whenever they at-
tacked their opponents, they lacked everything to make
them capable of a vigorous defence. If you examine their
reasons, you will find them calculated only to refute: If you
number voices, every one is reduced to his own suffrage.
They agree in nothing but in disputing, and to attend to
these was certainly not the way to remove my uncertainty.
I conceived that the weakness of the human understanding
was the first cause of the prodigious variety I found in their
sentiments, and that pride was the second. We have no
standard with which to measure this immense machine; we
cannot calculate its various relations; we neither know the
first cause nor the final effects; we are ignorant even of
ourselves; we neither know our own nature nor principle
of action; nay, we hardly know whether man be a simple
or compound being. Impenetrable mysteries surround us on
every side ; they extend beyond the region of sense ; we
imagine ourselves possessed of understanding to penetrate
them, and we have only imagination. Every one strikes
out a way of his own across this imaginary world; but no
one knows whether it will lead him to the point he aims at.
We are yet desirous to penetrate, to know, everything. The
only thing we know not is to contentedly remain ignorant of
what it is impossible for us to know. We had much rather
determine at random, and believe the thing which is not,
than to confess that none of us is capable of seeing the thing
that is. Being ourselves but a small part of that great whole,
whose limits surpass our most extensive views, and con-
cerning which its creator leaves us to make our idle con-
jectures, we are vain enough to decide what that whole is
in itself, and what we are in relation to it.
But were the philosophers in a situation to discover the
truth, which of them would be interested in so doing?
Each knows very well that his system is no better founded
A SAVOYARD VICAR 249
than the systems of others; he defends it, nevertheless, be-
cause it is his own. There is not one of them, who, really
knowing truth from falsehood, would not prefer the latter,
if of his own invention, to the former, discovered by any
one else. Where is the philosopher who would not readily
deceive mankind, to increase his own reputation? Where
is he who secretly proposes any other object than that of
distinguishing himself from the rest of mankind? Provided
he raises himself above the vulgar, and carries away the
prize of fame from his competitors, what doth he require
more? The most essential point is to think differently from
the rest of the world. Among believers he is an atheist, and
among atheists he affects to be a believer.
The first fruit I gathered from these meditations was to
learn to confine my enquiries to those things in which I was
immediately interested; — to remain contented in a profound
ignorance of the rest; and not to trouble myself so far as
even to doubt about what it did not concern me to know.
I could further see that instead of clearing up any un-
necessary doubts, the philosophers only contributed to mul-
tiply those which most tormented me, and that they resolved
absolutely none. I therefore applied to another guide, and
said to myself, let me consult my innate instructor, who will
deceive me less than I may be deceived by others; or at least
the errors I fall into will be my own, and I shall grow less
depraved in the pursuit of my own illusions, than in giving
myself up to the deceptions of others.
Taking a retrospect, then, of the several opinions which
had successively prevailed with me from my infancy, I
found that, although none of them were so evident as to
produce immediate conviction, they had nevertheless dif-
ferent degrees of probability, and that my innate sense of
truth and falsehood leaned more or less to each. On this
first observation, proceeding to compare impartially and
without prejudice these different opinions with each other,
I found that the first and most common was also the most
simple and most rational; and that it wanted nothing more
to secure universal suffrage, than the circumstance of having
been last proposed. Let us suppose that all our philosophers,
ancient and modern, had exhausted all their whimsical
250 ROUSSEAU
systems of power, chance, fate, necessity, atoms, an animated
world, sensitive matter, materialism, and of every other
kind; and after them let us imagine the celebrated Dr. Clarke
enlightening the world by displaying the being of beings —
the supreme and sovereign disposer of all things. With
what universal admiration, — with what unanimous applause
would not the world receive this new system, — so great, so
consolatory, so sublime, — so proper to elevate the soul, to
lay the foundations of virtue, — #nd at the same time so
striking, so enlightened, so simple, — and, as it appears to
me, pregnant with less incomprehensibilities and absurdities
than all other systems whatever ! I reflected that un-
answerable objections might be made to all, because the
human understanding is incapable of resolving them, no
proof therefore could be brought exclusively of any: but
what difference is there in proofs ! Ought not that system
then, which explains everything, to be preferred, when
attended with no greater difficulties than the rest?
The love of truth then comprises all my philosophy; and
my method of research being the simple and easy rule of
common sense, which dispenses with the vain subtilty of
argumentation, I reexamined by this principle all the knowl-
edge of which I was possessed, resolved to admit as evident
everything to which I could not in the sincerity of my heart
refuse to assent, to admit also as true all that seemed to
have a necessary connection with it, and to leave everything
else as uncertain, without either rejecting or admitting,
being determined not to trouble myself about clearing up
any point which did not tend to utility in practice.
But, after all, who am I? What right have I to judge
of these things? And what is it that determines my con-
clusions? If, subject to the impressions I receive, these
are formed in direct consequence of those impressions, I
trouble myself to no purpose in these investigations. It is
necessary, therefore, to examine myself, to know what in-
struments are made use of in such researches, and how far
I may confide in their use.
In the first place, I know that I exist, and have senses
whereby I am affected. This is a truth so striking that I
am compelled to acquiesce in it. But have I properly a
A SAVOYARD VICAR 251
distinct sense of my existence, or do I only know it from my
various sensations? This is my first doubt; which, at
present, it is impossible for me to resolve: for, being con-
tinually affected by sensations, either directly from the
objects or from the memory, how can I tell whether my
self-consciousness be, or be not, something foreign to those
sensations, and independent of them.
My sensations are all internal, as they make me sensible
of my own existence; but the cause of them is external and
independent, as they affect me without my consent, and do
not depend on my will for their production or annihilation.
I conceive very clearly, therefore, that the sensation which
is internal, and its cause or object which is external, are not
one and the same thing.
Thus I know that I not only exist, but that other beings
exist as well as myself; to wit, the objects of my sensations;
and though these objects should be nothing but ideas, it is
very certain that these ideas are no part of myself.
Now, everything that I perceive out of myself, and
which acts upon my senses, I call matter; and those por-
tions of matter which I conceive are united in individ-
ual beings, I call bodies. Thus all the disputes between
Idealists and Materialists signify nothing to me; their dis-
tinctions between the appearance and reality of bodies being
chimerical.
Hence I have acquired as certain knowledge of the ex-
istence of the universe as of my own. I next reflect on the
objects of my sensations; and, finding in myself the faculty
of comparing them with each other, I perceive myself en-
dowed with an active power with which I was before un-
acquainted.
To perceive is only to feel or be sensible of things; to
compare them is to judge of their existence. To judge of
things and to be sensible of them are very different. Things
present themselves to our sensations as single and detached
from each other, such as they barely exist in nature: but
in our intellectual comparison of them they are removed,
transported as it were, from place to place, disposed on and
beside each other, to enable us to pronounce concerning
their difference and similitude. The characteristic faculty
252 ROUSSEAU
of an intelligent, active being is, in my opinion, that of
giving a sense to the word exist. In beings merely sensitive,
I have searched in vain to discover the like force of intel-
lect; nor can I conceive it to be in their nature. Such pas-
sive beings perceive every object singly or by itself; or if
two objects present themselves, they are perceived as united
into one. Such beings having no power to place one in com-
petition with, beside, or upon the other, they cannot compare
them, or judge of their separate existence.
To see two objects at once, is not to see their relations
to each other, nor to judge of their difference; as to see
many objects, though distinct from one another, is not to
reckon their number. I may possibly have in my mind the
ideas of a large stick and a small one, without comparing
those ideas together, or judging that one is less than the
other; as I may look at my hand without counting my
fingers. 1 The comparative ideas of greater and less, as well
as numerical ideas of one, two, etc., are certainly not sen-
sations, although the understanding produces them only
from our sensations.
It has been pretended that sensitive beings distinguish
sensations one from the other, by the actual difference there
is between those sensations: this, however, demands an ex-
planation. When such sensations are different, a sensitive
being is supposed to distinguish them by their difference;
fmt when they are alike, they can then only distinguish them
because they perceive one without the other; for, otherwise,
how can two objects exactly alike be distinguished in a
simultaneous sensation? Such objects must necessarily be
blended together and taken for one and the same; particu-
larly according to that system of philosophy in which it is
pretended that the sensations, representative of extension,
are not extended.
When two comparative sensations are perceived, they
make both a joint and separate impression; but their rela-
tion to each other is not necessarily perceived in consequence
of either. If the judgment we form of this relation were
indeed a mere sensation, excited by the objects, we should
1 M. de la Condamine tells of a people who knew how to reckon only as
far as three. Yet these people must often have seen their fingers without
ever having counted five.
A SAVOYARD VICAR 253
never be deceived in it, for it can never be denied that I
truly perceive what I feel.
How, therefore, can I be deceived in the relation between
these two sticks, particularly, if they are not parallel?
Why do I say, for instance, that the little one is a third part
as long as the great one, w r hen it is in reality only a fourth?
Why is not the image, which is the sensation, conformable
to its model, which is the object? It is because I am active
when I judge, the operation which forms the comparison is
defective, and my understanding, which judges of relations,
mixes its errors with the truth of those sensations which
are representative of objects.
Add to this the reflection, which I am certain you will
think striking after duly weighing it, that if we were merely
passive in the use of our senses, there would be no com-
munication between them : so that it would be impossible for
us to know that the body we touched with our hands and the
object we saw with our eyes were one and the same. Either
we should not be able to perceive external objects at all,
or they would appear to exist as five perceptible substances
of which we should have no method of ascertaining the
identity.
Whatever name be given to that power of the mind which
assembles and compares my sensations, — call it attention,
meditation, reflection, or whatever you please, — certain it is
that it exists in me, and not in the objects of those sensa-
tions. It is I alone who produce it, although it is displayed
only in consequence of the impressions made on me by those
objects. Without being so far master over myself as
to perceive or not to perceive at pleasure, I am still more
or less capable of making an examination into the objects
perceived.
I am not, therefore, a mere sensitive and passive, but an
active and intelligent being; and, whatever philosophers may
pretend, lay claim to the honor of thinking. I know only
that truth depends on the existence of things, and not on my
understanding which judges of them; and that the less such
judgment depends on me, the nearer I am certain of ap-
proaching the truth. Hence my rule of confiding more on
sentiment than reason is confirmed by reason itself.
254 ROUSSEAU
Being thus far assured of my own nature and capacity,
I begin to consider the objects about me; regarding myself,
with a kind of shuddering, as a creature thrown on the
wide world of the universe, and as it were lost in an
infinite variety of other beings, without knowing anything
of what they are, either among themselves or with regard
to me.
Everything that is perceptible to my senses is matter, and
I deduce all the essential properties of matter from those
sensible qualities, which cause it to be perceptible, and which
are inseparable from it. I see it sometimes in motion and
at other times at rest. This rest may be said to be only
relative; but as we perceive degrees in motion, we can very
clearly conceive one of the two extremes which is rest ; and
this we conceive so distinctly, that we are even induced to
take that for absolute rest which is only relative. Now
motion cannot be essential to matter, if matter can be con-
ceived at rest Hence I infer that neither motion nor rest
are essential to it; but motion being an action, is clearly
the effect of cause, of which rest is only the absence. When
nothing acts on matter, it does not move; it is equally in-
different to motion and rest; its natural state, therefore, is
to be at rest.
Again, I perceive in bodies two kinds of motion; that is
a mechanical or communicated motion, and a spontaneous
or voluntary one. In the first case, the moving cause is out
Gf the body moved, and in the last, exists w T ithin it. I shall
not hence conclude, however, that the motion of a watch,
for example, is spontaneous; for if nothing should act upon
it but the spring, that spring would not wind itself up again
when once down. For the same reason, also, I should as
little accede to the spontaneous motion of fluids, nor even
to heat itself, the cause of their fluidity.
You will ask me if the motions of animals are spon-
taneous? I will freely answer, I cannot positively tell,
but analogy speaks in the affirmative. You may ask me
further, how I know there is such a thing as spontaneous
motion? I answer, because I feel it. I will to move my
arm, and, accordingly, it moves without the intervention of
any other immediate cause. It is in vain to attempt to reason
A SAVOYARD VICAR 255
me out of this sentiment; it is more powerful than any
rational evidence. You might as well attempt to convince
me that I do not exist.
If the actions of men are not spontaneous, and there be
no such spontaneous action in what passes on earth, we
are only the more embarrassed to conceive what is the first
cause of all motion. For my part I am so fully persuaded
that the natural state of matter is a state of rest, and that
it has in itself no principle of activity, that whenever I see a
body in motion, I instantly conclude that it is either an
animated body or that its motion is communicated to it. My
understanding will by no means acquiesce in the notion that
unorganized matter can move of itself, or be productive
of any kind of action.
The visible universe, however, is composed of inanimate
matter, which appears to have nothing in its composition
of organization, or that sensation which is common to the
parts of an animated body, as it is certain that we ourselves,
being parts thereof, do not perceive our existence in the
whole. The universe, also, is in motion ; and its movements
being all regular, uniform, and subjected to constant laws,
nothing appears therein similar to that liberty which is re-
markable in the spontaneous motion of men and animals.
The world, therefore, is not a huge self-moving animal, but
receives its motions from some foreign cause, which we do
not perceive: but I am so strongly persuaded within myself
of the existence of this cause, that it is impossible for me
to observe the apparent diurnal revolution of the sun, with-
out conceiving that some force must urge it forward; or if
it is the earth itself that turns, I cannot but conceive that
some hand must turn it.
If it be necessary to admit general laws that have no
apparent relation to matter, from what fixed point must
that enquiry set out? Those laws, being nothing real or
substantial, have some prior foundation equally unknown
and occult. Experience and observation have taught us
the laws of motion; these laws, however, determine effects
only without displaying their causes; and, therefore, are
not sufficient to explain the system of the universe. Des-
cartes could form a model of the heavens and earth with
256 ROUSSEAU
dice; but he could not give their motions to those dice, nor
bring into play his centrifugal force without the assistance
of a rotary motion. Newton discovered the law of attrac-
tion; but attraction alone would soon have reduced the
universe into one solid mass : to this law, therefore, he found
it necessary to add a projectile force, in order to account
for the revolution of the heavenly bodies. Could Descartes
tell us by what physical law his vortices were put and kept
in motion? Could Newton produce the hand that first im-
pelled the planets in the tangent of their respective orbits?
The first causes of motion do not exist in matter; bodies
receive from and communicate motion to each other, but
they cannot originally produce it. The more I observe the
action and reaction of the powers of nature acting on each
other, the more I am convinced that they are merely effects ;
and we must ever recur to some volition as the first cause :
for to suppose there is a progression of causes to infinity, is
to suppose there is no first cause at all. In a word, every
motion that is not produced by some other, must be the
effect of a spontaneous, voluntary act. Inanimate bodies
have no action but motion ; and there can be no real action
without volition. Such is my first principle. I believe,
therefore, that a Will gives motion to the universe, and ani-
mates all nature. This is my first article of faith.
In what manner volition is productive of physical and
corporeal action I know not, but I experience within myself
that it is productive of it. I will to act, and the action im-
mediately follows; I will to move my body, and my body
instantly moves; but, that an inanimate body lying at rest,
should move itself, or produce motion, is incomprehensible
and unprecedented. The Will also is known by its effects
and not by its essence. I know it as the cause of motion;
but to conceive matter producing motion, would be evidently
to conceive an effect without a cause, or rather not to con-
ceive any thing at all.
It is no more possible for me to conceive how the will
moves the body, than how the sensations affect the soul.
I even know not why one of these mysteries ever appeared
more explicable than the other. For my own part, whether
at the time I am active or passive, the means of union be-
A SAVOYARD VICAR 257
tween the two substances appear to me absolutely incompre-
hensible. Is it not strange that the philosophers have thrown
off this incomprehensibility, merely to confound the two
substances together, as if operations so different could be
better explained as the effects of one subject than of two.
The principle which I have here laid down, is undoubtedly
something obscure; it is however intelligible, and contains
nothing repugnant to reason or observation. Can we say as
much of the doctrines of materialism? It is very certain
that, if motion be essential to matter, it would be inseparable
from it; it would be always the same in every portion of it,
incommunicable, and incapable of increase or diminution;
it would be impossible for us even to conceive matter at
rest Again, when I am told that motion is not indeed essen-
tial to matter, but necessary to its existence, I see through
the attempt to impose on me by a form of words, which it
would be more easy to refute, if more intelligible. For,
whether the motion of matter arises from itself, and is
therefore essential to it, or whether it is derived from some
external cause, it is not further necessary to it than as the
moving cause acting thereon : so that we still remain under
the first difficulty.
General and abstract ideas form the source of our greatest
errors. The jargon of metaphysics never discovered one
truth; but it has filled philosophy with absurdities, of which
we are ashamed as soon as they are stripped of their pom-
pous expressions. Tell me truly, my friend, if any precise
idea is conveyed to your understanding when you are told
of a blind, unintelligent power being diffused throughout
all nature? It is imagined that something is meant by those
vague terms, Universal force and Necessary motion; and
yet they convey no meaning. The idea of motion is nothing
more than the idea of passing from one place to another, nor
can there be any motion without some particular direction;
for no individual being can move several ways at once. In
what manner then is it that matter necessarily moves ? Has
all the matter of which bodies are composed a general and
uniform motion, or has each atom a particular motion of its
own? If we give assent to the first notion, the whole uni-
verse will appear to be one solid and indivisible mass; and
>D HC— Vol.34
258 ROUSSEAU
according to the second, it should constitute a diffused and
incoherent fluid, without a possibility that two atoms ever
could be united. What can be the direction of this motion
common to all matter? Is it in a right line upwards or
downwards, to the right or to the left? Again, if every
particle of matter has its particular direction, what can be
the cause of all those directions and their variations? If
every atom or particle of matter revolved only on its axis,
none of them would change their place, and there would be no
motion communicated; and even in this case it is necessary
that such a revolving motion should be carried on one way.
To ascribe to matter motion in the abstract, is to make use
of terms without a meaning; and in giving it any deter-
minate motion, we must of necessity suppose the cause that
determines it. The more I multiply particular forces, the
more new causes have I to explain, without ever finding
one common agent that directs them. So far from being
able to conceive any regularity or order in the fortuitous
concourse of elements, I cannot even conceive the nature
of their concurrence; and an universal chaos is more in-
conceivable than universal harmony. I easily comprehend
that the mechanism of the world cannot be perfectly known
to the human understanding, but whenever men undertake
to explain it, they ought at least to speak in such a man-
ner that others may understand them.
If from matter being put in motion I discover the exist-
ence of a Will as the first active cause, the subjugation of
this matter to certain regular laws of motion displays also
intelligence. This is my second article of faith. To act, to
compare, to prefer, are the operations of an active, thinking
being: such a being, therefore, exists. Do you proceed to
ask me, where I discover its existence? I answer, not only
in the revolutions of the celestial bodies; not only in myself;
but in the flocks that feed on the plain, in the birds that fly
in the air, in the stone that falls to the ground, and in the
leaf that trembles in the wind.
I am enabled to judge of the physical order of things, al-
though ignorant of their final cause; because to be able to
form such a judgment it is sufficient for me to compare the
several parts of the visible universe with each other, to
A SAVOYARD VICAR 259
study their mutual concurrence, their reciprocal relations,
and to observe the general result of the whole. I am igno-
rant why the universe exists, but I am enabled nevertheless
to see how it is modified. I cannot fail to perceive that
intimate connection by which the several beings it is com-
posed of afford each other mutual assistance. I resemble,
in this respect, a man who sees the inside of a watch for
the first time, and is captivated with the beauty of the work,
although ignorant of its use. I know not, he may say, what
this machine is good for, but I perceive that each part is
made to fit some other. I admire the artist for every part
of his performance, and am certain that all these wheels act
thus in concert to some common end, which as yet I fail to j
comprehend.
But let us compare the partial and particular ends, the
means whereby they are effected, and their constant re-
lations of every kind; then let us appeal to our innate sense
of conviction; and what man in his senses can refuse to
acquiesce in such testimony? To what unprejudiced view
does not the visible arrangement of the universe display
the supreme intelligence of its author? How much sophistry
does it not require to disavow the harmony of created beings,
and that admirable order in which all the parts of the
system concur to the preservation of each other? You may
talk to me as much as you please of combinations and
chances: what end will it answer to reduce me to silence,
if you can persuade me into the truth of what you advance?
and how will you divest me of that involuntary sentiment
which continually contradicts you? If organized bodies are
fortuitously combined in a thousand ways before they as-
sume settled and constant forms ; if at first they are formed
stomachs without mouths, feet without heads, hands without
arms, and imperfect organs of every kind, which have
perished for want of the necessary faculties of self-preserva-
tion ; how comes it that none of these imperfect essays have
engaged our attention? Why hath nature at length con-
fined herself to laws to which she was not at first subjected?
I confess that I ought not to be surprised that any possible
thing should happen, when the rarity of the event is com-
pensated by the great odds that it did not happen. And yet
260 ROUSSEAU
if any one were to tell me that a number of printer's types,
jumbled promiscuously together, had arranged themselves
in the order of the letters composing the ^Eneid, I certainly
should not deign to take one step to verify or disprove such
a story. It may be said, I forget the number of chances:
but pray how many must I suppose to render such a com-
bination in any degree probable? I, who see only the one,
must conclude that there is an infinite number against it,
and that it is not the effect of chance. Add to this that
the product of these combinations must be always of the
same nature with the combined elements; hence life and
organization never can result from a blind concourse of
atoms, nor will the chemist, with all his art in compounds,
ever find sensation and thought at the bottom of his cru-
cible.
I have been frequently surprised and sometimes scanda-
lized in the reading of Nieuwentheit. - What a presumption
was it to set down to make a book of those wonders
of nature that display the wisdom of their author? Had
his book been as big as the whole world, he would not have
exhausted his subject; and no sooner do we enter into the
minutiae of things than the greatest wonder o? all escapes
us; — that is, the harmony and connection of the whole.
The generation of living and organized* bodies alone baffles
all the efforts of the human understanding. That insur-
mountable barrier which nature hath placed between the
various species of animals, that they might not be con-
founded with each other, makes her intentions sufficiently
evident. Not contented only to establish order, she has
taken effectual methods to prevent its being disturbed.
There is not a being in the universe which may not,
in some respect, be regarded as the common center of all
others, which are ranged around it in such a manner that
they serve reciprocally as cause and effect to one another.
The imagination is lost and the understanding confounded
in such an infinite diversity of relations, of which, however,
not one of them is either lost or confounded in the crowd.
How absurd the attempt to deduce this wonderful harmony
from the blind mechanism of a fortuitous jumble of atoms !
Those who deny the unity of design, so manifest in the
A SAVOYARD VICAR 261
relation of all the parts of this grand system, may endeavor
as much as they will to conceal their absurdities with ab-
stract ideas, coordinations, general principles, and emblem-
atical terms. Whatever they may advance, it is impos-
sible for me to conceive that a system of beings can be so
wisely regulated, without the existence of some intelligent
cause which effects such regulation. It is not in my power
to believe that passive inanimate matter could ever have
produced living and sensible creatures, — that a blind fatality
should be productive of intelligent beings, — or that a cause,
incapable itself of thinking, should produce the faculty of
thinking in its effects.
I believe, therefore, that the world is governed by a wise
and powerful Will. I see it, or rather I feel it; and this
is of importance for me to know. But is the world eternal,
or is it created? Are things derived from one self-existent
principle, or are there two or more, and what is their
essence? Of all this I know nothing, nor do I see that it is
necessary I should. In proportion as such knowledge may
become interesting I will endeavor to acquire it : but further
than this I give up all such idle disquisitions, which serve
only to make me discontented with myself, which are use-
less in practice, and are above my understanding.
You will remember, however, that I am not dictating
my sentiments to you, but only explaining what they are.
Whether matter be eternal or only created, whether it have
a passive principle or not, certain it is that the whole
universe is one design, and sufficiently displays one intel-
ligent agent: for I see no part of this system that is not
under regulation, or that does not concur to one and the
same end; viz. that of preserving the present and established
order of things. That Being, whose will is his deed, whose
principle of action is in himself, — that Being, in a word,
whatever it be, that gives motion to all parts of the universe,
and governs all things, I call God.
To this term I affix the ideas of intelligence, power, and
will, which I have collected from the order of things; and
to these I add that of goodness, which is a necessary con-
sequence of their union. But I am not at all the wiser con-
cerning the essence of the Being to which I give these
262 ROUSSEAU
attributes. He remains at an equal distance from my senses
and my understanding. The more I think of him, the more
I am confounded. I know of a certainty that he exists, and
that his existence is independent of any of his creatures.
I know also that my existence is dependent on his, and
that every being I know is in the same situation as myself.
I perceive the deity in all his works, I feel him within
me, and behold him in every object around me: but I no
sooner endeavor to contemplate what he is in himself, — I
no sooner enquire where he is, and what is his substance,
than he eludes the strongest efforts of my imagination;
and my bewildered understanding is convinced of its own
weakness.
For this reason I shall never take upon me to argue about
the nature of God further than I am obliged to do by the
relation he appears to stand in to myself. There is so great
a temerity in such disquisitions that a wise man will never
enter on them without trembling, and feeling fully assured
of his incapacity to proceed far on so sublime a subject: for
it is less injurious to entertain no ideas of the deity at all,
than to harbor those which are unworthy and unjust.
After having discovered those of his attributes by which
I am convinced of his existence, I return to myself and con-
sider the place I occupy in that order of things, which is
directed by him and subjected to my examination. Here
I find my species stand incontestibly in the first rank; as
man, by virtue of his will and the instruments he is pos-
sessed of to put it in execution, has a greater power over the
bodies by which he is surrounded than they, by mere physical
impulse, have over him. By virtue of his intelligence, I
also find, he is the only created being here below that can
take a general survey of the whole system. Is there one
among them, except man, who knows how to observe all
others? — to weigh, to calculate, to foresee their motions,
their effects, and to join, if I may so express myself, the
sentiment of a general existence to that of the individual?
What is there so very ridiculous then in supposing every
thing made for man, when he is the only created being who
knows how to consider the relation in which all things
stand to himself?
A SAVOYARD VICAR 263
It is then true that man is lord of the creation, — that
he is, at least, sovereign over the habitable earth; for it is
certain that he not only subdues all other animals, and even
disposes by his industry of the elements at his pleasure, but
he alone of all terrestrial beings knows how to subject to
his convenience, and even by contemplation to appropriate
to his use, the very stars and planets he cannot approach.
Let any one produce me an animal of another species who
knows how to make use of fire, or hath faculties to admire
the sun. What ! am I able to observe, to know other beings
and their relations, — am I capable of discovering what is
order, beauty, virtue, — of contemplating the universe, — of
elevating my ideas to the hand which governs the whole, —
am I capable of loving what is good and doing it, and shall I
compare myself to the brutes? Abject soul! it is your gloomy
philosophy alone that renders you at all like them. Or,
rather, it is in vain you would debase yourself. Your own
genius rises up against your principles; — your benevolent
heart gives the lie to your absurd doctrines, — and even the
abuse of your faculties demonstrates their excellence in
spite of yourself.
For my part, who have no system to maintain, who am
only a simple, honest man, attached to no party, unam-
bitious of being the founder of any sect, and contented with
the situation in which God hath placed me, I see nothing in
the world, except the deity, better than my own species ; and
were I left to choose my place in the order of created beings,
I see none that I could prefer to that of man.
This reflection, however, is less vain than affecting ; for my
state is not the effect of choice, and could not be due to the
merit of a being that did not before exist. Can I behold my-
self, nevertheless thus distinguished, without thinking my-
self happy in occupying so honorable a post; or without
blessing the hand that placed me here ? From the first view
I thus took of myself, my heart began to glow with a sense
of gratitude towards the author of our being; and hence
arose my first idea of the worship due to a beneficent deity.
I adore the supreme power, and melt into tenderness at his
goodness. I have no need to be taugnt artificial forms of
worship; the dictates of nature are sufficient. Is it not a
26i ROUSSEAU
natural consequence of self-love to fionor those who protect
us, and to love such as do us good?
But when I come afterwards to take a view of the par-
ticular rank and relation in which I stand, as an individual,
among the fellow-creatures of my species; to consider the
different ranks of society and the persons by whom they are
filled ; what a scene is presented to me ! Where is that order
and regularity before observed? The scenes of nature
present to my view the most perfect harmony and propor-
tion: those of mankind nothing but confusion and disorder.
The physical elements of things act in concert with each
other; the moral world alone is a chaos of discord. Mere
animals are happy; but man, their lord and sovereign, is
miserable! Where, Supreme Wisdom! are thy laws? Is
it thus, O Providence! thou governest the world? What
is become of thy power, thou Supreme Beneficence! when
I behold evil thus prevailing upon the earth?
Would you believe, my good friend, that from such gloomy
reflections and apparent contradictions, I should form to
myself more sublime ideas of the soul than ever resulted
from my former researches? In meditating on the nature
of man, I conceived that I discovered two distinct principles ;
the one raising him to the study of eternal truth, the love
of justice and moral beauty — bearing him aloft to the regions
of the intellectual world, the contemplation of which yields
the truest delight to the philosopher; the other debasing him
even below himself, subjecting him to the slavery of sense,
the tyranny of the passions, and exciting these to counteract
every noble and generous sentiment inspired by the former.
When I perceived myself hurried away by two such contrary
powers, I naturally concluded that man is not one simple and
individual substance. I will, and I will not; I perceive myself
at once free, and a slave; I see what is good, I admire it,
and yet I do the evil : I am active when I listen to my reason,
and passive when hurried away by my passions; while my
greatest uneasiness is to find, when fallen under temptations,
that I had the power of resisting them.
Attend, young man, with confidence to what I say; you
will find I shall never deceive you. If conscience be the
offspring of our prejudices, I am doubtless in the wrong,
A SAVOYARD VICAR 265
and moral virtue is not to be demonstrated; but if self-love,
which makes us prefer ourselves to every thing else, be
natural to man, and if nevertheless an innate sense of justice
be found in his heart, let those who imagine him to be a
simple uncompounded being reconcile these contradictions,
and I will give up my opinion and acknowledge him to be
one substance.
You will please to observe that by the word substance I
here mean, in general, a being possessed of some primitive
quality, abstracted from all particular or secondary modifica-
tions. Now, if all known primitive qualities may be united
in one and the same being, we have no need to admit of more
than one substance ; but if some of these qualities are incom-
patible with, and necessarily exclusive of each other, we must
admit of the existence of as many different substances as
there are such incompatible qualities. You will do well to
reflect on this subject. For my part, notwithstanding what
Mr. Locke hath said on this head, I need only to know that
matter is extended and divisible, to be assured that it cannot
think; and when a philosopher comes and tells me that trees
and rocks have thought and perception, he may, perhaps,
embarrass me with the subtlety of his arguments, but I can-
not help regarding him as a disingenuous sophist, who had
rather attribute sentiment to stocks and stones than acknow-
ledge men to have a soul.
Let us suppose that a man, born deaf, should deny the
reality of sounds, because his ears were never sensible of
them. To convince him of his error, I place a violin before
his eyes; and, by playing on another, concealed from him,
give a vibration to the strings of the former. This motion,
I tell him, is effected by sound.
" Not at all," says he, " the cause of the vibration of the
string, is in the string itself: it is a common quality in all
bodies so to vibrate."
" Show me then," I reply, u the same vibration in other
bodies; or at least, the cause of it in this string."
" I cannot," the deaf man may reply, " but wherefore
must I, because I do not conceive how this string vibrates,
attribute the cause to your pretended sounds, of which I
cannot entertain the least idea? This would be to attempt
266 ROUSSEAU
an explanation of one obscurity by another still greater.
Either make your sounds perceptible to me, or I shall con-
tinue to doubt their existence. ,,
The more I reflect on our capacity of thinking, and the
nature of the human understanding, the greater is the
resemblance I find between the arguments of our material-
ists and that of such a deaf man. They are, in effect, equally
deaf to that internal voice which, nevertheless, calls to them
so loud and emphatically. A mere machine is evidently in-
capable of thinking, it has neither motion nor figure pro-
ductive of reflection : whereas in man there exists some-
thing perpetually prone to expand, and to burst the fetters
by which it is confined. Space itself affords not bounds
to the human mind: the whole universe is not extensive
enough for man; his sentiments, his desires, his anxieties,
and even his pride, take rise from a principle different from
that body within which he perceives himself confined.
No material being can be self-active, and I perceive that
I am so. It is in vain to dispute with me so clear a point.
My own sentiment carries with it a stronger conviction than
any reason which can ever be brought against it. I have a
body on which other bodies act, and which acts reciprocally
upon them. This reciprocal action is indubitable ; but my will
is independent of my senses. I can either consent to, or re-
sist their impressions. I am either vanquished or victor, and
perceive clearly within myself when I act according to my
will, and when I submit to be governed by my passions. I
have always the power to will, though not the force to
execute it. When I give myself up to any temptation, I act
from the impulse of external objects. When I reproach my-
self for my weakness in so doing, I listen only to the dic-
tates of my will. I am a slave in my vices, and free in
my repentance. The sentiment of my liberty is effaced only
by my depravation, and when I prevent the voice of the soul
from being heard in opposition to the laws of the body.
All the knowledge I have of volition, is deduced from a
sense of my own ; and, of the understanding, my knowledge
is no greater. When I am asked what is the cause that
determines my will, I ask in my turn, what is the cause that
determines my judgment? for it is clear that these two
A SAVOYARD VICAR 267
causes make but one ; and if we conceive that man is active
in forming his judgment of things — that his understanding
is only a power of comparing and judging, we shall see that
his liberty is only a similar power, or one derived from
this — he chooses the good as he judges of the true, and for
the same reason as he deduces a false judgment, he makes
a bad choice. What then is the cause that determines his
will? It is his judgment. And what is the cause that de-
termines his judgment? It is his intelligent faculty, — his
power of judging. The determining cause lies in himself.
If we proceed beyond this point, I know nothing of the
matter.
Not that I can suppose myself at liberty not to will my
own good, or to will my own evil : but my liberty consists in
this very circumstance, that I am incapable to will any thing
but what is useful to me, or at least what appears so, without
any foreign object interfering in my determination. Does
it follow from hence that I am not my own master because
I am incapable of assuming another being, or of divesting
myself of what is essential to my existence?
The principle of all action lies in the will of a free being.
We can go no farther in search of its source. It is not the
word liberty that has no signification ; it is that of necessity.
To suppose any act or effect, which is not derived from an
active principle, is indeed to suppose effects without a cause.
Either there is no first impulse, or every first impulse can
have no prior cause ; nor can there be any such thing as will
without liberty. Man is, therefore, a free agent, and as
such animated by an immaterial substance. This is my
third article of faith. From these three first you may easily
deduce all the rest, without my continuing to number them.
If man be an active and free being, he acts of himself.
None of his spontaneous actions, therefore, enter into the
general system of Providence, nor can be imputed to it.
Providence doth not contrive the evil, which is the con-
sequence of man's abusing the liberty his creator gave him ;
it only doth not prevent it, either because the evil which
so impotent a being is capable of doing is beneath its notice,
or because it cannot prevent it without laying a restraint
upon his liberty, and causing a greater evil by debasing his
268 ROUSSEAU
nature. Providence hath left man at liberty, not that he
should do evil, but good, by choice. It hath capacitated him
to make such choice, in making a proper use of the fac-
ulties it hath bestowed on him. His powers, however, are at
the same time so limited and confined, that the use he makes
of his liberty is not of importance enough to disturb the
general order of the universe. The evil done by man falls
upon his own head, without making any change in the system
of the world, — without hindering the human species from
being preserved in spite of themselves. To complain, there-
fore, that God doth not prevent man from doing evil is,
in fact, to complain that he hath given a superior excellence
to human nature, — that he hath ennobled our actions by an-
nexing to them the merit of virtue.
The highest enjoyment is that of being contented with
ourselves. It is in order to deserve this contentment that
we are placed here on earth and endowed with liberty, —
that we are tempted by our passions, and restrained by con-
science. What could Omnipotence itself do more in our
favor? Could it have established a contradiction in our
nature, or have allotted a reward for well-doing to a
being incapable of doing ill? Is it necessary, in order to
prevent man from being wicked, to reduce all his faculties
to a simple instinct and make him a mere brute ? No ! never
can I reproach the Deity for having given me a soul made
in his own image, that I might be free, good, and happy like
himself.
It is the abuse of our faculties which makes us wicked and
miserable. Our cares, our anxieties, our griefs, are all
owing to ourselves. Moral evil is incontestibly our own
work, and physical evil would in fact be nothing, did not
our vices render us sensible of it. Is it not for our pres-
ervation that nature makes us sensible of our wants? Is
not pain of body an indication that the machine is out of
order, and a caution for us to provide a remedy? And as
to death, do not the wicked render both our lives and their
own miserable? Who can be desirous of living here for-
ever? Death is a remedy for all the evils we inflict on
ourselves. Nature will not let us suffer perpetually. To
how few evils are men subject who live in primeval sim-
A SAVOYARD VICAR 269
plicity! They hardly know any disease, and are irritated
by scarcely any passions. They neither foresee death, nor
suffer by the apprehensions of it. When it approaches, their
miseries render it desirable, and it is to them no evil. If
we could be contented with being what we are, we should
have no inducement to lament our fate; but we inflict on
ourselves a thousand real evils in seeking after an imaginary
happiness. Those who are impatient under trifling incon-
veniences, must expect to suffer much greater. In our
endeavors to reestablish by medicines a constitution impaired
by irregularities, we always add to the evil we feel, the
greater one which we fear. Our apprehensions of death
anticipate its horrors and hasten its approach. The faster
we endeavor to fly, the swifter it pursues us. Thus we are
terrified as long as we live, and die murmuring against
nature on account of those evils which we bring on ourselves
by doing outrage to her laws.
Enquire no longer then, who is the author of evil. Be-
hold him in yourself. There exists no other evil in nature
than what you either do or suffer, and you are equally the
author of both. A general evil could exist only in disorder,
but in the system of nature I see an established order, which
is never disturbed. Particular evil exists only in the senti-
ment of the suffering being; and this sentiment is not given
to man by nature, but is of his own acquisition. Pain and
sorrow have but little hold on those who, unaccustomed
to reflection, have neither memory nor foresight. Take
away our fatal improvements — take away our errors and our
vices — take away, in short, every thing that is the work of
man, and all that remains is good.
Where every thing is good, nothing can be unjust, justice
being inseparable from goodness. Now goodness is the
necessary effect of infinite power and self-love essential
to every being conscious of its existence. An omnipotent
Being extends its existence also, if I may so express my-
self, with that of its creatures. Production and preserva-
tion follow from the constant exertion of its power: it does
not act on non-existence. God is not the God of the dead,
but of the living. He cannot be mischievous or wicked with-
out hurting himself. A being capable of doing every thing
270 ROUSSEAU
cannot will to do any thing but what is good. He who
is infinitely good, therefore, because he is infinitely power-
ful, must also be supremely just, otherwise he would be
inconsistent with himself. For that love of order which pro-
duces it we call goodness, and that love of order which pre-
serves it is called justice.
God, it is said, owes nothing to his creatures. For my
part, I believe he owes them every thing he promised them
when he gave them being. Now what is less than to
promise them a blessing, if he gives them an idea of it, and
has so constituted them as to feel the want of it? The more
I look into myself, the more plainly I read these words
written in my soul : Be just and thou wilt be happy. I see
not the truth of this, however, in the present state of things,
wherein the wicked triumph and the just are trampled on
and oppressed. What indignation, hence, arises within us
to find that our hopes are frustrated ! Conscience itself
rises up and complains of its maker. It cries out to him,
lamenting, thou hast deceived me!
" I have deceived thee ! rash man ? Who hath told thee
so? Is thy soul annihilated? Dost thou cease to exist?
Oh, Brutus ! stain not a life of glory in the end. Leave not
thy honor and thy hopes with thy body in the fields of
Philippi. Wherefore dost thou say, virtue is a shadow,
when thou wilt yet enjoy the reward of thine own? Dost
thou imagine thou art going to die ? No ! thou art going
to live! and then will I make good every promise I have
made to thee."
One would be apt to think, from the murmurs of im-
patient mortals, that God owed them a recompense before
they had deserved it; and that he was obliged to reward
their virtue beforehand. No; let us first be virtuous, and
rest assured we shall sooner or later be happy. Let us not
require the prize before we have won the victory, nor de-
mand the price of our labor before the work be finished.
" It is not in the lists," says Plutarch, " that the victors at
our games are " crowned, but after the contests are over."
If the soul be immaterial, it may survive the body, and
if so, Providence is justified. Had I no other proof of the
immateriality of the soul, than the oppression of the just
A SAVOYARD VICAR 271
and the triumph of the wicked in this world, this alone would
prevent my having the least doubt of it. So shocking a dis-
cord amidst the general harmony of things, would make
me naturally look out for the cause. I should say to my-
self, we do not cease to exist with this life, — every thing re-
assumes its order after death. I should, indeed, be em-
barrassed to tell where man was to be found, when all his
perceptible properties were destroyed. At present, however,
there appears to me no difficulty in this point, as I acknowl-
edge the existence of two different substances. It is very
plain that during my corporeal life, as I perceive nothing
but by means of my senses, whatever is not submitted to their
cognizance must escape me. When the union of the body
and the soul is broken, I conceive that the one may be dis-
solved, and the other preserved entire. Why should the
dissolution of the one necessarily bring on that of the other?
On the contrary, being so different in their natures, their
state of union is a state of violence, and when it is broken
they both return to their natural situation. The active and
living substance regains all the force it had employed in
giving motion to the passive and dead substance to which
it had been united. Alas ! my failings make me but too
sensible that man is but half alive in this life, and that the
life of the soul commences at the death of the body.
But what is that life? Is the soul immortal in its own
nature? My limited comprehension is incapable of con-
ceiving any thing that is unlimited. Whatever we call
infinite is beyond my conception. What can I deny, or
affirm? — what arguments can I employ on a subject I cannot
conceive? I believe that the soul survives the body so long
as is necessary to justify Providence in the good order of
things; but who knows that this will be forever? I can
readily conceive how material bodies wear away and are
destroyed by the separation of their parts, but I cannot con-
ceive a like dissolution of a thinking being; and hence, as
I cannot imagine how it can die, I presume it cannot die
at all. This presumption, also, being consolatory and not
unreasonable, why should I be fearful to indulge it?
I feel that I have a soul: I know it both from thought
and sentiment: I know that it exists, without knowing its
272 ROUSSEAU
essence: I cannot reason, therefore, on ideas which I have
not. One thing, indeed, I know very well, which is, that the
identity of my being can be preserved only by the memory,
and that to be in fact the same person, I must remember to
have previously existed. Now I cannot recollect, after my
death, what I was during life, without also recollecting my
perceptions, and consequently my actions: and I doubt not
but this remembrance will one day constitute the happiness
of the just and the torment of the wicked. Here below, the
violence of our passions absorbs the innate sentiment of right
and wrong, and stifles remorse. The mortification and obloquy
which virtue often suffers in the world, may prevent our
being sensible of its charms. But when, delivered from
the delusions of sense, we shall enjoy the contemplation of
the Supreme Being, and those eternal truths of which he is
the source ; — when the beauty of the natural order of things
shall strike all the faculties of the soul, and when we shall
be employed solely in comparing what we have really done
with what we ought to have done, then will the voice of con-
science reassume its tone and strength; then will that pure
delight, which arises from a consciousness of virtue, and
the bitter regret of having debased ourselves by vice, deter-
mine the lot which is severally prepared for us. Ask me
not, my good friend, if there may not be some other causes
of future happiness and misery. I confess I am ignorant.
These, however, which I conceive, are sufficient to console
me under the inconveniencies of this life, and give me hopes
of another. I do not pretend to say that the virtuous will
receive any peculiar rewards ; for what other advantage can
a being, excellent in its own nature, expect than to exist in
a manner agreeable to the excellence of its constitution?
I dare affirm, nevertheless, that they will be happy: because
their Creator, the author of all justice, having given them
sensibility, cannot have made them to be miserable; and as
they have not abused their liberty on earth, they have not
perverted the design of their creation by their own fault:
yet, as they have suffered evils in this life, they will cer-
tainly be indemnified in another. This opinion is not so
much founded on the merits of a man, as on the notion of
that goodness which appears to me inseparable from the
A SAVOYARD VICAR 273
divine nature. I only suppose the order of things strictly
maintained, and that the Deity is ever consistent with
himself.
It would be to as little purpose to ask me whether the tor-
ments of the wicked will be eternal. On this subject I am
entirely ignorant, and have not the vain curiosity to perplex
myself with such useless disquisitions. Indeed, why should
I interest myself to discover their ultimate fate and destiny?
I can never believe, however, that they will be condemned
to everlasting torments.
If supreme justice avenges itself on the wicked, it avenges
itself on them here below. It is you and your errors, ye
nations ! that are its ministers of vengeance. It employs
the evils you bring on each other, to punish the crimes for
which you deserve them. It is in the insatiable hearts of
mankind, — corroding with en"vy, avarice, and ambition, —
that their avenging passions punish them for their vices,
amidst all the false appearances of prosperity. Where is
the necessity of seeking a hell in another life, when it is to
be found even in this, — in the hearts of the wicked.
Where our momentary necessities or senseless desires
have an end, there ought our passions and our vices to end
also. Of what perversity can pure spirits be susceptible?
As they stand in need of nothing, to what end should they
be vicious? If destitute of our grosser senses, can they
be desirous of any thing but good? Doth not their hap-
piness consist principally in contemplation, and is it pos-
sible that those who cease to be wicked should be eternally
miserable ?
This is what I am inclined to believe on this head, with-
out giving myself the trouble to determine positively con-
cerning the matter.
O righteous and merciful being! whatever be thy decrees,
I acknowledge their rectitude. If thou punishest the wicked,
my weak reason is dumb before thy justice. But if the
remorse of those unfortunate wretches is to have an end, —
if the same fate is one day to attend us all, — my soul exults
in thy praise. Is not the wicked man, after all, my brother?
How often have I been tempted to resemble him in par-
taking of his vices. O ! may he be delivered from his misery ;
274 ROUSSEAU
may he cast off, also, that malignity which accompanies it;
may he be ever as happy as myself; so far from exciting
my jealousy, his happiness will only add to my own.
It is thus by contemplating God in his works, and studying
him in those attributes which it imports me to know, that
I learn by degrees to extend that imperfect and confined idea
I had at first formed of the Supreme Being. But, if this
idea becomes thus more grand and noble, it is proportion-
ably less adapted to the weakness of the human understand-
ing. In proportion as my mind approaches eternal light,
its brightness dazzles and confounds me; so that I am forced
to give up all those mean and earthly images which assist
my imagination. God is no longer a corporeal and per-
ceptible being: the supreme Intelligence which governs the
world, is no longer the world itself; but in vain I endeavour
to elevate my thoughts to a conception of his essence. When
I reflect that it is he who gives life and activity to that
living and active substance which moves and governs
animated bodies, — when I am told that my soul is a spiritual
being, and that God is also a spirit, I am incensed at this
debasement of the divine essence, as if God and my soul
were of the same nature, as if God was not the only absolute,
the only truly active being, — perceiving, thinking and will-
ing of himself, — from whom his creatures derive thought,
activity, will, liberty, and existence. We are free only be-
cause it is his will that we should be so ; his inexplicable sub-
stance being, with respect to our souls, such as our souls are
in regard to our bodies. I know nothing of his having
created matter, bodies, spirits, or the world. The idea of
creation confounds me and surpasses my conception, though
I believe as much of it as I am able to conceive. But I know
that God hath formed the universe and all that exists, in the
most consummate order. He is doubtless eternal, but I am
incapacitated to conceive an idea of eternity. Why then
should I amuse myself with words? All that I conceive is,
that he existed before all things, that he exists with them,
and will exist after them, if they should ever have an end.
That a being, whose essence is inconceivable, should give
existence to other beings, is at best obscure and incom-
prehensible to our ideas; but that something and nothing
A SAVOYARD VICAR 27i
should be reciprocally converted into each other is a pal-
pable contradiction, a most manifest absurdity.
God is intelligent; but in what manner? Man is intelli-
gent by the act of reasoning, but the supreme intelligence
lies under no necessity to reason. He requires neither
premises nor consequences; nor even the simple form of a
proposition. His knowledge is purely intuitive. He beholds
equally what is and will be. All truths are to him as one
idea, as all places are but one point, and all times one
moment. Human power acts by the use of means, the divine
power in and of itself. God is powerful because he is will-
ing, his will constituting his power. God is good. Nothing
is more manifest than this truth. Goodness in man, however,
consists in a love to his fellow-creatures, and the goodness
of God in a love of order; for it is on such order that the
connexion and preservation of all things depend. Again,
God is just. This I am fully convinced of, as justice is the
natural consequence of goodness. The injustice of men
is their own work, not his; and that moral disorder, which
in the judgment of some philosophers makes against the
system of providence, is in mine the strongest argument
for it. Justice in man, indeed, is to render every one his
due: but the justice of God requires at the hands of every
one an account of the talents with which he has entrusted
them.
In the discovery by the force of reason, however, of those
divine attributes of which I have no absolute idea, I only
affirm what I do not clearly comprehend; which is in effect
to affirm nothing. I may say, it is true that, God is this or
that; I may be sensible of it and fully convinced within
myself, but I may yet be unable to conceive how, or in what
manner he is so.
In short, the greater efforts I make to contemplate his
infinite essence, the less I am able to conceive it. But I am
certain that he is, and that is sufficient. The more he sur-
passes my conceptions, the more I adore him. I humble
myself before him, and say :
" Being of beings ! I am, because thou art. To meditate
continually on thee is to elevate my thoughts to the fountain
of existence. The most meritorious use of my reason is to
276 ROUSSEAU
be annihilated before thee. It is the delight of my soul, to
feel my weak faculties overcome by the splendor of thy
greatness."
After having thus deduced this most important truth, from
the impressions of perceptible objects and that innate prin-
ciple which leads me to judge of natural causes from ex-
perience, it remains for me to inquire what maxims I ought
to draw therefrom for my conduct in life, — what rules I
ought to prescribe to myself, in order to fulfill my destiny
on earth agreeably to the design of him who placed me here.
To pursue my own method, I deduce these rules, not from
the sublime principles of philosophy, but find them written
in indelible characters on my heart. I have only to consult
myself concerning what I ought to do. All that I feel to
be right, is right: whatever I feel to be wrong, is wrong.
Conscience is the ablest of all casuists, and it is only when
we are trafficing with her, that we have recourse to the
subtilties of logical ratiocination. The chief of our con-
cerns is that of ourselves; yet how often have we not been
told by the monitor within, that to pursue our own interest
at the expense of others would be to do wrong! We im-
agine, thus, that we are sometimes obeying the impulse of
nature, and we are all the while resisting it. In listening
to the voice of our senses we turn a deaf ear to the dic-
tates of our hearts,- — the active being obeys, — the passive
being commands. Conscience is the voice of the soul, — the
passions are the voice of the body. Is it surprising that
these two voices should sometimes contradict each other, or
can it be doubted, when they do, which ought to be obeyed?
Reason deceives us but too often, and has given us a right
to distrust her conclusions; but conscience never deceives
us. She is to the soul what instinct 2 is to the body, — she is
2 Modern philosophy, which affects to admit of nothing but what it can
explain, hath nevertheless very unadvisedly admitted of that obscure faculty,
called instinct, which appears to direct animals to the purposes of their
being, without any acquisition of knowledge. Instinct, according to one of
our greatest philosophers, is a habit destitute of reflection, but acquired by
reflecting. Thus from the manner in which he explains its progress, we are
led to conclude that children reflect more than grown persons; a paradox
singular enough to require some examination. Without entering, however,
into the discussion of it at present, I would only ask what name I am to
give to that eagerness which my dog shows to pursue a mole, for instance,
which he does not eat when he has caught it; — to that patience with which
he stands watching for them whole hours, and to that expertness with
which he makes them a prey the moment they reach the surface of the
A SAVOYARD VICAR 277
man's truest and safest guide. Whoever puts himself under
the conduct of this guide pursues the direct path of nature,
and need not fear to be misled. This point is very impor-
tant, (pursued my benefactor, perceiving I was going to in-
terrupt him), permit me to detain you a little longer in order
to clear it up.
All the morality of our actions lies in the judgments we
ourselves form of them. If virtue be any thing real, it
ought to be the same in our hearts as in our actions; and
one of the first rewards of virtue is to be conscious of our
putting it in practice. If moral goodness be agreeable to
our nature, a man cannot be sound of mind or perfectly
constituted, unless he be good. On the contrary, if it be not
so and man is naturally wicked, he cannot become good
without a corruption of his nature ; goodness being contrary
to his constitution. Formed for the destruction of his fellow-
creatures, as the wolf is to devour its prey, an humane and
compassionate man would be as depraved an animal as a
meek and lamb-like wolf, while virtue only would leave be-
hind it the stings of remorse.
Let us examine ourselves, my young friend, all partiality
apart, and see which way our inclinations tend. Which is
most agreeable to us, to contemplate the happiness or the
miseries of others? Which is the most pleasing for us to
do, and leaves the most agreeable reflection after it, an act
of benevolence or of cruelty? For whom are we the most
deeply interested at our theatres? Do you take a pleasure
in acts of villainy? or do you shed tears at seeing the au-
thors of them brought to condign punishment? It has been
said that every thing is indifferent to us in which we are not
earth; and that in order only to kill them, without ever having been trained
to mole hunting, or having been taught that moles were beneath the spot?
I would ask further, as more important, why the first time I threaten the
same dog, he throws himself down with his back to the ground and his
feet raised in a suppliant attitude, the most proper of all others to excite
my compassion; an attitude in which he would not long remain if I were so
obdurate as to beat him lying in such a posture? Is it possible that a
young puppy can have already acquired moral ideas? Can he have any
notion of clemency and generosity? What experience can encourage him
to hope he shall appease me, by giving himself up to my mercy? Almost
all dogs do nearly the same thing in the same circumstances, nor do I
advance any thing here of which every one may not convince himself. Let
the philosophers, who reject so disdainfully the term instinct, explain this
fact merely by the operation of our senses, and the knowledge thereby
acquired; let them explain it, I say, in a manner satisfactory to any person
of common sense, and I have no more to say in favor of instinct.
278 ROUSSEAU
interested : the contrary, however, is certain ; as the soothing
endearments of friendship and humanity console us under
affliction; and even in our pleasures we should be too soli-
tary, too miserable, if we had nobody to partake them with
us. If there be nothing moral in the heart of man, whence
arise those transports of admiration and esteem we enter-
tain for heroic actions and great minds? What has this
virtuous enthusiasm to do with our private interest? Where-
fore do I rather wish to be an expiring Cato, than a trium-
phant Caesar? Deprive our hearts of a natural affection
for the sublime and beautiful, and you deprive us of all the
pleasures of life. The man whose meaner passions have
stifled in his narrow soul such delightful sentiments, — he
who by dint of concentrating all his affections within him-
self hath arrived at the pitch of having no regard for any
one else, is no longer capable of such transports. His
frozen heart never flutters with joy; no sympathetic tender-
ness brings the tears into his eyes; he is incapable of en-
joyment. The unhappy wretch is void of sensibility: he is
already dead.
But how great soever may be the number of the wicked,
there are but few of these cadaverous souls — but few per-
sons so insensible, if their own interest be set aside, to what
is just and good. Iniquity never pleases unless we profit by
it: in every other case it is natural for us to desire the pro-
tection of the innocent. When we see, for instance, in the
street or on the highway, an act of injustice or violence
committed, an emotion of resentment and indignation im-
mediately rises in the heart, and incites us to stand up in
defence of the injured and oppressed: but a more powerful
consideration restrains us, and the laws deprive individuals
of the right of taking upon themselves to avenge insulted
innocence. On the contrary, if we happen to be witnesses
to any act of compassion or generosity, with what admira-
tion, with what esteem are we instantly inspired! Who
is there that doth not, on such an occasion, say to himself,
would that I had done as much ! It is certainly of very
little consequence to us whether a man was good or bad
who lived two thousand years ago; and yet we are as much
affected in this respect by the relations we meet with in
A SAVOYARD VICAR 279
ancient history, as if the transactions recorded had hap-
pened in our own times. Of what hurt is the wickedness of
a Catiline to me? Am I afraid of falling a victim to his
villainy? Wherefore, then, do I look upon him with the
same horror as if he were my contemporary? We hate the
wicked not only because their vices are hurtful, but also
because they are wicked. We are not only desirous of
happiness for ourselves, but also for the happiness of others ;
and when that happiness doth not diminish ours, it neces-
sarily increases it. In a word, we cannot help sympathizing
with the unfortunate, and always suffer when we are wit-
nesses to their misery. The most perverse natures cannot
be altogether divested of this sympathy; though it frequently
causes them to act in contradiction to themselves. The rob-
ber who strips the passenger on the highway, will fre-
quently distribute his spoils to cover the nakedness of the
poor, and the most barbarous assassin may be induced hu-
manely to suppor.t a man falling into a fit.
We hear daily of the cries of remorse for secret crimes,
and frequently see remarkable instances of conscience bring-
ing these crimes to light. Alas ! who is a total stranger to
this importunate voice? We speak of it from experience,
and would be glad to silence so disagreeable a monitor.
But let us be obedient to nature. We know that her gov-
ernment is very mild and gracious, and that nothing is more
agreeable than the testimony of a good conscience, which
ever follows our observance of her laws. The wicked man
is afraid of, and shuns himself. He turns his eyes on
every side in search of objects to amuse him. Without an
opportunity for satire and raillery he would be always sad.
His only pleasure lies in mockery and insult. On the con-
trary, the serenity of the just is internal. His smiles are
not those of malignity but of joy. The source of them is
found in himself, and he is as cheerful when alone as in the
midst of an assembly. He derives not contentment from
those who approach him, but communicates it to them.
Cast your eye over the several nations of the world:
take a retrospective view of their various histories. Amidst
all the many inhuman and absurd forms of worship, — amidst
all that prodigious diversity of manners and characters,, — •
280 ROUSSEAU
you will everywhere find the same ideas of justice and
honesty, — the same notions of good and evil. Ancient pa-
ganism adopted the most abominable deities, which it would
have punished on earth as infamous criminals — deities that
presented no other picture of supreme happiness than the
commission of crimes, and the gratification of their passions.
But vice, armed even with sacred authority, descended in
vain on earth. Moral instinct influenced the human heart
to rebel against it. Even in celebrating the debaucheries
of Jupiter, the world admired and respected the con-
tinence of Xenocrates. The chaste Lucretia adored the
impudent Venus. The intrepid Roman sacrificed to Fear.
They invoked the god Jupiter who disabled his father Sat-
urn, and yet they died without murmuring by the hand of
their own. The most contemptible divinities were adored
by the noblest of men. The voice of nature, more power-
ful than that of the gods, made itself respected on earth, and
seemed to have banished vice to heaven.
There evidently exists, then, in the soul of man, an in-
nate principle of justice and goodness, by which, in spite
of our own maxims, we approve or condemn the actions
of ourselves and others. To this principle it is that I give
the appellation of conscience.
At this word, however, I hear the clamor of our pre-
tentious philosophers, who all exclaim about the mistakes
of infancy and the prejudices of education. There is noth-
ing, they say, in the human mind but what is instilled by
experience; nor can we judge of anything but from the
ideas we have acquired. Nay, they go farther, and venture
to reject the universal sense of all nations; seeking some
obscure example known only to themselves, to controvert
this striking uniformity in the judgment of mankind: as if
all the natural inclinations of the race were annihilated by
the depravation of one people, and as if when monsters
appeared the species itself were extinct. But what end
did it serve to the skeptical Montaigne, to take so much
trouble to discover in an obscure corner of the world a
custom opposed to the common notions of justice? What
end did it answer for him to place that confidence in the most
suspicious travellers which he refused to the most celebrated
A SAVOYARD VICAR 281
writers? Should a few whimsical and uncertain customs,
founded on local motives unknown to us, invalidate a gen-
eral induction drawn from the united concurrence of all
nations, contradicting each other in every other point and
agreeing only in this? You pique yourself, Montaigne, on
being ingenuous and sincere. Give us a proof, if it be in the
power of a philosopher, of your frankness and veracity. Tell
me if there be any country upon earth in which it is deemed a
crime to be sincere, compassionate, beneficent, and generous,
— in which an honest man is despicable, and knavery held
in esteem?
It is pretended that every one contributes to the public
good for his own interest; but whence comes it that the
virtuous man contributes to it to his prejudice? Can a man
lay down his life for his own interest? It is certain all our
actions are influenced by a view to our own good; but un-
less we take moral good into the account, none but the
actions of the wicked can ever be explained by motives of
private interest. We imagine, indeed, that no more will be
attempted; as that would be too abominable a kind of philo-
sophy, by which we should be puzzled to account for virtuous
actions; or could extricate ourselves out of the difficulty
only by attributing them to base designs and sinister views ; —
by debasing a Socrates and calumniating a Regulus. If ever
such doctrines should take rise among us, the voice of
nature as well as of reason would check their growth and
leave not even one of those who inculcate them the simple
excuse of being sincere.
It is not my design here to enter into such metaphysical
investigations, as surpass both your capacity and mine, and
which in fact are useless. I have already told you I would
not talk philosophy to you, but only assist you to consult
your own heart. Were all the philosophers in Europe to
prove me in the wrong, yet if you were sensible I was in
the right, I should desire nothing more.
To this end you need only to distinguish between our
acquired ideas and our natural sentiments, for we are sen-
sible before we are intelligent; and as we do not learn to
desire our own good and to avoid what is evil, but possess
this desire immediately from nature, so the love of virtue
282 ROUSSEAU
and hatred of vice are as natural as the love of ourselves.
The operations ot conscience are not intellectual, but senti-
mental ; for though all our ideas are acquired from without,
the sentiments which estimate them arise from within; and
it is by these alone that we know the agreement or disagree-
ment which exists between us and those things which we
ought to seek or shun.
To exist is, with us, to be sensible. Our sensibility is
incontestably prior to our intelligence, and we were pos-
sessed of sentiment before we formed ideas. Whatever
was the cause of our being, it hath provided for our preser-
vation in furnishing us with sentiments agreeable to our
constitution, nor can it possibly be denied that these at least
are innate.
These sentiments are, in the individual, — the love of him-
self, aversion to pain, dread of death, and the desire of
happiness. But if, as it cannot be doubted, man is by nature
a social being, or at least formed to become such, his
sociability absolutely requires that he should be furnished
with other innate sentiments relative to his species; for to
consider only the physical wants of men, it would certainly
be better for them to be dispersed than assembled.
Now it is from this moral system, — formed by its duplicate
relation to himself and his fellow creatures, that the im-
pulse of conscience arises. To know what is virtuous is
not to love virtue. Man has no innate knowledge of virtue;
but no sooner is it made known to him by reason, than con-
science induces him to love and admire it. This is the in-
nate sentiment I mean.
I cannot think it impossible therefore to explain, from
natural consequences, the immediate principle of conscience
independent of reason; and, though it were impossible, it is
not at all necessary; since those who reject this prin-
ciple (admitted, however, and acknowledged in general by
all mankind) do not prove its non-existence, but content
themselves with affirming it only. When we affirm that it
doth exist, we stand at least on as good a footing as they,
and have besides that internal testimony for us, — the voice
of conscience deposing in behalf of itself. If the first glim-
merings of the understanding dazzle our sight, and make
A SAVOYARD VICAR 283
objects appear at first obscure or confused, let us wait but a
little while till our eyes recover themselves and gather
strength, and we shall presently see, by the light of reason,
those same objects to be such as nature first presented them :
or rather, let us be more simple and less vain; let us con-
fine ourselves to the sentiments we first discovered, as it is
to these our well-regulated studies must always recur.
O Conscience ! Conscience ! thou divine instinct, thou
certain guide of an ignorant and confined, though intelligent
and free being; — thou infallible judge of good and evil, who
makest man to resemble the Deity. In thee consist the ex-
cellence of our nature and the morality of our actions.
Without thee I perceive nothing in myself that should ele-
vate me above the brutes, except the melancholy privilege
of wandering from error to error by the assistance of an
ill-regulated understanding and undisciplined reason.
Thank heaven, we are delivered from this formidable
apparatus of philosophy. We can be men without being
sages. Without spending our days in the study of morality,
we possess at a cheaper rate a more certain guide through
the immense and perplexing labyrinth of human opinions.
It is not enough, however, that such a guide exists, — it is
necessary to know and follow her. If she speaks to all
hearts, it may be said, how comes it that so few understand
her ? It is, alas ! because she speaks to us in the language
of nature, which every thing conspires to make us forget.
Conscience is timid, — she loves peace and retirement. The
world and its noises terrify her. The prejudices she has
been compelled to give rise to are her most cruel enemies,
before whom she is silent or avoids their presence. Their
louder voice entirely overpowers her's, and prevents her
being heard. Fanaticism counterfeits her nature, and dic-
tates in her name the greatest of crimes. Thus, from being
often rejected, she at length ceases to speak to us, and
answers not our inquiries after being long held in con-
tempt ; it also costs us as much trouble to recall, as it did at
first to banish her from our bosoms.
How often in my researches have I found myself fatigued
from my indifference ! How often hath uneasiness and dis-
gust, poisoning my meditations, rendered them insupport-
284 ROUSSEAU
able ! My insensible heart was susceptible only of a luke-
warm and languishing zeal for truth. I said to myself,
why should I take the trouble to seek after things that have
no existence? Virtue is a mere chimera, nor is there any
thing desirable but the pleasures of sense. When a man
hath once lost a taste for the pleasures of the mind, how
difficult to recover it! How much more difficult it also is
for one to acquire such a taste who never possessed it ! If
there be in the world a man so miserable as never in his
life to have done an action the remembrance of which must
make him satisfied with himself, that man must be ever in-
capable of such a taste; and for want of being able to
perceive that goodness which is conformable to his nature,
must of necessity remain wicked as he is, and eternally
miserable. But can you believe there exists on earth a human
creature so depraved as never to have given up his heart
to the inclination of doing good? The temptation is so
natural and seductive, that it is impossible always to resist
it, and the remembrance of the pleasure it hath once given
us is sufficient to commend it to us ever afterwards. Un-
happily, this propensity is at first difficult to gratify. There
are a thousand reasons for our not complying with the dic-
tates of our hearts. The false prudence of the world con-
fines our good inclinations to ourselves, and all our fortitude
is necessary to cast off the yoke. To take a pleasure in
virtue is the reward of having been virtuous, nor is this
prize to be obtained till it be merited.
Nothing is more amiable than virtue, but we must possess
it, in order to find it such. When we court at first its em-
braces, it assumes, like Proteus in the fable, a thousand
terrifying forms, and displays at last fis own only to those
who are tenacious of their hold.
Wavering perpetually between my natural sentiments,
tending to the general good of mankind, and my reason,
confining everything to my own, I should have remained all
my life in this continual dilemma, doing evil yet loving
good, in constant contradiction with myself, had not new
knowledge enlightened my heart; had not the truth, which
determined my opinions, directed also my conduct and ren-
dered me consistent.
A SAVOYARD VICAR 285
It is in vain to attempt the establishmment of virtue on
the foundation of reason alone. What solidity is there in
such a base? Virtue, it is said, is the love of order; but can
or ought this love of order to prevail over that of my own
happiness? Let there be given me a clear and sufficient
reason for my giving it the preference. This pretended
principle is at the bottom only a mere play upon words;
as I may as well say that vice also consists in the love of
order taken in a different sense. There is some kind of moral
order in every thing that has sentiment and intelligence.
The difference is that a good being regulates himself accord-
ing to the general order of things, and a wicked being regu-
lates things agreeably to his own private interest: the latter
makes himself the centre of all things, and the former
measures his radius and disposes himself in the circumfer-
ence. Here he is arranged, with respect to the common
centre, as God, and with respect to all concentric circles,
as his fellow creatures. If there be no God, the wicked
man only reasons right — the good man is a mere fool.
O my child! may you be one day sensible how great a
weight we are relieved from, when, having exhausted the
vanity of human opinions and tasted of the bitterness of
the passions, we see ourselves at last so near the path to
wisdom, — the reward of our good actions, and the source
of that happiness we had despaired of obtaining.
Every duty prescribed by the laws of nature, though al-
most effaced from my heart by the injustice of mankind,
again revived at the name of that eternal justice which im-
posed them, and was a witness to my discharge of them.
I see in myself nothing more than the work and instrument
of a superior being desirous of and doing good, desirous
also of effecting mine by the concurrence of my will to his
own, and by my making a right use of my liberty. I ac-
quiesce in the regularity and order he hath established, being
certain of enjoying one day or other that order in myself,
and of finding my happiness therein: for what can afford
greater felicity than to perceive one's self making a part
of a system where every thing is constructed aright? On
every occasion of pain or sorrow I support them with pa-
tience, reflecting that they are transitory and that they are
286 ROUSSEAU
derived from a body that is detached from myself. If I do
a good action in secret, I know that it is nevertheless seen,
and make the consideration of another life the rule of my
conduct in this. If I am ever dealt with unjustly I say to
myself, that just Being, who governs all things, knows how
to indemnify me. My corporeal necessities and the miseries
inseparable from this mortal life, make the apprehensions
of death more supportable. I have hence so many chains
the less to break when I am obliged to quit this mortal scene.
For what reason my soul is thus subjected to the organs
of sense and chained to a body which lays it under so much
restraint, I know not, nor presume to enter into the decrees
of the Almighty. But I may, without temerity, form a
modest conjecture or two on this subject. I reflect that, if
the mind of man had remained perfectly free and pure, what
merit could he have pretended to in admiring and pursuing
that order which he saw already established, and which he
would lie under no temptation to disturb? It is true he
would have been happy, but he could not have attained that
most sublime degree of felicity — the glory of virtue and the
testimony of a good conscience. We should in such a case
have been no better than the angels, and without doubt a
virtuous man will be one day much superior. Being united
on earth to a mortal body by ties not less powerful than
incomprehensible, the preservation of that body becomes the
great concern of the soul, and makes its present apparent in-
terests contrary to the general order of things, which it is
nevertheless capable of seeing and admiring. It is in this
situation that by making a good use of his liberty, it becomes
at once his merit and his reward; and that he prepares for
himself eternal happiness in combating his earthly passions,
and preserving the primitive purity of his will.
But even supposing that in our present state of depravity
our primitive propensities were such as they ought to be,
yet if all our vices are derived from ourselves, why do we
complain that we are subjected by them? Why do we im-
pute to the Creator those evils which we bring on ourselves,
and those enemies we arm against our own happiness ? Ah !
let us not spoil the man of nature, and he will always be
virtuous without constraint, and happy without remorse.
A SAVOYARD VICAR 287
The criminals who pretend they are compelled to sin, are as
false as they are wicked. Is it possible for them not to
see that the weakness they complain of is their own work;
that their first depravation was owing to their own will;
that by their willfully yielding at first to temptations, they
at length find them irresistible? It is true they now can-
not help their being weak and wicked; but it is their fault
that they at first became so. How easily might men pre-
serve the mastery over themselves and their passions
even during life if, before their vicious habits are ac-
quired, when the faculties of the mind are just beginning
to be displayed, they should employ themselves on those
objects which it is necessary for them to know in order to
judge of those which are unknown; if they were sincerely
desirous of acquiring knowledge, not with a view of making
a parade in the eyes of others, but in order to render them-
selves wise, good, and happy in the practice of their natural
duties ! This study appears difficult because we only apply
to it after being already corrupted by vice, and made
slaves to our passions. We place our judgment and esteem
on objects before we arrive at the knowledge of good and
evil, and then referring every thing to that false standard,
we hold nothing in its due estimation.
The heart, at a certain age, while it is yet free, eager,
restless, and anxious for happiness, is ever seeking it with
an impatient and uncertain curiosity; when deceived by
the senses, it fixes on the shadow of it, and imagines it to
be found where it doth not exist. This illusion hath pre-
vailed too long with me. I discovered it, alas ! too late ; and
have not been able entirely to remove it : no, it will remain
with me as long as this mortal body, which gave rise to it.
It may prove as seductive, however, as it will, it can no
longer deceive me. I know it for what it is, and even while
I am misled by it, despise it. So far from esteeming it an
object of happiness, I see it is an obstacle to it. Hence I
long for that moment when I shall shake off this incum-
brance of body and be myself, without inconsistency or par-
ticipation with matter, and shall depend on myself only to
be happy. In the mean time I make myself happy in this
life, because I hold the evils of life as trifling in themselves;
288 ROUSSEAU
as almost foreign to my being; and conceive at the same
time that all the real good which may thence be deduced
depends on myself.
To anticipate as much as possible that desirable state
of happiness, power and liberty, I exercise my mind in
sublime contemplations. I meditate on the order of the
universe, not indeed with a view to explain it by vain
systems, but to admire it perpetually and to adore its
all-wise Creator, whose features I trace in his workman-
ship. With him I am thus enabled to converse, and to exert
my faculties in the contemplation of his divine essence.
I am affected by his beneficence, I praise him for his
mercies, but never so far forget myself as to pray. For
what should I ask of him? That he should for my sake
pervert the order of things, and work miracles in my favor?
Shall I, who ought to love and admire above all things that
order which is established by his wisdom and maintained by
his providence, desire that such order should be broken for
me? No! such a rash petition would rather merit punish-
ment than acceptance. Nor can I pray to him for the
power of acting aright: for why should I petition for what
he hath already given me? Hath he not given me con-
science to love virtue, reason to know what it is, and
liberty to make it my choice? If I do evil, I have no ex-
cuse: I do it because I will. To desire him to change my
will, is to require that of him which he requires of me.
This would be to desire him to do my work, while I receive
the reward. Not to be content with my situation in the
order of things, is to desire to be no longer a man; it is
to wish that things were otherwise constituted than they
are, — to wish for evil and disorder. No, thou source of
justice and truth, God ! merciful and just ! placing my con-
fidence in thee, the chief desire of my heart is that thy will
be done. By rendering my will conformable to thine, I
act as thou dost, — I acquiesce in thy goodness, and conceive
myself already a partaker of that supreme felicity which
is its reward.
The only thing which, under a just diffidence of myself,
I request of him, or rather expect from his justice, is that
he will correct my errors when I go astray. To be sincere,
A SAVOYARD VICAR 289
however, I do not think my judgment infallible: such of my
opinions as seem to be the best founded may, nevertheless,
be false; for what man hath not his opinions, and how
few are there who agree in every thing? It is to no pur-
pose that the illusions by which I am misled arise from my-
self; it is he alone who can dissipate them. I have done
every thing in my power to arrive at truth; but its source
is elevated beyond my reach. If my faculties fail me, in
what am I culpable? Is it not then necessary for 1 truth to
stoop to my capacity?
The good priest spoke with much earnestness: he was
deeply moved, and I was also greatly affected. I imagined
myself attending to the divine Orpheus singing his hymns
and teaching mankind the worship of the gods. A number
of objections, however, to what he had said, suggested
themselves; though I did not urge one, as they were less
solid than perplexing; and though not convinced, I was
nevertheless persuaded he was in the right. In proportion
as he spoke to me from the conviction of his own con-
science, mine confirmed me in the truth of what he said.
The sentiments you have been delivering, said I to him,
appear newer to me in what you confess yourself ignorant
of, than in what you profess to believe. I see in the latter
a resemblance to that theism or natural religion which
Christians affect to confound with atheism and impiety,
though in fact diametrically opposite. In the present con-
dition of my mind I find it difficult to adopt precisely your
opinions and to be as wise as you. To be at least as sincere,
however, I will consult my own conscience on these points.
It is that internal sentiment which, according to your
example, ought to be my monitor; and you have yourself
taught me that, after having imposed silence on it for a long
time, it is not to be awakened again in a moment. I will
treasure up your discourse in my heart and meditate there-
on. If I am as much convinced as you are, after I have
duly weighed it, I will trust you as my apostle and will be
your proselyte till death. Go on, however, to instruct me.
You have only informed me of half I ought to know. Give
me your thoughts on revelation, the scriptures, and those
mysterious doctrines concerning which I have been in the dark
(J) HC— Vol. 34
290 ROUSSEAU
from my infancy, without being able to conceive or believe
them, and yet not knowing how to either admit or reject
them.
Yes, my dear child, (said he), I will proceed to tell you
what I think further. I meant not to open my heart to you
by halves : but the desire which you express to be informed
in these particulars, was necessary to authorize me to be
totally without reserve. I have hitherto told you nothing
but what I thought might be useful to you, and in the truth
of which I am most firmly persuaded. The examination
which I am How going to make is very different; pre-
senting to my view nothing but perplexity, mysteriousness,
and obscurity. I enter on it, therefore, with distrust and
uncertainty. I almost tremble to determine about any
thing, and shall, therefore, rather inform you of my doubts
than of my opinions. Were your own sentiments more
confirmed, I should hesitate to acquaint you with mine;
but in your present skeptical situation, you will be a gainer
by thinking as I do. Let my discourse, however, carry with
it no greater authority than that of reason, for I frankly
confess myself ignorant as to whether I am in the right
or wrong. It is difficult, indeed, in all discussions, not
to assume sometimes an affirmative tone; but remember
that all my affirmations, in treating these matters, are only
so many rational doubts. I leave you to investigate the
truth of them. On my part, I can only promise to be
sincere.
You will find that my exposition treats of nothing more
than natural religion. It is very strange that we should
stand in need of any other ! By what means can I find out
such necessity? In what respect can I be culpable for
serving God agreeably to the dictates of the understanding
he hath given me, and the sentiments he hath implanted
in my heart? What purity of morals, what system of faith
useful to man, or honorable to his Creator, can I deduce
from any positive doctrines, that I cannot deduce equally as
well from a good use of my natural faculties? Let any
one show me what can be added, either for the glory of God,
the good of society, or my own advantage, to the obliga-
A SAVOYARD VICAR 291
tions we are laid under by nature. Let him show me what
virtue can be produced from any new worship, which is
not also the consequence of mine. The most sublime ideas
of the Deity are inculcated by reason alone. Take a view
of the works of nature, listen to the voice within, and then
tell me what God hath omitted to say to your sight, your
conscience, your understanding? Where are the men who
can tell us more of him than he thus tells us of himself?
Their revelations only debase the Deity, in ascribing to him
human passions. So far from giving as enlightened notions
of the Supreme Being, their particular tenets, in my
opinion, give us the most obscure and confused ideas. To
the inconceivable mysteries by which the Deity is hid from
our view, they add the most absurd contradictions. They
serve to make man proud, persecuting, and cruel. Instead
of establishing peace on earth, they bring fire and sword.
I ask myself what good purpose all this contention serves,
without being able to resolve the question. Artificial
religion presents to my view only the wickedness and
miseries of mankind.
I am told, indeed, that revelation is necessary to teach
mankind the manner in which God should be served. As
a proof of this, they bring the diversity of whimsical modes
of worship which prevail in the world; and that without
remarking that this very diversity arises from the practice
of adopting revelations. Ever since men have taken it
into their heads to make the Deity speak, every people make
him speak in their own way, and say what they like best.
Had they listened only to what the Deity hath said to their
hearts, there would have been but one religion on earth.
It is necessary that the worship of God should be uniform;
I would have it so: but is this a point so very important
that the whole apparatus of divine power was necessary
to establish it? Let us not confound the ceremonials of
religion with religion itself. The worship of God demands
that of the heart; and this, when it is sincere, is ever
uniform. Men must entertain very ridiculous notions of the
Deity, indeed, if they imagine he can interest himself in the
gown or cassock of a priest, — in the order of words he pro-
nounces, or in the gestures and genuflexions he makes at
292 ROUSSEAU
the altar. Alas! my friend, where is the use of kneeling?
Stand as upright as you may, you will always be near
enough to the earth. God requires to be worshipped in
spirit and in truth. This is a duty incumbent on men
of all religions and countries. With regard to exterior
forms, if their uniformity be expedient for the sake of
peace and good order, it is merely an affair of government;
the administration of which surely requires not the aid
of revelation.
I did not set out at first with these reflections. Hurried
on by the prejudices of education, and by that dangerous
self-conceit which ever elates mankind above their sphere,
as I could not raise my feeble conceptions to the Supreme
Being, I foolishly endeavored to debase him to my ideas.
Thus I connected relations infinitely distant from each
other, comparing the incomprehensible nature of the deity
with my own. I required still further a more immediate
communication with the Divinity, and more particular instruc-
tions concerning his will. Not content with reducing God
to a similitude with man, I wanted to be further dis-
tinguished by his favor, and to enjoy supernatural lights.
I longed for an exclusive and peculiar privilege of adora-
tion, and that God should have revealed to me what he had
kept secret from others, or that others should not understand
his revelations so well as myself.
Looking on the point at which I had arrived, — at that
whence all believers set out in order to reach an enlightened
mode of worship, I regarded natural religion only as the
elements of all religion. I took a survey of that variety of
sects which are scattered over the face of the earth, and
who mutually accuse each other of falsehood and error.
I asked which of them was right?
Every one of them in their turn answered theirs. I and
my partisans only think truly; all the rest are mistaken.
But, how do you knozv that your sect is in the right?
Because God hath declared so.
And who tells you that God hath so declared!
My spiritual guide, who knows it well. My pastor tells
me to believe so and so, and accordingly I believe it; he
assures me that every one who says to the contrary speaks
A SAVOYARD VICAR 293
falsely; and, therefore, I listen to nobody who controverts
his doctrine. 8
How, thought I, is not the truth every where the same?
Is it possible that what is true with one person can be false
with another? If the method taken by him who is in the
right, and by him who is in the wrong, be the same, what
merit or demerit hath the one more than the other?
Their choice is the effect of accident, and to impute
it to them is unjust: — it is to reward or punish them for
being born in this or that country. To say that the Deity
can judge us in this manner is the highest impeachment of
his justice.
Now, either all religions are good and agreeable to God,
or if there be one which he hath dictated to man, and will
punish him for rejecting, he hath certainly distinguished it
by manifest signs and tokens as the only true one. These
signs are common to all times and places, and are equally
obvious to all mankind — to the young and old, the learned
and ignorant, to Europeans, Indians, Africans, and Savages.
If there be only one religion in the world that can pre-
sent our suffering eternal damnation, and there be on any
part of the earth a single mortal who is sincere, and is not
convinced by its evidence, the God of that religion must be
the most iniquitous and cruel of tyrants. Would we seek
the truth therefore in sincerity, we must lay no stress on
the place or circumstance of our birth, nor on the authority
of fathers and teachers; but apeal to the dictates of reason
and conscience concerning every thing that is taught us in
our youth. It is to no purpose to bid me subject my reason
to the truth of things of which it is incapable of judging.
The man who would impose on me a falsehood, may bid
me do the same. It is necessary, therefore, I should employ
my reason even to know when it ought to submit.
3 All of them, says a certain wise and good priest, pretend that they
derive their doctrines not from men, nor from any created being, but from
God. But to say truth, without flattery or disguise, there is nothing in such
pretentions: however they may talk, they owe their religion to human means.
Witness the manner in which they first adopt it. The nation, country and
place where they are born and bred determine it. Are we not circumcised
or baptized, — made Jews, Turks, or Christians before we are men? Our
religion is not the effect of choice; witness our lives and manners so little
accordant to it; witness how we act contrary to the tenets of it on the most
trifling occasions. — Charron, on Wisdom.
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All the theology I am myself capable of acquiring, by
taking a prospect of the universe ^and by the proper use of
my faculties, is confined to what I have here laid down. To
know more, we must have recourse to extraordinary means.
These means cannot depend on the authority of men: for
as all men are of the same species as myself, whatever
another can by natural means come to the knowledge of, I
can do the same ; and another man is as liable to be deceived
as I am. When I believe, therefore, what he says, it is not
because he says it, but because he proves it. The testimony
of mankind, therefore, is really that of my reason, and adds
nothing to the natural means God hath given me for the
discovery of the truth.
What then can even the apostle of truth have to tell
me, of which I am not still to judge?
But God himself hath spoken; listen to the voice of
revelation.
That, indeed, is another thing. God hath spoken! This
is saying a great deal: but to whom hath he spoken?
He hath spoken to man.
How comes it then that I heard nothing of it?
He hath appointed others to teach you his word.
I understand you. There are certain men who are to tell
me what God hath said. I had much rather have heard it
from himself. This, had he so pleased, he could easily have
done; and I should then have run no risk of deception.
Will it be said I am secured from that by his manifesting
the mission of his messengers by miracles? Where are
those miracles to be seen? Are they related only in books?
Pray, who wrote those books?
Men.
Who were witnesses to these miracles?
Men.
Always human testimony! It is always men who tell
me what other men have told them. What a number of
those are constantly between me and the Deity! We are
always reduced to the necessity of examining, comparing,
and verifying such evidence. O ! that God had deigned
to have saved me all this anxiety! Should I in that case
have served him with a less willing heart?
A SAVOYARD VICAR 295
Consider, my friend, in what a terrible discussion I am
already engaged; what immense erudition I stand in need
of to recur back to the earliest antiquity — to examine, to
weigh, to confront prophecies, revelations, facts, with all
the monuments of faith that have made their appearance
in all the countries of the world; to ascertain their time,
place, authors, and occasions. How great the critical saga-
city which is requisite to enable me to distinguish
between pieces that are suppositious, and those
which are authentic; to compare objections with their
replies, translations with their originals; to judge of the
impartiality of witnesses, of their good sense, of their
capacity; to know if nothing be suppressed or added to
their testimony, if nothing be changed, transposed, or falsi-
fied; to obviate the contradictions that remain, to judge what
weight we ought to ascribe to the silence of our opponents
in regard to facts alleged against them ; to discover whether
such allegations were known to them; whether they did
not disdain them too much to make any reply; whether
books were common enough for ours to reach them; or, if
we were honest enough to let them have free circulation
among us, and to leave their strongest objections in full
force.
Again, supposing that all these monuments of faith are
acknowledged to be incontestable, we must proceed to
examine the proofs of the mission of their authors. It
would be -necessary for us to be perfectly acquainted with
the laws of chance and the doctrine of probabilities, to
judge correctly what prediction could not be accomplished
without a miracle; to know the genius of the original
languages, in order to distinguish what is predictive in these
languages and what is only figurative. It would be requisite
for us to know what facts are agreeable to the established
order of nature, and what are not so; to be able to say
how far an artful man may not fascinate the eyes of the
simple, and even astonish the most enlightened spectators;
to know of what kind a miracle should be, and the authen-
ticity it ought to bear, not only to claim our belief, but to
make it criminal to doubt it; to compare the proofs of false
and true miracles, and discover the certain means of dis-
296 ROUSSEAU
tinguishing them; and after all to tell why the Deity should
choose, in order to confirm the truth of his word, to make
use of means which in their turn require confirmation, as
if he took delight in playing upon the credulity of mankind,
and had purposely avoided the direct means to persuade
them.
Suppose that the divine majesty hath really condescended
to make man the organ of promulgating its sacred will, is
it reasonable, is it just, to require all mankind to obey the
voice of such a minister, without his making himself known
to be such? Where is the equity or propriety in furnishing
him, for universal credentials, with only a few particular
tokens displayed before a handful of obscure persons, and
of which all the rest of mankind know nothing but by
hearsay? In every country in the world, if we should be-
lieve all the prodigies to be true which the common people
and the ignorant affirm to have seen, every sect would be
in the right; there would be more miraculous events than
natural ones; and the greatest miracle of all would be to
find that no miracles had happened where fanaticism had
been persecuted.
The Supreme Being is best displayed by the fixed and un-
alterable order of nature. If there should happen many
exceptions to such general laws, I should no longer know
what to think; and for my part, I must confess I believe
too much in God to believe in so many miracles so little
worthy of him.
What if a man should come and harangue us in the
following manner:
" I come, ye mortals, to announce to you the will of the
most high. Acknowledge in my voice that of him who sent
me. I command the sun to move backwards, the stars to
change their places, the mountains to disappear, the waves
to remain fixed on high, and the earth to wear a different
aspect."
Who would not, at the sight of such miracles, immediately
attribute them to the author of nature?
Nature is not obedient to impostors. Their miracles are
always performed in the highways, in the fields, or in apart-
ments where they are displayed before a small number of
A SAVOYARD VICAR 297
spectators, previously disposed to believe every thing they
see.
Who is there that will venture to decide how many eye-
witnesses are necessary to render a miracle worthy of
credit? If the miracles, intended to prove the truth of your
doctrine, stand themselves in need of proof, of what use
are they? Their performance might as well have been
omitted.
The most important examination after all remains to
be made into the truth of the doctrines delivered; for as
those who say that God is pleased to work these miracles,
pretend that the devil sometimes imitates them, we are
no nearer a decision than before, though such miracles
should be ever so well attested. As the magicians of
Pharaoh worked the same miracles, even in the presence
of Moses, as he himself performed by the express command
of God, why might not they, in his absence, from the same
proofs, pretend to the same authority? Thus after proving
the truth of the doctrine by the miracle, you are reduced
to the necessity of proving the truth of the miracle by that
of the doctrine, 4 lest the works of the devil should be mis-
taken for those of the Lord. What think you of this
alternative?
The doctrines coming from God, ought to bear the sacred
characters of the divinity; and should not only clear up
those confused ideas which unenlightened reason excites
4 This is expressly mentioned in many places in scripture, particularly in
Deuteronomy, chap, xiii., where it is said that, if a prophet, teaching the
worship of strange Gods, confirm his discourse by signs and wonders, and
what he foretells really comes to pass, so far from paying any regard to his
mission, the people should stone him to death. When the Pagans, there-
fore, put the Apostles to death, for preaching up to them the worship of
a strange God, proving their divine mission by prophesies and miracles, I
see not what could be objected to them, which they might not with equal
justice have retorted upon us. Now, what is to be done in this case?
There is but one step to be taken, to recur to reason and leave miracles to
themselves: better indeed had it been never to have had recourse to them,
nor to have perplexed good sense with such a number of subtle distinctions.
What! do I talk of subtle distinctions in Christianity? K there are such,
our Saviour was in the wrong surely to promise the Kingdom of Heaven
to the weak and simple! How came he to begin his fine discourse on the
Mount, with blessing the poor in spirit, if it requires so much ingenuity to
comprehend and believe his doctrines? When you prove that I ought to
subject my reason to his dictates, it is very well; but to prove that, you
must render them intelligible to my understanding; you must adapt your
arguments to the poverty of my genius, or I shall not acknowledge you to
be the true disciple of your Master, or think that it is his doctrines which
you would inculcate.
298 ROUSSEAU
in the mind, but should also furnish us with a system of
religion and morals agreeable to those attributes by which
only we form a conception of his essence. If then they
teach us any absurdities, if they inspire us with the senti-
ments of aversion for our fellow-creatures and fear for
ourselves ; if they describe the Deity as a vindictive, partial,
jealous and angry being; as a God of war and of battles,
always ready to thunder and destroy; always threatening
slaughter and revenge, and even boasting of punishing
the innocent, my heart cannot be incited to love so terrible a
Deity, and I shall take care how I give up my natural
religion to embrace such doctrines.
I should say to the advocates and professors of such a
religion :
" Your God is not mine ! A Being who began his dis-
pensations with partiality, selecting one people and proscrib-
ing the rest of mankind, is not the common father of the
human race ; a Being who destines to eternal punishment the
greater part of his creatures, is not that good and merciful
God who is pointed out by my reason."
With regard to articles of faith, my reason tells me they
should be clear, perspicuous, and evident. If natural religion
be insufficient, it is owing to the obscurity in which it neces-
sarily leaves those sublime truths it professes to teach. It
is the business of revelation to exhibit them to the mind in a
more clear and sensible manner; to adapt them to our un-
derstanding, and to enable us to conceive, in order that we
may be capable of believing them. True faith is assured
and confirmed by the understanding. The best of all relig-
ions is undoubtedly the clearest. That which is clouded
with mysteries and contradictions, the worship that is to be
taught me by preaching, teaches me by that very circum-
stance to distrust it The God whom I adore is not a God
of darkness; he hath not given me an understanding to for-
bid me the use of it. To bid me give up my reason, is to
insult the author of it. The minister of truth doth not
tyrannize over my understanding, — he enlightens it.
We have set aside all human authority, and without it,
I cannot see how one man can convince another by preach-
A SAVOYARD VICAR 299
ing to him an unreasonable doctrine. Let us suppose two
persons engaged in a dispute on this head, and see how they
will express themselves in the language generally made use
of on such occasions.
Dogmatist. — Your reason tells you that the whole is
greater than a part, but I tell you from God, that a part is
greater than the whole.
R'ATionalist. — And who are you, that dare to tell me God
contradicts himself? In whom shall I rather believe; in
him who instructs me in the knowledge of eternal truths by
means of reason, or in you who in his name would impose
on me the greatest absurdities?
Dogmatist. — In me, for my instructions are more positive,
and I will prove to you incontestably that he hath sent me.
Rationalist. — How ! will you prove that God hath sent
you to depose against himself? What sort of proofs can
you bring to convince me it is more certain that God speaks
by your mouth, than by the understanding he hath given me ?
Dogmatist. — The understanding he hath given you !
Ridiculous and contemptible man ! You talk as if you were
the first infidel who was ever misled by an understanding
depraved by sin.
Rationalist. — Nor may you, man of God! be the first
knave whose impudence hath been the only proof he could
give of his divine mission.
Dogmatist. — How ! can Philosophers be thus abusive ?
Rationalist. — Sometimes, when Saints set them the ex-
ample.
Dogmatist. — Oh ! but I am authorized to abuse you. I
speak on the part of God Almighty.
Rationalist. — It would not be improper, however, to
produce your credentials before you assume your privileges.
Dogmatist. — My credentials are sufficiently authenticated.
Both heaven and earth are witnesses in my favor. Attend,
I pray you, to my arguments.
Rationalist. — Arguments ! why, you surely do not pre-
tend to any ! To tell me that my reason is fallacious, is to
refute whatever it may say in your favor. Whoever refuses
to abide by the dictates of reason, ought to be able to con-
vince without making use of it. For, supposing that in the
300 ROUSSEAU
course of your arguments you should convince me, how
shall I know whether it be not through the fallacy of reason
depraved by sin, that I acquiesce in what you affirm? Be-
sides, what proof, what demonstration, can you ever employ
more evident than the axiom which destroys it? It is fully
as credible that a just syllogism should be false, as that a
part is greater than the whole.
Dogmatist. — What a difference ! My proofs admit of no
reply; they are of a supernatural kind.
Rationalist. — Supernatural ! What is the meaning of
that term? I do not understand it?
Dogmatist. — Contraventions of the order of nature;
prophecies, miracles, and prodigies of every kind.
Rationalist. — Prodigies and miracles ! I have never seen
any of these things.
Dogmatist. — No matter; others have seen them for you.
We can bring clouds of witnesses — the testimony of whole
nations —
Rationalist. — The testimony of whole nations! Is that
a proof of the supernatural kind?
Dogmatist. — No ! But when it is unanimous it is incon-
testable.
Rationalist. — There is nothing more incontestable than
the dictates of reason, nor can the testimony of aU mankind
prove the truth of an absurdity. Let us see some of your
supernatural truths then, as the attestation of men is not so.
Dogmatist. — Infidel wretch ! It is plain that the grace of
God doth not speak to thy understanding.
Rationalist. — Whose fault is that? Not mine; for, ac-
cording to you, it is necessary to be enlightened by grace to
know how to ask for it. Begin then, and speak to me in its
stead.
Dogmatist. — Is not this what I am doing? But you will
not hear. What do you say to prophecies?
Rationalist. — As to prophecies; I say, in the first place,
I have heard as few of them as I have seen miracles; and
in the second, I say that no prophecy bears any weight with
me.
Dogmatist. — Thou disciple of Satan ! And why have
prophecies no weight with you?.
A SAVOYARD VICAR 301
Rationalist. — Because, to give them such weight requires
three things, the concurrence of which is impossible. These
are, that I should in the first place be a witness to the delivery
of the prophecy; next, that I should be witness also to the
event ; lastly, that it should be clearly demonstrated to me that
such event could not have occurred by accident. For, though
a prophecy were as precise, clear, and determinate as an
axiom of geometry, yet as the perspicuity of a prediction
made at random does not render the accomplishment of it
impossible, that accomplishment when it happens proves
nothing in fact concerning the fore-knowledge of him who
predicted it. You see, therefore, to what your pretended
supernatural proofs, your miracles, and your prophecies re-
duce us: — to the folly of believing them all on the credit
of others, and of submitting the authority of God speaking
to our reason, to that of man. If those eternal truths, of
which my understanding forms the strongest conception, can
possibly be false, I can have no hope of ever arriving at
certitude; and so far from being capable of being assured
that you speak to me from God, I cannot even be assured of
his existence.
You see, my child, how many difficulties must be re-
moved before our disputants can agree; nor are these all.
Among so many different religions, each of which proscribes
and excludes the other, one only can be true; if, indeed,
there be such a one among them all. Now, to discover which
this is, it is not enough to examine that one; it is necessary
to examine them all, as we should not, on any occasion
whatever, condemn without a hearing. It is necessary to
compare objections with proofs, and to know what each
objects to in the others, as well as what the others have to
say in their defence. The more clearly any sentiment or
opinion appears demonstrated, the more narrowly it be-
hooves us to inquire, what are the reasons which prevent
its opponents from subscribing to it?
We must be very simple indeed, to think that an attention
to the theologists of our own party sufficient to instruct us in
what our adversaries have to offer. Where shall we find
divines* of any persuasion, perfectly candid and honest? Do
302 ROUSSEAU
they not all begin to weaken the arguments of their oppo-
nents before they proceed to refute them? Each is the
oracle of his party, and makes a great figure among his own
partisans, with such proofs as would expose him to ridicule
among those of a different persuasion.
Are you desirous of gaining information from books?
What a fund of erudition will not this require ! How many
languages must you learn ! How many libraries must you
turn over ! And who is to direct you in the choice of the
books? There are hardly to be found in any one country
the best books on the contrary side of the question, and still
less is it to be expected that we should find books on all
sides. The writings of the adverse and absent party, were
they found also, would be very easily refuted. The absent
are always in the wrong ; and the most weak and insufficient
arguments laid down with a confident assurance, easily efface
the most sensible and valid, when exposed with contempt.
Add to all this, that nothing is more fallacious than books,
nor exhibit less faithfully the sentiments of their writers.
The judgment which you formed, for instance, of the Roman
Catholic religion, from the treatise of Bossuet, was very
different from that which you acquired by residing among us.
You have seen that the doctrines we maintain in our contro-
versies with the Protestants, are not those which are taught
the common people; and that Bossuet's book by no means
resembles the instructions delivered from the pulpit.
To form a proper judgment of any religion, we are not to
deduce its tenets from the books of its professors; we must
go and learn it among the people. Each sect have their
peculiar traditions, — their customs, prejudices, and modes
of acceptation, which constitute the peculiar mode of their
faith. This should air be taken into consideration when we
form a judgment of their religion.
How many considerable nations are there who print no
books of their own, and read none of ours? How are they
to judge of our opinions, or we of theirs? We laugh at
them — they despise us ; and though our travellers have turned
them into ridicule, they need only to travel among us, to
ridicule us in their turn. In what country are there not to
be found men of sense and sincerity, friends of humanity,
A SAVOYARD VICAR 303
who require only to know truth, in order to embrace it?
And yet every one imagines that truth is confined to his own
particular system, and thinks that the religion of all other
nations in the world is absurd. These foreign modes, there-
fore, cannot be in reality so very absurd as they appear, or
the apparent reasonableness of ours is less real.
We have three principal religions in Europe. One admits
only of one revelation, another of two, and the third of
three. Each holds the other in detestation, anathematizes
its possessors, accuses them of ignorance, obstinacy, and
falsehood. What impartial person will presume to decide
between them, without having first examined their proofs
and heard their reasons? That which admits only of one
revelation is the most ancient and seems the least disputable;
that which admits of three is the most modern and seems
to be the most consistent; that which admits of two and
rejects the third, may possibly be the best, but it hath cer-
tainly every prepossession against it — its inconsistency stares
one full in the face.
In all these three revelations, the sacred books are written
in languages unknown to the people who believe in them.
The Jews no longer understand Hebrew; the Christians
neither Greek nor Hebrew; the Turks and Persians under-
stand no Arabic, and even the modern Arabs themselves
speak not the language of Mahomet. Is not this a very
simple manner of instructing mankind, by talking to them
always in a language which they do not comprehend? But
these books, it will be said, are translated; a most unsatis-
factory answer, indeed ! Who can assure me that they are
translated faithfully, or that it is even possible they should
be so? Who can give me a sufficient reason why God, when
he hath a mind to speak to mankind, should stand in need
of an interpreter?
I can never conceive that what every man is indispensably
obliged to know can be shut up in these books; or that he
who is incapacitated to understand them, or the persons who
explain them, will be punished for involuntary ignorance.
But we are always plaguing ourselves with books. What a
frenzy ! Because Europe is full of books, the Europeans
conceive them to be indispensable, without reflecting that
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three-fourths of the world know nothing at all about them.
Are not all books written by men? How greatly, therefore,
must man have stood in need of them, to instruct him in his
duty, and by what means did he come to the knowledge of
such duties, before books were written? Either he must
have acquired such knowledge of hirnself, or it must have
been totally dispensed with.
We, Roman Catholics, make a great noise about the
authority of the church: but what do we gain by it, if it
requires as many proofs to establish this authority as other
sects also require to establish their doctrines? The church
determines that the church has a right to determine. Is not
this a special proof of its authority? And yet, depart from
this, and we enter into endless discussions.
Do you know many Christians who have taken the pains
to examine carefully into what the Jew T s have alleged against
us? If there are a few who know something of them, it is
from what they have met with in the writings of Christians:
a very strange manner indeed of instructing themselves in
the arguments of their opponents! But what can be done?
If any one should dare to publish among us such books as
openly espouse the cause of Judaism, we should punish the
author, the editor, and the bookseller. 5 This policy is very
convenient, and very sure to make us always in the right.
We can refute at pleasure those who are afraid to speak.
Those among us, also, who have an opportunity to con-
verse with the Jews, have but little advantage. These un-
happy people know that they are at our mercy. The tyranny
we exercise over them, renders them justly timid and re-
served. They know how far cruelty and injustice are com-
patible with Christian charity. What, therefore, can they
venture to say to us, without running the risk of incurring
the charge of blasphemy? Avarice inspires us with zeal,
and they are too rich not to be ever in the wrong. The most
sensible and learned among them are the most circumspect
5 Among a thousand known instances, the following stands in no need of
comment: the Catholic divines of the sixteenth century having condemned
all the Jewish books without exception to be burnt, a learned and illustrious
theologue, who was consulted on that occasion, had very nearly involved
himself in ruin by being simply of the opinion that such of them might
be preserved as did not relate to Christianity, or treated of matters for-
eign to religion.
A SAVOYARD VICAR 305
and reserved. We make a convert, perhaps, of some wretched
hireling, to calumniate his sect; we set a parcel of pitiful
brokers disputing, who give up the point merely to gratify
us ; but while we triumph over the ignorance or meanness of
such wretched opponents, the learned among them smile in
contemptuous silence at our folly. But do you think that
in places where they might write and speak securely, we
should have so much the advantage of them? Among the
doctors of the Sorbonne, it is as clear as daylight, that the
predictions concerning the Messiah relate to Jesus Christ.
Among the Rabbins at Amsterdam, it is just as evident that
they have no relation whatever to him. I shall never believe
that I have acquired a sufficient acquaintance with the argu-
ments of the Jews, till they compose a free and independent
State, and have their schools and universities, where they
may talk and dispute with freedom and impunity. Till then
we can never really know what arguments they have to offer.
At Constantinople, the Turks make known their reasons,
and we dare not publish ours. There it is our turn to sub-
mit. If the Turks require us to pay to Mahomet, in whom
we do not believe, the same respect which we require the
Jews to pay to Jesus Christ, in whom they believe as little,
can the Turks be in the wrong and we in the right? On
what principle of equity can we resolve that question in our
own favor?
Two-thirds of mankind are neither Jews, Christians, nor
Mahometans. How many millions of men, therefore, must
there be who never heard of Moses, of Jesus Christ, or of
Mahomet? Will this be denied? Will it be said that our
missionaries are dispersed over the face of the whole earth?
This, indeed, is easily affirmed; but are there any of them
in the interior parts of Africa, where no European hath ever
yet penetrated? Do they travel through the inland parts of
Tartary, or follow on horseback the wandering hordes, whom
no stranger ever approaches, and who, so far from having
heard of the Pope, hardly know any thing of their own
Grand Lama? Do our missionaries traverse the immense
continent of America, where there are whole nations still
ignorant that the people of another world have set foot on
theirs? Are there any missionaries in Japan, from whence
306 ROUSSEAU
their ill-behavior hath banished them forever, and where the
fame of their predecessors is transmitted to succeeding
generations as that of artful knaves, who, under cover of a
religious zeal, wanted to make themselves gradually masters
of the empire? Do they penetrate into the harems of the
Asiatic princes, to preach the gospel to millions of wretched
slaves? What will become of these secluded women for
want of a missionary to preach to them this gospel? Must
every one of them go to hell for being a recluse?
But were it true that the gospel is preached in every part
of the earth, the difficulty is not removed. On the eve pre-
ceding the arrival of the first missionary in any country,
some one person of that country expired without hearing
the glad tidings. Now what must we do with this one per-
son? If there be but a single individual in the whole uni-
verse, to whom the gospel of Christ is not made known, the
objection which presents itself on account of this one person,
is as cogent as if it included a fourth part of the human
race.
Again, supposing that the ministers of the gospel are
actually present and preaching in those distant nations, how
can they reasonably hope to be believed on their own word,
and expect that their hearers will not scrupulously require
a confirmation of what is taught? Might not any one of
them very reasonably say to these preachers :
" You tell me of a God who was born and put to death
nearly two thousand years ago, in another portion of the
world, and in I know not what obscure town; assuring me
that all those who do not believe in this mysterious tale are
damned.
"These are things too strange to be readily credited on
the sole authority of a man who is himself a perfect stranger.
" Why hath your God brought those events to pass, of which
he requires me to be instructed, at so great a distance? Is
it a crime to be ignorant of what passes at the antipodes?
Is it possible for me to divine that there existed in the other
hemisphere a people called Jews, and a city called Jerusalem?
I might as well be required to know what happens in the
moon.
" You are come, you say, to inform me ; but why did you
A SAVOYARD VICAR 307
not come soon enough to inform my father, or why do you
damn that innocent man because he knew nothing of the
matter? Must he be eternally punished for your delay; he
who was so just, so benevolent, and so desirous of knowing
the truth?
" Be honest, and suppose yourself in my place. Do you
think that I can believe, upon your testimony alone, all these
incredible things you tell me, or that I can reconcile so much
injustice with the character of that just God, whom you
pretend to make known?
" Let me first, I pray you, go and see this distant country
where so many miracles have happened that are totally un-
known here. Let me go and be well informed why the in-
habitants of that Jerusalem you speak of presumed to treat
God like a thief or a murderer.
" They did not, you will say, acknowledge his divinity.
How then can I, who never have heard of him but from you?
" You add, that they were punished, dispersed, and led into
captivity; — not one of them ever approaching their former
city.
"Assuredly, they deserved all this: but its present inhab-
itants, — what say they of the unbelief and Dcicide of their
predecessors? Do they not deny it, and acknowledge the
divinity of the sacred personage just as little as did its an-
cient inhabitants?
" What ! in the same city in which your God was put to
death, neither the ancient nor present inhabitants acknowl-
edge his divinity! And yet you would have me believe it,
who was born nearly two thousand years after the event,
and two thousand leagues distant from the place !
" Do you not see that, before I can give credit to this book,
which you call sacred and of which I comprehend nothing,
I ought to be informed from others as to when and by whom
it was written ; how it hath been preserved and transmitted
to you ; what is said of it in the country where it originated ;
and what are the reasons of those who reject it, although
they know as well as you every thing of which you have
informed me? You must perceive, therefore, the necessity
I am under of going first to Europe, then to Asia, and lastly
into Palestine to investigate and examine this subject for
S98 KOUSSEAU
myself, and that I must be an absolute idiot to even listen to
you before I have completed this investigation/'
Such a discourse as this appears to me not only very
reasonable, but I affirm that every sensible man ought under
such circumstances to speak in the same manner, and to send
a missionary about his business, who should be in haste to
instruct and baptize him before he had sufficiently verified
the proofs of his mission.
Now, I maintain that there is no revelation against which
the same objections mighlj not be made, and that with even
greater force than against Christianity. Hence it follows
that if there be in the world but one true religion, and if
every one is obliged to adopt it under pain of damnation, it
is necessary to spend our lives in the study of all religions,
— to visit the countries where they have been established,
and examine and compare them with each other. No
man is exempted from the principal duty of his species, and
no one hath a right to confide in the judgment of another.
The artisan who lives only by his industry, the husbandman
who cannot read, the timid and delicate virgin, the feeble
valetudinarian, all must, without exception, study, meditate,
dispute, and travel the world over in search of truth. There
would no longer be any settled inhabitants in a country, the
face of the earth being covered with pilgrims going from
place to place, at great trouble and expense, to verify, ex-
amine, and compare the several different systems and modes
of worship to be met with in different countries.
We must in such a case bid adieu to the arts and sciences,
to trade, and to all the civil occupations of life. Every other
study must give place to that of religion; while the man
who should enjoy the greatest share of health and strength,
and make the best use of his time and reason for the longest
term of years allotted to human life, would, in his extreme
old age, be still perplexed and undecided; and it would be
indeed wonderful if, after all his researches, he should
be able to learn before his death what religion he ought to
have believed and practiced during his life.
Do you endeavor to mitigate the severity of this method,
and place as little confidence as possible in the authority of
your fellow men? In so doing, however, you place in them
A SAVOYARD VICAR 309
the greatest confidence: for if the son of a Christian does
right in adopting, without a scrupulous and impartial ex-
amination, the religion of his father, how can the son of a
Turk do wrong in adopting in the same manner the religion
of Mahomet?
I defy all the persecutors in the world to answer this ques-
tion in a manner satisfactory to any person of common
sense. Nay, some of them, when hard pressed by such ar-
guments, will sooner admit that God is unjust, and visits the
sins of the fathers upon the children, than give up their
cruel and persecuting principles. Others, indeed, strive to
elude the force of these reasons by civilly sending an angel
to instruct those who, under absolute ignorance, lived, never-
theless, good moral lives. A very pretty device, truly, is
that of the angel ! Not contented with subjecting us to
this angelic hierarchy, they would reduce even the Diety
himself to the necessity of employing it.
See, my son, to what absurdities we are led by pride, and
the spirit of persecution, — by being puffed up with our own
vanity, and conceiving that we possess a greater share of
reason than the rest of mankind.
I call to witness that God of peace whom I adore, and
whom I would make known to you, that my researches have
been always sincere; but seeing that they were and always
must be unsuccessful, and that I was launched out into a
boundless ocean of perplexity, I returned the way I came,
and confined my creed within the limits of my first notions.
I could never believe that God required me, under pain of
eternal damnation, to be so very learned; and, therefore, I
shut up all my books.
The book of nature lies open to every eye. It is from this
sublime and wonderful volume that I learn to serve and
adore its Divine Author. No person is excusable for neg-
lecting to read this book, as it is written in an universal
language, intelligible to all mankind.
Had I been born on a desert island, or had never seen a
human creature beside myself; had I never been informed
of what had formerly happened in a certain corner of the
world; I might yet have learned, by the exercise and culti-
vation of my reason, and by the proper use of those faculties
310 ROUSSEAU
God hath given me, to know and to love him. I might
hence have learned to love and admire his power and good-
ness, and to have properly discharged my duty here on
earth. What can the knowledge of the learned teach me
more?
With regard to revelation: could I reason better or were
I better informed, I might be made sensible perhaps of its
truth and of its utility to those who are so happy as to be-
lieve it. But if there are some proofs in its favor which I
cannot invalidate, there appear also to me many objections
against it which I cannot resolve. There are so many rea-
sons both for and against its authority that, not knowing
what to conclude, I neither admit nor reject it. I reject only
the obligation of submitting to it, because this pretended
obligation is incompatible with the justice of God, and that,
so far from its removing the obstacles to salvation, it raises
those which are insurmountable by the greater part of man-
kind. Except in this article, therefore, I remain respectfully
in doubt concerning the scriptures. I have not the pre-
sumption to think myself infallible. More able persons may
possibly determine in cases that to me appear undetermina-
ble. I reason for myself, not for them. I neither censure
nor imitate them. Their judgment may possibfy be better
than mine, but am I to blame that it is not mine?
I will confess to you further, that the majesty of the scrip-
tures strikes me with admiration, as the purity of the gospel
hath its influence on my heart. Peruse the works of our
philosophers, enriched with all their pomp of diction: how
mean, how contemptible are they, compared with the scrip-
tures ! Is it possible that a book at once so simple and sub-
lime should be merely the work of man? Is it possible that
the sacred personage, whose history it contains, should be
himself a mere man? Do we find that he assumed the tone
of an enthusiast or ambitious sectary? What purity, what
sweetness in his manners ! What an affecting gracefulness
in his delivery! What sublimity in his maxims! What
profound wisdom in his discourses! What presence of
mind, what subtilty, what truth in his replies! How great
the command over his passions ! Where is the man, where
the philosopher who could so live and so die, without weak-
A SAVOYARD VICAR 311
ness and without ostentation? When Plato described an
imaginary good man 6 loaded with all the shame of guilt,
yet meriting the highest reward of virtue, he describes ex-
actly the character of Jesus. The resemblance was so strik-
ing that all the fathers perceived it. What prepossession,
what blindness must it be to compare the son of Sophroniscus
to the son of Mary? What an infinite disproportion is there
between them! Socrates, dying without pain or ignominy,
easily supported his character to the last; and if his death,
however easy, had not crowned his life, it might have been
doubted whether Socrates, with all his wisdom, was any
thing more than a vain sophist. He invented, it is said, the
theory of morals. Others, however, had already put them
in practice; he had only to say what they had done, and
reduce their examples to precepts. Aristides had been just,
before Socrates defined justice. Leonidas gave up his life
for his country before Socrates declared patriotism to be a
duty. The Spartans were a sober people before Socrates
recommended sobriety. Before he had even defined virtue,
Greece abounded in virtuous men. But where could Jesus
learn, among his compatriots, that pure and sublime morality
of which he only hath given us both precept and example? 7
The greatest wisdom was made known amidst the most
bigoted fanaticism; and the simplicity of the most heroic
virtues did honor to the vilest people on the earth. The
death of Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with his friends,
appears the most agreeable form that could be desired; —
that of Jesus, expiring in the midst of agonizing pains,
abused, insulted, cursed by a whole nation, is the most hor-
rible that could be feared. Socrates, in receiving the cup of
poison, blessed indeed the weeping executioner who admin-
istered it; but Jesus, in the midst of excruciating tortures,
prayed for his merciless tormentors. Yes, if the life and
death of Socrates are those of a sage, the life and death of
Jesus are those of a God.
Shall we suppose the evangelic history a mere fiction?
Indeed, my friend, it bears not the marks of fiction. On
the contrary, the history of Socrates, which nobody pre-
c De Rep. dial. x.
7 See in his discourse on the Mount the parallel he makes between the
morality of Moses and his own. Matthew v. 21, &c.
312 ROUSSEAU
sumes to doubt, is not so well attested as that of Jesus Christ.
Such a supposition, in fact, only shifts the difficulty without
removing it. It is more inconceivable that a number of
persons should agree to write such a history than that one
only should furnish the subject of it. The Jewish authors
were incapable of the diction, and were strangers to the
morality contained in the gospel, — the marks of whose truth
are so striking and inimitable, that the inventor would be a
more astonishing character than the hero. And yet, with
all this, the same gospel abounds with incredible relations,
with circumstances repugnant to reason, and which it is im-
possible for a man of sense either to conceive of or to admit.
What is to be done amidst all these contradictions? Be
modest and circumspect. Regard in silence what cannot be
either disproved or comprehended, and humble thyself before
the Supreme Being who alone knoweth the truth.
Such is the involuntary skepticism in which I remain.
This skepticism, however, is not painful to me, because it
extends not to any essential point of practice; and as my
mind is firmly settled regarding the principles of my duty,
I serve God in the sincerity of my heart. In the mean time,
I seek not to know any thing more than what relates to my
moral conduct; and as to those dogmas which have no in-
fluence over the behavior, and about which so many persons
give themselves so much trouble, I am not at all solicitous.
I look upon the various particular religions as so many
salutary institutions, prescribing in different countries an
uniform manner of public worship; and which may all have
their respective reasons, peculiar to the climate, government,
or laws of the people adopting them, or some other motive
which renders the one preferable to the other according to
the circumstance of time and place. I believe all that are
established to be good when God is served in sincerity of
heart. This service is all that is essential. He rejects not
the homage of the sincere, under whatsoever form they
present it. Being called to the service of the church, I
comply, therefore, with a scrupulous exactness, to all the
forms it prescribes in my duty, and should reproach myself
for the least wilful neglect of them. After having lain un-
A SAVOYARD VICAR 313
der a long prohibition I obtained, through the interest of
M. de Mellerade, a permission to re-assume the functions of
the priesthood, to procure me a livelihood. I had been
accustomed formerly to say mass with all that levity and
carelessness with which we perform the most serious and
important offices after having very often repeated them.
Since I entertained my new principles, however, I celebrate
it with greater veneration: — penetrated by reflecting on the
majesty of the Supreme Being, and the insufficiency of the
human mind that is so little able to form conceptions rela-
tive to its author, I consider that I offer up the prayers of
a people under a prescribed form of worship, and therefore
carefully observe all its rites. I recite carefully; and strive
not to omit the least word or ceremony. Before going to
communicate, I first recollect myself, in order to do it with
all those dispositions that the church and the importance of
the sacrament require. I endeavor on this occasion to
silence the voice of reason before the Supreme Intelligence.
I say to myself: who art thou, to presume to set bounds to
omnipotence? I reverently pronounce the sacramental
words, and annex to them all the faith that depends on me.
Whatever, therefore, be the truth with regard to that in-
conceivable mystery, I am not fearful of being charged at
the day of judgment with profaning it in my heart.
Honored with the ministerial office, though of the lowest
rank, I will never do or say any thing that may make me
unworthy to fulfill its sacred functions. I will always in-
culcate virtue, exhort my auditors to pursue it, and as far
as it is in my power, set them an example. It does not de-
pend on me to make their religion amiable, nor to confine
the articles of their faith to what is necessary for all to
believe: but God forbid that I should ever preach up the
cruel tenets of persecution, — that I should even induce them
to hate their neighbors, or to consign others to damnation. 8
Were I, indeed, in a superior station, this reserve might
incur censure; but I am too insignificant to have much to
8 The duty of adopting and respecting the religion of our country does not
extend to such tenets as are contrary to moral virtue; such as that of per-
secution. It is this horrible dogma which arms mankind inhumanly against
each other, and renders them destructive to the human race. The distinction
between political and theological toleration is puerile and ridiculous, as they
are inseparable, so that one cannot be admitted without the other.
314 ROUSSEAU
fear, and I can never fall lower than I am. But whatever
may happen, I shall never blaspheme Divine Justice, nor lie
against the Spirit of Truth.
I have long been ambitious of the honor of being a pastor.
I am indeed still ambitious, though I have no longer
any hopes of it. There is no character in the world, my
good friend, which appears to me so desirable as that of
a pastor. A good pastor is a minister of goodness, as a
good magistrate is a minister of justice. A pastor can
have no temptation to evil; and though he may not al-
ways have it in his power to do good himself, he is really
doing his duty when soliciting it of others, and very often
obtains it when he learns to make himself truly worthy
of respect.
O that I enjoyed but some little benefice among the poor
people in our mountains ! How happy should I then feel !
for I cannot but think that I should make my parishioners
happy ! I should never, indeed, make them rich, but I
should cheerfully partake of their poverty. I would raise
them above meanness and contempt, — more insupportable
than indigence itself. I would induce them to love concord,
and to cherish that equality which often banishes poverty,
and always renders it more supportable. When they should
see that I was no richer than themselves, and yet lived con-
tent, they would learn to console themselves under their lot,
and to live contented also.
In the instructions I should give them, I should be less
directed by the sense of the church than by that of the gos-
pel; whose tenets are more simple, and whose morals are
more sublime ;— that teaches few religions forms and many
deeds of charity.
Before I should teach them their duty, I should always
endeavor to practice it myself, in order to let them see that
I really thought as I spoke.
Had I any protestants in my neighborhood, or in my
parish, I would make no distinction between them and my
own flock, in every thing that regarded acts of Christian
charity. I would endeavor to make them all love and re-
gard each other as brethren — tolerating all religions, and
peacefully enjoying their own.
THE SAVOYARD VICAR 315
Thus, my young friend, have I given you with my own
lips a recital of my creed, such as the Supreme Being reads
it in my heart. You are the first person to whom I have
made this Profession of Faith; and you are the only one,
probably, to whom I shall ever make it. * * * *
If I were more positive in myself, I should have assumed
a more positive and dogmatic air; but I am a man ignorant
and subject to error. I have opened to you my heart with-
out reserve. What I have thought certain, I have given
you as such. My doubts I have declared as doubts; my
opinions as opinions ; and I have honestly given you my
reasons for both. What can I do more? It remains now
for you to judge. Be sincere with yourself. Whether men
love or hate, admire or despise you, is of but little moment.
Speak only what is true, do only what is right; for, after
all, the object of greatest importance is to faithfully dis-
charge our duty. Adopt only those of my sentiments which
you believe are true, and reject all the others; and what-
ever religion you may ultimately embrace, remember that
its real duties are independent of human institutions — that
no religion upon earth can dispense with the sacred obliga-
tions of morality — that an upright heart is the temple of the
Divinity — and that, in every country and in every sect, to
love God above all things, and thy neighbor as thyself, is
the substance and summary of the law — the end and aim of
religious duty.
OF MAN,
BEING THE FIRST PART OF LEVIATHAN
BY
THOMAS HOBBES
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Thomas Hobbes was born at Westport, now part of Malmes-
bury, in Wiltshire, England, April 5, 1588. His father was a
clergyman of the Church of England, and he was educated at
Magdalen Hall, Oxford, whence he graduated in 1608. From this
time till 1640 he was, with a short break, a member of the house-
hold of the Earls of Devonshire, acting as tutor and secretary,
and traveling on several occasions on the Continent as companion
to the second and later to the third Earl. He made the acquaint-
ance of many of the leading philosophers and scientists of the
Continent, including Descartes, Gassendi, and Galileo. He is also
reported to have acted for a time as amanuensis to Bacon.
On the meeting of the Long Parliament Hobbes fled to Paris,
afraid of what might happen to him on account of opinions ex-
pressed in certain philosophical treatises which had been circu-
lated in manuscript. While abroad he published his "De Cive"
containing the political theories later embodied in his "Leviathan."
In 1646 he was appointed mathematical tutor to the future king,
Charles II ; but after the publication of the "Leviathan" in 1651,
he was excluded from the court, and returned to England.
The rest of Hobbes's life was spent largely in controversy, in
which — especially in mathematical matters — he had by no means
always the best of the argument. He lived in fear of prosecu-
tion for heresy, but was saved by the protection of the king. He
died December 4, 1679.
Hobbes's writings produced much commotion in his own day,
but his opponents were more conspicuous than his disciples. Yet
he exerted a notable influence on such thinkers as Spinoza, Leib-
niz, Diderot, and Rousseau; and the utilitarian movement led to
a revival of interest in his philosophy in the nineteenth century.
He was a fearless if one-sided thinker, and he presented his views
in a style of great vigor and clearness: "A great partisan by
nature," says his most recent critic, "Hobbes became by the sheer
force of his fierce, concentrated intellect a master builder in phi-
losophy. . . . He hated error, and therefore, to confute it, he
shouldered his way into the very sanctuary of truth."
318
INTRODUCTION
Nature, the art whereby God hath made and governs the world,
is by the ' art ' of man, as in many other things, so in this also
imitated, that it can make an artificial animal. For seeing life
is but a motion of limbs, the beginning whereof is in some prin-
cipal part within ; why may we not say, that all ' automata '
(engines that move themselves by springs and wheels as doth a
watch) have an artificial life? For what is the 'heart' but a
' spring * ; and the ' nerves % but so many • strings ' ; and the
' joints ' but so many ' wheels/ giving motion to the whole body,
such as was intended by the artificer? 'Art' goes yet further,
imitating that rational and most excellent work of nature, ' man/
For by art is created that great ' Leviathan ' called a * Common-
wealth ' or - State/ in Latin civitas, which is but an artificial man,
though of greater stature and strength than the natural, for
whose protection and defence it was intended; and in which the
* sovereignty ' is an artificial ' soul/ as giving life and motion to
the whole body ; the ' magistrates ' and other ' officers ' of judica-
ture and execution, artificial * joints ' ; ' reward ' and ' punishment/
by which fastened to the seat of the sovereignty every joint and
member is moved to perform his duty, are the 'nerves/ that do
the same in the body natural ; the - wealth ' and ' riches ' of all
the particular members are the ' strength '; salus populi, the 'peo-
ple's safety/ its ' business ' ; ' counsellors/ by whom all things
needful for it to know are suggested unto it, are the ' memory ' ;
'equity' and 'laws/ an artificial 'reason' and 'will'; 'concord/
' health ' ; ' sedition/ ' sickness ' ; and ' civil war/ ' death.' Lastly,
the ' pacts ' and ' covenants/ by which the parts of this body
politic were at first made, set together, and united, resemble that
'flat/ or the 'let us make man/ pronounced by God in the
creation.
To describe the nature of this artificial man, I will consider :
First, the 'matter' thereof, and the 'artificer,' both which
is 'man.'
319
320 INTRODUCTION
Secondly, ' how/ and by what ' covenants ' it is made ; what
are the ' rights ' and just ' power ' or ' authority ' of a ' sovereign/
and what it is that ' preserveth ' or ' dissolveth ' it.
Thirdly, what is a * Christian commonwealth.'
Lastly, what is the ' kingdom of darkness/
Concerning the first, there is a saying much usurped of late
that * wisdom ' is acquired, not by reading of ' books ' but of
' men/ Consequently whereunto, those persons that for the most
part can give no other proof of being wise take great delight to
show what they think they have read in men, by uncharitable
censures of one another behind their backs. But there is another
saying not of late understood, by which they might learn truly to
read one another, if they would take the pains; that is, nosce
teipsum, 'read thyself: which was not meant, as it is now used,
to countenance, either the barbarous state of men in power
towards their inferiors, or to encourage men of low degree to a
saucy behaviour towards their betters; but to teach us that for
the similitude of the thoughts and passions of one man to the
thoughts and passions of another, whosoever looketh into himself
and considereth what he doth, when he does ' think/ ' opine/ ' rea-
son/ ' hope/ ' fear/ etc., and upon what grounds ; he shall thereby
read and know what are the thoughts and passions of all other
men upon the like occasions. I say the similitude of ' passions/
which are the same in all men, ' desire/ ' fear/ ' hope/ etc. ; not the
similitude of the ' objects ' of the passions, which are the things
' desired/ i feared/ ' hoped/ etc. : for these the constitution indi-
vidual, and particular education, do so vary, and they are so easy
to be kept from our knowledge, that the characters of man's
heart, blotted and confounded as they are with dissembling, lying,
counterfeiting, and erroneous doctrines, are legible only to Him
that searcheth hearts. And though by men's actions we do dis-
cover their design sometimes, yet to do it without comparing
them with our own, and distinguishing all circumstances, by
which the case may come to be altered, is to decipher without a
key, and be for the most part deceived, by too much trust or by
too much diffidence; as he that reads is himself a good or evil
man.
But let one man read another by his actions never so perfectly,
it serves him only with his acquaintance, which are but few. He
that is to govern a whole nation must read in himself, not this or
INTRODUCTION 321
that particular man, but mankind : which, though it be hard to
do, harder than to learn any language or science, yet, when I
shall have set down my own reading orderly and perspicuously,
the pains left another will be only to consider if he also find
not the same in himself. For this kind of doctrine admitteth no
other demonstration.
(K) HC— Vol. 34
OF MAN,
BEING THE FIRST PART OF LEVIATHAN
CHAPTER I
Of Sense
CONCERNING the thoughts of man, I will consider
them first singly, and afterwards in train, or
dependence upon one another. Singly, they are
every one a ' representation ' or ' appearance ' of some
quality, or other accident of a body without us, which is
commonly called an ' object.' Which object worketh on the
eyes, ears, and other parts of a man's body, and, by diversity
of working, produceth diversity of appearances.
The original of them all is that which we call ' sense,'
for there is no conception in a man's mind which hath not
at first, totally or by parts, been begotten upon the organs
of sense. The rest are derived from that original.
To know the natural cause of sense is not very necessary
to the business now in hand; and I have elsewhere written
of the same at large. Nevertheless, to fill each part of
my present method I will briefly deliver the same in this
place.
The cause of sense is the external body, or object, which
presseth the organ proper to each sense, either immediately,
as in the taste and touch, or mediately, as in seeing, hear-
ing, and smelling; which pressure, by the mediation of the
nerves and other strings and membranes of the body con-
tinued inwards to the brain and heart, causeth there a re-
sistance, or counter-pressure, or endeavour of the heart to
deliver itself, which endeavour, because 'outward/ seemeth
to be some matter without. And this 'seeming' or ' fancy'
is that which men call 'sense' and consisteth, as to the
323
324 THOMAS HOBBES
eye, in a ' light ' or ' colour figured ' ; to the ear, in a ' sound f ;
to the nostril, in an ' odour ' ; to the tongue and palate, in a
'savour'; and to the rest of the body, in 'heat/ 'cold/
' hardness/ ' softness/ and such other qualities as we discern
by ' feeling/ All which qualities, called ' sensible ' are in
the object that causeth them but so many several motions
of the matter, by which it presseth our organs diversely.
Neither in us that are pressed are they anything else but
divers motions; for motion produceth nothing but motion.
But their appearance to us is fancy, the same waking that
dreaming. And as pressing, rubbing, or striking the eye,
makes us fancy a light, and pressing the ear produceth a
din, so do the bodies also we see or hear produce the same
by their strong, though unobserved, action. For if those
colours and sounds were in the bodies, or objects that cause
them, they could not be severed from them, as by glasses,
and in echoes by reflection, we see they are, where we know
the thing we see is in one place, the appearance in another.
And though at some certain distance the real and very object
seem invested with the fancy it begets in us, yet still the
object is one thing, the image or fancy is another. So that
sense in all cases is nothing else but original fancy, caused,
as I have said, by the pressure, that is by the motion, of
external things upon our eyes, ears, and other organs there-
unto ordained.
But the philosophy schools through all the universities
of Christendom, grounded upon certain texts of Aristotle,
teach another doctrine, and say, for the cause of 'vision/
that the thing seen sendeth forth on every side a 'visible
species/ in English, a ' visible show/ ' apparition/ or ' aspect/
or ' a being seen ' ; the receiving whereof into the eye is
' seeing/ And for the cause of ' hearing/ that the thing
heard sendeth forth an ' audible species/ that is an ' audible
aspect/ or ' audible being seen/ which entering at the ear
maketh ' hearing/ Nay, for the cause of ' understanding '
also, they say the thing understood sendeth forth an ' intel-
ligible species/ that is, an ' intelligible being seen/ which,
coming into the understanding, makes us understand. I say
not this as disproving the use of universities; but, because
I am to speak hereafter of their office in a commonwealth,
OF MAN 325
I must let you see on all occasions by the way what things
would be amended in them, amongst which the frequency of
insignificant speech is one.
CHAPTER II
Of Imagination
That when a thing lies still, unless somewhat else stir it,
it will lie still for ever, is a truth that no man doubts of.
But that when a thing is in motion, it will eternally be in
motion, unless somewhat else stay it, though the reason be
the same, namely that nothing can change itself, is not
so easily assented to. For men measure not only other
men but all other things, by themselves; and, because they
find themselves subject after motion to pain and lassitude,
think everything else grows weary of motion, and seeks
repose of its own accord; little considering whether it
be not some other motion wherein that desire of rest they
find in themselves consisteth. From hence it is that the
schools say heavy bodies fall downwards out of an appetite
to rest, and to conserve their nature in that place which
is most proper for them; ascribing appetite and knowledge
of what is good for their conservation, which is more than
man has, to things inanimate, absurdly.
When a body is once in motion, it moveth, unless some-
thing else hinder it, eternally ; and whatsoever hindereth it
cannot in an instant, but in time and by degrees, quite ex-
tinguish it; and, as we see in the water though the wind
cease the waves give not over rolling for a long time after:
so also it happeneth in that motion which is made in the
internal parts of a man, then, when he sees, dreams, etc.
For, after the object is removed, or the eye shut, we still
retain an image of the thing seen, though more obscure
than when we see it. And this is it the Latins call ' imagina-
tion/ from the image made in seeing; and apply the same,
though improperly, to all the other senses. But the Greeks
call it ' fancy/ which signifies ' appearance/ and is as
proper to one sense as to another. ' Imagination/ there-
fore, is nothing but * decaying sense/ and is found in men,
328 THOMAS HOBBES
and many other living creatures, as well sleeping as
waking.
The decay of sense in men waking is not the decay of
the motion made in sense, but an obscuring of it in such
manner as the light of the sun obscureth the light of the
stars, which stars do no less exercise their virtue, by which
they are visible, in the day than in the night. But because
amongst many strokes which our eyes, ears, and other
organs, receive from external bodies, the predominant only
is sensible; therefore, the light of the sun being predomi-
nant, we are not affected with the action of the stars. And
any object being removed from our eyes, though the im-
pression it made in us remain, yet other objects more present
succeeding and working on us, the imagination of the past is
obscured and made weak, as the voice of a man is in the
noise of the day. From whence it followeth that the longer
the time is, after the sight or sense of any object, the weaker
is the imagination. For the continual change of man's body
destroys in time the parts which in sense were moved; so
that distance of time, and of place, hath one and the same
effect in us. For as at a great distance of place that which
we look at appears dim and without distinction of the
smaller parts, and as voices grow weak and inarticulate,
so also after great distance of time our imagination of the
past is weak; and we lose, for example, of cities we have
seen many particular streets, and of actions many partic-
ular circumstances. This ' decaying sense/ when we
would express the thing itself, I mean ' fancy ' itself, we
call ' imagination/ as I said before ; but when we would
express the decay, and signify that the sense is fading,
old, and past, it is called ■ memory/ So that imagina-
tion and memory are but one thing, which for divers con-
siderations hath divers names.
' Much memory, or memory of many things, is called
experience.' Again, imagination being only of those
things which have been formerly perceived by sense, either
all at once or by parts at several times, the former, which
is the imagining the whole object as it was presented to
the sense, is ' simple ' imagination, as when one imagineth
a man, or horse, which he hath seen before. The other is
OF MAN 327
'compounded/ as when, from the sight of a man at one
time, and of a horse at another, we conceive in our mind
a Centaur. So when a man compoundeth the image of
his own person with the image of the actions of another
man, as when a man images himself a Hercules or an
Alexander, which happeneth often to them that are much
taken with reading of romances, it is a compound imagina-
tion, and properly but a fiction o£ the mind. There be also
other imaginations that rise in men, though waking, from
the great impression made in sense; as, from gazing upon
the sun, the impression leaves an image of the sun before our
eyes a long time after ; and, from being long and vehemently
attent upon geometrical figures, a man shall in the dark,
though awake, have the images of lines and angles before his
eyes; which kind of fancy hath no particular name, as being
a thing that doth not commonly fall into men's discourse.
The imaginations of them that sleep are those we call
'dreams/ And these also, as also all other imaginations,
have been before, either totally or by parcels, in the sense.
And, because in sense, the brain and nerves, which are the
necessary organs of sense, are so benumbed in sleep as not
easily to be moved by the action of external objects, there
can happen in sleep no imagination, and therefore no dream,
but what proceeds from the agitation of the inward parts
of man's body ; which inward parts, for the connection they
have with the brain and other organs, when they be dis-
tempered, do keep the same in motion; whereby the imag-
inations there formerly made, appear as if a man were
waking; saving that the organs of sense being now be-
numbed, so as there is no new object which can master and
obscure them with a more vigorous impression, a dream
must needs be more clear in this silence of sense than our
waking thoughts. And hence it cometh to pass that it is a
hard matter, and by many thought impossible, to distinguish
exactly between sense and dreaming. For my part, when
I consider that in dreams I do not often nor constantly think
of the same persons, places, objects, and actions, that I do
waking, nor remember so long a train of coherent thoughts,
dreaming, as at other times, and because waking I often
observe the absurdity of dreams, but never dream of the
323 THOMAS HOBBES
absurdities of my waking thoughts, I am well satisfied, that,
being awake, I know I dream not, though when I dream
I think myself awake.
And, seeing dreams are caused by the distemper of some
of the inward parts of the body, divers distempers must needs
cause different dreams. And hence it is that lying cold
breedeth dreams of fear, and raiseth the thought and image
of some fearful object, the motion from the brain to the
inner parts and from the inner parts to the brain being
reciprocal; and that, as anger causeth heat in some parts
of the body when we are awake, so when we sleep the over-
heating of the same parts causeth anger, and raiseth up in
the brain the imagination of an enemy. In the same manner,
as natural kindness, when we are awake, causeth desire, and
desire makes heat in certain other parts of the body; so also
too much heat in those parts, while we sleep, raiseth in the
brain an imagination of some kindness shown. In sum,
our dreams are the reverse of our waking imaginations, the
motion when we are awake beginning at one end, and when
we dream at another.
The most difficult discerning of a man's dream from his
waking thoughts is, then, when by some accident we observe
not that we have slept: which is easy to happen to a man
full of fearful thoughts, and whose conscience is much
troubled, and that sleepeth without the circumstances of
going to bed or putting off his clothes, as one that noddeth
in a chair. For he that taketh pains, and industriously
lays himself to sleep, in case any uncouth and exorbitant
fancy come unto him, cannot easily think it other than a
dream. We read of Marcus Brutus (one that had his life
given him by Julius Cassar, and was also his favorite, and
notwithstanding murdered him) how at Philippi, the night
before he gave battle to Augustus Caesar, he saw a fearful
apparition, which is commonly related by historians as a
vision; but, considering the circumstances, one may easily
judge to have been but a short dream. For, sitting in his
tent, pensive and troubled with the horror of his rash act,
it was not hard for him, slumbering in the cold, to dream of
that which most affrighted him; which fear, as by degrees
it made him wake, so also it must needs make the apparition by
OF MAN 329
degrees to vanish; and, having no assurance that he slept,
he could have no cause to think it a dream or anything but
a vision. And this is no very rare accident ; for even they that
be perfectly awake, if they be timorous and superstitious,
possessed with fearful tales, and alone in the dark, are
subject to the like fancies, and believe they see spirits and
dead men's ghosts walking in churchyards; whereas it is
either their fancy only, or else the knavery of such persons
as make use of such superstitious fear to pass disguised in
the night to places they would not be known to haunt.
From this ignorance of how to distinguish dreams and
other strong fancies from vision and sense, did arise the
greatest part of the religion of the Gentiles in time past,
that worshipped satyrs, fawns, nymphs, and the like; and
now-a-days the opinion that rude people have of fairies,
ghosts, and goblins, and of the power of witches. For as
for witches, I think not that their witchcraft is any real
power; but yet that they are justly punished for the false
belief they have that they can do such mischief, joined with
their purpose to do it if they can; their trade being nearer
to a new religion than to a craft or science. And for fairies
and walking ghosts, the opinion of them has, I think, been
on purpose either taught, or not confuted, to keep in credit
the use of exorcism, of crosses, of holy water, and other such
inventions of ghostly men. Nevertheless there is no doubt
but God can make unnatural apparitions; but that He does
it so often as men need to fear such things more than they
fear the stay or change of the course of nature, which He
also can stay and change, is no point of Christian faith.
But evil men, under pretext that God can do anything,
are so bold as to say anything when it serves their turn, though
they think it untrue; it is the part of a wise man to believe
them no farther than right reason makes that which they
say appear credible. If this superstitious fear of spirits
were taken away, and with it prognostics from dreams,
false prophecies, and many other things depending there-
on, by which crafty ambitious persons abuse the simple
people, men would be much more fitted than they are for
civil obedience.
And this ought to be the work of the schools; but they
330 THOMAS HOBBES
rather nourish such doctrine. For, not knowing what
imagination or the senses are, what they receive they teach;
some saying that imaginations rise of themselves and have
no cause ; others that they rise most commonly from the will,
and that good thoughts are blown (inspired) into a man by
God, and evil thoughts by the devil; or that good thoughts
are poured (infused) into a man by God, and evil ones by
the devil. Some say the senses receive the species of things,
and deliver them to the common sense, and the common
sense delivers them over to the fancy, and the fancy to
the memory, and the memory to the judgment, like handling
of things from one to another, with many words making
nothing understood.
The imagination that is raised in man, or any other crea-
ture indued with the faculty of imagining, by words or other
voluntary signs, is that we generally call * understanding/
and is common to man and beast. For a dog by custom
will understand the call or the rating of his master; and
so will many other beasts. That understanding which is
peculiar to man is the understanding not only his will
but his conceptions and thoughts, by the sequel and con-
texture of the names of things into affirmations, nega-
tions, and other forms of speech; and of this kind of
understanding I shall speak hereafter.
CHAPTER III
Of the Consequence or Train of Imaginations
By ' consequence/ or ' train/ of thoughts I understand that
succession of one thought to another which is called, to
distinguish it from discourse in words, * mental discourse/
When a man thinketh on anything whatever, his next
thought after is not altogether so casual as it seems to be.
Not every thought to every thought succeeds indifferently.
But as we have no imagination whereof we have not for-
merly had sense, in whole or in parts, so we have no transi-
tion from one imagination to another whereof we never
had the like before in our senses. The reason whereof is
this. All fancies are motions within us, relics of those made
OF MAN 331
in the sense, and those motions that immediately succeeded
one another in the sense continue also together after sense :
in so much as the former coming again to take place, and
be predominant, the latter followeth, by coherence of the
matter moved, in such manner as water upon a plane table
is drawn which way any one part of it is guided by the
finger. But because in sense to one and the same thing
perceived, sometimes one thing sometimes another, suc-
ceeded, it comes to pass in time that in the imagining of
anything there is no certainty what we shall imagine next:
only this is certain, it shall be something that succeeded
the same before, at one time or another.
This train of thoughts, or mental discourse, is of two
sorts. The first is ' unguided/ ' without design/ and in-
constant; wherein there is no passionate thought, to govern
and direct those that follow, to itself, as the end and scope
of some desire or other passion: in which case the thoughts
are said to wander, and seem impertinent one to another as
in a dream. Such are commonly the thoughts of men that
are not only without company but also without care of any-
thing; though even then their thoughts are as busy as at
other times, but without harmony; as the sound which a
lute out of tune would yield to any man, or in tune to one
that could not play. And yet in this wild ranging of the
mind a man may oft-times perceive the way of it, and the
dependence of one thought upon another. For in a dis-
course of our present civil war, what could seem more im-
pertinent than to ask, as one did, what was the value of a
Roman penny. Yet the coherence to me was manifest
enough. For the thought of the war introduced the thought
of the delivering up the king to his enemies; the thought of
that brought in the thought of the delivering up of Christ;
and that again the thought of the thirty pence, which was the
price of that treason; and thence easily followed that mali-
cious question; and all this in a moment of time — for
thought is quick.
The second is more constant ; as being • regulated ' by
some desire and design. For the impression made by such
things as we desire, or fear, is strong and permanent, or,
if it cease for a time, of quick return : so strong it is some-
332 THOMAS HOBBES
times as to hinder and break our sleep. From desire ariseth
the thought of some means we have seen produce the like of
that which we aim at; and from the thought of that, the
thought of means to that mean; and so continually till we
come to some beginning within our own power. And because
the end, by the greatness of the impression, comes often to
mind, in case our thoughts begin to wander, they are quickly
again reduced into the way: which observed by one of the
Seven Wise Men, made him give men this precept, which
is now worn out, Respice finem, that is to say, in all your
actions look often upon what you would have as the thing
that directs all your thoughts in the way to attain it.
The train of regulated thoughts is of two kinds; one,
when of an effect imagined we seek the causes or means that
produce it; and this is common to man and beast. The
other is when imagining anything whatsoever we seek all
the possible effects that can by it be produced, that is
to say, we imagine what we can do with it when we have
it. Of which I have not at any time seen any sign but
in man only; for this is a curiosity hardly incident to the
nature of any living creature that has no other passion but
sensual, such as are hunger, thirst, lust, and anger. In sum,
the discourse of the mind, when it is governed by design,
is nothing but ' seeking/ or the faculty of invention, which
the Latins called sagacitas, and solertia; a hunting out of
the causes, of some effect, present or past ; or of the effects,
of some present or past cause. Sometimes a man seeks what
he hath lost; and from that place and time wherein he
misses it his mind runs back, from place to place, and time
to time, to find where and when he had it, that is to say, to
find some certain and limited time and place in which to
begin a method of seeking. Again, from thence his thoughts
run over the same places and times to find what action or
other occasion might make him lose it. This we call ' remem-
brance/ or calling to mind: the Latins call it re minis centia,
as it were a ' re-conning ' of our former actions.
Sometimes a man knows a place determinate, within
the compass whereof he is to seek; and then his thoughts
run over all the parts thereof, in the same manner as one
would sweep a room to find a jewel, or as a spaniel ranges
OF MAN 333
the field till he find a scent, or as a man should run over
the alphabet to start a rhyme.
Sometimes a man desires to know the event of an action ;
and then he thinketh of some like action past, and the
events thereof one after another, supposing like events will
follow like actions. As he that foresees what will become
of a criminal re-cons what he has seen follow on the like
crime before, having this order of thoughts, the crime, the
officer, the prison, the judge, and the gallows. Which kind
of thoughts is called ' foresight/ and ' prudence/ or ' provi-
dence/ and sometimes ' wisdom/ though such conjecture,
through the difficulty of observing all circumstances, be
very fallacious. But this is certain: by how much one man
has more experience of things past than another, by so mucli
also he is more prudent, and his expectations the seldomer
fail him. The ' present ' only has a being in nature ; things
' past ' have a being in the memory only, but things i to
come ' have no being at all, the ' future y being but a fiction
of the mind, applying the sequels of actions past to the
actions that are present; which with most certainty is done
by him that has most experience, but not with certainty
enough. And though it be called prudence, when the event
answereth our expectation, yet, in its own nature, it is but
presumption. For the foresight of things to come, which
is providence, belongs only to him by whose will they are to
come. From him only, and supernaturally, proceeds proph-
ecy. The best prophet naturally is the best guesser ; and the
best guesser he that is most versed and studied in the mat-
ters he guesses at, for he hath most ' signs ' to guess by.
A ' sign T is the event antecedent of the consequent; and,
contrarily, the consequent of the antecedent, when the
like consequences have been observed before; and the
oftener they have been observed, the less uncertain is the
sign. And therefore he that has most experience in any
kind of business has most signs whereby to guess at the
future time, and consequently is the most prudent; and so
much more prudent than he that is new in that kind of
business as not to be equalled by any advantage of natural
and extemporary wit; though perhaps many young men
think the contrary.
334 THOMAS HOBBES
Nevertheless it is not prudence that distinguisheth man
from beast. There be beasts that at a year old observe
more, and pursue that which is for their good more pru-
dently than a child can do at ten.
As prudence is a * presumption ' of the * future ' contracted
from the 'experience' of time 'past/ so there is a pre-
sumption of things past taken from other things, not future,
but past also. For he that hath seen by what courses and
degrees a flourishing state hath first come into civil war,
and then to ruin, upon the sight of the ruins of any other
state will guess the like war and the like courses have been
there also. But this conjecture has the same uncertainty
almost with the conjecture of the future, both being
grounded only upon experience.
There is no other act of man's mind that I can remember
naturally planted in him, so as to need no other thing to
the exercise of it but to be born a man, and live with the
use of his five senses. Those other faculties of which I
shall speak by and by, and which seem proper to man only,
are acquired and increased by study and industry, and of
most men learned by instruction and discipline; and pro-
ceed all from the invention of words and speech. For
besides sense, and thoughts, and the train of thoughts, the
mind of man has no other motion, though by the help of
speech and method the same faculties may be improved to
such a height as to distinguish men from all other living
creatures.
Whatsoever we imagine is ' finite/ Therefore there is
no idea or conception of any thing we call ' infinite/ No
man can have in his mind an image of infinite magnitude,
nor conceive infinite swiftness, infinite time, or infinite force,
or infinite power. When we say anything is infinite, we
signify only that we are not able to conceive the ends and
bounds of the things named; having no conception of the
thing, but of our own inability. And therefore the name
of God is used, not to make us conceive Him, for He is
incomprehensible, and His greatness and power are uncon-
ceivable ; but that we may honour Him. Also because, what-
soever, as I said before, we conceive, has been perceived
first by sense, either all at once or by parts ; a man can have
OF MAN 335
no thought representing anything not subject to sense. No
man therefore can conceive anything but he must conceive it
in some place, and indued with some determinate magnitude,
and which may be divided into parts; nor that anything is
all in this place and all in another place at the same time;
nor that two or more things can be in one and the same
place at once: for none of these things ever have or can
be incident to sense, but are absurd speeches, taken upon
credit, without any signification at all, from deceived philos-
ophers, and deceived or deceiving schoolmen.
CHAPTER IV
Of Speech
The invention of 'printing/ though ingenious compared
with the invention of ' letters/ is no great matter. But who
was the first that found the use of letters is not known. He
that first brought them into Greece men say was Cadmus,
the son of Agenor, king of Phoenicia. A profitable invention
for continuing the memory of time past and the conjunction
of mankind, dispersed into so many and distant regions of
the earth ; and withal difficult, as proceeding from a watchful
observation of the divers motions of the tongue, palate, lips,
and other organs of speech, whereby to make as many dif-
ferences of characters, to remember them. But the most
noble and profitable invention of all other was that of
1 speech ' consisting of ' names ' or ' appellations/ and their
connection ; whereby men register their thoughts, recall them
when they are past, and also declare them one to another for
mutual utility and conversation; without which there had
been amongst men neither commonwealth, nor society, nor
contract, nor peace, no more than amongst lions, bears, and
wolves. The first author of ' speech ' was God Himself, that
instructed Adam how to name such creatures as He presented
to his sight; for the Scripture goeth no further in this matter.
But this was sufficient to direct him to add more names, as the
experience and use of the creatures should give him occasion,
and to join them in such manner by degrees as to make him-
self understood; and so, by succession of time, so much
336 THOMAS HOBBES
language might be gotten as he had found use for; though
not so copious, as an orator or philosopher has need of : for
I do not find anything in the Scripture out of which, directly
or by consequence, can be gathered that Adam was taught
the names of all figures, numbers, measures, colours, sounds,
fancies, relations — much less the names of words and speech,
as ' general/ ' special/ affirmative/ ' negative/ ' interroga-
tive/ ' optative/ ' infinitive/ all which are useful, and, least of
all, of ' entity/ ' intentionality/ ' quiddity/ and other insig-
nificant words of the school.
But all this language gotten, and augmented by Adam and
his posterity was again lost at the Tower of Babel, when by
the hand of God every man was stricken for his rebellion
with an oblivion of his former language. And being hereby
forced to disperse themselves into several parts of the world,
it must needs be that the diversity of tongues that now is
proceeded by degrees from them in such manner as need, the
mother of all inventions, taught them; and in tract of time
grew everywhere more copious.
The general use of speech is to transfer our mental dis-
course into verbal, or the train of our thoughts into a train
of words, and that for two commodities, whereof one is the
registering of the consequences of our thoughts, which, being
apt to slip out of our memory and put us to a new labour,
may again be recalled by such words as they were marked by.
Se that the first use of names is to serve for 'marks/ or
'notes/ of remembrance. Another is, when many use the
same words to signify by their connection and order one to
another what they conceive or think of each matter ; and also
what they desire, fear, or have any other passion for. And
for this use they are called ' signs/ Special uses of speech
are these : first, to register what by cogitation we find to be
the cause of anything, present or past; and what we find
things present or past may produce, or effect ; which, in sum,
is acquiring of arts. Secondly, to show to others that knowl-
edge which we have attained, which is to counsel and teach
one another. Thirdly, to make known to others our wills and
purposes, that we may have the mutual help of one another.
Fourthly, to please and delight ourselves and others by play-
ing with our words, for pleasure or ornament, innocently.
OF MAN 337
To these uses there are also four correspondent abuses.
First, when men register their thoughts wrong, by the in-
constancy of the signification of their words ; by which they
register for their conceptions that which they never con-
ceived, and so deceive themselves. Secondly, when they use
words metaphorically, that is, in other sense than that
they are ordained for; and thereby deceive others. Thirdly,
when by words, they declare that to be their will which
is not. Fourthly, when they use them to grieve one an-
other; for seeing Nature hath armed living creatures, some
with teeth, some with horns, and some with hands, to grieve
an enemy, it is but an abuse of speech to grieve him
with the tongue, unless it be one whom we are obliged
to govern; and then it is not to grieve, but to correct and
amend.
The manner how speech serveth to the remembrance of the
consequence of causes and effects consisteth in the imposing
of ' names/ and the ' connection ' of them.
Of names, some are ' proper/ and singular to one only
thing, as ' Peter/ ' John/ ' this man/ ' this tree ' ; and some
are * common ? to many things, ' man/ ' horse/ ' tree ' — every
of which, though but one name, is nevertheless the name
of divers particular things; in respect of all which together it
is called an 'universal/ there being nothing in the world
universal but names ; for the things named are every one of
them individual and singular.
One universal name is imposed on many things, for their
similitude in some quality or other accident; and whereas
a proper name bringeth to mind one thing only, universals
recall any one of those many.
And, of names universal, some are of more, and some of
less extent, the larger comprehending the less large; and
some again of equal extent, comprehending each other recip-
rocally. As, for example, the name ' body ' is of larger
signification than the word 'man/ and comprehendeth it;
and the names 'man' and 'rational' are of equal extent,
comprehending mutually one another. But here we must
take notice that by a name is not always understood, as in
grammar, one only word; but sometimes, by circumlocution,
many words together. For all these words, 'he that in his
338 THOMAS HOBBES
actions observeth the laws of his country ' make but one
name, equivalent to this one word ' just/
By this imposition of names, some of larger, some of
stricter signification, we turn the reckoning of the con-
sequences of things imagined in the mind into a reckoning
of the consequences of appellations. For example: a man
that hath no use of speech at all, such as is born and remains
perfectly deaf and dumb, if he set before his eyes a triangle
and by it two right angles, such as are the corners of a square
figure, he may by meditation compare and find that the three
angles of that triangle are equal to those two right angles
that stand by it. But if another triangle be shown him, dif-
ferent in shape from the former, he cannot know without a
new labour whether the three angles of that also be equal to
the same. But he that hath the use of words, when he
observes that such equality was consequent not to the length
of the sides nor to any other particular thing in his triangle,
but only to this, that the sides were straight, and the angles
three, and that that was all for which he named it a triangle,
will boldly conclude universally that such equality of angles
is in all triangles whatsoever, and register his invention in
these general terms, 'every triangle hath its three angles
equal to two right angles.' And thus the consequence found
in one particular comes to be registered and remembered as
a universal rule, and discharges our mental reckoning of
time and place, and delivers us from all labour of the mind
saving the first ; and makes that which was found true ' here '
and ' now ' to be true in ( all times ' and l places.'
But the use of words in registering our thoughts is in
nothing so evident as in numbering. A natural fool that
could never learn by heart the order of numeral words, as
' one,' ' two,' and ' three/ may observe every stroke of the
clock, and nod to it, or say ' one/ ' one/ ' one/ but can never
know what hour it strikes. And it seems there was a time
when those names of number were not in use, and men were
fain to apply their fingers of one or both hands to those
things they desired to keep account of; and that thence it
proceeded that now our numeral words are but ten in any
nation, and in some but five ; and then they begin again. And
he that can tell ten, if he recite them out of order, will lose
OF MAN 339
himself and not know when he has done. Much less will
he be able to add, and subtract, and perform all other opera-
tions of arithmetic. So that without words there is no pos-
sibility of reckoning of numbers; much less of magnitudes,
of swiftness, of force, and other things, the reckonings
whereof are necessary to the being, or well-being of man-
kind.
When two names are joined together into a consequence,
or affirmation as thus, * a man is a living creature/ or thus,
1 if he be a man, he is a living creature/ if the latter name,
* living creature/ signify all that the former name, ' man/
signifieth, then the affirmation, or consequence, is ' true ' ;
otherwise • false.' For • true '■ and • false ' are attributes of
speech, not of things. And where speech is not, there is
neither - truth ' nor 6 falsehood ' : ' error ' there may be, as
when we expect that which shall not be, or suspect what has
not been; but in neither case can a man be charged with
untruth.
Seeing then that truth consisteth in the right ordering of
names in our affirmations, a man that seeketh precise truth
had need to remember what every name he uses stands for,
and to place it accordingly, or else he will find himself en-
tangled in words, as a bird in lime twigs — the more he
struggles the more belimed. And therefore in geometry,
which is the only science that it hath pleased God hitherto to
bestow on mankind, men begin at settling the significations
of their words ; which settling of significations they call ' defi-
nitions/ and place them in the beginning of their reckoning.
By this it appears how necessary it is for any man that
aspires to true knowledge to examine the definitions of former
authors; and either to correct them, where they are negli-
gently set down, or to make them himself. For the errors of
definitions multiply themselves according as the reckoning
proceeds, and lead men into absurdities which at last they
see, but cannot avoid without reckoning anew from the be-
ginning, in which lies the foundation of their errors. From
whence it happens that they which trust to books do as they
that cast up many little sums into a greater, without con-
sidering whether those little sums were rightly cast up or
not; and at last, finding the error visible and not mistrusting
340 THOMAS HOBBES
their first grounds, know not which way to clear themselves,
but spend time in fluttering over their books, as birds that,
entering by the chimney and finding themselves enclosed in
a chamber, flutter at the false light of a glass window for
want of wit to consider which way they came in. So that in
the right definition of names lies the first use of speech, which
is the acquisition of science ; and in wrong, or no definitions,
lies the first abuse ; from which proceed all false and senseless
tenets: which make those men that take their instruction
from the authority of books and not from their own medita-
tion to be as much below the condition of ignorant men as
men endued with true science are above it. For between true
science and erroneous doctrines ignorance is in the middle.
Natural sense and imagination are not subject to absurdity.
Nature itself cannot err; and as men abound in copiousness
of language, so they become more wise, or more mad, than
ordinary. Nor is it possible without letters for any man to
become either excellently wise, or, unless his memory be hurt
by disease or ill constitution of organs, excellently foolish.
For words are wise men's counters — they do but reckon by
them; but they are the money of fools, that value them by
the authority of an Aristotle, a Cicero, or a Thomas or any
other doctor whatsoever, if but a man.
' Subject to names ' is whatsoever can enter into or be
considered in an account, and be added one to another to
make a sum, or subtracted one from another and leave a
remainder. The Latins called accounts of money rationes,
and accounting ratio cinatio ; and that which we in bills or
books of account call ' items ' they call nomina, that is
' names/ and thence it seems to proceed that they extended
the word ratio to the faculty of reckoning in all other things.
The Greeks have but one word, Myos, for both ' speech '
and ' reason ' ; not that they thought there was no speech
without reason, but no reasoning without speech ; and the act
of reasoning they called ' syllogism,' which signifieth summing
up of the consequences of one saying to another. And be-
cause the same thing may enter into account for divers
accidents, their names are, to show that diversity, diversely
wrested and diversified. This diversity of names may be
reduced to four general heads.
OF MAN 341
First, a thing may enter into account for 'matter' or
'body/ as 'living/ 'sensible/ 'rational/ 'hot/ 'cold/
'moved/ 'quiet'; with all which names the word 'matter'
or ' body ' is understood ; all such being names of matter.
Secondly, it may enter into account, or be considered, for
some accident or quality which we conceive to be in it; as
for ' being moved/ for ' being so long/ for ' being hot/ etc. ;
and then, of the name of the thing itself, by a little change or
wresting we make a name for that accident which we con-
sider; and for 'living' put into the account 'life/ for
' moved ' ' motion/ for ' hot ' ' heat/ for ' long ' ' length/ and
the like; and all such names are the names of the accidents
and properties by which one matter and body is distinguished
from another. These are called 'names abstract/ because
severed not from matter but from the account of matter.
Thirdly, we bring into account the properties of our own
bodies, whereby we make such distinction ; as, when anything
is seen by us, we reckon not the thing itself but the sight,
the colour, the idea of it in the fancy; and when anything is
heard, we reckon it not, but the hearing or sound only, which
is our fancy or conception of it by the ear; and such are
names of fancies.
Fourthly, we bring into account, consider, and give names,
to ' names ' themselves, and to ' speeches/ for ' general/
' universal/ ' special/ ' equivocal/ are names of names. And
' affirmation/ ' interrogation/ ' commandment/ ' narration/
' syllogism/ ' sermon,' ' oration,' and many other such, are
names of speeches. And this is all the variety of names
' positive/ which are put to mark somewhat which is in
Nature, or may be feigned by the mind of man, as bodies that
are or may be conceived to be; or of bodies, the properties
that are or may be feigned to be ; or words and speech.
There be also other names, called 'negative/ which are
notes to signify that a word is not the name of the thing in
question ; as these words ' nothing/ ' no man/ ' infinite/ ' in-
docible/ ' three want four/ and the like ; which are neverthe-
less of use in reckoning, or in correcting of reckoning, and
call to mind our past cogitations, though they be not names
of anything, because they make us refuse to admit of names
not rightly used.
342 THOMAS HOBBES
All other names are but insignificant sounds ; and those of
two sorts. One when they are new, and yet their meaning
not explained by definition; whereof there have been abun-
dance coined by schoolmen, and puzzled philosophers.
Another, when men make a name of two names, whose
significations are contradictory and inconsistent; as this
name, an ' incorporeal body/ or, which is all one, an ' in-
corporeal substance,' and a great number more. For, when-
soever any affirmation is false, the two names of which it is
composed put together and made one signify nothing at all.
For example, if it be a false affirmation to say ' a quadrangle
is round/ the word ' round quadrangle ' signifies nothing, but
is a mere sound. So likewise, if it be false to say that virtue
can be poured, or blown up and down, the words ' inpoured
virtue/ ' inblown virtue/ are as absurd and insignificant as
a ' round quadrangle.' And therefore you shall hardly meet
with a senseless and insignificant word that is not made up
of some Latin or Greek names. A Frenchman seldom hears
our Saviour called by the name of parole, but by the name
of verbe often; yet verbe and parole differ no more but that
one is Latin, the other French.
When a man, upon the hearing of any speech, hath those
thoughts which the words of that speech and their connec-
tion were ordained and constituted to signify, then he is said
to understand it, * understanding ' being nothing else but con-
ception caused by speech. And therefore, if speech be
peculiar to man, as for aught I know it is, then is under-
standing peculiar to him also. And therefore of absurd and
false affirmations, in case they be universal, there can be no
understanding; though many think they understand, then,
when they do but repeat the words softly, or con them in
their mind.
What kinds of speeches signify the appetites, aversions,
and passions of man's mind, and of their use and abuse, I
shall speak when I have spoken of the passions.
The names of such things as affect us, that is, which please
and displease us, because all men be not alike affected with
the same thing nor the same man at all times, are in the
common discourses of men of ' inconstant ' signification. For
seeing all names are imposed to signify our conceptions, and
OF MAN 343
all our affections are but conceptions, when we conceive the
same things differently we can hardly avoid different naming
of them. For though the nature of that we conceive be the
same, yet the diversity of our reception of it, in respect of
different constitutions of body and prejudices of opinion,
gives everything a tincture of our different passions. And
therefore in reasoning a man must take heed of words,
which, besides the signification of what we imagine of their
nature, have a signification also of the nature, disposition,
and interest of the speaker; such as are the names of virtues
and vices ; for one man calleth ' wisdom ' what another calleth
' fear/ and one ' cruelty ' what another ' justice ' ; one ' prod-
igality ' what another ' magnanimity ' ; and one i gravity '
what another ' stupidity/ etc. And therefore such names can
never be true grounds of any ratiocination. No more can
metaphors and tropes of speech; but these are less dangerous,
because they profess their inconstancy, which the other
do not.
CHAPTER V
Of Reason and Science
When a man ' reasoneth ' he does nothing else but con-
ceive a sum total, from ' addition ' of parcels, or conceive a
remainder, from 'subtraction' of one sum from another;
which, if it be done by words, is conceiving of the con-
sequence of the names of all the parts, to the name of the
whole; or from the names of the whole and one part, to the
name of the other part. And, though in some things, as in
numbers, besides adding and subtracting men name other
operations, as ' multiplying 9 and ' dividing/ yet they are the
same; for multiplication is but adding together of things
equal ; and division but subtracting of one thing, as often as
we can. These operations are not incident to numbers only,
but to all manner of things that can be added together, and
taken one out of another. For as arithmeticians teach to add
and subtract in ' numbers/ so the geometricians teach the
same in ' lines/ ' figures/ solid and superficial, ' angles/ ' pro-
portions/ ' times/ degrees of ' swiftness/ ' force/ ' power '
and the like ; the logicians teach the same in ' consequences
344 THOMAS HOBBES
of words/ adding together two ' names ' to make an ' affirma-
tion/ and two ' affirmations ' to make a ' syllogism ' ; and
' many syllogisms ' to make a ' demonstration ' ; and from the
'sum/ or 'conclusion/ of a 'syllogism' they subtract one
' proposition ' to find the other. Writers of politics add to-
gether f pactions ' to find men's ' duties/ and lawyers ' laws '
and ' facts/ to find what is ' right ' and ' wrong ' in the actions
of private men. In sum, in what matter soever there is place
for ' addition ' and ' subtraction ' there also is place for
' reason/ and where these have no place, there ' reason ' has
nothing at all to do.
Out of all which we may define, that is to say determine,
what that is which is meant by this word ' reason/ when we
reckon it amongst the faculties of the mind. For ' reason '
in this sense is nothing but ' reckoning/ that is adding and
subtracting, of the consequences of general names agreed
upon for the 'marking* and 'signifying' of our thoughts;
I say 'marking' them when we reckon by ourselves, and
* signifying ' when we demonstrate or approve our reckon-
ings to other men.
And, as in arithmetic, unpractised men must, and profes-
sors themselves may often, err, and cast up false ; so also in
any other subject of reasoning the ablest, most attentive,
and most practised men may deceive themselves, and infer
false conclusions; not but that reason itself is always right
reason, as well as arithmetic is a certain and infallible art;
but no one man's reason, nor the reason of any one number
of men, makes the certainty; no more than an account is
therefore well cast up, because a great many men have
unanimously approved it. And therefore, as when there is a
controversy in an account the parties must by their own
accord set up fos right reason the reason of some arbitrator,
or judge, to whose sentence they will both stand, or their
controversy must either come to blows, or be undecided, for
want of a right reason constituted by Nature; so is it also
in all debates of what kind soever. And when men that
think themselves wiser than all others clamour and demand
right reason for judge, yet seek no more but that things
should be determined by no other men's reason but their own,
it is as intolerable in the society of men as it is in play after
OF MAN 345
trump is turned, to use for trump on every occasion that
suit whereof they have most in their hand. For they do
nothing else that will have every of their passions, as it
comes to bear sway in them, to be taken for right reason, and
that in their own controversies, bewraying their want of
right reason, by the claim they lay to it.
The use and end of reason is not the finding of the sum
and truth of one or a few consequences remote from the
first definitions and settled significations of names, but to
begin at these, and proceed from one consequence to another.
For there can be no certainty of the last conclusion without
a certainty of all those affirmations and negations on which
it was grounded and inferred. As when a master of a
family in taking an account casteth up the sums of all the
bills of expense into one sum, and, not regarding how each
bill is summed up by those that give them in account nor what
it is he pays for, he advantages himself no more than if he
allowed the account in gross, trusting to every of the ac-
countants' skill and honesty; so also, in reasoning of all
other things, he that takes up conclusions on the trust of
authors and doth not fetch them from the first items in every^
reckoning, which are the significations of names settled by
definitions, loses his labour, and does not know anything, but
only believeth.
When a man reckons without the use of words, which may
be done in particular things, as when upon the sight of any
one thing we conjecture what was likely to have preceded or
is likely to follow upon it, if that which he thought likely
to follow follows not, or that which he thought likely to have
preceded it hath not preceded it, this is called ' error/ to
which even the most prudent men are subject. But when
we reason in words of general signification, and fall upon
a general inference which is false, though it be commonly
called i error/ it is indeed an ' absurdity/ or senseless speech.
For error is but a deception, in presuming that somewhat
is past or to come, of which, though it were not past or not
to come, yet there was no impossibility discoverable. But
when we make a general assertion, unless it be a true one,
the possibility of it is inconceivable. And words whereby
we conceive nothing but the sound are those we call ' absurd/
346 THOMAS HOBBES
' insignificant/ and ' nonsense/ And therefore if a man
should talk to me of a ' round quadrangle/ or ' accidents of
bread in cheese/ or ' immaterial substances/ or of ' a free
subject/ 'a free will/ or any 'free' but free from being
hindered by opposition, I should not say he were in an error,
but that his words were without meaning, that is to say
absurd.
I have said before, in the second chapter, that a man did
excel all other animals in this faculty that when he conceived
anything whatsoever he was apt to inquire the consequences
of it, and what effects he could do with it. And now I add
this other degree of the same excellence, that he can by
words reduce the consequences he finds to general rules, called
• theorems/ or ' aphorisms/ that is, he can reason, or reckon,
not only in number, but in all other things whereof one may
be added unto, or subtracted from another.
But this privilege is allayed by another, and that is, by the
privilege of absurdity; to which no living creature is subject,
but man only. And of men, those are of all most subject to
it that profess philosophy. For it is most true that Cicero
saith of them somewhere that there can be nothing so absurd
but may be found in the books of philosophers. And the
reason is manifest. For there is not one of them that begins
his ratiocination from the definitions or explications of the,
names they are to use, which is a method that hath been used
only in geometry, whose conclusions have thereby been made
indisputable.
i. The first cause of absurd conclusions I ascribe to the
want of method, in that they begin not their ratiocination
from definitions, that is, from settled significations of their
words ; as if they could cast account without knowing the
value of the numeral words ' one/ c two/ and ' three/
And whereas all bodies enter into account upon divers
considerations, which I have mentioned in the precedent
chapter, these considerations being diversely named, divers
absurdities proceed from the confusion, and unfit connexion
of their names into assertions. And therefore:
ii. The second cause of absurd assertions I ascribe to the
giving of names of 'bodies' to 'accidents/ or of 'accidents'
to ' bodies/ as they do that say ' faith is infused ' or ' in-
OF MAN 347
spired,' when nothing can be ' poured ' or ' breathed ' into
anything but body; and that 'extension' is 'body,' that
' phantasms ' are ' spirits/ etc.
in.. The third I ascribe to the giving of the names of the
1 accidents ' of ' bodies without us ' to the ' accidents ' of our
1 own bodies,' as they do that say ' the colour is in the body/
and 'the sound is in the air/ etc.
iv. The fourth to the giving of the names of * bodies ' to
1 names ' or * speeches/ as they do that say that * there be
things universal/ that ' a living creature is genus/ or ' a
general thing/ etc.
v. The fifth to the giving of the names of ' accidents ' to
1 names ' and ' speeches/ as they do that say, ' the nature of
a thing is its definition/ ' a man's command is his will/ and
the like.
vi. The sixth to the use of metaphors, tropes, and- other
rhetorical figures, instead of words proper. For though it be
lawful to say, for example, in common speech, ' the way
goeth, or leadeth hither or thither/ 'the proverb says this
or that/ whereas ways cannot go, nor proverbs speak; yet
in reckoning and seeking of truth such speeches are not to be '
admitted.
vn. The seventh to names that signify nothing, but are
taken up and learned by rote from the schools, as ' hypo-
statical,' ' transubstantiate/ ' consubstantiate/ ' eternal-now/
and the like canting of schoolmen.
To him that can avoid these things it is not easy to fall
into any absurdity, unless it be by the length of an account,
wherein he may perhaps forget what went before. For all
men by nature reason alike, and well, when they have good
principles. For who is so stupid as both to mistake in ge-
ometry and also to persist in it, when another detects his
error to him?
By this it appears that reason is not, as sense and memory,
born with us, nor gotten by experience only, as prudence is;
but attained by industry, first in apt imposing of names, and
secondly by getting a good and orderly method in proceeding
from the elements, which are names, to assertions made by
connection of one of them to another, and so to syllogisms,
which are the connections of one assertion to another, till
348 THOMAS HOBBES
we come to a knowledge of all the consequences of names
appertaining to the subject in hand; and that is it men call
6 science/ And whereas sense and memory are but knowledge
of fact, which is a thing past and irrevocable, ' science ' is
the knowledge of consequences, and dependence of one fact
upon another, by which, out of that we can presently do, we
know how to do something else when we will, or the like
another time; because when we see how anything comes
about, upon what causes, and by what manner, when the like
causes come into our power, we see how to make it produce
the like effects.
Children therefore are not endued with reason at all, till
they have attained the use of speech ; but are called reason-
able creatures, for the possibility apparent of having the use
of reason in time to come. And the most part of men, though
they have the use of reasoning a little way, as in numbering
to some degree, yet it serves them to little use in common
life, in which they govern themselves, some better, some
worse according to their differences of experience, quickness
of memory, and inclinations to several ends; but specially
according to good or evil fortune, and the errors of one an-
other. For as for ' science/ or certain rules of their actions,
they are so far from it that they know not what it is. Ge-
ometry they have thought conjuring; but for other sciences,
they who have not been taught the beginnings and some
progress in them, that they may see how they be acquired
and generated, are in this point like children that, having no
thought of generation, are made believe by the women that
their brothers and sisters are not born but found in the
garden.
But yet they that have no ' science ' are in better and
nobler condition, with their natural prudence, than men, that
by mis-reasoning, or by trusting them that reason wrong,
fall upon false and absurd general rules. For ignorance of
causes and of rules does not set men so far out of their way
as relying on false rules, and taking for causes of what they
aspire to those that are not so, but rather causes of the
contrary.
To conclude, the light of human minds is perspicuous
words, but by exact definitions first snuffed and purged from
OF MAN 349
ambiguity ; 4 reason ' is the ' pace/ increase of ' science f the
6 way/ and the benefit of mankind the ' end/ And, on the
contrary, metaphors, and senseless and ambiguous words,
are like ignes fatui; and reasoning upon them is wandering
amongst innumerable absurdities; and their end contention
and sedition, or contempt.
As much experience is ' prudence/ so is much science
'sapience/ For though we usually have one name of wis-
dom for them both, yet the Latins did always distinguish
between prudentia and sapientia, ascribing the former to ex-
perience, the latter to science. But, to make their difference
appear more clearly, let us suppose one man endued with an
excellent natural use and dexterity in handling his arms, and
another to have added to that dexterity an acquired science
of where he can offend or be offended by his adversary in
every possible posture or guard: the ability of the former
would be to the ability of the latter as prudence to sapience,
both useful, but the latter infallible. But they that, trusting
only to the authority of books, follow the blind blindly are
like him that, trusting to the false rules of a master of fence,
ventures presumptuously upon an adversary that either kills
or disgraces him.
The signs of science are, some certain and infallible, some,
uncertain. Certain, when he that pretendeth the science of
anything can teach the same, that is to say, demonstrate the
truth thereof perspicuously to another; uncertain, when only
some particular events answer to his pretence, and upon many
occasions prove so as he says they must. Signs of prudence
are all uncertain, because to observe by experience, and re-
member all circumstances that may alter the success, is
impossible. But in any business whereof a man has not
infallible science to proceed by, to forsake his own natural
judgment, and be guided by general sentences read in authors
and subject to many exceptions, is a sign of folly, and gen-
erally scorned by the name of pedantry. And even of those
men themselves that in councils of the commonwealth love
to show their reading of politics and history, very few do it
in their domestic affairs, where their particular interest is
concerned, having prudence enough for their private affairs ;
but in public they study more the reputation of their own wit
than the success of another's business.
350 THOMAS HOBBES
CHAPTER VI
Of the Interior Beginnings of Voluntary Motions, Com-
monly Called the Passions ; and the Speeches
by Which They Are Expressed.
There be in animals two sorts of ' motions' peculiar to
them: one called 'vital/ begun in generation, and continued
without interruption through their whole life, such as are
the * course ' of the ' blood/ the ' pulse/ the ' breathing/ the
1 concoction, nutrition, excretion/ etc., to which motions
there needs no help of imagination : the other is ' animal
motion/ otherwise called ' voluntary motion/ as to ' go/ to
1 speak/ to ' move ' any of our limbs in such manner as is
first fancied in our minds. That sense is motion in the
organs and interior parts of man's body, caused by the action
of the things we see, hear, etc.; and that fancy is but the
relics of the same motion, remaining after sense, has been
already said in the first and second chapters. And, because
1 going/ ' speaking,' and the like voluntary motions, depend
always upon a precedent thought of ' whither/ ' which way/
and ' what/ it is evident that the imagination is the first in-
ternal beginning of all voluntary motion. And, although
unstudied men do not conceive any motion at all to be there
where the thing moved is invisible, or the space it is moved
in is, for the shortness of it, insensible; yet that doth not
hinder but that such motions are. For, let a space be never
so little, that which is moved over a greater space, whereof
that little one is part, must first be moved over that.
These small beginnings of motion within the body of man,
before they appear in walking, speaking, striking, and other
visible actions, are commonly called ' endeavour.'
This endeavour, when it is toward something which causes
it, is called ' appetite/ or ' desire/ the latter being the general
name, and the other oftentimes restrained to signify the
desire of food, namely ' hunger ' and ' thirst/ And, when the
endeavour is fromward something, it is generally called
1 aversion.' These words, ' appetite ' and ' aversion/ we have
from the Latins ; and they both of them signify the motions,
one of approaching, the other of retiring. So also do the
OF MAN 351
Greek words for the same, which are Spfii) and &pop t av). For
Nature itself does often press upon men those truths which
afterwards, when they look for somewhat beyond Nature,
they stumble at. For the schools find in mere appetite to go,
or move, no actual motion at all; but, because some motion
they must acknowledge, they call it metaphorical motion,
which is but an absurd speech; for though words may be
called metaphorical, bodies and motions cannot.
That which men desire they are also said to ' love ' ; and to
' hate ' those things for which they have aversion. So that
desire and love are the same thing, save that by desire we
always signify the absence of the object, by love most com-
monly the presence of the same. So also by aversion we
signify the absence, and by hate, the presence of the object.
Of appetites and aversions, some are born with men, as
appetite of food, appetite of excretion, and exoneration-
which may also and more properly be called aversions from
somewhat they feel in their bodies ; and some other appetites,
not many. The rest, which are appetites of particular things,
proceed from experience and trial of their effects upon them-
selves or other men. For of things we know not at all, or
believe not to be, we can have no further desire than to
taste and try. But aversion we have for things not only
which we know have hurt us, but also that we do not know
whether they will hurt us or not.
Those things which we neither desire nor hate we are said
to ' contemn/ ' contempt ' being nothing else but an immo-
bility or contumacy of the heart in resisting the action of
certain things, and proceeding from that the heart is already
moved otherwise by other more potent objects, or from want
of experience of them.
And, because the constitution of a man's body is in con-
tinual mutation, it is impossible that all the same things
should always cause in him the same appetites and aversions :
much less can all men consent in the desire of almost any
one and the same object.
But whatsoever is the object of any man's appetite or desire,
that is it which he for his part calleth ' good ' ; and the object
of his hate and aversion, 'evil'; and of his contempt 'vile*
and * inconsiderable/ For these words of good, evil, and
352 THOMAS HOBBES
contemptible, are ever used with relation to the person that
useth them, there being nothing simply and absolutely so;
nor any common rule of good and evil, to be taken from the
nature of the objects themselves; but from the person of
the man, where there is no commonwealth, or, in a common-
wealth, from the person that representeth it; or from an
arbitrator or judge, whom men disagreeing shall by consent
set up, and make his sentence the rule thereof.
The Latin tongue has two words whose significations ap-
proach to those of good and evil, but are not precisely the
same; and those are pulchrum and turpe. Whereof the
former signifies that which by some apparent signs promiseth
good; and the latter that which promiseth evil. But in our
tongue we have not so general names to express them by.
But for pulchrum we say in some things ' fair/ in others,
'beautiful/ or 'handsome/ or 'gallant/ or 'honourable,' or
' comely/ or ' amiable ' ; and for turpe, ' foul/ ' deformed/
'ugly/ 'base/ 'nauseous/ and the like, as the subject shall
require; all which words, in their proper places, signify
nothing else but the 'mien/ or countenance, that promiseth
good and evil. So that of good there be three kinds: good
in the promise, that is pulchrum; good in effect, as the end
desired, which is called jucundum, ' delightful ' ; and good as
the means which is called utile, ' profitable ' ; and as many of
evil : for ' evil ' in promise is that they call turpe; evil in
effect, and end is molcsium, ' unpleasant/ ' troublesome ' ; and
evil in the means, inutile, ' unprofitable,' ' hurtful.'
As, in sense, that which is really within us is, as I have
said before, only motion caused by the action of external
objects but in appearance — to the sight, light and colour;
to the ear, sound ; to the nostril, odour, etc. ; so, when the
action of the same object is continued from the eyes, ears,
and other organs to the heart, the real effect there is nothing
but motion or endeavour which consisteth in appetite, or
aversion, to or from the object moving. But the apparence,
or sense of that motion, is that we either call ' delight' or
' trouble of mind.'
This motion, which is called appetite, and for the appar-
ence of it ' delight ' and 'pleasure/ seemeth to be a cor-
roboration of vital motion, and a help thereunto; and
OF MAN 353
therefore such things as caused delight were not improperly
called jucunda, (a juvando,) from helping or fortifying; and
the contrary molest^ ' offensive/ from hindering and troub-
ling the motion vital.
' Pleasure/ therefore, or ' delight/ is the apparence or
sense of good; and 'molestation/ or 'displeasure/ the ap-
parence or sense of evil. And consequently all appetite, de-
sire, and love, is accompanied with some delight more or less;
and all hatred and aversion with more or less displeasure
and offence.
Of pleasures or delights some arise from the sense of an
object present; and those may be called 'pleasures of sense/
the word ' sensual/ as it is used by those only that condemn
them, having no place till there be laws. Of this kind are all
onerations and exonerations of the body, as also all that
is pleasant in the ' sight/ ' hearing/ ' smell/ ' taste/ or
'touch/ Others arise from the expectation that proceeds
from foresight of the end or consequence of things, whether
those things in the sense please or displease. And these are
' pleasures of the mind ' of him that draweth those conse-
quences, and are generally called ' joy/ In the like manner,
displeasures are some in the sense, and called ' pain ' ; others
in the expectation of consequences, and are called ' grief/
These simple passions called ' appetite/ ' desire/ ' love/
'aversion/ 'hate/ 'joy/ and 'grief/ have their names for
divers considerations diversified. As first, when they one
succeed another, they are diversely called from the opinion
men have of the likelihood of attaining what they desire.
Secondly, from the object loved or hated. Thirdly, from
the consideration of many of them together. Fourthly,
from the alteration or succession itself.
For ' appetite ' with an opinion of attaining is called
' hope/
The same without such opinion, ' despair/
'Aversion' with opinion of 'hurt' from the object ' fear/ 8
The same with hope of avoiding that hurt by resistance,
1 courage/
Sudden ' courage/ ' anger/
Constant ' hope/ ' confidence ' of ourselves.
Constant ' despair/ ' diffidence ' of ourselves.
(L) HC— Vol. 34
354 THOMAS HOBBES
1 Anger ' for great hurt done to another, when we con-
ceive the same to be done by injury, ' indignation/
' Desire ' of good to another, * benevolence/ * good will/
* charity/ If to man generally, 'good-nature/
* Desire ' of riches, ' covetousness/ a name used always in
signification of blame, because men contending for them are
displeased with one another attaining them, though the de-
sire in itself be to be blamed, or allowed, according to the
means by which those riches are sought.
' Desire ' of office, or precedence, ' ambition/ a name used
also in the worse sense, for the reason before mentioned.
* Desire ' of things that conduce but a little to our ends,
and fear of things that are but of little hindrance, ' pusil-
lanimity/
* Contempt ' of little helps and hindrances, • magnanimity/
' Magnanimity ' in danger of death or wounds, ' valour/
' fortitude/
i Magnanimity • in the use of riches, ' liberality/
1 Pusillanimity * in the same, * wretchedness/ * miserable-
ness/ or ' parsimony/ as it is liked or disliked.
' Love ' of persons for society, * kindness/
* Love ' of persons for pleasing the sense only, * natural
lust/
1 Love ' of the same, acquired from rumination, that is
imagination of pleasure past, ' luxury/
* Love ' of one singularly, with desire to be singularly
beloved, ' the passion of love/ The same, with fear that the
love is not mutual, ' jealousy/
1 Desire/ by doing hurt to another, to make him condemn
some fact of his own, ' revengefulness/
' Desire ' to know why and how, ' curiosity/ such as is in
no living creature but 'man/ so that man is distinguished
not only by his reason but also by this singular passion from
other 'animals/ in whom the appetite of food, and other
pleasures of sense, by predominance take away the care of
knowing causes, which is a lust of the mind, that by a perse-
verance of delight in the continual and indefatigable genera-
tion of knowledge exceedeth the short vehemence of any
carnal pleasure.
6 Fear ' of power invisible, feigned by the mind or imag-
OF MAN 355
ined from tales publicly allowed, ' religion/ not allowed,
1 superstition. ' And when the power imagined is truly such
as we imagine, ' true religion/
' Fear/ without the apprehension of why or what, ' panic
terror/ called so from the fables that make Pan the author
of them, whereas in truth there is always in him that so
feareth, first some apprehension of the cause, though the
rest run away by example, every one supposing his fellow to
know why. And therefore this passion happens to none
but in a throng or multitude of people.
' Joy ' from apprehension of novelty ' admiration/ proper
to man, because it excites the appetite of knowing the cause.
' Joy/ arising from imagination of a man's own power and
ability is that exultation of the mind which is called ' glory-
ing/ which, if grounded upon the experience of his own
former actions, is the same as ' confidence/ but if grounded
on the flattery of others or only supposed by himself for
delight in the consequences of it, is called 'vain-glory/
which name is properly given, because a well-grounded
* confidence ' begetteth attempt, whereas the supposing of
power does not, and is therefore rightly called * vain.'
■ Grief ' from opinion of want of power is called ' dejec-
tion of mind/
The ' vain-glory ' which consisteth in the feigning or
supposing of abilities in ourselves which we know are not is
most incident to young men, and nourished by the histories
or fictions of gallant persons, and is corrected oftentimes by
age and employment.
' Sudden glory ' is the passion which maketh those
' grimaces ' called ' laughter ' ; and is caused either by some
sudden act of their own that pleaseth them, or by the appre-
hension of some deformed thing in another by comparison
whereof they suddenly applaud themselves. And it is inci-
dent most to them that are conscious of the fewest abilities
in themselves; who are forced to keep themselves in their
own favour by observing the imperfections of other men.
And therefore much laughter at the defects of others is a
sign of pusillanimity. For of great minds one of the proper
works is to help and free others from scorn and compare
themselves only with the most able.
356 THOMAS HOBBES
On the contrary, 'sudden dejection' is the passion that
causeth 'weeping/ and is caused by such accidents as sud-
denly take away some vehement hope or some prop of their
power; and they are most subject to it that rely principally
on helps external, such as are women and children. There-
fore some weep for the loss of friends, others for their un-
kindness, others for the sudden stop made to their thoughts of
revenge by reconciliation. But in all cases, both laughter and
weeping, are sudden motions, custom taking them both away.
For no man laughs at old jests, or weeps for an old calamity.
' Grief ' for the discovery of some defect of ability is
'shame/ or the passion that discovereth itself in 'blushing/
and consisteth in the apprehension of something dishonoura-
ble; and in young men is a sign of the love of good reputa-
tion, and commendable : in old men it is a sign of the same ;
but, because it comes too late, not commendable.
The ' contempt ' of good reputation is called i impudence/
' Grief ' for the calamity of another is ' pity/ and ariseth
from the imagination that the like calamity may befall him-
self; and therefore is called also 'compassion/ and in the
phrase of this present time a ' fellow-feeling ' ; and therefore
for calamity arriving from great wickedness the best men
have the least pity ; and for the same calamity those have least
pity that think themselves least obnoxious to the same.
' Contempt/ or little sense of the calamity of others, is
that which men call ' cruelty/ proceeding from security of
their own fortune. For, that any man should take pleasure
in other men's great harms without other end of his own, I
do not conceive it possible.
' Grief f for the success of a competitor in wealth, honour,
or other good, if it be joined with endeavour to enforce our
own abilities to equal or exceed him, is called ' emulation ' ;
but joined with endeavour to supplant or hinder a com-
petitor, ' envy.'
When in the mind of man, appetites and aversions, hopes
and fears, concerning one and the same thing, arise alter-
nately, and divers good and evil consequences of the doing
or omitting the thing propounded, come successively into our
thoughts, so that sometimes we have an appetite to it, some-
times an aversion from it, sometimes hope to be able to do
OF MAN 257
it, sometimes despair or fear to attempt it, the whole sum
of desires, aversions, hopes, and fears, continued till the
thing be either done or thought impossible, is that we call
1 deliberation/
Therefore of things past there is no 'deliberation/ be-
cause manifestly impossible to be changed; nor of things
known to be impossible, or thought so, because men know,
or think, such deliberation vain. But of things impossible
which we think possible we may deliberate; net knowing it
is in vain. And it is called "deliberation/ because it is a
putting an end to the * liberty ' we had of doing or omitting
according to our own appetite or aversion.
This alternate succession of appetites, aversions, hopes,
and fears, is no less in other living creatures than in man;
and therefore beasts also deliberate.
Every ' deliberation ' is then said to l end ' when that
whereof they deliberate is either done or thought impossible ;
because till then we retain the liberty of doing or omitting,
according to our appetite or aversion.
In ' deliberation/ the last appetite, or aversion, immedi-
ately adhering to the action, or to the omission thereof, is
that we call the ' will ' ; the act, not the faculty, of ' willing/
And beasts that have ' deliberation ' must necessarily also
have ' will/ The definition of the * will ' given commonly
by the schools, that it is a ' rational appetite/ is not good.
For if it were, then could there be no voluntary act against
reason. For a 'voluntary act' is that which proceedeth
from the * will ' and no other. But if instead of a rational
appetite we shall say an appetite resulting from a precedent
deliberation, then the definition is the same that I have given
here. Will, therefore, is the last appetite in deliberating.
And, though we say in common discourse a man had a will
once to do a thing, that nevertheless he forbore to do, yet
that is properly but an inclination, which makes no action
voluntary; because the action depends not of it, but of the
last inclination or appetite. For if the intervenient appe-
tites make any action voluntary, then by the same reason
all intervenient aversions should make the same action in-
voluntary; and so one and the same action should be both
voluntary and involuntary.
358 THOMAS HOBBES
By this it is manifest that not only actions that have their
beginning from covetousness, ambition, lust, or other appe-
tites to the thing propounded, but also those that have their
beginning from aversion, or fear of those consequences that
follow the omission, are ' voluntary actions.'
The forms of speech by which the passions are expressed
are partly the same, and partly different from those by which
we express our thoughts. And, first, generally all passions
may be expressed ' indicatively,' as * I love/ ' I fear,' ' I
joy,' 'I deliberate,' 'I will,' 'I command,' but some of them
have particular expressions by themselves, which neverthe-
less are not affirmations, unless it be when they serve to
make other inferences besides that of the passion they pro-
ceed from. Deliberation is expressed ' subjunctively,' which
is a speech proper to signify suppositions, with their conse-
quences : as, ' if this be done, then this will follow,' and
differs not from the language of reasoning, save that reason-
ing is in general words ; but deliberation for the most part is
of particulars. The language of desire, and aversion, Is
' imperative,' as ' do this,' ' forbear that,' which when the
party is obliged to do, or forbear, is ' command ' ; otherwise
'prayer,' or else ' counsel.' The language of vain-glory, of
indignation, pity and revengefulness, 'optative,' but of the
desire to know there is a peculiar expression, called ' inter-
rogative,' as 'what is it'? 'when shall it'? i how Is it
done'? and 'why so'? Other language of the passions I
find none; for cursing, swearing, reviling, and the like, do
not signify as speech, but as the actions of a tongue accus-
tomed.
These forms of speech, I say, are expressions, or volun-
tary significations of our passions; but certain signs they
be not, because they may be used arbitrarily, whether they
that use them have such passions or not. The best signs
of passions present are either in the countenance, motions
of the body, actions, and ends, or aims, which we otherwise
know the man to have.
And because in deliberation the appetites and aversions
are raised by foresight of the good and evil consequences,
and sequels of the action whereof we deliberate, the good
or evil effect thereof dependeth on the foresight of a long
OF MAN 859
chain of consequences of which very seldom any man is able
to see to the end. But for so far as a man seeth, if the
good in those consequences be greater than the evil, the
whole chain is that which writers call ' apparent ' or ' seem-
ing good.' And, contrarily, when the evil exceedeth the
good, the whole is ' apparent ' or - seeming evil/ so that he
who hath by experience, or reason, the greatest and surest
prospect of consequences, deliberates best himself, and is
able, when he will, to give the best counsel unto others.
6 Continual success ' in obtaining those things which a man
from time to time desireth, that is to say continual prosper-
ing, is that men call ' felicity ' — I mean the felicity of this
life. For there is no such thing as perpetual tranquility of
mind while we live here, because life itself is but motion,
and can never be without desire, nor without fear, no more
than without sense. What kind of felicity God hath or-
dained to them that devoutly honour Him a man shall no
sooner know than enjoy, being joys that now are as incom-
prehensible as the word of schoolmen ' beatifical vision ' is
unintelligible.
The form of speech whereby men signify their opinion
of the goodness of anything is ' praise/ That whereby they
signify the power and greatness of anything is ' magnifying.'
And that whereby they signify the opinion they have of a
man's felicity is by the Greeks called jiaxapHTfids, for which
we have no name in our tongue. And thus much is suf-
ficient for the present purpose, to have been said of the
* passions/
CHAPTER VII
Of the Ends, or Resolutions of Discourse
Of all c discourse/ governed by desire of knowledge there
is at last an 'end/ either by attaining or by giving over.
And in the chain of discourse, wheresoever it be interrupted,
there is an end for that time.
If the discourse be merely mental, it consisteth of thoughts
that the thing will be, and will not be; or that it has been,
and has not been, alternately. So that wheresoever you
break off the chain of a man's discourse, you leave him in a
360 THOMAS HOBBES
presumption of ' it will be/ or ' it will not be/ or ' it has
been/ or ' has not been/ All which is ' opinion/ And
that which is alternate appetite in deliberating concerning
good and evil, the same is alternate opinion in the enquiry
of the truth of ' past ' and ' future/ And as the last ap-
petite in deliberation is called the 'will/ so the last opinion
in search of the truth of past and future is called the ' judg-
ment" or 'resolute' and 'final sentence' of him that 'dis-
coursed!.' And as the whole chain of appetites alternate,
in the question of good or bad, is called ' deliberation/ so
the whole chain of opinions alternate, in the question of
true or false, is called ' doubt/
No discourse whatsoever can end in absolute knowledge
of fact, past or to come. For, as for the knowledge of
fact, it is originally sense; and ever after, memory. And
for the knowledge of consequence, which I have said before
is called science, it is not absolute, but conditional. No
man can know by discourse that this or that is, has been,
or will be — which is to know absolutely; but only that
if this be, that is; if this has been, that has been, if this shall
be, that shall be — which is to know conditionally and that
not the consequence of one thing to another, but of one
name of a thing to another name of the same thing.
And therefore, when the discourse is put into speech,
and begins with the definitions of words, and proceeds by
connection of the same into general affirmations, and of
these again into syllogisms, the end or last sum is called
the conclusion, and the thought of the mind by it signified
is that conditional knowledge or knowledge of the conse-
quence of words, which is commonly called ' science/ But
if the first ground of such discourse be not definitions,
or if the definitions be not rightly joined together into
syllogisms, then the end or conclusion is again ' opinion '
namely of the truth of somewhat said, though sometimes
in absurd and senseless words, without possibility of being
understood. When two or more men know of one and
the same fact, they are said to be ' conscious/ of it one to
another; which is as much as to know it together. And
because such are fittest witnesses of the facts of one another
or of a third, it was, and ever will be, reputed a very
OF MAN 361
evil act for any man to speak against his 'conscience/
or to corrupt or force another so to do: insomuch that the
plea of conscience has been always hearkened unto very
diligently in all times. Afterwards men made use of the
same word metaphorically, for the knowledge of their own
secret facts and secret thoughts; and therefore it is rhe-
torically said that the conscience is a thousand witnesses.
And, last of all, men vehemently in love with their own
opinions, though never so absurd, and obstinately bent to
maintain them, gave those their opinions also that rever-
enced name of conscience, as if they would have it seem
unlawful to change or speak against them, and so pretend
to know they are true, when they know at most but that
they think so.
When a man's discourse beginneth not at definitions,
it beginneth either at some other contemplation of his own,
and then it is still called opinion; or it beginneth at some
saying of another, of whose ability to know the truth and
of whose honesty in not deceiving he doubteth not; and
then the discourse is not so much concerning the thing as
the person ; and the resolution is called ' belief/ and
1 faith ' — ' faith ' in the man, ' belief y both of the man and
of the truth of what he says. So that in belief are two
opinions; one of the saying of the man, the other of his
virtue. To ' have faith in * or ' trust to ' or ' believe a
man' signify the same thing, namely, an opinion of the
veracity of the man; but to 'believe what is said' signifieth
only an opinion of the truth of the saying. But we are
to observe that this phrase. ' I believe in/ as also the Latin
credo in, and the Greek tzijt£uu) &? are never used but in
the writings of divines. Instead of them in other writings
are put ' I believe him/ ' I trust him/ ' I have faith in him/
' I rely on him/ and in Latin credo illi, fido Mi; and in
Greek izigt(l>u> do zip; and that this singularity of the ecclesias-
tic use of the word hath raised many disputes about the
right object of the Christian faith.
But by 'believing in/ as it is in the creed, is meant, not
trust in the person, but confession and acknowledgment
of the doctrine. For not only Christians but all manner of
men do so believe in God as to hold all for truth they hear
362 THOMAS HOBBES
Him say, whether they understand it or not; which is all
the faith and trust can possibly be had in any person what-
soever; but they do not all believe the doctrine of the creed.
From whence we may infer that, when we believe any
saying whatsoever it be to be true, from arguments taken
not from the thing itself, or from the principles of natural
reason, but from the authority and good opinion we have
of him that hath said it, then is the speaker, or person we
believe in or trust in, and whose word we take, the object
of our faith, and the honour done in believing is done to
him only. And consequently when we believe that the
Scriptures are the word of God, having no immediate reve-
lation from God Himself, our belief, faith, and trust, is
in the Church, whose word we take and acquiesce therein.
And they that believe that which a prophet relates unto
them in the name of God take the word of the prophet, do
honour to him, and in him trust and believe, touching the
truth of what he relateth, whether he be a true or a false
prophet. And so it is also with all other history. For if
I should not believe all that is written by historians of the
glorious acts of Alexander or Caesar, I do not think the
ghost of Alexander or Caesar had any just cause to be
offended, or anybody else but the historian. If Livy say
the gods made once a cow speak, and we believe it not, we
distrust not God therein, but Livy. So that it is evident,
that whatsoever we believe, upon no other reason than what
is drawn from authority of men only, and their writings,
whether they be sent from God or not, is faith in men only.
CHAPTER VIII
Of the Virtues Commonly Called Intellectual, and
Their Contrary Defects
Virtue generally, in all sorts of subjects, is somewhat that
is valued for eminence, and consisteth in comparison. For,
if all things were equal in all men, nothing would be prized.
And by ' virtues intellectual ' are always understood such
abilities of the mind as men praise, value, and desire should
be in themselves, and go commonly under the name of a
OF MAN 363
'good wit,* though the same word 'wit' be used also to
distinguish one certain ability from the rest.
These ' virtues ' are of two sorts, ' natural ' and ' ac-
quired/ By natural I mean not that which a man hath
from his birth; for that is nothing else but sense, wherein
men differ so little one from another and from brute beasts
as it is not to be reckoned amongst virtues. But I mean
that 'wit' which is gotten by use only and experience;
without method, culture, or instruction. This ' natural wit '
consisteth principally in two things, ' celerity of imagining,'
that is, swift succession of one thought to another, and
steady direction to some approved end. On the contrary, a
slow imagination maketh that defect or fault of the mind
which is commonly called ' dulness/ ' stupidity/ and some-
times by other names that signify slowness of motion or
difficulty to be moved.
And this difference of quickness is caused by the differ-
ence of men's passions, that love and dislike, some one
thing, some another; and therefore some men's thoughts
run one way, some another; and are held to and observe
differently the things that pass through their imagination.
And whereas in this succession of men's thoughts there is
nothing to observe in the things they think on, but either
in what they be ' like one another/ or in what they be
1 unlike/ or ' what they serve for/ or ' how they serve to
such a purpose ;' those that observe their similitudes, in case
they be such as are but rarely observed by others, are said
to have a ' good wit/ by which in this occasion is meant a
' good fancy/ But they that observe their differences and
dissimilitudes, which is called ' distinguishing ' and ' dis-
cerning' and 'judging' between thing and thing, in case
such discerning be not easy, are said to have a ' good judg-
ment;' and, particularly in matter of conversation and
business, wherein times, places, and persons, are to be dis-
cerned, this virtue is called 'discretion/ The former, that
is, fancy, without the help of judgment, is not commended
as a virtue ; but the latter, which is judgment and discretion,
is commended for itself, without the help of fancy. Besides
the discretion of times, places, and persons, necessary to
a good fancy, there is required also an often application
354 THOMAS HOBBES
of his thoughts to their end, that is to say, to some use to
be made of them. This done, he that hath this virtue will
be easily fitted with similitudes that will please not only by
illustrations of his discourse, and adorning it with new
and apt metaphors, but also by the rarity of their invention.
But without steadiness and direction to some end a great
fancy is one kind of madness ; such as they have that, enter-
ing into any discourse, are snatched from their purpose by
everything that comes in their thought, into so many and so
long digressions and parentheses that they utterly lose them-
selves — which kind of folly I know no particular name for,
but the cause of it is sometimes want of experience, where-
by that seemeth to a man new and rare which doth not so
to others, sometimes pusillanimity, by which that seems
great to him which other men think a trifle; and whatso-
ever is new or great, and therefore thought fit to be told,
withdraws a man by degrees from the intended way of his
discourse.
In a good poem, whether it be ' epic ' or ' dramatic/ as
also in ' sonnets/ ' epigrams/ and other pieces, both judg-
ment and fancy are required; but the fancy must be more
eminent, because they please for the extravagancy, but ought
not to displease by indiscretion.
In a good history the judgment must be eminent, because
the goodness consisteth in the method, in the truth, and
in the choice of the actions that are most profitable to be
known. Fancy has no place but only in adorning the style.
In orations of praise, and in invectives, the fancy is pre-
dominant, because the design is not truth, but to honour
or dishonour, which is done by noble or by vile com-
parisons. The judgment does but suggest what circum-
stances make an action laudable or culpable.
In hortatives and pleadings, as truth or disguise serveth
best to the design in hand, so is the judgment or the fancy
most required.
In demonstration, in counsel, and all rigorous search of
truth, judgment does all, except sometimes the understand-
ing have need to be opened by some apt similitude, and then
there is so much use of fancy. But for metaphors, they
are in this case utterly excluded. For seeing they openly
OF MAN 365
profess deceit : to admit them mto counsel or reasoning were
manifest folly.
And in any discourse whatsoever, if the defect of dis-
cretion be apparent, how extravagant soever the fancy
be, the whole discourse will be taken for a sign of want of
wit; and so will it never when the discretion is manifest,
though the fancy be never so ordinary.
The secret thoughts of a man run over all things, holy,
profane, clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame
or blame; which verbal discourse cannot do farther than
the judgment shall approve of the time, place, and per-
sons. An anatomist or a physician may speak or write
his judgment of unclean things, because it is not to please
but profit; but for another man to write his extravagant
and pleasant fancies of the same is as if a man, from being
tumbled into the dirt, should come and present himself
before good company. And it is the want of discretion
that makes the difference. Again, in professed remissness
of mind, and familiar company, a man may play with the
sounds and equivocal significations of words, and that many
times with encounters of extraordinary fancy; but in a
sermon, or in public, or before persons unknown, or whom
we ought to reverence, there is no jingling of words that
will not be accounted folly; and the difference is only in
the want of discretion. So that, where wit is wanting, it
is not fancy that is wanting but discretion. Judgment
therefore without fancy is wit, but fancy without judg-
ment, not.
When the thoughts of a man that has a design in hand,
running over a multitude of things, observes how they
conduce to that design or what design they may conduce
unto, if his observations be such as are not easy or usual, this
wit of his is called ' prudence/ and depends on much ex-
perience and memory of the like things and their conse-
quences heretofore. In which there is not much difference
of men as there is in their fancies and judgments, because
the experience of men equal in age is not much unequal
as to the quantity, but lies in different occasions, every
one having his private designs. To govern well a family
and a kingdom are not different degrees of prudence, but
366 THOMAS HOBBES
different sorts of business; no more than to draw a picture
in little, or as great or greater than the life, are different
degrees of art. A plain husbandman is more prudent in
affairs of his own house than a privy-councillor in the affairs
of another man.
To prudence, if you add the use of unjust or dishonest
means, such as usually are prompted to men by fear or
want, you have that crooked wisdom which is called ' craft/
which is a sign of pusillanimity. For magnanimity is con-
tempt of unjust or dishonest helps. And that which the
Latins call versutia, translated into English ' shifting/ and is
a putting off of a present danger or incommodity by engaging
into a greater, as when a man robs one to pay another, is
but a short-sighted craft, called versutia, from versura, which
signifies taking money at usury for the present payment of
interest.
As for ' acquired wit/ I mean acquired by method and
instruction, there is none but reason, which is grounded on
the right use of speech, and produceth the sciences. But of
reason and science I have already spoken, in the fifth and
sixth chapters.
The causes of this difference of wits are in the passions;
and the difference of passions proceedeth partly from the
different constitution of the body, and partly from differ-
ent education. For if the difference proceeded from the
temper of the brain and the organs of sense, either exterior
or interior, there would be no less difference of men in their
sight, hearing, or other senses, than in their fancies and dis-
cretions. It proceeds therefore from the passions, which are
different not only from the difference of men's complexions,
but also from their difference of customs and education.
The passions that most of all cause the difference of wit
are principally the more or less desire of power, of riches,
of knowledge, and of honour. All which may be reduced
to the first, that is, desire of power. For riches, knowledge,
and honour, are but several sorts of power.
And, therefore, a man who has no great passion for any
of these things, but is, as men term it, indifferent, though
he may be so far a good man as to be free from giving
offence, yet he cannot possibly have either a great fancy
OF MAN 367
or much judgment. For the thoughts are to the desires as
scouts and spies, to range abroad and find the way of the
things desired, all steadiness of the mind's motion, and all
quickness of the same, proceeding from thence; for as to
have no desire is to be dead, so to have weak passions is
dulness; and to have passions indifferently for everything,
,' giddiness ' and ' distraction ' ; and to have stronger and more
vehement passions for anything than is ordinarily seen in
others is that which men call * madness.'
Whereof there be almost as many kinds as of the passions
themselves. Sometimes the extraordinary and extravagant
passion proceedeth from the evil constitution of the organs
of the body, or harm done them ; and sometimes the hurt and
indisposition of the organs is caused by the vehemence or
long continuance of the passion. But in both cases the
madness is of one and the same nature.
The passion whose violence, or continuance, maketh mad-
ness is either great ' vain-glory/ which is commonly called
'pride' and 'self-conceit/ or great 'dejection' of mind.
Pride subjecteth a man to anger, the excess whereof is
the madness called ' rage ' and ' fury.' And thus it comes
to pass that excessive desire of revenge, when it becomes
habitual, hurteth the organs, and becomes rage; that ex-
cessive love, with jealousy, becomes also rage; excessive
opinion of a man'ls own self, for divine inspiration, for wis-
dom, learning, form and the like, becomes distraction and
giddiness; the same, joined with envy, rage; vehement opin-
ion of the truth of anything contradicted by others, rage.
Dejection subjects a man to causeless fears; which is a
madness ; commonly called ' melancholy,' apparent also in
divers manners, as in haunting of solitudes and graves, in
superstitious behaviour, and in fearing, some one some an-
other particular thing. In sum, all passions that produce
strange and unusual behaviour are called by the general
name of madness. But of the several kinds of madness he
that would take the pains might enrol a legion. And if the
excesses be madness, there is no doubt but the passions
themselves, when they tend to evil, are degrees of the same.
For example, though the effect of folly in them that are
possessed of an opinion of being inspired be not visible
36S THOMAS HOBBES
always in one man by any very extravagent action that pro-
ceedeth from such passion, yet, when many of them con-
spire together, the rage of the whole multitude is visible
enough. For what argument of madness can there be greater
than to clamour, strike, and throw stones at our best friends ?
Yet this is somewhat less than such a multitude will do. For
they will clamour, fight against, and destroy, those by whom
all their lifetime before they have been protected and secured
from injury. And if this be madness in the multitude, it is
the same in every particular man. For, as in the midst of
the sea though a man perceive no sound of that part of
the water next him, yet he is well assured that part con-
tributes as much to the roaring of the sea as any other part
of the same quantity, so also, though we perceive no great
unquietness in one or two men, yet we may be well assured
that their singular passions are parts of the seditious roar-
ing of a troubled nation. And if there were nothing else
that bewrayed their madness, yet that very arrogating such
inspiration to themselves is argument enough. If some man
in Bedlam should entertain you with sober discourse, and
you desire in taking leave, to know what he were, that you
, might another time requite his civility, and he should tell
you he were God the Father, I think you need expect no
extravagant action or argument of his madness.
This opinion of inspiration, called commonly private
spirit, begins very often from some lucky finding of an
error generally held by others; and not knowing, or not
remembering, by what conduct of reason they came to so
singular a truth (as they think it, though it be many times
an untruth they light on) they presently admire themselves,
as being in the special grace of God Almighty, who hath
revealed the same to them supernaturally by His Spirit.
Again, that madness is nothing else but too much ap-
pearing passion may be gathered out of the effects of wine,
which are the same with those of the evil disposition of the
organs. For the variety of behaviour in men that have drunk
too much is the same with that of madmen: some of them
raging, others loving, others laughing, all extravagantly,
but according to their several domineering passions; for the
effect of the wine does but remove dissimulation and take
OF MAN 369
from them the sight of the deformity of their passions. For
I believe the most sober men, when they walk alone without
care and employment of the mind, would be unwilling the
vanity and extravagance of their thoughts at that time
should be publicly seen ; which is a confession that passions
unguided are for the most part mere madness.
The opinions of the world, both in ancient and later
ages, concerning the cause of madness have been two.
Some deriving them from the passions; some from demons,
or spirits, either good or bad, which they thought might
enter into a man, possess him, and move his organs in such
strange and uncouth manner as madmen use to do. The
former sort, therefore, called such men madmen; but the
latter called them sometimes ' demoniacs/ that is, possessed
with spirits; sometimes energumeni, that is, agitated or
moved with spirits; and now in Italy they are called not
-only pazzi, madmen, but also spiritati, men possessed.
There was once a great conflux of people in Abdera, a
city of the Greeks, at the acting of the tragedy of Andro-
meda upon an extreme hot day; whereupon a great many
of the spectators falling into fevers had this accident from
the heat and from the tragedy together, that they did
nothing but pronounce iambics, with the names of Per-
seus and Andromeda; which, together with the fever, was
cured by the coming on of winter; and this madness was
\thought to proceed from the passion imprinted by the
tragedy. Likewise there reigned a fit of madness in an-
other Grecian city, which seized only the young maidens,
and caused many of them to hang themselves. This was
by most then thought an act of the devil. But one that
suspected that contempt of life in them might proceed from
pome passion of the mind, and supposing •that they did not
contemn also their honour, gave counsel to the magistrates
to strip such as so hanged themselves, and let them hang
out naked. This, the story says, cured that madness. But,
t>n the other side, the same Grecians did often ascribe
madness to the operation of Eumenides, or Furies; and
sometimes of Ceres, Phoebus, and other gods; so much did
men attribute to phantasms as to think them aerial living
bodies, and generally to call them spirits. And as the
370 THOMAS HOBBES
Romans in this held the same opinion with the Greeks, so
also did the Jews, for they called madmen prophets, or,
according as they thought the spirits good or bad, de-
moniacs; and some of them called both prophets and
demoniacs madmen; and some called the same man both
demoniac and madman. But for the Gentiles it is no won-
der, because diseases and health, vices and virtues, and
many natural accidents, were with them termed and wor-
shipped as demons. So that a man was to understand by
demon as well sometimes an ague as a devil. But for
the Jews to have such opinion is somewhat strange. For
neither Moses nor Abraham pretended to prophesy by pos-
session of a spirit; but from the voice of God, or by a
vision or dream; nor is there anything in his law, moral
or ceremonial, by which they were taught there was any
such enthusiasm or any possession. When God is said
{Numb. xi. 25) to take from the spirit that was in Moses,
and give to the seventy elders, the Spirit of God (taking
it for the substance of God) is not divided. The Scriptures
by the Spirit of God in man mean a man's spirit, inclined
to godliness. And where it is said (Exod. xxviii. 3)
' whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom to make
garments for Aaron ' is not meant a spirit put into them
that can make garments, but the wisdom of their own
spirits in that kind of work. In the like sense, the spirit
of man, when it produceth unclean actions, is ordinarily
called an unclean spirit, and so other spirits, though not
always, yet as often as the virtue or vice so styled is
extraordinary and eminent. Neither did the other prophets
of the Old Testament pretend enthusiasm, or that God spake
in them, but to them, by voice, vision, or dream; and the
'burthen of the Lord' was not possession, but command.
How then could the Jews fall into this opinion of posses-
sion ? I can imagine no reason but that which is common to
all men, namely the want of curiosity to search natural
causes, and their placing felicity in the acquisition of the
gross pleasures of the senses and the things that most
immediately conduce thereto. For they that see any strange
and unusual ability or defect in a man's mind, unless they
see withal from what cause it may probably proceed, can
OF MAN 371
hardly think it natural; and, if not natural, they must
needs think it supernatural; and then what can it be but
that either God or the devil is in him? And hence it came
to pass, when our Saviour (Mark iii, 21) was compassed
about with the multitude, those -of the house doubted He
was mad, and went out to hold Him; but the Scribes said
He had Beelzebub, and that was it by which He cast out
devils; as if the greater madman had awed the lesser; and
that (John x, 20) some said ' He hath a devil, and is mad/
whereas others holding Him for a prophet said ' these are
not the words of one that hath a devil/ So in the Old
Testament he that came to anoint Jehu (2 Kings ix, 11)
was a prophet; but some of the company asked Jehu ' what
came that madman for'? So that in sum it is manifest
that whosoever behaved himself in extraordinary manner
was thought by the Jews to be possessed either with a good
or evil spirit, except by the Sadducees, who erred so far
on the other hand as not to believe there were at all any
spirits, which is very near to direct atheism; and thereby
perhaps the more provoked others to term such men
demoniacs rather than madmen.
But why then does our Saviour proceed in the curing
of them, as if they were possessed, and not as if they were
mad? To which I can give no other kind of answer but
that which is given to those that urge the Scripture in
like manner against the opinion of the motion of the earth.
The Scripture was written to show unto men the kingdom
of God, and to prepare their minds to become his obedient
subjects, leaving the world, and the philosophy thereof to
the disputation of men, for the exercising of their natural
reason. Whether the earth's or sun's motion make the
day and night, or whether the exorbitant action of men
proceed from passion or from the devil, so we worship
him not, it is all one, as to our obedience and subjection
to God Almighty; which is the thing for which the Scrip-
ture was written. As for that our Saviour speaketh to the
disease as to a person, it is the usual phrase of all that cure
by words only, as Christ did and enchanters pretend to do,
whether they speak to a devil or not. For is not Christ
also said (Matt, viii, 26) to have rebuked the winds? Is
372 THOMAS HOBBES
not He said also (Luke iv, 39) to rebuke a fever? Yet
this does not argue that a fever is a devil. And whereas
many of the devils are said to confess Christ, it is not neces-
sary to interpret those places otherwise than that those
madmen confessed Him. And whereas our Saviour (Matt.
xii, 43) speaketh of an unclean spirit, that having gone
out of a man wandereth through dry places, seeking rest
and finding none, and returning into the same man with
seven other spirits worse than himself, it is manifestly a
parable alluding to a man that after a little endeavour to
quit his lusts is vanquished by the strength of them, and
becomes seven times worse than he was. So that I see
nothing at all in the Scripture that requireth a belief that
demoniacs were any other thing but madmen.
There is yet another fault in the discourses of some
men, which may also be numbered amongst the sorts of
madness, namely that abuse of words, whereof I haye
spoken before in the fifth chapter, by the name of ab-
surdity. And that is when men speak such words as, pat
together, have in them no signification at all, but are fallen
upon by some, through misunderstanding of the words they
have received and repeat by rote, by others from intention
to deceive by obscurity. And this is incident to none but
those that converse in questions of matters incomprehensible,
as the schoolmen, or in questions of abstruse philosophy.
The common sort of men seldom speak insignificantly, and
are therefore by those other egregious persons counted idiots.
But, to be assured their words are without anything cor-
respondent to them in the mind, there would need some ex-
amples, which if any man require, let him take a schoolman
in his hands and see if he can translate any one chapter 4
concerning any difficult point, as the Trinity, the Deity, the
nature of Christ, transubstantiation, free-will, etc., into any
of the modern tongues, so as to make the same intelligible,
or into any tolerable Latin, such as they were acquainted
withal, that lived when the Latin tongue was vulgar. What
is the meaning of these words : ' The first cause does not
necessarily inflow anything into the second, by force of the
essential subordination of the second causes, by which it may
help it to work?' They are the translation of the title o£
OF MAN 373
the sixth chapter of Suarez, first book, Of the Concourse,
Motion, and Help of God. When men write whole volumes
of such stuff, are they not mad, or intend to make others
so? And particularly in the question of transubstantia-
tion, where, after certain words spoken, they that say
the whiteness, roundness, magnitude, quality, corruptibility,
all which are incorporeal, etc., go out of the wafer into
the body of our blessed Saviour, do they not make those
' nesses/ ' tudes/ and ' ties ' to be so many spirits possessing
his body? For by spirits they mean always things that,
being incorporeal, are nevertheless movable from one place
to another. So that this kind of absurdity may rightly be
numbered amongst the many sorts of madness, and all the
time that guided by clear thoughts of their worldly lust
they forbear disputing or writing thus, but lucid intervals.
And thus much of the virtues and defects intellectual.
CHAPTER IX
Of the Several Subjects of Knowledge
There are of ' knowledge ' two kinds, w r hereof one is
'knowledge of fact/ the other * knowledge of the consequence
of one affirmation to another.' The former is nothing else
but sense and memory, and is * absolute knowledge/ as
when we see a fact doing or remember it done; and this
is the knowledge required in a witness. The latter is called
' science/ and is ' conditional/ as when we know that * if
the figure shown be a circle, then any straight line through
the centre shall divide it into two equal parts.'' And this
is the knowledge required in a philosopher, that is to say
of him that pretends to reasoning.
The register of ' knowledge of fact ' is called ' history/
whereof there be two sorts: one called ' natural history/
which is the history of such facts or effects of Nature
as have no dependence on man's 'will/ such as are the
histories of ' metals/ ' plants/ ' animals/ ' regions/ and the
like. The other is ' civil history/ which is the history of
the voluntary actions of men in commonwealths.
The registers of science are such "books/ as contain
374 THOMAS HOBBES
the e demonstrations ' of consequences of one affirmation to
another, and are commonly called 'books of philosophy/
whereof the sorts are many, according to the diversity of
the matter, and may be divided in such manner as I have
divided them in the following table (pp. 376-377).
CHAPTER X
Of Power, Worth, Dignity, Honour, and Worthiness
The ' power of a man/ to take it universally, is his
present means, to obtain some future apparent good; and
is either 'original' or 'instrumental/
' Natural power ' is the eminence of the faculties of body
or mind, as extraordinary strength, form, prudence, arts,
eloquence, liberality, nobility. ' Instrumental ' are those
powers which, acquired by these or by fortune are means
and instruments to acquire more, as riches, reputation,
friends, and the secret working of God, which men call
good luck. For the nature of power is in this point like
to fame, increasing as it proceeds; or like the motion of
heavy bodies, which the further they go make still the
more haste.
The greatest of human powers is that which is com-
pounded of the powers of most men, united by consent,
in one person, natural or civil, that has the use of all their
powers depending on his will such as is the power of a
commonwealth. Or depending on the wills of each par-
ticular, such as is the power of a faction or of divers
factions leagued. Therefore to have servants is power; to
have friends is power ; for they are strengths united.
Also riches joined with liberality is power, because it
procureth friends and servants ; without liberality, not so ;
because in this case they defend not, but expose men to
envy, as a prey.
Reputation of power is power, because it draweth with
it the adherence of those that need protection.
So is reputation of love of a man's country, called popu-
larity, for the same reason.
Also, what quality soever maketh a man beloved or feared
OF MAN 375
of many, or the reputation of such quality, is power, because
it is a means to have the assistance and service of many.
Good success is power, because it maketh reputation of
wisdom or good fortune, which makes men either fear
him or rely on him.
Affability of men already in power is increase of power,
because it gaineth love.
Reputation of prudence in the conduct of peace or war
is power, because to prudent men we commit the govern-
ment of ourselves more willingly than to others.
Nobility is power, not in all places but only in those
commonwealths where it has privileges, for in such privi-
leges consisteth their power.
Eloquence is power, because it is seeming prudence.
Form is power, because, being a promise of good, it
recommendeth men to the favour of women and strangers.
The sciences are small power, because not eminent and
therefore not acknowledged in any man ; nor are at all, but
in a few, and in them but of a few things. For science is
of that nature as none can understand it to be but such as
in a good measure have attained it.
Arts of public use, as fortification, making of engines,
and other instruments of war, because they confer to de-
fence and victory, are power; and though the true mother
of them be science, namely the mathematics, yet, because
they are brought into the light by the hand of the artificer,
they be esteemed, the midwife passing with the vulgar for
the mother, as his issue.
The 'value/ or 'worth/ of a man is, as of all other
things, his price ; that is to say, so much as would be given
for the use of his power; and therefore is not absolute,
but a thing dependent on the need and judgment of another.
An able conductor of soldiers is of great price in time of
war present, or imminent; but in peace not so. A learned
and uncorrupt judge is much worth in time of peace, but
not so much in war. And, as in other things so in men, not
the seller but the buyer determines the price. For let a man,
as most men do, rate themselves [himself] at the highest
value they [he] can, yet their [his] true value is no more
than it is esteemed by others.
376
THOMAS HOBBES
^Consequences from the accidents common to
all bodies natural; which are quantity and
motion
SCIENCE,
that is
knowledge
of conse-
quences,
which is
called also
PHILOSOPHY
Consequences
from the
accidents of
bodies nat-
ural: which
is called'
N A TU RAL
PHILOSOPHY
Physics
or conse-
quences
from qual-
k. ities
Consequences
from the
accidents of
politic bod-
ies, which,
is called'
POLITICS,
and civil
PHILOSOPHY
Consequences from the qualities
of bodies transient, such as
sometimes appear, sometimes
vanish, Meteorology
Consequences from
the qualities of
the stars
Consequences of the
Conse- qualities from
?uences liquid bodies, that
rom thej fill the space be-
qualities "i tween the stars,
of bodies such as are the
permanent air or substances
ethereal
Consequences from
the qualities of
L bodies terrestrial
Of consequences from the institution of
Commonwealths, to the rights and
duties of the body politic or sovereign
Of consequences
duty and right
from the same,
of the subjects
to the
OF MAN
377
Consequences from quantity, and motion indeterminate, jp HIL0S0PHIA
which, being the principles or first foundation of phi- • p RIMA
losophy, is called Philosophia Prima . (
Consequences
from motion
and quan-
tity deter-
mined
Consequences C By Figure
from quan-
tity, a n d
motion de-
termined LBy Number
1
Mathematics
Geometry
.Arithmetic
C Consequences"
from the
motion and
quantity of
the greater
parts of the
world, as
the earth
and stars
Consequences
from the
motion, and
quantity of
bodies in
- special
i Astronomy
Cosmography -j
( Geography
Consequences"^
from the mo- ] ,,, ,
tion of spe- I Mecjiamcs
cial kinSs, f Doctnne of
and
figures wei 9 Jlt
*■ of body J
Science
of Engi-
neers
Architec-
ture
Navi ca-
tion
i Consequences from the light of the stars. # Out of this,
and the motion of the sun, is made the science of
Consequences from the influences of the stars ....
'Consequences ("Consequences from the qualities of minerals,
Meteorology
!• sciography
Astrology
from the
parts of the
earth that^
are without
sense
Consequences
from the-^
qualities of
animals
as stones, metals, etc.
Consequences from the qualities of vegetables
Consequences ^Consequences from vision
from the J Consequences from sounds
qualities ofs
animals in Consequences from the rest
general L of the senses
^Consequences from the pas-
sions of men ....
Consequences
from the"
qualities of
men in
special
Optics
Music
!■ Ethics
Consequences
from speech*
In magnifying,^ FoETRy
vilifying, etc
In persuading
In reasoning
^In contracting.
Rhetoric
Logic
The Science
of Just and
Unjust
378 THOMAS HOBBES
The manifestation of the value we set on one another is
that which is commonly called honouring and dishonouring.
To value a man at a high rate is to ' honour ' him ; at a low
rate, ' to dishonour ' him. But high and low, in this case, is
to be understood by comparison to the rate that each man
setteth on himself.
The public worth of a man, which is the value set on him
by the commonwealth, is that which men commonly call
' dignity.' And this value of him by the commonwealth is
understood by offices of command, judicature, public em-
ployment, or by names and titles introduced for distinction
of such value.
To pray to auother for aid of any kind is ' to honour/
because a sign we have an opinion he has power to help ; and
the more difficult the aid is, the more is the honour.
To obey is to honour, because no man obeys them whom
they think have no power to help or hurt them. And conse-
quently to disobey is to ' dishonour/
To give great gifts to a man is to honour him, because
it is buying of protection and acknowledging of power.
To give little gifts is to dishonour, because it is but alms
and signifies an opinion of the need of small helps.
To be sedulous in promoting another's good, also to flatter
is to honour, as a sign we seek his protection or aid. To
neglect is to dishonour.
To give way or place to another in any commodity is to
honour, being a confession of greater power. To arrogate
is to dishonour.
To show any sign of love or fear of another is to honour,
for both to love and to fear is to value. To contemn, or
less to love or fear than he expects, is to dishonour, for it
is undervaluing.
To praise, magnify, or call happy, is to honour, because
nothing but goodness, power, and felicity, is valued. To
revile, mock, or pity, is to dishonour.
To speak to another with consideration, to appear before
him with decency, and humility, is to honour him, as signs
of fear to offend. To speak to him rashly, to do anything
before him obscenely, slovenly, impudently, is to dishonour.
To believe, to trust, to rely on another, is to honour him,
OF MAN 379
sign of opinion of his virtue and power. To distrust, or not
believe, is to dishonour.
To hearken to a man's counsel or discourse, of what kind
soever, is to honour, as a sign we think him wise, or elo-
quent, or witty. To sleep, or go forth, or talk the while, is
to dishonour.
To do those things to another which he takes for signs of
honour, or which the law or custom makes so, is to honour,
because in approving the honour done by others he ac-
knowledged the power which others acknowledge. To re-
fuse to do them is to dishonour.
To agree with in opinion is to honour, as being a sign of
approving his judgment and wisdom. To dissent is dis-
honour, and an upbraiding of error, and, if the dissent be in
many things, of folly.
To imitate is to honour, for it is vehemently to approve.
To imitate one's enemy, is to dishonour.
To honour those another honours is to honour him, as a
sign of approbation of his judgment. To honour his ene-
mies is to dishonour him.
To employ in counsel or in actions of difficulty is to hon-
our, as a sign of opinion of his wisdom or other power.
To deny employment in the same cases to those that seek
it is to dishonour.
All these ways of honouring are natural, and as well
within as without commonwealths. But in commonwealths,
where he or they that have the supreme authority can make
whatsoever they please to stand for signs of honour, there
be other honours.
A sovereign doth honour a subject with whatsoever title,
or office, or employment, or action, that he himself will have
taken for a sign of his will to honour him.
The King of Persia honoured Mordecai when he ap-
pointed he should be conducted through the streets in the
king's garment upon one of the king's horses, with a crown
on his head and a prince before him, proclaiming ' Thus
shall it be done to him that the king will honour.' And
yet another king of Persia, or the same another time, to
one that demanded for some great service to wear one of
the king's robes, gave him leave so to do; but with this ad-
380 THOMAS HOBBES
dition, that he should wear it as the king's fool ; and then it
was dishonour. So that of civil honour the fountain is in
the person of the commonwealth, and dependeth on the will
of the sovereign; and is therefore temporary, and called
'civil honour/ such as magistracy, offices, titles, and, in
some places, coats and scutcheons painted; and men honour
such as have them, as having so many signs of favour in
the commonwealth: which favour is power.
' Honourable ' is whatsoever possession, action, or quality,
is an argument and sign of power.
And therefore to be honoured, loved, or feared of many,
is honourable, as arguments of power. To be honoured of
few or none, ' dishonourable/
Dominion and victory is honourable, because acquired by
power; and servitude, for need or fear, is dishonourable.
Good fortune, if lasting, honourable, as a sign of the
favour of God. Ill fortune and losses dishonourable. Riches
are honourable, for they are power. Poverty, dishonoura-
ble. Magnanimity, liberality, hope, courage, confidence, are
honourable, for they proceed from the conscience of power.
Pusillanimity, parsimony, fear, diffidence, are dishonourable.
Timely resolution, or determination of what a man is to
do, is honourable, as being the contempt of small difficul-
ties and dangers. And irresolution, dishonourable, as a
sign of too much valuing of little impediments and little
advantages; for when a man has weighed things as long
as the time permits, and resolves not, the difference of
weight is but little, and therefore, if he resolve not, he over-
values little things, which is pusillanimity.
All actions and speeches that proceed, or seem' to proceed,
from much experience, science, discretion, or wit, are hon-
ourable, for all these are powers. Actions or words that
proceed from error, ignorance, or folly, dishonourable.
Gravity, as far forth as it seems to proceed from a mind
employed on something else, is honourable, because employ-
ment is a sign of power. But, if it seem to proceed from
a purpose to appear grave, it is dishonourable. For the
gravity of the former is like the steadiness of a ship laden
with merchandise, but of the latter like the steadiness of a
ship ballasted with sand and other trash.
OF MAN 381
To be conspicuous, that is to say to be known, for
wealth, office, great actions, or any eminent good, is
honourable, as a sign of the power for which he is con-
spicuous. On the contrary, obscurity is dishonourable.
To be descended from conspicuous parents is honourable,
because they the more easily attain the aids and friends of
their ancestors. On the contrary, to be descended from ob-
scure parentage is dishonourable.
Actions proceeding from equity joined with loss are hon-
ourable, as signs of magnanimity; for magnanimity is a
sign of power. On the contrary, craft, shifting, neglect of
equity, is dishonourable.
Covetousness of great riches, and ambition of great hon-
ours are honourable, as signs of power to obtain them.
Covetousness and ambition of little gains or preferments is
dishonourable.
Nor does it alter the case of honour whether an action,
so it be great and difficult and consequently a sign of much
power, be just or unjust; for honour consisteth only in the
opinion of power. Therefore the ancient heathen did not
think they dishonoured, but greatly honoured, the gods when
they introduced them in their poems committing rapes,
thefts, and other great but unjust or unclean acts ; insomuch
as nothing is so much celebrated in Jupiter as his adulteries ;
nor in Mercury as his frauds and thefts : of whose praises,
in a hymn of Homer, the greatest is this, that, being born
in the morning, he had invented music at noon, and before
night stolen away the cattle of Apollo from his herdsmen.
Also amongst men, till there were constituted great com-
monwealths, it was thought no dishonour to be a pirate or a
highway thief, but rather a lawful trade, not only amongst
the Greeks but also amongst all other nations as is manifest
by the histories of ancient time. And at this day, in this
part of the world, private duels are and always will be hon-
ourable, though unlawful, till such time as there shall be
honour ordained for them that refuse, and ignominy for
them that make the challenge. For duels also are many
times effects of courage, and the ground of courage is al-
ways strength or skill, which are power; though for the
most part they be effects of rash speaking and of the fear
382 THOMAS KOBBES
of dishonour, in one or both the combatants, who, engaged
by rashness, are driven into the lists to avoid disgrace.
Scutcheons and coats of arms hereditary, where they have
any eminent privileges, are honourable; otherwise not: for
their power consisteth either in such privileges, or in riches,
or some such thing as is equally honoured in other men.
This kind of honour, commonly called gentry, hath been
derived from the ancient Germans. For there never was
any such thing known where the German customs were un-
known. Nor is it now anywhere in use where the Germans
have not inhabited. The ancient Greek commanders, when
they went to war, had their shields painted with such de-
vices as they pleased; insomuch that an unpainted buckler
was a sign of poverty and of a common soldier; but they
transmitted not the inheritance of them. The Romans trans-
mitted the marks of their families : but they were the images,
not the devices, of their ancestors. Amongst the people of
Asia, Africa, and America, there is not, nor was ever, any
such thing. The Germans only had that custom; from
whom it has been derived into England, France, Spain, and
Italy, when in great numbers they either aided the Romans
or made their own conquests in these western parts of the
world.
For Germany, being anciently, as all other countries in
their beginnings, divided amongst an infinite number of little
lords, or masters of families, that continually had wars one
with another, those masters, or lords, principally to the end
they might when they were covered with arms be known by
their followers, and partly for ornament, both painted their
armour or their scutcheon or coat with the picture of some
beast or other thing, and also put some eminent and visible
mark upon the crest of their helmets. And this ornament
both of the arms and crest descended by inheritance to their
children; to the eldest pure, and to the rest with some note
of diversity, such as the old master, that is to say in Dutch,
the Here-alt, thought fit. But when many such families,
joined together, made a greater monarchy, this duty of the
Here-alt to distinguish scutcheons was made a private office
apart. And the issue of these lords is the great and ancient
gentry, which for the most part bear living creatures, noted
OF MAN 383
for courage and rapine; or castles, battlements, belts, weap-
ons, bars, palisadoes, and other notes of war; nothing be-
ing then in honour but virtue military. Afterwards not
only kings but popular commonwealths gave divers manners
of scutcheons to such as went forth to the war, or returned
from it, for encouragement or recompense to their service.
All which, by an observing reader, may be found in such
ancient histories, Greek and Latin, as make mention of the
German nation and manners in their times.
Titles of 'honour,' such as are duke, count, marquis, and
baron, are honourable, as signifying the value set upon them
by the sovereign power of the commonwealth; which titles
were in old time titles of office and command, derived some
from the Romans, some from the Germans and French:
dukes, in Latin daces, being generals in war ; counts, comites,
such as bear the general company out of friendship and
were left to govern and defend places conquered and paci-
fied; marquises, marchiones, were counts that governed the
marches or bounds of the empire. Which titles of duke,
count, and marquis, came into the empire about the time of
Constantine the Great, from the customs of the German
militia. But baron seems to have been a title of the Gauls,
and signifies a great man, such as were the king's or prince's
men, whom they employed in war about their persons, and
seems to be derived from vir, to ' ber,' and • bar/ that signi-
fied the same in the language of the Gauls, that vir in Latin,
and thence to * bero ' and ' baro ' so that such men were called
'berones,' and after 'barones,' and in Spanish, Varones/ But
he that would know more particularly the original of titles
of honour may find it, as I have done this, in Mr. Selden's
most excellent treatise of that subject. In process of time
these offices of honour, by occasion of trouble and for rea-
sons of good and peaceable government, were turned into
mere titles, serving for the most part to distinguish the prece-
dence, place, and order of subjects in the commonwealths;
and men were made dukes, counts, marquises and barons,
of places wherein they had neither possession nor command;
and other titles also were devised to the same end.
' Worthiness ' is a thing different from the worth or value
of a man, and also from his merit, or desert, and consisteth
384 THOMAS HOBBES
in a particular power or ability for that whereof he is said
to be worthy: which particular ability is usually named
1 fitness/ or * aptitude.'
For he is worthiest to be a commander, to be a judge, or
to have any other charge, that is best fitted with the qualities
required to the well discharging of it; and worthiest of
riches that has the qualities most requisite for the well using
of them: any of which qualities being absent,, one may never-
theless be a worthy man, and valuable for something else.
Again, a man may be worthy of riches, office, and employ-
ment, and nevertheless can plead no right to have it before
another; and therefore cannot be said to merit or deserve
it. For merit presupposeth a right and that the thing de-
served is due by promise; of which I shall say more here-
after, when I shall speak of contracts.
CHAPTER XI
Of the Difference of Manners
By manners I mean not here decency of behaviour, as how
one man should salute another, or how a man should wash his
mouth, or pick his teeth before company, and such other
points of the 'small morals' ; but those qualities of mankind
that concern their living together in peace and unity. To
which end we are to ^consider that the felicity of this life
consisteth not in the repose of a mind satisfied. For there
is no such -finis ultimus (utmost aim), nor summum bonum
(greatest good), as is spoken of in the books of the old
moral philosophers. Nor can a man any more live whose de-
sires are at an end than he whose senses and imaginations
are at a stand. Felicity is a continual progress of the de-
sire from one object to another, the attaining of the former
being still but the way to the latter. The cause whereof is
that the object of man's desire is not to enjoy once only and
for one instant of time, but to assure for ever the way of his
future desire. And therefore the voluntary actions and in-
clinations of all men tend not only to the procuring, but also
to the assuring, of a contented life, and differ only in the
way; which ariseth partly from the diversity of passions in
OF MAN 385
divers men, and partly from the difference of the knowledge
or opinion each one has of the causes which produce the
effect desired.
So that in the first place I put for a general inclination of
all mankind a perpetual and restless desire of power after
power, that ceaseth only in death. And the cause of this is
not always that a man hopes for a more intensive delight
than he has already attained to, or that he cannot be con-
tent with a moderate power; but because he cannot assure
the power and means to live well which he hath present,
without the acquisition of more. And from hence it is that
kings, whose power is greatest, turn their endeavours to the
assuring it at home by laws, or abroad by wars; and, when
that is done, there succeedeth a new desire, in some of fame
from new conquest, in others of ease and sensual pleasure,
in others of admiration or being flattered for excellence in
some art or other ability of the mind.
Competition of riches, honour, command, or other power,
inclineth to contention, enmity, and war; because the way
of one competitor, to the attaining of his desire, is to kill,
subdue, supplant, or repel the other. Particularly, compe-
tition of praise inclineth to a reverence of antiquity. For
men contend with the living, not with the dead, to these
ascribing more than due, that they may obscure the glory
of the other.
Desire of ease, and sensual delight, disposeth men to obey
a common power, because by such desires a man doth aban-
don the protection that might be hoped for from his own
industry and labour. Fear of death, and wounds, disposeth
to the same, and for the same reason. On the contrary,
needy men, and hardy, not contented with their present con-
dition, as also all men that are ambitious of military com-
mand, are inclined to continue the cause of war, and to
stir up trouble and sedition, for there is no honour military
but by war, nor any such hope to mend an ill game as by
causing a new shuffle.
Desire of knowledge, and arts of peace, inclineth men to
obey a common power; for such desire, containeth a desire
of leisure, and consequently protection from some other
power than their own.
(M) HC — Vol. 34
386 THOMAS HOBBES
Desire of praise disposeth to laudable actions, such as
please them whose judgment they value; for, of those men
whom we contemn, we contemn also the praises. Desire of
fame after death does the same. And though after death
there be no sense of the praise given us on earth, as
being joys that are either swallowed up in the unspeakable
joys of Heaven or extinguished in the extreme torments of
hell, yet is not such fame vain; because men have a present
delight therein, from the foresight of it, and of the benefit
that may redound thereby to their posterity, which, though
they now see not, yet they imagine; and anything that is
pleasure in the sense, the same also is pleasure in the imag-
ination.
To have received from one to whom we think ourselves
equal greater benefits than there is hope to requite disposeth
to counterfeit love, but really secret hatred; and puts a man
into the estate of a desperate debtor that, in declining the
sight of his creditor, tacitly wishes him there where he
might never see him more. For benefits oblige, and obliga-
tion is thraldom, and unrequitable obligation perpetual
thraldom, which is to one's equal, hateful. But to have re-
ceived benefits from one whom we acknowledge for superior
inclines to love ; because the obligation is no new depression :
and cheerful acceptation, which men call ' gratitude/ is such
an honour done to the obliger as is taken generally for
retribution. Also to receive benefits, though from an equal
or inferior, as long as there is hope of requital, disposeth to
love; for, in the intention of the receiver, the obligation is of
aid and service mutual, from whence proceedeth an emula-
tion of who shall exceed in benefiting, the most noble and
profitable contention possible, wherein the victor is pleased
with his victory, and the other revenged by confessing it.
To have done more hurt to a man than he can or is willing
to expiate inclineth the doer to hate the sufferer. For he
must expect revenge or forgiveness, both which are hateful.
Fear of oppression disposeth a man to anticipate or to
seek aid by society; for there is no other way by which a
man can secure his life and liberty.
Men that distrust their own subtilty are, in tumult and
sedition, better disposed for victory than they that suppose
OF MAN 387
themselves wise or crafty. For these love to consult the
other, fearing to be circumvented, to strike, first. And in
sedition, men being always in the precincts of battle, to hold
together and use all advantages of force is a better stratagem
than any that can proceed from subtilty of wit.
Vain-glorious men, such as without being conscious to
themselves of great sufficiency delight in supposing them-
selves gallant men, are inclined only to ostentation, but not
to attempt; because, when danger or difficulty appears, they
look for nothing but to have their insufficiency discovered.
Vain-glorious men, such as estimate their sufficiency by
the flattery of other men or the fortune of some precedent
action, without assured ground of hope from the true knowl-
edge of themselves, are inclined to rash engaging, and in
the approach of danger or difficulty to retire if they can;
because, not seeing the way of safety, they will rather haz-
ard their honour, which may be salved with an excuse, than
their lives, for which no salve is sufficient.
Men that have a strong opinion of their own wisdom in
matter of government are disposed to ambition. Because
without public employment in council or magistracy the
honour of the wisdom is lost. And therefore eloquent
speakers are inclined to ambition, for eloquence seemeth
wisdom, both to themselves and others.
Pusillanimity disposeth men to irresolution, and conse-
quently to lose the occasions and fittest opportunities of ac-
tion. For after men have been in deliberation till the time
of action approach, if it be not then manifest what is best
to be done, it is a sign the difference of motives, the one
way and the other, are not great: therefore not to resolve
then is to lose the occasion by weighing of trifles, which is
pusillanimity.
Frugality, though in poor men a virtue, maketh a man
unapt to achieve such actions as require the strength of
many men at once ; for it weakeneth their endeavour, which
is to be nourished and kept in vigour by reward.
Eloquence, with flattery disposeth men to confide in them
that have it; because the former is seeming wisdom, the
latter seeming kindness. Add to them military reputation,
and it disposeth men to adhere and subject themselves to
388 THOMAS HOBBES
those men that have them. The two former having given
them caution against danger from him, the latter gives them
caution against danger from others.
Want of science, that is, ignorance of causes, disposeth,
or rather constraineth, a man to rely on the advice and au-
thority of others. For all men whom the truth concerns, if
they rely not on their own, must rely on the opinion of some
other whom they think wiser than themselves and see not
why he should deceive them.
Ignorance of the signification of words, which is want of
understanding, disposeth men to take on trust not only the
truth they know not, but also the errors, and which is more,
the nonsense of them they trust; for neither error nor non-
sense can, without a perfect understanding of words, be
detected.
From the same it proceedeth that men give different names
to one and the same thing, from the difference of their own
passions: as they that approve a private opinion call it
opinion, but they that mislike it, heresy: and yet heresy
signifies no more than private opinion, but has only a greater
tincture of choler.
From the same also it proceedeth that men cannot dis-
tinguish, without study and great understanding, between
one action of many men and many actions of one multitude;
as for example, between the one action of all the senators of
Rome in killing Catiline, and the many actions of a number
of senators in killing Caesar; and therefore are disposed to
take for the action of the people that which is a multitude
of actions done by a multitude of men, led perhaps by the
persuasion of one.
Ignorance of the causes and original constitution of right,
equity, law, and justice, disposeth a man to make custom and
example the rule of his actions; in such manner as to think
that unjust which it hath been the custom to punish, and
that just of the impunity and approbation whereof they can
produce an example, or, as the lawyers which only use this
false measure of justice barbarously call it, a precedent;
like little children, that have no other rule of good and evil
manners but the correction they receive from their parents
and masters; save that children are constant to their rule,
OF MAN 389
whereas men are not so ; because, grown strong and stub-
born, they appeal from custom to reason, and from reason
to custom, as it serves their turn; receding from custom
when their interest requires it, and setting themselves
against reason as oft as reason is against them; which is
the cause that the doctrine of right and wrong is perpetually
disputed, both by the pen and the sword; whereas the doc-
trine of lines and figures is not so, because men care not in
that subject what be truth, as a thing that crosses no man's
ambition, profit, or lust. For I doubt not but, if it had been
a thing contrary to any man's right of dominion, or to the
interest of men that have dominion, * that the three angles of
a triangle should be equal to two angles of a square,' that
doctrine should have been, if not disputed, yet by the burning
of all books of geometry, suppressed, as far as he whom it
concerned was able.
Ignorance of remote causes disposeth men to attribute all
events to the causes immediate and instrumental, for these
are all the causes they perceive. And hence it comes to
pass that in all places men that are grieved with payments
to the public, discharge their anger upon the publicans, that
is to say farmers, collectors, and other officers of the public
revenue, and adhere to such as find fault with the public
government; and thereby, when they have engaged them-
selves beyond hope of justification, fall also upon the su-
preme authority, for fear of punishment or shame of re-
ceiving pardon.
Ignorance of natural causes disposeth a man to credulity,
so as to believe many times impossibilities; for such know
nothing to the contrary but that they may be true, being
unable to detect the impossibility. And credulity, because
men like to be hearkened unto in company, disposeth them
to lying, so that ignorance itself without malice is able to
make a man both to believe lies and tell them, and sometimes
also to invent them.
Anxiety for the future time disposeth men to inquire into
the causes of things ; because the knowledge of them maketh
men the better able to order the present to their best
advantage.
Curiosity, or love of the knowledge of causes, draws a
390 THOMAS HOBBES
man from the consideration of the effect to seek the cause,
and, again, the cause of that cause; till of necessity he must
come to this thought at last that there is some cause whereof
there is no former cause, but is eternal; which is it men
call God. So that it is impossible to make any profound in-
quiry into natural causes without being inclined thereby to
believe there is one God eternal; though they cannot have
any idea of Him in their mind answerable to His nature.
For as a man that is born blind, hearing men talk of warm-
ing themselves by the fire and being brought to warm him-
self by the same, may easily conceive and assure himself,
there is somewhat there, which men call ' fire ' and is the
cause of the heat he feels, but cannot imagine what it is like,
nor have an idea of it in his mind such as they have that
see it, so also by the visible things of this world, and their
admirable order, a man may conceive there is a cause of
them, which men call God, and yet not have an idea or image
of Him in his mind.
And they that make little or no inquiry into the natural
causes of things, yet, from the fear that proceeds from the
ignorance itself of what it is that hath the power to do them
much good or harm, are inclined to suppose and feign unto
themselves several kinds of powers invisible, and to stand
in awe of their own imaginations, and in time of distress to
invoke them, as also in the time of an expected good suc-
cess to give them thanks, making the creatures of their own
fancy their gods. By which means it hath come to pass
that, from the innumerable variety of fancy, men have
created in the world innumerable sorts of gods. And this
fear of things invisible is the natural seed of that which
every one in himself calleth religion, and in them that wor-
ship or fear that power otherwise than they do, superstition.
And this seed of religion, having been observed by many,
some of those that have observed it have been inclined there-
by to nourish, dress, and form it into laws; and to add to
it of their own invention any opinion of the causes of future
events by which they thought they should be best able to
govern others, and make unto themselves the greatest use
of their powers.
OF MAN 391
CHAPTER XII
Of Religion
Seeing there are no signs nor fruit of 'religion' but in
man only, there is no cause to doubt but that the seed of
1 religion ' is also only in man ; and consisteth in some pe-
culiar quality or at least in some eminent degree thereof not
to be found in other living creatures.
And, first, it is peculiar to the nature of man to be in-
quisitive into the causes of the events they see, some more,
some less ; but all men so much as to be curious in the search
of the causes of their own good and evil fortune.
Secondly, upon the sight of anything that hath a beginning,
to think also it had a cause which determined the same to
begin, then when it did, rather than sooner or later.
Thirdly, whereas there is no other felicity of beasts but the
enjoying of their quotidian food, ease, and lusts, as having
little or no foresight of the time to come, for want of ob-
servation and memory of the order, consequence, and de-
pendence of the things they see, man observeth how one
event hath been produced by another, and remembereth in
them antecedence and consequence; and, when he cannot
assure himself of the true causes of things (for the causes
of good and evil fortune for the most part are invisible), he
supposes causes of them, either such as his own fancy sug-
gesteth, or trusteth the authority of other men, such as he
thinks to be his friends and wiser than himself.
The two first make anxiety. For, being assured that there
be causes of all things that have arrived hitherto or shall
arrive hereafter, it is impossible for a man, who continually
endeavoureth to secure himself against the evil he fears and
procure the good he desireth, not to be in a perpetual solici-
tude of the time to come ; so that every man, especially those
that are over-provident, are in a state like to that of Prome-
theus. For as Prometheus, which interpreted is c the prudent
man/ was bound to the hill Caucasus, a place of large
prospect, where an eagle feeding on his liver devoured in
the day as much as was repaired in the night, so that man,
which looks too far before him in the care of future time,
392 THOMAS HOBBES
hath his heart all the day long gnawed on by fear of death,
poverty, or other calamity, and has no repose nor pause of
his anxiety but in sleep.
This perpetual fear, always accompanying mankind in the
ignorance of causes, as it were in the dark, must needs have
for object something. And therefore, when there is nothing
to be seen, there is nothing to accuse, either of their good
or evil fortune, but some ' power ' or agent c invisible ' in
which sense perhaps it was that some of the old poets said
that the gods were at first created by human fear; which
spoken of the gods, that is to say of the many gods of the
Gentiles, is very true. But the acknowledging of one God,
eternal, infinite, and omnipotent, may more easily be derived,
from the desire men have to know the causes of natural
bodies and their several virtues and operations, than from
the fear of what was to befall them in time to come. For he
that from any effect he seeth come to pass should reason
to the next and immediate cause thereof, and from thence to
the cause of that cause, and plunge himself profoundly in the
pursuit of causes, shall at last come to this, that there must
be, as even the heathen philosophers confessed, one first
mover, that is, a first and an eternal cause of all things,
which is that which men mean by the name of God, and all
this without thought of their fortune; the solicitude whereof
both inclines to fear and hinders them from the search of
the causes of other things, and thereby gives occasion of
feigning of as many gods as there be men that feign them.
And, for the matter or substance of the invisible agents so
fancied, they could not by natural cogitation fall upon any
other conceit, but that it was the same with that of the soul
of man; and that the soul of man was of the same substance
with that which appeareth in a dream to one that sleepeth,
or in a looking-glass to one that is awake; which, men not
knowing that such apparitions are nothing else but creatures
of the fancy, think to be real and external substances, and
therefore call them ghosts; as the Latins called them imagines
and umbra, and thought them spirits, that is thin aerial
bodies, and those invisible agents which they feared, to be like
them, save that they appear and vanish when they please.
But the opinion that such spirits were incorporeal, or im-
OF MAN 393
material, could never enter into the mind of any man by
nature, because, though men may put together words of con-
tradictory signification, as ' spirit ' and ' incorporeal/ yet they
can never have the imagination of anything answering to
them; and therefore men that by their own meditation arrive
to the acknowledgment of one infinite, omnipotent, and
eternal God chose rather to confess He is incomprehensible
and above their understanding than to define His nature by
' spirit incorporeal/ and then confess their definition to be
unintelligible; or, if they give Him such a title, it is not
1 dogmatically ' with intention to make the divine nature
understood, but 'piously/ to honour Him with attributes of
significations as remote as they can from the grossness of
bodies visible.
Then for the way by which they think these invisible agents
wrought their effects, that is to say, what immediate causes
they used in bringing things to pass, men that know not what
it is that we call ' causing/ that is almost all men, have no
other rule to guess by but by observing and remembering
what they have seen to precede the like effect at some other
time or times before, without seeing between the antecedent
and subsequent event any dependence or connection at all;
and therefore from the like things past they expect the like
things to come, and hope for good or evil luck, supersti-
tiously, from things that have no part at all in the causing of
it: as the Athenians did for their war at Lepanto, demand
another Phormio ; the Pompeian faction for their war in
Africa, another Scipio ; and others have done in divers other
occasions since. In like manner they attribute their fortune
to a stander-by, to a lucky or unlucky place, to words spoken,
especially if the name God be amongst them, as charming and
conjuring, the liturgy of witches; inasmuch as to believe they
have power to turn a stone into bread, bread into a man, or
anything into anything.
Thirdly, for the worship which naturally men exhibit to
powers invisible, it can be no other but such expressions of
their reverence, as they would use towards men; gifts, peti-
tions, thanks, submission of body, considerate addresses,
sober behaviour, premeditated words, swearing, that is as-
suring one another of their promises by invoking them. Be-
394 THOMAS HOBBES
yond that, reason suggesteth nothing, but leaves them either
to rest there, or, for further ceremonies, to rely on those
they believe to be wiser than themselves.
Lastly, concerning how these invisible powers declare to
men the things which shall hereafter come to pass, especially
concerning their good or evil fortune in general or good or
ill success in any particular undertaking, men are naturally at
a stand, save that, using to conjecture of the time to come
by the time past, they are very apt not only to take casual
things, after one or two encounters, for prognostics of the
like encounter ever after, but also to believe the like prog-
nostics from other men of whom they have once conceived
a good opinion.
And, in these four things, opinion of ghosts, ignorance of
second causes, devotion towards what men fear, and taking
of things casual for prognostics, consisteth the natural seed
of 'religion/ which, by reason of the different fancies, judg-
ments, and passions of several men, hath grown up into
ceremonies so different that those which are used by one man
are for the most part ridiculous to another.
For these seeds have received culture from two sorts of
men. One sort have been they that have nourished and or-
dered them according to their own invention. The other
have done it by God's commandment and direction ; but both
sorts have done it with a purpose to make those men that
relied on them the more apt to obedience, laws, peace, charity,
and civil society. So that the religion of the former sort is
a part of human politics, and teacheth part of the duty which
earthly kings require of their subjects. And the religion of
the latter sort is divine politics, and containeth precepts to
those that have yielded themselves subjects in the kingdom
of God. Of the former sort were all the founders of com-
monwealths and the lawgivers of the Gentiles; of the latter
sort, were Abraham, Moses, and our blessed Saviour, by
whom have been derived unto us the laws of the kingdom of
God.
A.nd, for that part of religion which consisteth in opinions
concerning the nature of powers invisible, there is almost
nothing that has a name that has not been esteemed amongst
the Gentiles, in one place or another, a god or devil, or by
OF MAN 395
their poets feigned to be inanimated, inhabited, or possessed,
by some spirit or other.
The unformed matter of the world was a god by the name
of Chaos.
The heaven, the ocean, the planets, the fire, the earth, the
winds, were so many gods.
Men, women, a bird, a crocodile, a calf, a dog, a snake, an
onion, a leek, were deified. Besides that, they filled almost
all places with spirits called ' demons' : the plains with Pan
and Panises or Satyrs, the woods with Fauns and Nymphs,
the sea with Tritons and other Nymphs, every river and
fountain with a ghost of his name and with Nymphs, every
house with its ' Lares ' or familiars, every man with his
' Genius/ hell with ghosts and spiritual officers, as Charon,
Cerberus, and the Furies, and in the night-time, all places
with ' larvae/ ' lemures/ ghosts of men deceased and a whole
kingdom of fairies and bugbears. They have also ascribed
divinity, and built temples to mere accidents and qualities,
such as are time, night, day, peace, concord, love, contention,
virtue, honour, health, rust, fever, and the like; which when
they prayed for or against they prayed to, as if there were
ghosts of those names hanging over their heads, and letting
fall or withholding that good or evil for or against which
they prayed. They invoked also their own wit by the name
of Muses, their own ignorance by the name of Fortune, their
own lust by the name of Cupid, their own rage by the name
of Furies, their own privy members by the name of Priapus ;
and attributed their pollutions to Incubi and Succubae: inso-
much as there was nothing which a poet could introduce as
a person in his poem which they did not make either a ' god '
or a ' devil/
The same authors of the religion of the Gentiles, observing
the second ground for religion, which is men's ignorance of
causes, and thereby their aptness to attribute their fortune
to causes on which there was no dependence at all apparent,
took occasion to obtrude on their ignorance, instead of second
causes, a kind of second and ministerial gods, ascribing the
cause of fecundity to Venus, the cause of arts to Apollo,
of subtlety and craft to Mercury, of tempests and storms to
yEolus, and of other effects to other gods; insomuch as there
396 THOMAS HOBBES
was amongst the heathen almost as great variety of gods as
of business.
And to the worship which naturally men conceived fit to
be used towards their gods, namely, oblations, prayers, thanks,
and the rest formerly named, the same legislators of the
Gentiles have added their images, both in picture and sculp-
ture, that the more ignorant sort, that is to say the most part
or generality of the people, thinking the gods for whose rep-
resentation they were made were really included and as it
were housed within them, might so much the more stand in
fear of them ; and endowed them with lands, and houses, and
officers, and revenues, set apart from all other human uses,
that is consecrated and made holy to those their idols, as
caverns, groves, woods, mountains, and whole islands; and
have attributed to them not only the shapes, some of men,
some of beasts, some of monsters, but also the faculties and
passions of men and beasts, as sense, speech, sex, lust,
generation ; and this not only by mixing one with another to
propagate the kind of gods, but also by mixing with men and
women to beget mongrel gods, and but inmates of heaven,
as Bacchus, Hercules, and others; besides anger, revenge,
and other passions, of living creatures, and the actions pro-
ceeding from them, as fraud, theft, adultery, sodomy, and
any vice that may be taken for an effect of power or a cause
of pleasure ; and all such vices as amongst men are taken to
be against law rather than against honour.
Lastly, to the prognostics of time to come, which are
naturally but conjectures upon experience of time past, and
supernaturally, divine revelation, the same authors of the
religion of the Gentiles, partly upon pretended experience
partly upon pretended revelation, have added innumerable
other superstitious ways of divination, and made men believe
they should find their fortunes, sometimes in the ambiguous
or senseless answers of the priests at Delphi, Delos, Ammon,
and other famous oracles, which answers were made am-
biguous by design, to own the event both ways, or absurd,
by the intoxicating vapour of the place, which is very fre-
quent in sulphurous caverns: sometimes in the leaves of the
Sibyls, of whose prophecies, like those perhaps of Nostra-
damus (for the fragments now extant seem to be the inven-
OF MAN 397
tion of later times), there were some books in reputation in
the time of the Roman Republic; sometimes in the insignifi-
cant speeches of madmen supposed to be possessed with a
divine spirit, which possession they called enthusiasm, and
these kinds of foretelling events were accounted theomancy,
or prophecy; sometimes in the aspect of the stars at their
nativity, which was called horoscopy and esteemed a part of
judiciary astrology; sometimes in their own hopes and fears,
called thumomancy, or presage; sometimes in the prediction
of witches, that pretended conference with the dead, which
is called necromancy, conjuring, and witchcraft, and is but
juggling and confederate knavery; sometimes in the casual
flight or feeding of birds, called augury; sometimes in the
entrails of a sacrificed beast, which was ' aruspicina ' ; some-
times in dreams ; sometimes in croaking of ravens or chatter-
ing of birds ; sometimes in the lineaments of the face, which
was called metoposcopy ; or by palmistry in the lines of the
hand ; in casual words, called ' omina ' ; sometimes in mon-
sters or unusual accidents, as eclipses, comets, rare meteors,
earthquakes, inundations, uncouth births, and the like, which
they called ' portenta ' and ' ostenta/ because they thought
them to portend or foreshow some great calamity to come;
sometimes in mere lottery, as cross and pile, counting holes
in a sieve, dipping of verses in Homer and Virgil; and in-
numerable other such vain conceits. So easy are men to be
drawn to believe anything from such men as have gotten
credit with them and can with gentleness and dexterity take
hold of their fear and ignorance.
And therefore the first founders and legislators of com-
monwealths among the Gentiles, whose ends were only to
keep the people in obedience and peace, have in all places
taken care, first to imprint in their minds a belief that those
precepts which they gave concerning religion might not be
thought to proceed from their own device but from the
dictates of some god or other spirit, or else that they them-
selves were of a higher nature than mere mortals, that their
laws might the more easily be received : so Numa Pompilius
pretended to receive the ceremonies he instituted amongst
the Romans from the nymph Egeria ; and the first king and
founder of the kingdom of Peru pretended himself and his
398 THOMAS HOBBES
wife to be the children of the Sun, and Mahomet, to set tip
his new religion, pretended to have conferences with the
Holy Ghost in form of a dove. Secondly, they have had a
care to make it believed that the same things were displeas-
ing to the gods which were forbidden by the laws. Thirdly,
to prescribe ceremonies, supplications, sacrifices,, and festi-
vals, by which they were to believe the anger of the gods
might be appeased, and that ill success in war, great con-
tagions of sickness, earthquakes, and each man's private
misery, came from the anger of the gods, and their anger
from the neglect of their worship or the forgetting or mis-
taking some point of the ceremonies required. And, though
amongst the ancient Romans men were not forbidden to
deny that which in the poets is written of the pains and
pleasures after this life, which divers of great authority and
gravity in that state have in their harangues openly derided,
yet that belief was always more cherished than the contrary.
And by these and such other institutions they obtained in
order to their end, which was the peace of the common-
wealth, that the common people in their misfortunes, laying
the fault on neglect or error in their ceremonies or on their
own disobedience to the laws, were the less apt to mutiny
against their governors, and, being entertained with the pomp
and pastime of festivals and public games made in honour
of the gods, needed nothing else but bread to keep them
from discontent, murmuring, and commotion against the
state. And therefore the Romans, that had conquered the
greatest part of the then known world, made no scruple of
tolerating any religion whatsoever in the city of Rome itself,
unless it had something in it that could not consist with their
civil government ; nor do we read that any religion was there
forbidden but that of the Jews, who, being the peculiar king-
dom of God, thought it unlawful to acknowledge subjection
to any mortal king or state whatsoever. And thus you see
how the religion of the Gentiles was part of their policy.
But where God Himself by supernatural revelation planted
religion, there He also made to Himself a peculiar kingdom,
and gave laws not only of behaviour towards Himself but
also towards one another; and thereby in the kingdom of
God the policy and laws civil are a part of religion; and
OF MAN 399
therefore the distinction of temporal and spiritual domination
hath there no place. It is true that God is king of all the
earth, yet may He be king of a peculiar and chosen nation.
For there is no more incongruity therein than that he that
hath the general command of the whole army should have
withal a peculiar regiment or company of his own. God is
king of all the earth by His power, but of His chosen people
He is king by covenant. But to speak more largely of the
kingdom of God, both by nature and covenant, I have in the
following discourse assigned another place.
From the propagation of religion it is not hard to under-
stand the causes of the resolution of the same into its first
seeds or principles, which are only an opinion of a deity and
powers invisible and supernatural that can never be so
abolished out of human nature but that new religions may
again be made to spring out of them, by the culture of such
men as for such purpose are in reputation.
For, seeing all formed religion is founded at first upon
the faith which a multitude hath in some one person whom
they believe not only to be a wise man, and to labour to pro-
cure their happiness, but also to be a holy man, to whom God
Himself vouchsafeth to declare His will supernaturally, it
followeth necessarily, when they that have the government
of religion shall come to have either the wisdom of those
men, their sincerity, or their love suspected, or when they
shall be unable to show any probable token of divine revela-
tion, that the religion which they desire to uphold must be
suspected likewise, and, without the fear of the civil sword,
contradicted and rejected.
That which taketh away the reputation of wisdom, in him
that formeth a religion or addeth to it when it is already
formed, is the enjoining of a belief of contradictories, for
both parts of a contradiction cannot possibly be true; and
therefore to enjoin the belief of them is an argument of
ignorance, which detects the author in that, and discredits
him in all things else he shall propound as from revelation
supernatural; which revelation a man may indeed have of
many things above but of nothing against natural reason.
That which taketh away the reputation of sincerity is the
doing or saying of such things as appear to be signs that
4G0 THOMAS HOBBES
what they require other men to believe is not believed by
themselves, all which doings or sayings are therefore called
scandalous, because they be stumbling-blocks that make men
to fall in the way of religion, as injustice, cruelty, profane-
ness, avarice, and luxury. For who can believe that he that
doth ordinarily such actions as proceed from any of these
roots believeth there is any such invisible power to be feared,
as he affrighteth other men withal for lesser faults?
That which taketh away the reputation of love is the being
detected of private ends, as when the belief they require of
others conduceth or seemeth to conduce to the acquiring of
dominion, riches, dignity, or secure pleasure to themselves
only or specially. For that which men reap benefit by to
themselves they are thought to do for their own sakes, and
not for love of others.
Lastly, the testimony that men can render of divine calling
can be no other than the operation of miracles, or true
prophecy, which also is a miracle, or extraordinary felicity.
And, therefore, to those points of religion which have been
received from them that did such miracles, those that are
added by such as approve not their calling by some miracle
obtain no greater belief than what the custom and laws of the
places in which they be educated have wrought into them.
For, as in natural things, men of judgment require natural
signs and arguments, so in supernatural things they require
signs supernatural, which are miracles, before they consent
inwardly and from their hearts.
All which causes of the weakening of men's faith do mani-
festly appear in the examples following. First, we have the
example of the children of Israel, who when Moses, that had
approved his calling to them by miracles and by the happy
conduct of them out of Egypt was absent but forty days,
revolted from the worship of the true God, recommended
to them by him, and setting up (Exod. xxxii, I, 2) a golden
calf for their god relapsed into the idolatry of the Egyptians,
from whom they had been so lately delivered. And again,
after Moses, Aaron, Joshua, and that generation which had
seen the great works of God in Israel (Judges ii, 11) were
dead, another generation arose and served Baal. So that,
miracles failing, faith also failed.
OF MAN 401
Ag^in, when the sons of Samuel (i Sam, viii, 3), being
constituted by their father judges in Bersabee, received
bribes, and judged unjustly, the people of Israel refused any
more to have God to be their king in other manner than He
was king of other people, and therefore cried out to Samuel
to choose them a king after the manner of the nations. So
that, justice failing, faith also failed; insomuch as they de-
posed their God from reigning over them.
And whereas in the planting of Christian religion the
oracles ceased in all parts of the Roman empire, and the num-
ber of Christians, increased wonderfully every day and in
every place by the preaching of the Apostles and Evangelists,
a great part of that success may reasonably be attributed to
the contempt into which the priests of the Gentiles of that
time had brought themselves by their uncleanness, avarice,
and juggling between princes. Also the religion of the
Church of Rome was partly for the same cause abolished in
England and many other parts of Christendom, insomuch as
the failing of virtue in the pastors maketh faith fail in the
people ; and partly from bringing of the philosophy and doc-
trine of Aristotle into religion by the schoolmen, from
whence there arose so many contradictions and absurdities
as brought the clergy into a reputation both of ignorance
and of fraudulent intention, and inclined people to revolt
from them, either against the will of their own princes, as
in France and Holland, or with their will, as in England.
Lastly, amongst the points by the Church of Rome declared
necessary for salvation, there be so many manifestly to the
advantage of the Pope and of his spiritual subjects residing
in the territories of other Christian princes that, were it not
for the mutual emulation of those princes, they might with-
out war or trouble exclude all foreign authority as easily
as it had been excluded in England. For who is there that
does not see to whose benefit it conduceth to have it believed
that a king hath not his authority from Christ unless a
bishop crown him? That a king, if he be a priest, cannot
marry? That whether a prince be born in lawful marriage
or not must be judged by authority from Rome? That sub-
jects may be freed from their allegiance, if by the Court of
Rome the king be judged an heretic? That a king, as Chil-
402 THOMAS HOBBES
peric of France, may be deposed by a pope, as Pope Zachary,
for no cause, and his kingdom given to one of his subjects?
That the clergy and regulars, in what country soever, shall
be exempt from the jurisdiction of their king in cases crimi-
nal? Or who does not see to whose profit redound the fees
of private masses and vales of purgatory, with other signs
of private interest enough to mortify the most lively faith,
if, as I said, the civil magistrate and custom did not more
sustain it than any opinion they have of the sanctity, wis-
dom, or probity of their teachers? So that I may attribute
all the changes of religion in the world to one and the same
cause, and that is, unpleasing priests; and those not only
amongst Catholics but even in that Church that hath pre-
sumed most of reformation.
CHAPTER XIII
Of the Natural Condition of Mankind as Concerning
Their Felicity and Misery
Nature hath made men so equal in the faculties of the
body and mind, as that, though there be found one man
sometimes manifestly stronger in body or of quicker mind
than another, yet when all is reckoned together the dif-
ference between man and man is not so considerable as
that one man can thereupon claim to himself any benefit to
which another may not pretend as well as he. For, as to the
strength of body, the weakest has strength enough to kill the
strongest, either by secret machination or by confederacy
with others that are in the same danger with himself.
And, as to the faculties of the mind, setting aside the arts
grounded upon words and especially that skill of proceeding
upon general and infallible rules called science, which very
few have and but in few things, as being not a native faculty
born with us, nor attained, as prudence, while we look after
somewhat else, I find yet a greater equality amongst men
than that of strength. For prudence is but experience, which
equal time equally bestows on all men in those things they
equally apply themselves unto. That which may perhaps
make such equality incredible is but a vain conceit of one's
OF MAN 403
own wisdom, which almost all men think they have in a
greater degree than the vulgar, that is, than all men but
themselves, and a few others whom by fame or for concur-
ring with themselves they approve. For such is the nature
of men that, howsoever they may acknowledge many others
to be more witty or more eloquent or more learned, yet they
will hardly believe there be many so wise as themselves, for
they see their own wit at hand and other men's at a distance.
But this proveth rather that men are in that point equal
than unequal. For there is not ordinarily a greater sign of
the equal distribution of anything than that every man is
contented with his share.
From this equality of ability ariseth equality of hope in
the attaining of our ends. And therefore, if any two men
desire the same thing which nevertheless they cannot both
enjoy, they become enemies; and, in the way to their end,
which is principally their own conservation and sometimes
their delectation only, endeavour to destroy or subdue one
another. And from hence it comes to pass that, where an
invader hath no more to fear than another man's single
power, if one plant, sow, build, or possess, a convenient seat,
others may probably be expected to come prepared with
forces united to dispossess and deprive him not only of the
fruit of his labour but also of his life or liberty. And the
invader again is in the like danger of another.
And from this diffidence of one another there is no way
for any man to secure himself so reasonable as anticipation,
that is, by force or wiles to master the persons of all men
he can so long till he see no other power great enough to
endanger him ; and this is no more than his own conservation
requireth and is generally allowed. Also, because there be
some that, taking pleasure in contemplating their own power
in the acts of conquest, which they pursue farther than their
security requires, if others, that otherwise would be glad to
be at ease within the modest bounds, should not by invasion
increase their power, they would not be able long time, by
standing only on their defence, to subsist. And by con-
sequence, such augmentation of dominion over men being
necessary to a man's conservation, it ought to be allowed
him.
404 THOMAS HOBBES
Again, men have no pleasure, but on the contrary a great
deal of grief, in keeping company where there is no power
able to overawe them all. For every man looketh that his
companion should value him at the same rate he sets upon
himself, and, upon all signs of contempt or undervaluing,
naturally endeavours as far as he dares (which amongst them
that have no common power to keep them in quiet, is far
enough to make them destroy each other) to extort a greater
value from his contemners by damage, and from others by
the example.
So that in the nature of man we find three principal causes
of quarrel. First, competition; secondly, diffidence; thirdly,
glory.
The first maketh man invade for gain; the second, for
safety ; and the third, for reputation. The first use violence,
to make themselves masters of other men's persons, wives,
children, and cattle; the second, to defend them; the third,
for trifles, as a word, a smile, a different opinion, and any
other sign of undervalue, either direct in their persons or
by reflection in their kindred, their friends, their nation, their
profession, or their name.
Hereby it is manifest that, during the time men live with-
out a common power to keep them all in awe, they are in
that condition which is called war, and such a war as is of
every man against every man. For ' war ' consisteth not in
battle only or the act of fighting, but in a tract of time
wherein the will to contend by battle is sufficiently known,
and therefore the notion of ' time ' is to be considered in the
nature of war, as it is in the nature of weather. For as the
nature of foul weather lieth not in a shower or two of rain
but in an inclination thereto of many days together, so the
nature of war consisteth not in actual fighting but in the
known disposition thereto during all the time there is no
assurance to the contrary. All other time is ' peace.'
Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of war
where every man is enemy to every man, the same is con-
sequent to the time wherein men live without other security
than what their own strength and their own invention shall
furnish them withal. In such condition there is no place for
industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain, and con-
OF MAN 405
sequently no culture of the earth, no navigation nor use of
the commodities that may be imported by sea, no commodious
building, no instruments of moving and removing such things
as require much force, no knowledge of the face of the earth ;
no account of time, no arts, no letters, no society, and, which
is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death,
and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
It may seem strange to some man that has not well
weighed these things that Nature should thus dissociate and
render men apt to invade and destroy one another; and he
may therefore, not trusting to this inference made from the
passions, desire perhaps to have the same confirmed by ex-
perience. Let him therefore consider with himself, when
taking a journey, he arms himself and seeks to go well ac-
companied; when going to sleep, he locks his doors; when
even in his house, he locks his chests ; and this when he knows
there be laws and public officers armed to revenge all injuries
shall be done him; what opinion he has of his fellow-subjects,
when he rides armed; of his fellow-citizens, when he locks
his doors; and of his children and servants, when he locks
his chests. Does he not there as much accuse mankind by
his actions as I do by my words? But neither of us accuse
man's nature in it. The desires and other passions of man
are in themselves no sin. No more are the actions that pro-
ceed from those passions, till they know a law that forbids
them; which, till laws be made, they cannot know, nor can
any law be made till they have agreed upon the person that
shall make it.
It may peradventure be thought there was never such a
time nor condition of war as this; and I believe it was never
generally so over all the world, but there are many places
where they live so now. For the savage people in many
places of America, except the government of small families
the concord whereof dependeth on natural lust, have no
government at all, and live at this day in that brutish manner
as I said before. Howsoever, it may be perceived what
manner of life there would be where there were no common
power to fear, by the manner of life which men that have
formerly lived under a peaceful government use to degener-
ate into, in a civil war.
406 THOMAS HOBBES
But, though there had never been any time wherein par-
ticular men were in a condition of war one against another,
yet in all times kings and persons of sovereign authority,
because of their independency, are in continual jealousies
and in the state and posture of gladiators, having their
weapons pointing, and their eyes fixed on one another, that is,
their forts, garrisons, and guns, upon the frontiers of their
kingdoms, and continual spies upon their neighbours: which
is a posture of war. But because they uphold thereby the
industry of their subjects, there does not follow from it that
misery which accompanies the liberty of particular men.
To this war of every man against every man this also is
consequent, that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right
and wrong, justice and injustice, have there no place. Where
there is no common power, there is no law; where no law,
no injustice. Force and fraud are in war the two cardinal
virtues. Justice and injustice are none of the faculties
neither of the body nor mind. If they were, they might be in
a man that were alone in the world, as well as his senses and
passions. They are qualities that relate to men in society,
not in solitude. It is consequent also to the same condition
that there be no propriety, no dominion, no ' mine ' and
' thine ' distinct, but only that to be every man's that he
can get, and for so long as he can keep it. And thus much
for the ill condition which man by mere nature is actually
placed in, though with a possibility to come out of it, con-
sisting partly in the passions, partly in his reason.
The passions that incline men to peace are fear of death,
desire of such things as are necessary to commodious living,
and a hope by their industry to obtain them. And reason
suggesteth convenient articles of peace, upon which men may
be drawn to agreement. These articles are they which
otherwise are called the Laws of Nature, whereof I shall
speak more particularly in the two following chapters.
OF MAN 407
CHAPTER XIV
Of the First and Second Natural Laws, and of
Contracts
'The right of Nature/ which writers commonly call jus
naturale, is the liberty each man hath to use his own power
as he will himself for the preservation of his own nature,
that is to say, of his own life; and consequently of doing
anything which in his own judgment and reason he shall
conceive to be the aptest means thereunto.
By ' liberty ' is understood, according to the proper sig-
nification of the word, the absence of external impediments ;
which impediments may oft take away part of a man's
power to do what he would, but cannot hinder him from using
the power left him according as his judgment and reason
shall dictate to him.
A ' law of Nature/ lex naturalis, is a precept or general
rule found out by reason by which a man is forbidden to do
that which is destructive of his life or taketh away the means
of preserving the same, and to omit that by which he
thinketh it may be best preserved. For, though they that
speak of this subject use to confound jus and lex, 'right'
and ' law/ yet they ought to be distinguished ; because
' right 9 consisteth in liberty to do or to forbear, whereas
4 law ' determineth and bindeth to one of them ; so that law
and right differ as much as obligation and liberty; which in
one and the same matter are inconsistent.
And because the condition of man, as hath been declared
in the precedent chapter, is a condition of war of every one
against every one, in which case every one is governed by
his own reason, and there is nothing he can make use of
that may not be a help unto him in preserving his life against
his enemies, it followeth that in such a condition every man
has a right to everything, even to one another's body. And
therefore, as long as this natural right of every man to every-
thing endureth, there can be no security to any man, how
strong or wise soever he be, of living out the time which
Nature ordinarily alloweth men to live. And consequently
it is a precept or general rule of reason ' that every man
408 THOMAS HOBBES
ought to endeavour peace as far as he has hope of obtaining
it, and, when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek and use
all helps and advantages of war.' The first branch of which
rule containeth the first and fundamental law of Nature,
which is, l to seek peace, and follow it/ The second, the
sum of the right of Nature, which is, ' by all means we can,
to defend ourselves.'
From this fundamental law of Nature, by which men are
commanded to endeavour peace, is derived this second law,
' that a man be willing, when others are so too, as far- forth
as for peace and defence of himself he shall think it neces-
sary, to lay down this right to all things, and be contented
with so much liberty against other men as he would allow
other men against himself/ For as long as every man hold-
eth this right of doing anything he liketh, so long are all
men in the condition of war. But if other men will not lay
down their right as well as he, then there is no reason for
any one to divest himself of his; for that were to expose
himself to prey, which no man is bound to, rather than to
dispose himself to peace. This is that law of the Gospel:
' whatsoever you require that others should do to you, that
do ye to them/ And that law of all men, quod tibi fieri non
vis, alteri ne fee oris.
To ' lay down ' a man's ' right ' to anything is to ' divest '
himself of the 'liberty,' of hindering another of the benefit
of his own right to the same. For he that renounceth or
passeth away his right giveth not to any other man a right
which he had not before, because there is nothing to which
every man had not right by Nature; but only standeth out
of his way that he may enjoy his own original right without
hindrance from him, not without hindrance from another.
So that the effect which redoundeth to one man, by another
man's defect of right, is but so much diminution of impedi-
ments to the use of his own right original.
Right is laid aside either by simply renouncing it, or by
transferring it to another. By ' simply renouncing ' when
he cares not to whom the benefit thereof redoundeth. By
1 transferring,' when he intendeth the benefit thereof to some
certain person or persons. And, when a man hath in either
manner abandoned or granted away his right, then is he said
OF MAN 409
to be * obliged' or 'bound' not to hinder those to whom
such right is granted or abandoned from the benefit of it;
and that he ' ought/ and it is his ' duty/ not to make void
that voluntary act of his own; and that such hindrance is
' injustice ■ and ' injury ' as being sine jure, the right being
before renounced or transferred. So that ' injury ' or ' in-
justice/ in the controversies of the world, is somewhat like
to that which in the disputations of scholars is called ' ab-
surdity/ For, as it is there called an absurdity to con-
tradict what one maintained in the beginning, so in the
world it is called injustice and injury voluntarily to undo
that from the beginning he had voluntarily done. The way
by which a man either simply renounceth or transferreth
his right is a declaration or signification, by some voluntary
and sufficient sign or signs, that he doth so renounce or
transfer, or hath so renounced or transferred, the same, to
him that accepteth it. And these signs are either words
only or actions only, or, as it happeneth most often, both
words and actions. And the same are the ' bonds ' by which
men are bound and obliged: bonds that have their strength
not from their own nature, for nothing is more easily broken
than a man's word, but from fear of some evil consequence
upon the rupture.
Whensoever a man transferreth his right or renounceth
it, it is either in consideration of some right reciprocally
transferred to himself, or for some other good he hopeth for
thereby. For it is a voluntary act; and of the voluntary acts
of every man the object is some good ' to himself/ And
therefore there be some rights which no man can be under-
stood by any words or other signs to have abandoned or
transferred. As first a man cannot lay down the right of
resisting them that assault him by force to take away his
life, because he cannot be understood to aim thereby at any
good to himself. The same may be said of wounds, and
chains, and imprisonment, both because there is no benefit
consequent to such patience, as there is to the patience of
suffering another to be wounded or imprisoned, as also
because a man cannot tell when he seeth men proceed against
him by violence whether they intend his death or not. And
lastly the motive and end for which this renouncing and
410 THOMAS HOBBES
transferring of right is introduced is nothing else but the
security of a man's person in his life and in the means of
so preserving life as not to be weary of it. And therefore,
if a man by words or other signs seem to despoil himself
of the end for which those signs were intended, he is not
to be understood as if he meant it or that it was his will,
but that he was ignorant of how such words and actions
were to be interpreted.
The mutual transferring of right is that which men call
* contract/
There is difference between transferring of right to the
thing and transferring or tradition, that is delivery of the
thing itself. For the thing may be delivered together with
the translation of the right, as in buying and selling with
ready money, or exchange of goods or lands, and it may
be delivered some time after.
Again, one of the contractors may deliver the thing con-
tracted for on his part, and leave the other to perform his
part at some determinate time after, and in the meantime
be trusted ; and then the contract on his part is called ' pact/
or ' covenant ' ; or both parts may contract now to perform
hereafter; in which cases he that is to perform in time to
come, being trusted, his performance is called ' keeping of
promise/ or faith, and the failing of performance, if it be
voluntary, ' violation of faith/
When the transferring of right is not mutual, but one of
the parties transferreth in hope to gain thereby the friend-
ship or service from another or from his friends, or in hope
to gain the reputation of charity or magnanimity, or to
deliver his mind from the pain of compassion, or in hope
of reward in heaven, this is not contract but ' gift/ * free
gift/ ' grace/ which words signify one and the same thing.
Signs of contract are either ' express * or ' by inference/
' Express ■ are words spoken with understanding of what they
signify, and such words are either of the time ' present' or
' past/ as ' I give/ ' I grant/ ' I have given/ ' I have granted/
' I will that this be yours ' ; or of the future, as * I will give/
4 1 will grant/ which words of the future are called ' promise/
Signs by inference are sometimes the consequence of
OF MAN 411
words, sometimes the consequence of silence, sometimes the
consequence of actions, sometimes the consequence of for-
bearing an action; and generally a sign by inference of any
contract is whatsoever sufficiently argues the will of the
contractor.
Words alone, if they be of the time to come and contain
a bare promise, are an insufficient sign of a free gift, and
therefore not obligatory. For if they be of the time to
come, as ' to-morrow I will give/ they are a sign I have
not given yet, and consequently that my right is not trans-
ferred, but remaineth till I transfer it by some other act.
But if the words be of the time present or past, as ' I have
given/ or ' do give to be delivered to-morrow/ then is my
to-morrow's right given away to-day, and that by the virtue
of the words, though there were no other argument of my
will. And there is a great difference in the signification of
these words volo hoc tuurn esse eras and eras dabo, that is,
between ' I will that this be thine to-morrow/ and ' I will
give it thee to-morrow/ for the word ' I will/ in the former
manner of speech, signifies an act of the will present, but in
the latter it signifies a promise of an act of the will to come ;
and therefore the former words, being of the present,
transfer a future right; the latter, that be of the future,
transfer nothing. But if there be other signs of the will to
transfer a right besides words, then, though the gift be
free, yet may the right be understood to pass by words of
the future; as, if a man propound a prize to him that comes
first to the end of a race, the gift is free; and, though
the words be of the future, yet the right passeth; for if
he would not have his words so be understood, he should
not have let them run.
In contracts the right passeth not only where the words
are of the time present or past, but also where they are
of the future; because all contract is mutual translation or
change of right, and therefore he that promiseth only be-
cause he hath already received the benefit for which he
promiseth is to be understood as if he intended the right
should pass, for, unless he had been content to have his
words so understood, the other would not have performed
his part first And for that cause, in buying and selling
412 THOMAS HOBBES
and other acts of contracts, a promise is equivalent to a
covenant, and therefore obligatory.
He that performeth first in the case of a contract is said
to ' merit ' that which he is to receive by the performance
of the other, and he hath it as ' due/ Also when a prize
is propounded to many which is to be given to him only
that winneth, or money is thrown amongst many to be
enjoyed by them that catch it, though this be a free gift,
yet so to win or so to catch is to * merit/ and to have it as
' due.' For the right is transferred in the propounding of
the prize and in throwing down the money, though it be
not determined to whom but by the event of the contention.
But there is between these two sorts of merit this difference,
that in contract I merit by virtue of my own power and the
contractor's need, but in this case of free gift I am enabled
to merit only by the benignity of the giver: in contract I
merit at the contractor's hand that he should depart with
his right; in this case of gift I merit not that the giver
should part with his right, but that, when he has parted
with it, it should be mine rather than another's. And this
I think to be the meaning of that distinction of the schools
between meritnm congrui and meritum condigni. For God
Almighty, having promised Paradise to those men hood-
winked with carnal desires that can walk through this world
according to the precepts and limits prescribed by Him, they
say he that shall so walk shall merit Paradise ex congruo.
But because no man can demand a right to it by his own
righteousness or any other power in himself, but by the
free grace of God only, they say, no man can merit Paradise
ex condigno. This, I say, I think is the meaning of that
distinction; but, because disputers do not agree upon the
signification of their own terms of art longer than it serves
their turn, I will not affirm anything of their meaning: only
this I say — when a gift is given indefinitely as a prize to
be contended for, he that winneth meriteth, and may claim
the prize as due.
If a covenant be made wherein neither of the parties
perform presently but trust one another, in the condition of
mere nature, which is a condition of war of every man
against every man, upon any reasonable suspicion, it is void;
OF MAN 413
but, if there be a common power set over them both with
right and force sufficient to compel performance, it is not
void. For he that performeth first has no assurance the
other will perform after, because the bonds of words are
too weak to bridle men's ambition, avarice, anger, and other
passions, without the fear of some coercive power, which in
the condition of mere nature, where all men are equal and
judges of the justness of their own fears, cannot possibly
be supposed. And therefore he which performeth first does
but betray himself to his enemy, contrary to the right, he
can never abandon, of defending his life and means of
living.
But in a civil estate, where there is a power set up to
constrain those that would otherwise violate their faith,
that fear is no more reasonable, and for that cause he
which by the covenant is to perform first is obliged so to do.
The cause of fear, which maketh such a covenant invalid,
must be always something arising after the covenant made,
as some new fact or other sign of the will not to perform;
else it cannot make the covenant void. For that which
could not hinder a man from promising ought not to be
admitted as a hindrance of performing.
He that transferreth any right transferreth the means
of enjoying it as far as lieth in his power. As he that selleth
land is understood to transfer the herbage and whatsoever
grows upon it; nor can he that sells a mill turn away the
stream that drives it. And they that give to a man the right
of government in sovereignty are understood to give him
the right of levying money to maintain soldiers, and of ap-
pointing magistrates for the administration of justice.
To make covenants with brute beasts is impossible, be-
cause, not understanding our speech, they understand not
nor accept of any translation of right; nor can translate any
right to another; and without mutual acceptation, there is no
covenant.
To make covenant with God is impossible, but by media-
tion of such as God speaketh to, either by revelation super-
natural or by His lieutenants that govern under Him and in
His name; for otherwise we know not whether our cove-
nants be accepted or not. And therefore they that vow any-
414 THOMAS HOBBES
thing contrary to any law of Nature vow in vain, as being
a thing unjust to pay such a vow. And, if it be a thing com-
manded by the law of Nature, it is not the vow but the law
that binds them.
The matter or subject of a covenant is always something
that falleth under deliberation, for to covenant is an act of
the will, that is to say an act, and the last act of delibera-
tion, and is therefore always understood to be something to
come, and which is judged possible for him that covenanteth
to perform.
And therefore to promise that which is known to be im-
possible is no covenant. But, if that prove impossible after-
wards which before was thought possible, the covenant is
valid and bindeth, though not to the thing itself, yet to the
value, or, if that also be impossible, to the unfeigned en-
deavour of performing as much as is possible, for to more
no man can be obliged.
Men are freed of their covenants two ways: by perform-
ing or being forgiven. For performance is the natural
end of obligation, and forgiveness the restitution of liberty,
as being a retransferring of that right in which the obliga-
tion consisted.
Covenants entered into by fear, in the condition of mere
nature, are obligatory. For example, if I covenant to pay a
ransom or service for my life to an enemy, I am bound by
it, for it is a contract wherein one receiveth the benefit of
life; the other is to receive money or service for it; and
consequently where no other law, as in the condition of
mere nature, forbiddeth the performance, the covenant is
valid. Therefore prisoners of war, if trusted with the pay-
ment of their ransom, are obliged to pay it; and, if a weaker
prince make a disadvantageous peace with a stronger for
fear, he is bound to keep it, unless, as hath been said before,
there ariseth some new and just cause of fear to renew the
war. And even in commonwealths, if I be forced to redeem
myself from a thief by promising him money, I am bound
to pay it, till the civil law discharge me. For whatsoever I
may lawfully do without obligation, the same I may lawfully
covenant to do through fear, and what I lawfully covenant
I cannot lawfully break.
OF MAN 415
A former covenant makes void a later. For a man that
hath passed away his right to one man to-day hath it not
to pass to-morrow to another, and therefore the later promise
passeth no right, but is null.
A covenant not to defend myself from force by force is
always void. For, as I have shown before, no man can
transfer or lay down his right to save himself from death,
wounds, and imprisonment, the avoiding whereof is the only
end of laying down any right; and therefore the promise
of not resisting force, in no covenant transferreth any right,
nor is obliging. For, though a man may covenant thus,
' unless I do so or so, kill me/ he cannot covenant thus,
' unless I do so or sq, I will not resist you when you come
to kill me.' For man by nature chooseth the lesser evil,
which is danger of death in resisting, rather than the
greater, which is certain and present death in not resisting.
And this is granted to be true by all men, in that they lead
criminals to execution and prison with armed men, not-
withstanding that such criminals have consented to the law
by which they are condemned.
A covenant to accuse oneself, without assurance of par-
don, is likewise invalid. For in the condition of nature,
where every man is judge, there is no place for accusation;
and in the civil state the accusation is followed with punish-
ment, which, being force, a man is not obliged not to resist.
The same is also true of the accusation of those by whose
condemnation a man falls into misery, as of a father, wife,
or benefactor. For the testimony of such an accuser, if it
be not willingly given, is presumed to be corrupted by na-
ture, and therefore not to be received; and where a man's
testimony is not to be credited he is not bound to give it.
Also accusations upon torture are not to be reputed as tes-
timonies. For torture is to be used but as a means of con-
jecture and light, in the further examination and search of
truth; and what is in that case confessed tendeth to the ease
of him that is tortured, not to the informing of the tor-
turers, and therefore ought not to have the credit of a
sufficient testimony, for, whether he deliver himself by true
or false accusation, he does it by the right of preserving his
own life.
416 THOMAS HOBBES
The force of words being, as I have formerly noted, too
weak to hold men to the performance of their covenants,
there are in man's nature but two imaginable helps to
strengthen it. And those are either a fear of the conse-
quence of breaking their word, or a glory or pride in ap-
pearing not to need to break it. This latter is a generosity
too rarely found to be presumed on, especially in the pur-
suers of wealth, command, or sensual pleasure, which are
the greatest part of mankind. The passion to be reckoned
upon is fear, whereof there be two very general objects:
one, the power of spirits invisible, the other, the power of
those men they shall therein offend. Of these two, though
the former be the greater power, yet the fear of the latter is
commonly the greater fear. The fear of the former is in
every man his own religion, which hath place in the nature
of man before civil society. The latter hath not so, at least
not place enough to keep men to their promises; because in
the condition of mere nature the inequality of power is not
discerned but by the event of battle. So that before the
time of civil society, or in the interruption thereof by war,
there is nothing can strengthen a covenant of peace agreed
on against the temptations of avarice, ambition, lust, or
other strong desire, but the fear of that invisible power
which they every one worship as God and fear as a re-
venger of their perfidy. All therefore that can be done
between two men not subject to civil power is to put one
another to swear by the God he feareth, which ' swearing,'
or 'oath/ is 'a form of speech, added to a promise; by
which he that promiseth signifieth that, unless he perform
he renounceth the mercy of his God or calleth to Him for
vengeance on himself/ Such was the heathen form, ' Let
Jupiter kill me else, as I kill this beast.' So is our form,
4 1 shall do thus, and thus, so help me God.' And this, with
the rites and ceremonies which every one useth in his own
religion, that the fear of breaking faith might be the
greater.
By this it appears that an oath taken according to any
other form or rite than his that sweareth is in vain, and no
oath; and that there is no swearing by anything which the
swearer thinks not God. For though men have sometimes
OF MAN 417
used to swear by their kings, for fear or flattery, yet they
would have it thereby understood they attributed to them
divine honour. And that swearing unnecessarily by God is
but profaning of His name; and swearing by other things,
as men do in common discourse, is not swearing but an im-
pious custom, gotten by too much vehemence of talking.
It appears also that the oath adds nothing to the obligation.
For a covenant, if lawful, binds in the sight of God with-
out the oath as much as with it: if unlawful, bindeth not at
all, though it be confirmed with an oath.
CHAPTER XV
Of Other Laws of Nature
From that law of Nature by which we are obliged to
transfer to another such rights as, being retained, hinder
the peace of mankind, there followeth a third, which is
this, ' that men perform their covenants made ' ; without
which covenants are in vain, and but empty words: and
the right of all men to all things remaining, we are still in
the condition of war.
And in this law of Nature consisteth the fountain and
original of 'justice/ For, where no covenant hath pre-
ceded, there hath no right been transferred, and every
man has right to everything; and consequently, no action
can be unjust. But when a covenant is made, then to
break it is 'unjust'; and the definition of 'injustice' is
no other than 'the not performance of covenant/ And
whatsoever is not unjust is 'just/
But because covenants of mutual trust, where there is
a fear of not performance on either part, as hath been said
in the former chapter, are invalid, though the original of
justice be the making of covenants, yet injustice actually
there can be none, till the cause of such fear be taken away,
which, while men are in the natural condition of war, can-
not be done. Therefore, before the names of just and
unjust can have place, there must be some coercive power
to compel men equally to the performance of their cove-
nants, by the terror of some punishment greater than the
(N) HC-— Vol. 34
418 THOMAS HOBBES
benefit they expect by the breach of their covenant; and
to make good that propriety which by mutual contract
men acquire in recompense of the universal right they
abandon; and such power there is none before the erec-
tion of a commonwealth. And this is also to be gathered
out of the ordinary definition of justice in the schools;
for they say that 'justice is the constant will of giving to
every man his own/ And therefore where there is no
'own' there is no propriety, there is no injustice; and
where there is no coercive power erected, that is, where
there is no commonwealth, there is no propriety, all men
having right to all things: therefore, where there is no
commonwealth, there nothing is unjust. So that tiie nature
of justice consisteth in keeping of valid covenants; but the
validity of covenants begins not but with the constitution
of a civil power sufficient to compel men to keep them;
and then it is also that propriety begins.
The fool hath said in his heart there is no such thing as
justice, and sometimes also with his tongue, seriously
alleging that every man's conservation and contentment,
being committed to his own care, there could be no reason
why every man might not do what he thought conduced
thereunto; and therefore also to make or not make, keep
or not keep, covenants was not against reason when it
conduced to one's benefit. He does not therein deny
that there be covenants, and that they are sometimes
broken, sometimes kept, and that such breach of them
may be called injustice, and the observance of them justice;
but he questioneth whether injustice, taking away the
fear of God, for the same fool hath said in his heart there
is no God, may not sometimes stand with that reason
which dictateth to every man his own good; and particu-
larly then when it conduceth to such a benefit as shall put
a man in a condition to neglect not only the dispraise and
revilings, but also the power, of other men. The kingdom
of God is gotten by violence; but what if it could be gotten
by unjust violence? Were it against reason so to get it,
when it is impossible to receive hurt by it? And, if it be
not against reason, it is not against justice, or else justice
is not to be approved for good. From such reasoning as
OF MAN 419
this, successful wickedness hath obtained the name of
virtue, and some that in all other things have disallowed
the violation of faith, yet have allowed it when it is for
the getting of a kingdom. And the heathen that believed
that Saturn was deposed by his son Jupiter believed never-
theless the same Jupiter to be the avenger of injustice,
somewhat like to a piece of law in Coke's Commentaries
on Littleton, where he says, if the right heir of the crown
be attainted of treason, yet the crown shall descend to him,
and eo instante the attainder be void ; from which instances
a man will be very prone to infer that, when the heir ap-
parent of a kingdom shall kill him that is in possession,
though his father, you may call it injustice or by what
other name you will, yet it can never be against reason,
seeing all the voluntary actions of men tend to the benefit
of themselves; and those actions are most reasonable that
conduce most to their ends. This specious reasoning is
nevertheless false.
For the question is not of promises mutual, where there
is no security of performance on either side, as when there
is no civil power erected over the parties promising, for
such promises are no covenants, but either where one of
the parties has performed already, or where there is a
power to make him perform, there is the question whether
it be against reason, that is against the benefit of the
other to perform or not. And I say it is not against reason.
For the manifestation whereof we are to consider, first,
that when a man doth a thing which notwithstanding any-
thing can be foreseen and reckoned on tendeth to his own
destruction, howsoever some accident which he could not
expect, arriving may turn it to his benefit, yet such events
do not make it reasonably or wisely done. Secondly, that,
in a condition of war, wherein every man to every man,
for want of a common power to keep them all in awe, is
an enemy, there is no man who can hope by his own
strength or wit to defend himself from destruction without
the help of confederates; where every one expects the same
defence by the confederation that any one else does; and
therefore he which declares he thinks it reason to deceive
those that help him can in reason expect no other means
420 THOMAS HOBBES
of safety than what can be had from his own single power.
He therefore that breaketh his covenant, and consequently
declareth that he thinks he may with reason do so, cannot
be received into any society that unite themselves for peace
and defence but by the error of them that receive him;
nor, when he is received, be retained in it without seeing
the danger of their error; which errors a man can-
not reasonably reckon upon as the means of his security;
and therefore, if he be left or cast out of society, he
perisheth; and if he live in society, it is by the errors of
other men which he could not foresee nor reckon upon,
and consequently against the reason of his preservation;
and so, as all men that contribute not to his destruction,
forbear him only out of ignorance of what is good for
themselves.
As for the instance of gaining the secure and perpetual
felicity of heaven by any way, it is frivolous; there being
but one way imaginable; and that is not breaking, but
keeping of covenant.
And, for the other instance of attaining sovereignty by
rebellion, it is manifest that, though the event follow, yet,
because it cannot reasonably be expected, but rather the
contrary, and because by gaining it so, others are taught
to gain the same in like manner, the attempt thereof is
against reason. Justice therefore, that is to say keeping
of covenant, is a rule of reason by which we are forbidden
to do anything destructive to our life; and consequently
a law of Nature.
There be some that proceed further, and will not have
the law of Nature to be those rules which conduce to the
preservation of man's life on earth, but to the attaining
of an eternal felicity after death; to which they think
the breach of covenant may conduce; and consequently
be just and reasonable; such are they that think it a
work of merit to kill or depose or rebel against the sovereign
power constituted over them by their own consent. But,
because there is no natural knowledge of man's estate after
death, much less of the reward that is then to be given to
breach of faith, but only a belief grounded upon other
men's saying that they know it supernaturally, or that they
OF MAN 421
know those that knew them, that knew others, that knew
it supernaturally ; breach of faith cannot be called a precept
of reason or nature.
Others that allow for a law of Nature the keeping of
faith do nevertheless make exception of certain persons
as heretics and such as use not to perform their covenant
to others; and this also is against reason. For if any
fault of a man be sufficient to discharge our covenant
made, the same ought in reason to have been sufficient to
have hindered the making of it.
The names of just and unjust, when they are attributed
to men, signify one thing; and when they are attributed
to actions, another. When they are attributed to men,
they signify conformity or inconformity of manners to
reason. But, when they are attributed to actions, they
signify the conformity or inconformity to reason, not of
manners or manner of life but of particular actions. A
just man, therefore, is he that taketh all the care he can
that his actions may be all just, and an unjust man is he
that neglecteth it. And such men are more often in our
language styled by the names of righteous and unrighteous
than just and unjust, though the meaning be the same.
Therefore a righteous man does not lose that title by one
or a few unjust actions that proceed from sudden passion
or mistake of things or persons ; nor does an unrighteous
man lose his character for such actions as he does, or for-
bears to do, for fear, because his will is not framed by the
justice but by the apparent benefit of what he is to do. That
which gives to human actions the relish of justice is a
certain nobleness or gallantness of courage, rarely found,
by which a man scorns to be beholden for the contentment
of his life to fraud or breach of promise. This justice of
the manners is that which is meant where justice is called
a virtue, and injustice a vice.
But the justice of actions denominates men not just,
' guiltless'; and the injustice of the same, which is also
called injury, gives them but the name of ' guilty.'
Again, the injustice of manners is the disposition or
aptitude to do injury, and is injustice before it proceeds
to act, and without supposing any individual person in-
422 THOMAS HOBBES
jured But the injustice of an action, that is to say injury,
supposeth an individual person injured, namely him to
whom the covenant was made; and therefore many times
the injury is received by one man when the damage re-
doundeth to another. As when the master commandeth
his servant to give money to a stranger: if it be not done,
the injury is done to the master, whom he had before
covenanted to obey; but the damage redoundeth to the
stranger, to whom he had no obligation, and therefore
could not injure him. And so also in commonwealths.
Private men may remit to one another their debts, but not
robberies or other violences whereby they are endamaged,
because the detaining of debt is an injury to themselves,
but robbery and violence are injuries to the person of the
commonwealth.
Whatsoever is done to a man conformable to his own
will signified to the doer is no injury to him. For, if he
that doeth it hath not passed away his original right to
do what he please by some antecedent covenant, there is
no breach of covenant, and therefore no injury done him.
And if he have, then his will to have it done being signified
is a release of that covenant, and so again there is no
injury done him.
Justice of action is by writers divided into 'commu-
tative ' and ' distributive ' ; and the former they say con-
sisteth in proportion arithmetical, the latter in proportion
geometrical. Commutative, therefore, they place in the
equality of value of the things contracted for; and dis-
tributive, in the distribution of equal benefit to men of equal
merit. As if it were injustice to sell dearer than we buy,
or to give more to a man than he merits. The value of all
things contracted for is measured by the appetite of the
contractors; and therefore the just value is that which they
be contented to give. And merit, besides that which is by
covenant, where the performance on one part meriteth the
performance of the other part, and falls under justice com-
mutative not distributive, is not due by justice, but is
rewarded of grace only. And therefore this distinction,
in the sense wherein it useth to be expounded, is not right
To speak properly, commutative justice is the justice of a
OF MAN 423
contractor; that is, a performance of covenant in buying
and selling, hiring and letting to hire, lending and borrow-
ing, exchanging, bartering, and other acts of contract.
And distributive justice, the justice of an arbitrator;
that is to say, the act of defining what is just. Wherein,
being trusted by them that make him arbitrator, if he
perform his trust he is said to distribute to every man his
own; and this is indeed just distribution, and may be
called, though improperly, distributive justice, but more
properly equity, which also is a law of Nature, as shall be
shown in due place.
As justice dependeth on antecedent covenant, so does
'gratitude' depend on antecedent grace, that is to say,
antecedent free gift; and is the fourth law of Nature;
which may be conceived in this form, ' that a man, which
receiveth benefit from another of mere grace, endeavour
that he which giveth it have no reasonable cause to repent
him of his good will/ For no man giveth but with inten-
tion of good to himself; because gift is voluntary; and
of all voluntary acts the object is to every man his own
good, of which, if men see they shall be frustrated, there
will be no beginning of benevolence, or trust, nor conse-
quently of mutual help, nor of reconciliation of one man
to another; and therefore they are to remain still in the
condition of ' war,' which is contrary to the first and
fundamental law of Nature, which commandeth men to
' seek peace/ The breach of this law is called ' ingrati-
tude/ and hath the same relation to grace that injustice
hath to obligation by covenant.
A fifth law of Nature, is ' complaisance/ that is to say,
'that every man strive to accommodate himself to the
rest/ For the understanding whereof, we may consider
that there is in men's aptness to society, a diversity of
nature, rising from their diversity of affections, not unlike
to that we see in stones brought together for building of
an edifice. For as that stone which by the asperity and
irregularity of figure takes more room from others than
itself fills, and for the hardness cannot be easily made
plain, and thereby hindereth the building, is by the builders
cast away as unprofitable and troublesome, so also a man
424 THOMAS HOBBES
that by asperity of nature will strive to retain those things
which to himself are superfluous and to others necessary,
and for the stubbornness of his passions cannot be cor-
rected, is to be left or cast out of society as cumbersome
thereunto. For seeing every man, not only by right but
also by necessity of nature, is supposed to endeavour all
he can to obtain that which is necessary for his conversation,
he that shall oppose himself against it for things superfluous
is guilty of the war that thereupon is to follow; and there-
fore doth that which is contrary to the fundamental law of
Nature, which commandeth ' to seek peace/ The observers
of this law may be called ' sociable 9 — the Latins call them
commodi; the contrary, ' stubborn/ ' insociable/ ' f roward/
1 intractable/
A sixth law of Nature is this, ' that, upon caution of the
future time, a man ought to pardon the offences past of
them that, repenting, desire it/ For 'pardon' is nothing
but granting of peace, which, though granted to them
that persevere in their hostility, be not peace but fear;
yet not granted to them that give caution of the future
time is sign of an aversion to peace, and therefore contrary
to the law of Nature.
A seventh is, 'that in revenges/ that is, retribution of
evil for evil, 'men look not at the greatness of the evil
past but the greatness of the good to follow/ Whereby
we are forbidden to inflict punishment with any other
design than for correction of the offender or direction of
others. For this law is consequent to the next before it,
that commandeth pardon, upon security of the future
time. Besides, revenge, without respect to the example
and profit to come, is a triumph or glorying in the hurt of
another tending to no end; for the end is always some-
what to come; and glorying to no end is vain-glory and
contrary to reason, and to hurt without reason tendeth to
the introduction of war, which is against the law of Nature,
and is commonly styled by the name of 'cruelty/
And because all signs of hatred or contempt provoke to
fight, insomuch as most men choose rather to hazard their
life than not to be revenged, we may in the eighth place,
for a law of Nature, set down this precept, 'that no man
OF MAN 425
by deed, word, countenance, or gesture, declare hatred or
contempt of another.' The breach of which law is com-
monly called 'contumely/
The question who is the better man has no place in the
condition of mere nature; where, as has been shown
before, all men are equal. The inequality that now is
has been introduced by the laws civil. I know that
Aristotle, in the first book of his Politics, for a foundation
of his doctrine, maketh men by nature some more worthy
to command, meaning the wiser sort, such as he thought
himself to be for his philosophy, others to serve, meaning
those that had strong bodies but were not philosophers as
he; as if master and servant were not introduced by con-
sent of men but by difference of wit, which is not only
against reason but also against experience. For there
are very few so foolish that had not rather govern them-
selves than be governed by others; nor, when the wise
in their own conceit contend by force with them who
distrust their own wisdom, do they always, or often, or
almost at any time, get the victory. If Nature therefore
have made men equal, that equality is to be acknowl-
edged; or, if Nature have made men unequal, yet because
men that think themselves equal will not enter into con-
ditions of peace but upon equal terms, such equality must
be admitted. And therefore for the ninth law of Nature
I put this, 'that every man acknowledge another for his
equal by nature/ The breach of this precept is 'pride/
On this law dependeth another, 'that at the entrance
into conditions of peace no man require to reserve to
himself any right which he is not content should be re-
served to every one of the rest/ As it is necessary for all
men that seek peace to lay down certain rights of nature,
that is to say, not to have liberty to do all they list, so is
it necessary for man's life to retain some, as right to
govern their own bodies, enjoy air, water, motion, ways
to go from place to place, and all things else without
which a man cannot live or not live well. If in this case,
at the making of peace, men require for themselves that
which they would not have to be granted to others, they
do contrary to the precedent law, that commandeth the
426 THOMAS HOBBES
acknowledgement of natural equality, and therefore also
against the law of Nature. The observers of this law are
those we call ' modest/ and the breakers ' arrogant ' men.
The Greeks call the violation of this law xhovegia, that is,
a desire of more than their share.
Also if 'a man be trusted to judge between man and man/
it is a precept of the law of Nature * that he deal equally be-
tween them/ For without that the controversies of men
cannot be determined but by war. He therefore that is
partial in judgment doth what in him lies to deter men from
the use of judges and arbitrators, and consequently against
the fundamental law of Nature, is the cause of war.
The observance of this law, from the equal distribution
to each man of that which in reason belongeth to him, is
called ' equity/ and, as I have said before, distributive
justice; the violation, ' acception of persons,' TzpoaiDizoX-qipia.
And from this followeth another law, ' that such things
as cannot be divided be enjoyed in common, if it can be;
and, if the quantity of the thing permit, without stint;
otherwise proportionably to the number of them that have
right/ For otherwise the distribution is unequal and con-
trary to equity.
But some things there be that can neither be divided
nor enjoyed in common. Then the law of Nature, which
prescribeth equity, requireth "that the entire right, or else
making the use alternate, the first possession, be determined
by lot/ For equal distribution is of the law of Nature, and
other means of equal distribution cannot be imagined.
Of ' lots ' there be two sorts, ' arbitrary/ and ' natural/
Arbitrary is that which is agreed on by the competitors;
natural is either * primogeniture/ which the Greeks call
xfypovofita, which signifies ' given by lot ' or ' first seizure.'
And therefore those things which cannot be enjoyed in
common nor divided ought to be adjudged to the first
possessor; and in some cases to the first born, as acquired
by lot.
It is also a law of Nature * that all men that mediate peace,
be allowed safe conduct.' For the law that commandeth
peace as the end, commandeth intercession as the ' means ' l ;
and to intercession the means is safe conduct.
OF MAN 427
And because, though men be never so willing to observe
these laws, there may nevertheless arise questions concern-
ing a man's action ; first, whether it were done or not done ;
secondly, if done, whether against the law or not against the
law; the former whereof is called a question ' of fact/ the
latter a question ' of right/ therefore, unless the parties to
the question covenant mutually to stand to the sentence of
another, they are as far from peace as ever. This other to
whose sentence they submit is called an ' arbitrator/ And
therefore it is of the law of Nature ' that they that are at
controversy submit their right to the judgment of an
arbitrator/
And, seeing every man is presumed to do all things in
order to his own benefit, no man is a fit arbitrator in his
own cause, and if he were never so fit, yet, equity allowing to
each party equal benefit, if one be admitted to be judge, the
other is to be admitted also ; and so the controversy, that is,
the cause of war, remains against the law of Nature.
For the same reason no man in any cause ought to be
received for arbitrator to whom greater profit, or honour,
or pleasure, apparently ariseth out of the victory of one
party than of the other; for he hath taken, though an un-
unavoidable bribe, yet a bribe, and no man can be obliged
to trust him. And thus also the controversy and the con-
dition of war remaineth, contrary to the law of Nature.
And in a controversy of ' fact/ the judge, being to give
no more credit to one than to the other if there be no
other arguments, must give credit to a third, or to a third
and fourth, or more; for else the question is undecided and
left to force, contrary to the law of Nature.
These are the laws of Nature, dictating peace, for a means
of the conservation of men in multitudes, and which only
concern the doctrine of civil society. There be other things
tending to the destruction of particular men, as drunkenness
and all other parts of intemperance; which may therefore
also be reckoned amongst those things which the law of
Nature hath forbidden, but are not necessary to be men-
tioned, nor are pertinent enough to this place.
And though this may seem too subtle a deduction of the
laws of Nature to be taken notice of by all men, whereof
423 THOMAS HOBBES
the most part are too busy in getting food and the rest
too negligent to understand, yet, to leave all men inex-
cusable, they have been contracted into one easy sum,
intelligible ieven to the meanest capacity; and that is,
* Do not that to another which thou wouldst not have
done to thyself'; which showeth him that he has no more
to do in learning the laws of Nature but when weighing the
actions of other men with his own, they seem too heavy, to
put them into the other part of the balance and his own into
their place, that his own passions and self-love may add noth-
ing to the weight; and then there is none of these laws of
Nature that will not appear unto him very reasonable.
The laws of Nature oblige in foro inter no, that is to say,
they bind to a desire they should take place; but in foro
exferno, that is, to the putting them in act, not always.
For he that should be modest and tractable and perform
all he promises, in such time and place where no man else
should do so, should but make himself a prey to others
and procure his own certain ruin, contrary to the ground
of all laws of Nature, which tend to Nature's preservation.
And, again, he that, having sufficient security that others
shall observe the same laws towards him, observes them
not himself, seeketh not peace but war, and consequently
the destruction of his nature by violence.
And whatsoever laws bind in foro inferno may be broken,
not only by a fact contrary to the law but also by a fact
according to it, in case a man think it contrary. For,
though his action in this case be according to the law, yet
his purpose was against the law; which, where the obliga-
tion is in foro inferno, is a breach.
The laws of Nature are immutable and eternal; for
injustice, ingratitude, arrogance, pride, iniquity, acception
of persons, and the rest, can never be made lawful. For
it can never be that war shall preserve life, and peace
destroy it.
The same laws, because they oblige only to a desire and
endeavour — I mean an unfeigned and constant endeavour
— are easy to be observed. For, in that they require nothing
but endeavour, he that endeavoureth their performance
fulfilleth them; and he that fulfilleth the law is just.
OF MAN 429
And the science of them is the true and only moral
philosophy. For moral philosophy is nothing else but the
science of what is ' good ' and ' evil * in the conversation
and society of mankind. * Good * and ' evil ' are names
that signify our appetites and aversions, which, in different
tempers, customs, and doctrines of men, are different;
and divers men differ not only in their judgment on the
senses of what is pleasant and unpleasant to the taste,
smell, hearing, touch, and sight, but also of what is com-
formable or disagreeable to reason in the actions of com-
mon life. Nay, the same man in divers times differs from
himself, and one time praiseth, that is calleth good, what
another time he dispraiseth and calleth evil ; from whence
arise disputes, controversies, and at last war. And there-
fore, so long as a man is in the condition of mere nature,
which is a condition of war, as private appetite is the
measure of good and evil, and consequently all men agree
on this, that peace is good, and therefore also the way or
means of peace, which, as I have showed before, are
1 justice/ ' gratitude/ ' modesty/ * equity/ ' mercy/ and the
rest of the laws of Nature, are good; that is to say,
1 moral virtues' ; and their contrary ' vices/ evil. Now
the science of virtue and vice is moral philosophy, and
therefore the true doctrine of the laws of Nature is the
true moral philosophy. But the writers of moral philosophy,
though they acknowledge the same virtues and vices, yet,
not seeing wherein consisted their goodness, nor that they
come to be praised as the means of peaceable, sociable,
and comfortable living, place them in a mediocrity of
passions; as if not the cause, but the degree of daring
made fortitude; or not the cause, but the quantity, of a
gift, made liberality.
These dictates of reason men used to call by the name of
laws, but improperly; for they are but conclusions or
theorems concerning what conduceth to the conservation
and defence of themselves; whereas law, properly, is the
word of him that by right hath command over others. But
yet if we consider the same theorems, as delivered in the
word of God, that by right commandeth all things, then are
they properly called laws.
THOMAS HOBBES
CHAPTER XVI
Of Persons, Authors, and Things Personated
A person is he ' whose words or actions are considered,
either as his own or as representing the words or actions
of another man, or of any other thing, to whom they are
attributed, whether truly or by fiction/
When they are considered as his own, then is he called a
' natural person ' ; and, when they are considered as repre-
senting the words and actions of another, then is he a
* feigned ' or ' artificial person.'
The word person is Latin; instead whereof the Greeks
have Tzpoauiitov^ which signifies the ' face,' as persona in Latin
signifies the ' disguise ' or ' outward appearance ' of a man,
counterfeited on the stage, and sometimes more particularly
that part of it which disguiseth the face, as a mask or vizard,
and from the stage hath been translated to any representer
of speech and action, as well in tribunals as theatres. So
that a ' person ' is the same that an ' actor ' is, both on the
stage and in common conversation ; and to ' personate f is to
'act/ or 'represent/ himself or another; and he that acteth
another is said to bear his person, or act in his name, in
which sense Cicero useth it where he says: Unus sustineo
tres personas; mei, adversarii, et judicis: I bear three per-
sons: my own, my adversary's, and the judge's; and is called
in diverse occasions, diversely : as a ' representer ' or ' repre-
sentative/ a ' lieutenant/ a ( vicar/ an ' attorney/ a • deputy/
a ' procurator,' an ' actor/ and the like.
Of persons artificial some have their words and actions
' owned ' by those whom they represent. And then the
person is the 'actor/ and he that owneth his words and
actions is the ' author/ in which case the actor acteth by
authority. For that which in speaking of goods and posses-
sions is called an ' owner ' and in Latin dominus, in Greek
xupto$; speaking of actions is called author. And as the right
of possession is called dominion, so the right of doing any
action is called ' authority.' So that by authority is always
understood a right of doing any act, and ' done by authority/
done by commission or licence from him whose right it is*
OF MAN 431
From hence it followeth that, when the actor maketh a
Covenant by authority, he bindeth thereby the author no
less than if he had made it himself, and no less subjecteth
him to all the consequences of the same. And therefore all
that hath been said formerly (chap, xiv) of the nature of
covenants between man and man in their natural capacity
is true also when they are made by their actors, represen-
tee, or procurators, that have authority from them, so far
forth as is in their commission, but no further.
And therefore he that maketh a covenant with the actor
or representer, not knowing the authority he hath, doth it
at his own peril. For no man is obliged by a covenant
whereof he is not author, nor consequently by a covenant
made against or beside the authority he gave.
When the actor doth anything against the law of Nature
by command of the author, if he be obliged by former cove-
nant to obey him, not he but the author breaketh the law
of Nature; for, though the action be against the law of
Nature, yet it is not his; but, contrarily, to refuse to do it,
is against the law of Nature, that forbiddeth breach of
covenant.
And he that maketh a covenant with the author by medi-
ation of the actor, not knowing what authority he hath,
but only takes his word, in case such authority be not made
manifest unto him upon demand, is no longer obliged, for
the covenant made with the author is not valid without his
counter-assurance. But if he that so covenanteth knew
beforehand he was to expect no other assurance than the
actor's word, then is the covenant valid, because the actor
in this case maketh himself the author. And therefore, as
when the authority is evident, the covenant obligeth the
author, not the actor, so, when the authority is feigned, it
obligeth the actor only, there being no author but himself.
There are few things that are incapable of being repre-
sented by fiction. Inanimate things, as a church, an hos-
pital, a bridge, may be personated by a rector, master, or
overseer. But things inanimate cannot be authors, nor
therefore give authority to their actors; yet the actors may
have authority to procure their maintenance, given them
by those that are owners or governors of those things. And
432 THOMA£ HOBBES
therefore such things cannot be personated before there be
some state of civil government.
Likewise children, fools, and madmen, that have no use
of reason, may be personated by guardians or curators, but
can be no authors, during that time, of any action done by
them longer than, when they shall recover the use of reason,
they shall judge the same reasonable. Yet during the folly
he that hath right of governing them may give authority
to the guardian. But this again has no place but in a state
civil, because before such estate there is no dominion of
persons.
An idol, or mere figment of the brain, may be personated,
as were the gods of the heathen, which, by such officers
as the state appointed, were personated, and held posses-
sions and other goods and rights, which men from time
to time dedicated and consecrated unto them. But idols
cannot be authors, for an idol is nothing. The authority
proceeded from the state; and therefore before introduc-
tion of civil government the gods of the htathen could not
be personated.
The true God may be personated. As He was, first, by
Moses, who governed the Israelites, that were not his, but
God's people, not in his own name, with hoc dicit Moses :
but in God's name, with hoc dicit Dominus. Secondly, by
the Son of man, His own Son, our blessed Saviour Jesus
Christ, that came to reduce the Jews, and induce all nations
into the kingdom of His Father, not as of Himself but as
sent from His Father. And thirdly, by the Holy Ghost or
Comforter, speaking and working in the Apostles, which
Holy Ghost was a Comforter that came not of Himself, but
was sent and proceeded from them both.
A multitude of men are made ' one ' person when they
are by one man or one person represented, so that it be
done with the consent of every one of that multitude in
particular. For it is the ' unity * of the representer, not the
' unity ' of the represented, that maketh the person ' one/
And it is the representer that beareth the person, and but
one person ; and ' unity ' cannot otherwise be understood in
multitude.
And because the multitude naturally is not 'one' but
OF MAN 433
'many/ they cannot be understood for one, but many
authors, of everything their representative saith or doth in
their name, every man giving their common representer
authority from himself in particular, and owning all the
actions the representer doth, in case they give him author-'
ity without stint; otherwise, when they limit him in what
and how far he shall represent them, none of them owneth
more than they gave him commission to act.
And, if the representative consist of many men, the voice
of the greater number must be considered as the voice of
them all. For if the lesser number pronounce, for example
in the affirmative, and the greater in the negative, there will
be negatives more than enough to destroy the affirmatives;
and thereby the excess of negatives, standing uncontra-
dicted, are the only voice the representative hath.
And a representative of even number, especially when the
number is not great, whereby the contradictory voices are
oftentimes equal, is therefore oftentimes mute and incapable
of action. Yet in some cases contradictory voices equal in
number may determine a question, as in condemning or
absolving, equality of votes, even in that they condemn not,
do absolve, but not on the contrary condemn in that they
absolve not. For when a cause is heard, not to condemn
is to absolve ; but, on the contrary, to say that not absolving
is condemning is not true. The like it is in a deliberation
of executing presently or deferring till another time; for
when the voices are equal, the not decreeing execution is
a decree of dilation.
Or if the number be odd, as three or more, men or assem-
blies, whereof every one has by a negative voice authority
to take away the effect of all the affirmative voices of the
rest, this number is no representative ; because, by the diver-
sity of opinions and interests of men, it becomes oftentimes,
and in cases of the greatest consequence, a mute person and
unapt, as for many things else, so for the government of a
multitude, especially in time of war.
Of authors there be two sorts. The first simply so called;
which I have before defined to be him that owneth the action
of another simply. The second is he that owneth an action
or covenant of another conditionally, that is to say, he un-
434 OF MAN
dertaketh to do it if the other doth it not at or before a
certain time. And these authors conditional are generally
called ' sureties/ in Latin, fidejussores, and sponsores, and
particularly for debt, praedes; and for appearance before a
judge or magistrate, vades.
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3 1197 00622 3918
DATE DUE
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