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Vol 37: The Classics
ENGLISH PHILOSOPHERS
OF THE SEVENTEENTH AND
EIGHTEENTH CENTURIES
LOCKE . BERKELEY • HUME
WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES
VOLUME 37
. • : •. •• * ' • . • ■
124399
P F COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1910
By p. F. Collier & Son
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Designed, Printed, and Bound at
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CONTENTS
PAGS
Some Thoughts Concerning Education 9
by john locke
Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous in Op-
position TO Sceptics and Atheists 201
by george berkeley
An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding . . 305
by david hume
I. Of the different Species of Philosophy 305
II. Of the Origin of Ideas 316
III. Of the Association of Ideas ^^22
IV. Sceptical Doubts concerning the Operations of the
Understanding 324
V. Sceptical Solution of these Doubts 2)2)1
VI. Of Probability 351
VII. Of the Idea of necessary Connexion 354
VIII. Of Liberty and Necessity 371
IX. Of the Reason of Animals 392
X. Of Miracles 306
XI. Of a particular Providence and of a future State . 416
XII. Of the academical or sceptical Philosophy .... 431
(l) HC XXXVII
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
John Locke was horn near Bristol, England, on August 29, 1633;
and was educated at Westminster School, where Dryden was his
contemporary, and at Christ Church, Oxford, Of the discipline
then in vogue in either institution, the future educational theorist
had no high opinion, as may he gathered from allusions in the
present treatise; yet, after taking his maste/s degree in 1658,
he became tutor of his college, and lecturer in Greek and rhetoric.
After a visit to the Continent in 1665, as secretary to an emhassy,
he returned to Oxford and took up the study of medicine. He
hecame attached, as friend and physician, to Lord Ashley, after-
ward the first Earl of Shafteshury ; and while this nohleman
was Lord Chancellor, Locke held the office of Secretary of
Presentations,
Shafteshury went out of office in 1673, and two years later
Locke went to France in search of health, supporting himself
by acting as tutor to the son of Sir John Banks, and as physi-
cian to the wife of the English Ambassador at Paris, In 1679,
Shafteshury, being again in power, recalled Locke to England,
He reluctantly obeyed, and remained in attendance on his patron,
assisting him in political matters and superintending the educa-
tion of his grandson, the future author of ''Characteristics," till
Shaftesbury's political fortunes finally collapsed, and both men
took refuge in Holland,
Locke's first two years in Holland were spent in traveling and
in intercourse with scholars; but in 1685 the Dutch Government
was asked to deliver him up to the English as a traitor, and he
was forced to go into hiding till a pardon was granted by James
U in 1686, though there is no evidence of his having been guilty
of any crime beyond his friendship with Shaftesbury.
It was not till now, at the age of fifty-four, that Locke began
to publish the results of a lifetime of study and thought. An
epitome of his great ''Essay Concerning Human Understanding"
was printed in his friend Le Clerc's " Bihliotheque Universelle,"
and the work was finally published in full in idpo. It was from
Holland also that he wrote, as advice to a friend on the bringing
up of his son, those letters which were later printed as " Thoughts
Concerning Education,''
8
4 INTRODUCTION
During his exile Locke had come into friendly relations with
his future sovereigns, William and Mary; and when the Revo-
lution was accomplished he came back to England with the
Princess in 1689. He was offered the Ambassadorship to Prussia,
hut declined on account of his weak health and because he thought
he was not valiant enough in strong drink to be Ambassador at
the court of the Elector of Brandenburg ; so he stayed at home
and published his ''Essay."
The remainder of his life was spent chiefly at the home of his
friends, the Cudworths and Mashams, at Oates in Essex. He
held the office of Commissioner of Appeals, and was for some
years a member of the Council of Trade and Plantations, a posi-
tion which led to his occupying himself zvith problems of econom-
ics. At Oates he had the opportunity of putting his educational
theories into practise in the training of the grandson of his host,
and the results confirmed his belief in his methods. He died at
Oates, October 27, 1704.
It has been noted that while at school and at the university
Locke disapproved the educational methods employed; and this
independence of judgment marked him through life. In medi-
cine he denounced the scholasticism which still survived and
which in various branches of learning had already been attacked
by Bacon and Hobbes; and he advocated the experimental meth-
ods adopted by his friend Sydenham, the great physician of the
day. In educational theory and method he held advanced opin-
ions, insisting especially on the importance of guarding the for-
mation of habits, and on training in wisdom and virtue rather
than on information as the main object of education. Many
of his ideas are still among the objects aimed at, rather than
achieved, by educational reformers. It will be observed from
the following " Thoughts " that they bear the mark of their orig-
inal purpose, the individual education of a gentleman's son, not
the formation of a school system.
But it is as a philosopher that Locke's fame is greatest. He
was the ancestor of the English empirical school, and he exer-
cised a profound influence on philosophic thought throughout
Europe. Almost all the main lines of the intellectual activity
of the eighteenth century in England lead back to Locke, and
the skepticism of Hume is the logical development of the princi-
ples laid down in the ''Essay Concerning Human Understanding."
DEDICATION
To Edward Clarke, of Chipley, Esq.
Sir:
These thoughts concerning education, which now come abroad
into the world, do of right belong to you, being written several
years since for your sake, and are no other than what you have
already by you in my letters. I have so little vary'd any thing,
but only the order of what was sent you at different times, and
on several occasions, that the reader will easily find, in the famil-
iarity and fashion of the stile, that they were rather the private
conversation of two friends, than a discourse designed for pub-
lick view.
The importunity of friends is the common apology for publi-
cations men are afraid to own themselves forward to. But you
know I can truly say, that if some, who having heard of these
papers of mine, had not pressed to see them, and afterwards to
have them printed, they had lain dormant still in that privacy
they were design'd for. But those, whose judgment I defer
much to, telling me, that they were persuaded, that this rough
draught of mine might be of some use, if made more publick,
touch'd upon what will always be very prevalent with me: for
I think it every man's indispensable duty, to do all the service he
can to his country ; and I see not what difference he puts between
himself and his cattle, who lives without that thought. This sub-
ject is of so great concernment, and a right way of education is
of so general advantage, that did I find my abilities answer my
wishes, I should not have needed exhortations or importunities
from others. However, the meanness of these papers, and my
just distrust of them, shall not keep me, by the shame of doing
so little, from contributing my mite, when there is no more
required of me than my throwing it into the publick receptacle.
And if there be any more of their size and notions, who lik'd
them so well, that they thought them worth printing, I may
flatter myself they will not be lost labour to every body.
5
6 DEDICATION
I myself have been consulted of late by so many, who profess
themselves at a loss how to breed their children, and the early
corruption of youth is now become so general a complaint, that
he cannot be thought wholly impertinent, who brings the con-
sideration of this matter on the stage, and offers something, if
it be but to excite others, or afford matter of correction: for
errors in education should be less indulged than any. These, like
faults in the first concoction, that are never mended in the second
or third, carry their afterwards incorrigible taint with them thro'
all the parts and stations of life.
I am so far from being conceited of any thing I have here
offered, that I should not be sorry, even for your sake, if some
one abler and fitter for such a task would in a just treatise of
education, suited to our English gentry, rectify the mistakes I
have made in this; it being much more desirable to me, that
young gentlemen should be put into (that which every one ought
to be solicitous about) the best way of being form'd and in-
structed, than that my opinion should be received concerning it.
You will, however, in the mean time bear me witness, that the
method here proposed has had no ordinary effects upon a gen-
tleman's son it was not designed for. I will not say the good
temper of the child did not very much contribute to it; but this
I think you and the parents are satisfy'd of, that a contrary
usage, according to the ordinary disciplining of children, would
not have mended that temper, nor have brought him to be in
love with his book, to take a pleasure in learning, and to desire,
as he does, to be taught more than those about him think fit
always to teach him.
But my business is not to recommend this treatise to you,
whose opinion of it I know already; nor it to the world, either
by your opinion or patronage. The well educating of their chil-
dren is so much the duty and concern of parents, and the wel-
fare and prosperity of the nation so much depends on it, that I
would have every one lay it seriously to heart; and after having
well examined and distinguished what fancy, custom, or reason
advises in the case, set his helping hand to promote every where
that way of training up youth, with regard to their several con-
ditions, which is the easiest, shortest, and likeliest to produce
virtuous, useful, and able men in their distinct callings; the' that
most to be taken care of is the gentleman's calling. For if those
DEDICATION 7
of that rank are by their education once set right, they will
quickly bring all the rest into order.
I know not whether I have done more than shewn my good
wishes towards it in this short discourse ; such as it is, the world
now has it, and if there be any thing in it worth their acceptance,
they owe their thanks to you for it. My affection to you gave
the first rise to it, and I am pleas'd, that I can leave to posterity
this mark of the friendship that has been between us. For I
know no greater pleasure in this life, nor a better remembrance
to be left behind one, than a long continued friendship with
an honest, useful, and worthy man, and lover of his country.
I am. Sir,
Your most humble and most faithful servant,
John Locke»
March 7, 1692 [i. e. i69?4J.
SOME THOUGHTS
CONCERNING EDUCATION
§ I. A SOUND mind in a sound body, is a short, but full
l\ description of a happy state in this world. He
-A^-^-that has these two, has little more to wish for;
and he that wants either of them, will be but little the better
for any thing else. Men's happiness or misery is most part
of their own making. He, whose mind directs not wisely, will
never take the right way; and he, whose body is crazy and
feeble, will never be able to advance in it. I confess, there
are some men's constitutions of body and mind so vigorous,
and well fram'd by nature, that they need not much assist-
ance from others; but by the strength of their natural genius,
they are from their cradles carried towards what is excel-
lent; and by the privilege of their happy constitutions,
are able to do wonders. But examples of this kind are
but few; and I think I may say, that of all the men we meet
with, nine parts of ten are what they are, good or evil,
useful or not, by their education. 'Tis that which makes
the great difference in mankind. The little, or almost
insensible impressions on our tender infancies, have very
important and lasting consequences: and there 'tis, as in
the fountains of some rivers, where a gentle application of
the hand turns the flexible waters in channels, that make
them take quite contrary courses ; and by this direction
given them at first in the source, they receive different
tendencies, and arrive at last at very remote and distant
places.
§ 2. I imagine the minds of children as easily turn'd this
or that way, as water it self: and though this be the principal
part, and our main care should be about the inside, yet the
clay-cottage is not to be neglected. I shall therefore begin
9
10 JOHN LOCKE
with the case, and consider first the health of the body,
as that which perhaps you may rather expect from that
study I have been thought more peculiarly to have apply'd
my self to; and that also which will be soonest dispatched,
as lying, if I guess not amiss, in a very little compass.
§ 3. How necessary health is to our business and happi-
ness ; and how requisite a strong constitution, able to endure
hardships and fatigue, is to one that will make any figure
in the world, is too obvious to need any proof.
§ 4. The consideration I shall here have of health, shall be,
"' not what a physician ought to do with a sick and crazy
child; but what the parents, without the help of physick,
should do for the preservation and improvement of an
healthy, or at least not sickly constitution in their children.
And this perhaps might be all dispatched in this one short
rule, vis. That gentlemen should use their children, as the
honest farmers and substantial yeomen do theirs. But be-
cause the mothers possibly may think this a little too hard,
and the fathers too short, I shall explain my self more
particularly; only laying down this as a general and certain
observation for the women to consider, vis. That most chil-
dren's constitutions are either spoiled, or at least harmM,
by cockering and tenderness,
§ 5. The first thing to be taken care of, is, that children
be not too warmly clad or covered, winter or summer. The
face when we are born, is no less tender than any other
part of the body. 'Tis use alone hardens it, and makes it
more able to endure the cold. And therefore the Scythian
philosopher gave a very significant answer to the Athenian,
who wondered how he could go naked in frost and snow.
How, said the Scythian, can you endure your face exposed to
the sharp winter air? My face is us'd to it, said the Athen-
ian. Think me all face, reply'd the Scythian. Our bodies
will endure any thing, that from the beginning they are ac-
customed to.
An eminent instance of this, though in the contrary excess
of heat, being to our present purpose, to shew what use can
do, I shall set down in the author's words, as I meet with it
in a late ingenious voyage.
" The heats, says he, are more violent in Malta, than in any
FEET n
"part of Europe: they exceed those of Rome itself, and are
"perfectly stifling; and so much the more, because there are
" seldom any cooling breezes here. This makes the common
" people as black as gypsies : but yet the peasants defy the
"sun; they work on in the hottest part of the day, without
"intermission, or sheltering themselves from his scorching
" rays. This has convinc'd me, that nature can bring itself
"to many things, which seem impossible, provided we ac-
"custom ourselves from our infancy. The Malteses do so,
"who harden the bodies of their children, and reconcile
" them to the heat, by making them go stark naked, without
"shirt, drawers, or any thing on their heads, from their
" cradles till they are ten years old."
Give me leave therefore to advise you not to fence too
carefully against the cold of this our climate. There are
those in England, who wear the same clothes winter and
summer, and that without any inconvenience, or more sense
of cold than others find. But if the mother will needs
have an allowance for frost and snow, for fear of harm, and
the father, for fear of censure, be sure let not his winter-
clothing be too warm : And amongst other things, remember,
that when nature has so well covered his head with hair,
and strengthened it with a year or two's age, that he can run
about by day without a cap, it is best that by night a child
should also lie without one; there being nothing that more
exposes to headachs, colds, catarrhs, coughs, and several
other diseases, than keeping the head warm.
§ 6. I have said he here, because the principal aim of my
discourse is, how a young gentleman should be brought up
from his infancy, which in all things will not so perfectly
suit the education of daughters; though where the difference
of sex requires different treatment, 'twill be no hard matter
to distinguish.
§ 7. I will also advise his feet to he wash'd every day
in cold water, and to have his shoes so thin, that they might
leak and let in water, whenever he comes near it. Here, I
fear I shall have the mistress and maids too against me.
One will think it too filthy, and the other perhaps too much
pains, to make clean his stockings. But yet truth will have
it, that his health is much more worth than all such consid-
12 JOHN LOCKE
crations, and ten times as much more. And he that considers
how mischievous and mortal a thing taking wet in the feet is,
to those who have been bred nicely, will wish he had, with
the poor people's children, gone bare-foot, who, by that means,
come to be so reconcil'd by custom to wet in their feet,
that they take no more cold or harm by it, than if they
were wet in their hands. And what is it, I pray, that
makes this great difference between the hands and the feet
in others, but only custom? I doubt not, but if a man from
his cradle had been always us'd to go bare-foot, whilst his
hands were constantly wrapt up in warm mittins, and covered
with hand-shoes, as the Dutch call gloves; I doubt not, I
say, but such a custom would make taking wet in his hands
as dangerous to him, as now taking wet in their feet is to
a great many others. The way to prevent this, is, to have
his shoes made so as to leak water, and his feet washed
constantly every day in cold water. It is recommendable for
its cleanliness; but that which I aim at in it, is health; and
therefore I limit it not precisely to any time of the day. I
have known it us'd every night with very good success, and
that all the winter, without the omitting it so much as one
night in extreme cold weather; when thick ice covered the
water, the child bathed his legs and feet in it, though he
was of an age not big enough to rub and wipe them himself,
and when he began this custom was puling and very tender.
But the great end being to harden those parts by a frequent
and familiar use of cold water, and thereby to prevent the
mischiefs that usually attend accidental taking wet in the
feet in those who are bred otherwise, I think it may be
left to the prudence and convenience of the parents, to
chuse either night or morning. The time I deem indifferent,
so the thing be effectually done. The health and hardiness
procured by it, would be a good purchase at a much dearer
rate. To which if I add the preventing of corns, that to
some men would be a very valuable consideration. But
begin first in the spring with luke-warm, and so colder and
colder every time, till in a few days you come to perfectly
cold water, and then continue it so winter and summer. For
it IS to be observed in this, as in all other alterations from
our ordinary way of living, the changes must he made by
FEET 13
gentle and insensible degrees; and so we may bring our
bodies to any thing, without pain, and without danger.
How fond mothers are like to receive this doctrine, is not
hard to foresee. What can it be less, than to murder their
tender babes, to use them thus? What! put their feet in
cold water in frost and snow, when all one can do is little
enough to keep them warm? A little to remove their fears
by examples, without which the plainest reason is seldom
hearkened to : Seneca tells us of himself, Ep, 53, and 83, that
he used to bathe himself in cold spring-water in the midst of
winter. This, if he had not thought it not only tolerable,
but healthy too, he would scarce have done, in an exorbitant
fortune, that could well have borne the expence of a warm
bath, and in an age (for he was then old) that would have
excused greater indulgence. If we think his stoical principles
led him to this severity, let it be so, that this sect reconciled
cold water to his sufferance. What made it agreeable to
his health? For that was not impaired by this hard usage.
But what shall we say to Horace, who warmed not himself
with the reputation of any sect, and least of all affected
stoical austerities ? yet he assures us, he was wont in the win-
ter season to bathe himself in cold water. But, perhaps, Italy
will be thought much warmer than England, and the chillness
of their waters not to come near ours in winter. If the rivers
of Italy are warmer, those of Germany and Poland are much
colder, than any in this our country, and yet in these, the JewSy
both men and women, bathe all over, at all seasons of the
year, without any prejudice to their health. And every one
is not apt to believe it is miracle, or any peculiar virtue of
St. Winifred's Well, that makes the cold waters of that
famous spring do no harm to the tender bodies that bathe
in it. Every one is now full of the miracles done by cold
baths on decay'd and weak constitutions, for the recovery
of health and strength; and therefore they cannot be im-
practicable or intolerable for the improving and hardening
the bodies of those who are in better circumstances.
If these examples of grown men be not thought yet to
reach the case of children, but that they may be judg'd
still to be too tender, and unable to bear such usage, let
them examine what the Germans of old, and the Irish now.
14 JOHN LOCKE
do to them, and they will find, that infants too, as tender as
they are thought, may, without any danger, endure bathing,
not only of their feet, but of their whole bodies, in cold
water. And there are, at this day, ladies in the Highlands of
Scotland who use this discipline to their children in the
midst of winter, and find that cold water does them no harm,
even when there is ice in it.
§ 8. I shall not need here to mention swimming, when
he is of an age able to learn, and has any one to teach him.
'Tis that saves many a man's life; and the Romans thought
it so necessary, that they ranked it with letters ; and it was the
common phrase to mark one ill-educated, and good for
nothing, that he had neither learnt to read nor to swim:
Nee literas didicit nee natare. But, besides the gaining a
skill which may serve him at need, the advantages to health
by often bathing in cold water during the heat of summer,
are so many, that I think nothing need be said to encourage
it; provided this one caution be us'd, that he never go into
the water when exercise has at all warmed him, or left any
emotion in his blood or pulse.
§ 9. Another thing that is of great advantage to every
one's health, but especially children's, is to be much in the
open air, and as little as may be by the fire, even in winter.
By this he will accustom himself also to heat and cold, shine
and rain ; all which if a man's body will not endure, it will
serve him to very little purpose in this world; and when he
is grown up, it is too late to begin to use him to it. It must
be got early, and by degrees. Thus the body may be brought
to bear almost any thing. If I should advise him to play in
the wind and sun without a hat, I doubt whether it could
be borne. There would a thousand objections be made against
it, which at last would amount to no more, in truth, than
being sun-burnt. And if my young master be to be kept
always in the shade, and never cxpos'd to the sun and wind
for fear of his complexion, it may be a good way to make
him a beau, but not a man of business. And altho* greater
regard be to be had to beauty in the daughters; yet I will
take the liberty to say, that the more they are in the air,
without prejudice to their faces, the stronger and healthier
they will be; and the nearer they come to the hardships of
HABITS IS
their brothers in their education, the greater advantage
will they receive from it all the remaining part of their
lives.
§ 10. Playing in the open air has but this one danger
in it, that I know; and that is, that when he is hot with
running up and down, he should sit or lie down on the cold
or moist earth. This I grant ; and drinking cold drink, when
they are hot with labour or exercise, brings more people
to the grave, or to the brink of it, by fevers, and other
diseases, than anything I know. These mischiefs are easily
enough prevented whilst he is little, being then seldom out
of sight. And if, during his childhood, he be constantly and
rigorously kept from sitting on the ground, or drinking any
cold liquor whilst he is hot, the custom of forbearing, grown
into habit, will help much to preserve him, when he is no
longer under his maid's or tutor's eye. This is all I think
can be done in the case : for, as years increase, liberty must
come with them; and in a jreat many things he must be
trusted to his own conduct, since there cannot always be
a guard upon him, except what you have put into his own
mind by good principles, and established habits, which is
the best and surest, and therefore most to be taken care of.
For, from repeated cautions and rules, never so often
inculcated, you are not to expect any thing either in this, or
any other case, farther than practice has establish'd them into
habits.
§ II. One thing the mention of the girls brings into my
mind, which must not be forgot ; and that is, that your son's
clothes be never made strait, especially about the breast.
Let nature have scope to fashion the body as she thinks
best. She works of herself a great deal better and exacter
than we can direct her. And if women were themselves
to frame the bodies of their children in their wombs, as
they often endeavour to mend their shapes when they are
out, we should as certainly have no perfect children born,
as we have few well-shap'd that are strait-lac'd, or much
tampered with. This consideration should, methinks, keep
busy people (I will not say ignorant nurses and bodice-
makers) from meddling in a matter they understand not;
and they should be afraid to put nature out of her way in
16 JOHN LOCKE
fashioning the parts, when they know not how the least
and meanest is made. And yet I have seen so many
instances of children receiving great harm from strait-lacing,
that I cannot but conclude there are other creatures as well
as monkeys, who, little wiser than they, destroy their young
ones by senseless fondness, and too much embracing.
§ 12. Narrow breasts, short and stinking breath, ill lungs,
and crookedness, are natural and almost constant effects of
hard bodice, and clothes that pinch. That way of making
slender wastes, and fine shapes, serves but the more effectually
to spoil them. Nor can there indeed but be disproportion in
the parts, when the nourishment prepared in the several
offices of the body cannot be distributed as nature designs.
And therefore what wonder is it, if, it being laid where it
can, on some part not so braced, it often makes a shoulder
or hip higher or bigger than its just proportion? Tis
generally known, that the women of China, (imagining I
know not what kind of beauty in it) by bracing and binding
them hard from their infancy, have very little feet. I saw
lately a pair of China shoes, which I was told were for a
grown woman: they were so exceedingly disproportion'd to
the feet of one of the same age among us, that they would
scarce have been big enough for one of our little girls.
Besides this, 'tis observed, that their women are also very
little, and short-liv'd; whereas the men are of the ordinary
stature of other men, and live to a proportionable age. These
defects in the female sex in that country, are by some imputed
to the unreasonable binding of their feet, whereby the free
circulation of the blood is hindered, and the growth and
health of the whole body suffers. And how often do we
see, that some small part of the foot being injured by a wrench
or a blow, the whole leg or thigh thereby lose their strength
and nourishment, and dwindle away? How much greater
inconveniences may we expect, when the thorax, wherein
is placed the heart and seat of life, is unnaturally compressed,
and hindered from its due expansion?
§ 13. As for his diet, it ought to be very plain and simple;
and, if I might advise, flesh should be forborne as long as
he is in coats, or at least till he is two or three years old.
But whatever advantage this may be to his present and
DIET 17
future health and strength, I fear it will hardly be consented
to by parents, misled by the custom of eating too much
flesh themselves, who will be apt to think their children, as
they do themselves, in danger to be starved, if they have
not flesh at least twice a-day. This I am sure, children would
breed their teeth with much less danger, be freer from dis-
eases whilst they were little, and lay the foundations of an
healthy and strong constitution much surer, if they were
not cramm'd so much as they are by fond mothers and foolish
servants, and were kept wholly from flesh the first three or
four years of their lives.
But if my young master must needs have flesh, let it be
but once a day, and of one sort at a meal. Plain beef,
mutton, veal, &c. without other riuce than hunger, is best;
and great care should be used, that he eat bread plentifully,
both alone and with every thing else ; and whatever he eats
that is solid, make him chew it well. We English are often
negligent herein; from whence follow indigestion, and other
great inconveniences.
§ 14. For breakfast and supper, milk, milk-pottage, water-
gruel, flummery, and twenty other things, that we are wont
to make in England, are very fit for children; only, in all
these, let care be taken that they be plain, and without much
mixture, and very sparingly season'd with sugar, or rather
none at all; especially all spice, and other things hat may
heat the blood, are carefully to be avoided. B sparing
also of salt in the seasoning of all his victuals, and use him
not to high-season'd meats. Our palates grow into a relish
and liking of the seasoning and cookery which by custom
they are set to; and an over-much use of salt, besides that
it occasions thirst, and over-much drinking, has other ill
effects upon the body. I should think that a good piece of
well-made and well-bak*d brown bread, sometimes with, and
sometimes without butter or cheese, would be often the best
breakfast for my young master. I am sure 'tis as wholesome,
and will make him as strong a man as greater delicacies;
and if he be used to it, it will be as pleasant to him. If
he at any time calls for victuals between meals, use him to
nothing but dry bread. If he be hungry more than wanton,
bread alone will down; and if he be not hungry, 'tis not
18 JOHN LOCKE
fit he should eat. By this you will obtain two good effects:
I. That by custom he will come to be in love with bread;
for, as I said, our palates and stomachs too are pleased with
the things we are used to. 2. Another good you will gain
hereby is, that you will not teach him to eat more nor oftener
than nature requires. I do not think that all people's ap-
petites are alike; some have naturally stronger, and some
weaker stomachs. But this I think, that many are made gor-
mands and gluttons by custom, that were not so by nature:
and I see in some countries, men as lusty and strong, that eat
but two meals a-day, as others that have set their stomachs
by a constant usage, like larums, to call on them for four
or five. The Romans usually fasted till supper, the only
set meal even of those who eat more than once a-day; and
those who us'd breakfast, as some did, at eight, some at
ten, others at twelve of the clock, and some later, neither
eat flesh, nor had any thing made ready for them. Augustus,
when the greatest monarch on the earth, tells us, he took a
bit of dry bread in his chariot. And Seneca, in his 83rd
Epistle, giving an account how he managed himself, even
when he was old, and his age permitted indulgence, says,
that he used to eat a piece of dry bread for his dinner,
without the formality of sitting to it, tho' his estate would as
well have paid for a better meal (had health required it)
as any subject's in England, were it doubled. The masters
of the world were bred up with this spare diet; and the young
gentlemen of Rome felt no want of strength or spirit, because
they eat but once a day. Or if it happened by chance, that
any one could not fast so long as till supper, their
only set meal, he took nothing but a bit of dry bread,
or at most a few raisins, or some such slight thing with
it, to stay his stomach. This part of temperance was found
so necessary both for health and business, that the custom
of only one meal a day held out against that prevailing
luxury which their Eastern conquests and spoils had brought
in amongst them; and those who had given up their old
frugal eating, and made feasts, yet began them not till the
evening. And more than one set meal a-day was thought
so monstrous, that it was a reproach as low down as Ccesar's
time, to make an entertainment, or sit down to a full table,
MEALS S
till towards sun-set; and therefore, if it would not be
thought too severe, I should judge it most convenient that
my young master should have nothing but bread too for
breakfast. You cannot imagine of what force custom is;
and I impute a great part of our diseases in England, to our
eating too much Hesh, and too little bread.
§ 15. As to his meals, I should think it best, that as much
as it can be conveniently avoided, they should not be kept
constantly to an hour: for when custom has fix'd his eating
to certain stated periods, his stomach will expect victuals
at the usual hour, and grow peevish if he passes it; either
fretting itself into a troublesome excess, or flagging into a
downright want of appetite. Therefore I would have no
time kept constantly to for his breakfast, dinner and supper,
but rather vary'd almost every day. And if betwixt these,
which I call meals, he will eat, let him have, as often as
he calls for it, good dry bread. If any one think this too
hard and sparing a diet for a child, let them know, that a
child will never starve nor dwindle for want of nourish-
ment, who, besides flesh at dinner, and spoon-meat, or some
such other thing, at supper, may have good bread and beer
as often as he has a stomach. For thus, upon second
thoughts, I should judge it best for children to be ordered.
The morning is generally designed for study, to which a full
stomach is but an ill preparation. Dry bread, though the
best nourishment, has the least temptation; and no body
would have a child cramm'd at breakfast, who has any
regard to his mind or body, and would not have him dull
and unhealthy. Nor let any one think this unsuitable to
one of estate and condition. A gentleman in any age ought
to be so bred, as to be fitted to bear arms, and be a soldier.
But he that in this, breeds his son so, as if he designed
him to sleep over his life in the plenty and ease of a full
fortune he intends to leave him, little considers the examples
he has seen, or the age he lives in.
§ 16. His drink should be only small beer; and that too
he should never be suffered to have between meals, but
after he had eat a piece of bread. The reasons why I say
this are these.
§ 17. I. More fevers and surfeits are got by people's
20 JOHN LOCKE
drinking when they are hot, than by any one thing I know.
Therefore, if by play he be hot and dry, bread will ill go
down; and so if he cannot have drink but upon that con-
dition, he will be forced to forbear; for, if he be very hot,
he should by no means drink; at least a good piece of bread
first to be eaten, will gain time to warm the beer blood-hot,
which then he may drink safely. If he be very dry, it will
go down so warm'd, and quench his thirst better; and if he
will not drink it so warm'd, abstaining will not hurt him.
Besides, this will teach him to forbear, which is an habit
of greatest use for health of body and mind too.
§ i8. 2. Not being permitted to drink without eating, will
prevent the custom of having the cup often at his nose; a
dangerous beginning, and preparation to good-fellowship.
Men often bring habitual hunger and thirst on themselves
by custom. And if you please to try, you may, though he
be wean'd from it, bring him by use to such a necessity
again of drinking in the night, that he will not be able to
sleep without it. It being the lullaby used by nurses to
still crying children, I believe mothers generally find some
difficulty to wean their children from drinking in the night,
when they first take them home. Believe it, custom prevails
as much by day as by night ; and you may, if you please, bring
any one to be thirsty every hour.
I once liv'd in a house, where, to appease a froward child,
they gave him drink as often as he cry'd; so that he was
constantly bibbing. And tho' he could not speak, yet he
drank more in twenty-four hours than I did. Try it when
you please, you may with small, as well as with strong beer,
drink your self into a drought. The great thing to be
minded in education is, what habits you settle ; and therefore
in this, as all other things, do not begin to make any thing
customary, the practice whereof you would not have continue
and increase. It is convenient for health and sobriety, to
drink no more than natural thirst requires ; and he that eats
not salt meats, nor drinks strong drink, will seldom thirst
between meals, unless he has been accustomed to such un-
seasonable drinking,
§ 19. Above all, take great care that he seldom, if cvetj,
taste any wine or strong drink. There is nothing so ordi"
FRUIT 21
narily given children in England, and nothing so destructive
to them. They ought never to drink any strong liquor but
when they need it as a cordial, and the doctor prescribes it.
And in this case it is, that servants are most narrowly to be
watch'd and most severely to be reprehended when they
transgress. Those mean sort of people, placing a great part
of their happiness in strong drink, are always forward to
make court to my young master by offering him that which
they love best themselves: and finding themselves made
merry by it, they foolishly think 'twill do the child no harm.
This you are carefully to have your eye upon, and restrain
with all the skill and industry you can, there being nothing
that lays a surer foundation of mischief, both to body and
mind than children's being us'd to strong drink, especially
to drink in private with the servants,
§ 20. Fruit makes one of the most difficult chapters in
the government of health, especially that of children. Our
first parents ventured Paradise for it; and *tis no wonder
our children cannot stand the temptation, tho' it cost them
their health. The regulation of this cannot come under any
one general rule; for I am by no means of their mind, who
would keep children almost wholly from fruit, as a thing
totally unwholesome for them: by which strict way, they
make them but the more ravenous after it, and to eat good
or bad, ripe or unripe, all that they can get, whenever they
come at it. Melons, peaches, most sorts of plums, and all
sorts of grapes in England, I think children should be wholly
kept from, as having a very tempting taste, in a very un-
wholesome juice; so that if it were possible, they should
never so much as see them, or know there were any such
thing. But strawberries, cherries, gooseberries, or currants,
when thorough ripe, I think may be very safely allow'd
them, and that with a pretty liberal hand, if they be eaten
with these cautions: i. Not after meals, as we usually do,
when the stomach is already full of other food: but I think
they should be eaten rather before or between meals, and
children should have them for their breakfast. 2. Bread
eaten with them. 3. Perfectly ripe. If they are thus eaten,
I imagine them rather conducing than hurtful to our health.
Summer-fruits, being suited to the hot season of the year
22 JOHN LOCKE
they come in, refresh our stomachs, languishing and faint*
ing under it; and therefore I should not be altogether so
strict in this point, as some are to their children; who
being kept so very short, instead of a moderate quantity
of well-chosen fruit, which being allowed them would con-
tent them, whenever they can get loose, or bribe a servant
to supply them, satisfy their longing with any trash they
can get, and eat to a surfeit.
Apples and pears too, which are thorough ripe, and have
been gathered some time, I think may be safely eaten at any
time, and in pretty large quantities, especially apples; which
never did any body hurt, that I have heard, after October.
Fruits also dry'd without sugar, I think very wholesome.
But sweet-meats of all kinds are to be avoided; which
whether they do more harm to the maker or eater, is not
easy to tell. This I am sure, it is one of the most inconve-
nient ways of expence that vanity hath yet found out; and
so I leave them to the ladies.
§ 21. Of all that looks soft and effeminate, nothing is
more to be indulged children, than sleep. In this alone they
are to be permitted to have their full satisfaction; nothing
contributing more to the growth and health of children, than
sleep. All that is to be regulated in it, is, in what part of
the twenty-four hours they should take it; which will easily
be resolved, by only saying that it is of great use to accus-
tom 'em to rise early in the morning. It is best so to do,
for health ; and he that, from his childhood, has, by a settled
custom, made rising betimes easy and familiar to him, will
not, when he is a man, waste the best and most useful part
of his life in drowsiness, and lying a-bed. If children there-
fore are to be call'd up early in the morning, it will follow
of course, that they must go to bed betimes; whereby they
will be accustomed to avoid the unhealthy and unsafe hours
of debauchery, which are those of the evenings; and they
who keep good hours, seldom are guilty of any great dis-
orders. I do not say this, as if your son, when grown up,
should never be in company past eight, nor ever chat over
a glass of wine 'till midnight. You are now, by the accustom-
ing of his tender years, to indispose him to those inconve-
niences as much as you can ; and it will be no small advan-
SLEEP 23
fcage, that contrary practice having made sitting up uneasy
to him, it will make him often avoid, and very seldom pro-
pose midnight-revels. But if it should not reach so far, but
fashion and company should prevail, and make him live as
others do above twenty, 'tis worth the while to accustom
him to early rising and early going to bed, between this and
that, for the present improvement of his health and other
advantages.
Though I have said, a large allowance of sleep, even as
much as they will take, should be made to children when
they are little; yet I do not mean, that it should always be
continued to them in so large a proportion, and they suffered
to indulge a drowsy laziness in their bed, as they grow up
bigger. But whether they should begin to be restrained at
seven or ten years old, or any other time, is impossible to
be precisely determined. Their tempers, strength, and con-
stitutions, must be considered. But some time between seven
and fourteen, if they are too great lovers of their beds,
I think it may be seasonable to begin to reduce them by
degrees to about eight hours, which is generally rest enough
for healthy grown people. If you have accustomed him, as
you should do, to rise constantly very early in the morning,
this fault of being too long in bed will easily be reform'd,
and most children will be forward enough to shorten
that time themselves, by coveting to sit up with the
company at night ; tho' if they be not looked after, they will
be apt to take it out in the morning, which should by no
means be permitted. They should constantly be call'd up
and made to rise at their early hour ; but great care should be
taken in waking them, that it be not done hastily, nor with
a loud or shrill voice, or any other sudden violent noise.
This often affrights children, and does them great harm;
and sound sleep thus broke off, with sudden alarms, is apt
enough to discompose any one. When children are to be
waken'd out of their sleep, be sure to begin with a low
call, and some gentle motion, and so draw them out of it
by degrees, and give them none but kind words and usage,
*till they are come perfectly to themselves, and being quite
dress'd, you are sure they are thoroughly awake. The being
forc'd from their sleep, how gently soever you do it, is
24 JOHN LOCKE
pain enough to them; and care should be taken not to add
any other uneasiness to it, especially such that may terrify
them.
§ 22. Let his bed be hard, and rather quilts than feathers.
Hard lodging strengthens the parts; whereas being bury'd
every night in feathers melts and dissolves the body, is often
the cause of v^eakness, and forerunner of an early grave.
And, besides the stone, v^hich has often its rise from this
warm wrapping of the reins, several other indispositions,
and that which is the root of them all, a tender weakly
constitution, is very much owing to down-heds. Besides, he
that is used to hard lodging at home, will not miss his sleep
(where he has most need of it) in his travels abroad, for
want of his soft bed, and his pillows laid in order. And
therefore, I think it would not be amiss, to make his bed
after different fashions, sometimes lay his head higher,
sometimes lower, that he may not feel every little change
he must be sure to meet with, who is not designed to lie
always in my young master's bed at home, and to have his
maid lay all things in print, and tuck him in warm. The
great cordial of nature is sleep. He that misses that, will
suffer by it; and he is very unfortunate, who can take his
cordial only in his mother's fine gilt cup, and not in a wooden
dish. He that can sleep soundly, takes the cordial; and it
matters not whether it be on a soft bed or the hard boards.
'Tis sleep only that is the thing necessary.
§ 23. One thing more there is, which has a great influ-
ence upon the health, and that is, going to stool regularly:
people that are very loose, have seldom strong thoughts, or
strong bodies. But the cure of this, both by diet and medicine,
being much more easy than the contrary evil, there needs
not much to be said about it: for if it come to threaten,
either by its violence or duration, it will soon enough, and
sometimes too soon, make a physician be sent for; and if
it be moderate or short, it is commonly best to leave it to
nature. On the other side, costiveness has too its ill effects,
and is much harder to be dealt with by physick; purging
medicines, which seem to give relief, rather increasing them
than removing the evil.
§ 24. It being an indisposition I had a particular reason
COSTIVENESS 25
to enquire into, and not finding the cure of it in books, I
set my thoughts on work, believing that greater changes
than that might be made in our bodies, if we took the right
course, and proceeded by rational steps.
1. Then I considered, that going to stool, was the effect
of certain motions of the body; especially of the peristaltick
motion of the guts.
2. I consider'd, that several motions, that were not per-
fectly voluntary, might yet, by use and constant application,
be brought to be habitual, if by an unintermitted custom
they were at certain seasons endeavoured to be constantly
produced.
3. I had observed some men, who by taking after supper
a pipe of tobacco, never fail'd of a stool, and began to doubt
with myself, whether it were not more custom, than the
tobacco, that gave them the benefit of nature; or at least,
if the tobacco did it, it was rather by exciting a vigorous
motion in the guts, than by any purging quality; for then
it would have had other effects.
Having thus once got the opinion that it was possible to
make it habitual, the next thing was to consider what way
and means was the likeliest to obtain it.
4. Then I guess'd, that if a man, after his first eating
in the morning, would presently solicit nature, and try
whether he could strain himself so as to obtain a stool,
he might in time, by constant application, bring it to be
habitual.
§ 25. The reasons that made me chuse this time, were,
1. Because the stomach being then empty, if it receiv'd any
thing grateful to it (for I would never, but in case of neces-
sity, have any one eat but what he likes, and when he has
an appetite) it was apt to embrace it close by a strong con-
striction of its fibres; which constriction, I suppos'd, might
probably be continued on in the guts, and so increase their
peristaltick motion, as we see in the Ileus, that an inverted
motion, being begun any where below, continues itself all
the whole length, and makes even the stomach obey that
irregular motion.
2. Because when men eat, they usually relax their
thoughts, and the spirits then, free from other employments,
26 JOHN LOCKE
are more vigorously distributed into the lower belly, which
thereby contribute to the same effect.
3. Because, whenever men have leisure to eat, they have
leisure enough also to make so much court to Madam Cloa-
cina, as would be necessary to our present purpose; but else,
in the variety of human affairs and accidents, it was im-
possible to affix it to any hour certain, whereby the custom
would be interrupted. Whereas men in health seldom fail-
ing to eat once a day, tho* the hour chang'd, the custom
might still be preserv'd.
§ 26. Upon these grounds the experiment began to be
try'd, and I have known none who have been steady in the
prosecution of it, and taken care to go constantly to the
necessary-house, after their first eating, whenever that hap-
pen'd, whether they found themselves call'd on or no, and
there endeavoured to put nature upon her duty, but in a few
months they obtained the desired success, and brought them-
selves to so regular an habit, that they seldom ever faiPd
of a stool after their first eating, unless it were by their
own neglect: for, whether they have any motion or no, if
they go to the place, and do their part, they are sure to have
nature very obedient.
§ 27. I would therefore advise, that this course should
be taken with a child every day presently after he has eaten
his breakfast. Let him be set upon the stool, as if dis-
burthening were as much in his power as filling his belly;
and let not him or his maid know any thing to the contrary,
but that it is so ; and if he be forced to endeavour, by being
hinder'd from his play or eating again 'till he has been
effectually at stool, or at least done his utmost, I doubt not
but in a little while it will become natural to him. For
there is reason to suspect, that children being usually intent
on their play, and very heedless of any thing else, often let
pass those motions of nature, when she calls them but gently;
and so they, neglecting the seasonable offers, do by degrees
bring themselves into an habitual costiveness. That by this
method costiveness may be prevented, I do more than guess ;
having known by the constant practice of it for some time,
a child brought to have a stool regularly after his breakfast
every morning.
PHYSIC 27
§ 28. How far any grown people will think fit to make
trial of it, must be left to them; tho' I cannot but say, that
considering the many evils that come from that defect, of a
requisite easing of nature, I scarce know any thing more
conducing to the preservation of health, than this is. Once
in four and twenty hours, I think is enough; and no body,
I guess, will think it too much. And by this means it is to
be obtained without physick, which commonly proves very
ineffectual in the cure of a settled and habitual costive-
ness.
§ 29. This is all I have to trouble you with concerning
his management in the ordinary course of his health. Per-
haps it will be expected from me, that I should give some
directions of physick, to prevent diseases; for which I have
only this one, very sacredly to be observed, never to give
children any physick for prevention. The observation of
what I have already advis'd, will, I suppose, do that better
than the ladies' diet-drinks or apothecaries' medicines. Have
a great care of tampering that way, lest, instead of prevent-
ing, you draw on diseases. Nor even upon every little
indisposition is physick to be given, or the physician to be
caird to children, especially if he be a busy man, that will
presently fill their windows with gally-pots, and their stom-
achs with drugs. It is safer to leave them wholly to nature,
than to put 'em into the hands of one forward to tamper,
or that thinks children are to be cur'd, in ordinary distempers,
by any thing but diet, or by a method very little distant
from it: it seeming suitable both to my reason and expe-
rience, that the tender constitutions of children should have
as little done to them as is possible, and as the absolute
necessity of the case requires. A little cold-still'd red poppy-
water, which is the true surfeit-water with ease, and
abstinence from flesh, often puts an end to several distempers
in the beginning, which, by too forward applications, might
have been made lusty diseases. When such a gentle treat-
ment will not stop the growing mischief, nor hinder it from
turning into a form'd disease, it will be time to seek the
advice of some sober and discreet physician. In this part,
I hope, I shall find an easy belief; and no body can have a
pretence to doubt the advice of one who has spent some time
28 JOHN LOCKE
in the study of physick, when he counsels you not to be too
forward in making use of physick and physicians.
§ 30. And thus I have done with what concerns the body
and health, which reduces itself to these few and easy
observable rules: plenty of open air, exercise, and sleep,
plain diet, no wine or strong drink, and very little or no
physick, not too warm and strait clothing, especially the
head and feet kept cold, and the feet often us'd to cold
water, and exposed to wet.
§ 31. Due care being had to keep the body in strength
and vigour, so that it may be able to obey and execute the
orders of the mind; the next and principal business is, to
set the mind right, that on all occasions it may be disposed
to consent to nothing but what may be suitable to the dignity
and excellency of a rational creature.
§ 32. If what I have said in the beginning of this dis-
course be true, as I do not doubt but it is, viz. That the
difference to be found in the manners and abilities of men
is owing more to their education than to any thing else,
we have reason to conclude, that great care is to be had of
the forming children's minds, and giving them that season-
ing early, which shall influence their lives always after:
For when they do well or ill, the praise and blame will be
laid there ; and when any thing is done awkwardly, the
common saying will pass upon them, that it's suitable to their
breeding,
§ 33. As the strength of the body lies chiefly in being
able to endure hardships, so also does that of the mind.
And the great principle and foundation of all virtue and
worth is placed in this: that a man is able to deny himself
his own desires, cross his own inclinations, and purely follow
what reason directs as best, tho' the appetite lean the other
way.
§ 34. The great mistake I have observed in people's breed-
ing their children, has been, that this has not been taken
care enough of in its due season; that the mind has not been
made obedient to discipline, and pliant to reason, when at
first it was most tender, most easy to be bow'd. Parents
being wisely ordain'd by nature to love their children, are
very apt, if reason watch not that natural affection very
1
15 •">0
EARLY TRAINING 29
warily, are apt, I say, to let it run into fondness. They
love their little ones and it is their duty ; but they often, with
them, cherish their faults too. They must not be crossed,
forsooth; they must be permitted to have their wills in all
things ; and they being in their infancies not capable of great
vices, their parents think they may safe enough indulge their
irregularities, and make themselves sport with that pretty per-
verseness which they think well enough becomes that in-
nocent age. But to a fond parent, that would not have
his child corrected for a perverse trick, but excused it, say-
ing it was a small matter, Solon very well reply'd, aye, but
custom is a great one,
§ 35. The fondling must be taught to strike and call
names, must have what he cries for, and do what he pleases.
Thus parents, by humouring and cockering them when
little, corrupt the principles of nature in their children, and
wonder afterwards to taste the bitter waters, when they
themselves have poison'd the fountain. For when their
children are grown up, and these ill habits with them; when
they are now too big to be dandled, and their parents can
no longer make use of them as play-things, then they com-
plain that the brats are untoward and perverse; then they
are offended to see them wilful, and are troubled with those
ill humours which they themselves infus'd and fomented in
them; and then, perhaps too late, would be glad to get out
those weeds which their own hands have planted, and which
now have taken too deep root to be easily extirpated. For
he that hath been us'd to have his will in every thing, as
long as he was in coats, why should we think it strange,
that he should desire it, and contend for it still, when he is
in breeches? Indeed, as he grows more towards a man, age
shews his faults the more ; so that there be few parents then
so blind as not to see them, few so insensible as not to feel
the ill effects of their own indulgence. He had the will of
his maid before he could speak or go; he had the mastery
of his parents ever since he could prattle; and why, now
he is grown up, is stronger and wiser than he was then, why
now of a sudden must he be restrained and curbed? Why
must he at seven, fourteen, or twenty years old, lose the
privilege, which the parents' indulgence 'till then so largely
30 JOHN LOCKE
allowed him? Try it in a dog or an horse or any other crea-
ture, and see whether the ill and resty tricks they have
learn'd when young, are easily to be mended when they are
knit; and yet none of those creatures are half so wilful and
proud, or half so desirous to be masters of themselves and
others, as man.
§ 36. We are generally wise enough to begin with them
when they are very young, and discipline betimes those other
creatures we would make useful and good for somewhat.
They are only our own offspring, that we neglect in this
point; and having made them ill children, we foolishly ex-
pect they should be good men. For if the child must have
grapes or sugar-plums when he has a mind to them, rather
than make the poor baby cry or be out of humour; why,
when he is grown up, must he not be satisfy'd too, if his
desires carry him to wine or women? They are objects as
suitable to the longing of one of more years, as what he
cry'd for, when little, was to the inclinations of a child.
The having desires accommodated to the apprehensions and
relish of those several ages, is not the fault; but the not
having them subject to the rules and restraints of reason:
the difference lies not in having or not having appetites,
but in the power to govern, and deny ourselves in them.
He that is not us'd to submit his will to the reason of others
when he is young, will scarce hearken to submit to his own
reason when he is of an age to make use of it. And what
kind of a man such an one is like to prove, is easy to foresee.
§ 37. These are oversights usually committed by those
who seem to take the greatest care of their children's edu-
cation. But if we look into the common management of
children, we shall have reason to wonder, in the great dis-
soluteness of manners which the world complains of, that
there are any footsteps at all left of virtue. I desire to
know what vice can be nam'd, which parents, and those
about children, do not season them with, and drop into 'em
the seeds of, as soon as they are capable to receive them?
I do not mean by the examples they give, and the patterns
they set before them, which is encouragement enough; but
that which I would take notice of here is, the downright
teaching them vice, and actual putting them out of the
EARLY TRAINING 31
way of virtue. Before they can go, they principle *em with
violence, revenge, and cruelty. Give me a blow, that I may
beat him, is a lesson which most children every day hear;
and it is thought nothing, because their hands have not
strength to do any mischief. But I ask, does not this
corrupt their mind? Is not this the way of force and
violence, that they are set in? And if they have been
taught when little, to strike and hurt others by proxy, and
encouraged to rejoice in the harm they have brought upon
them, and see them suffer, are they not prepared to do it
when they are strong enough to be felt themselves, and can
strike to some purpose?
The coverings of our bodies which are for modesty,
warmth and defence, are by the folly or vice of parents
recommended to their children for other uses. They are
made matters of vanity and emulation. A child is set a-long-
ing after a new suit, for the finery of it; and when the little
girl is trick'd up in her new gown and commode, how can
her mother do less than teach her to admire herself, by
calling her, her little queen and her princess? Thus the
little ones are taught to be proud of their clothes before
they can put them on. And why should they not continue
to value themselves for their outside fashionableness of the
taylor or tirewoman's making, when their parents have so
early instructed them to do so?
Lying and equivocations, and excuses little different from
lying, are put into the mouths of young people, and com-
mended in apprentices and children, whilst they are for
their master's or parents' advantage. And can it be thought,
that he that finds the straining of truth dispens'd with, and
encouraged, whilst it is for his godly master's turn, will not
make use of that privilege for himself, when it may be
for his own profit?
Those of the meaner sort are hinder'd, by the straitness of
their fortunes, from encouraging intemperance in their chil-
dren by the temptation of their diet, or invitations to eat or
drink more than enough; but their own ill examples, when-
ever plenty comes in their way, shew, that 'tis not the dis-
like of drunkenness or gluttony, that keeps them from excess,
but want of materials. But if we look into the houses of
32 JOHN LOCKE
those who are a little warmer in their fortunes, their eating
and drinking are made so much the great business and
happiness of life, that children are thought neglected, if
they have not their share of it. Sauces and ragoos, and
food disguised by all the arts of cookery, must tempt their
palates, when their bellies are full; and then, for fear the
stomach should be overcharg'd, a pretence is found for
t'other glass of wine to help digestion, tho' it only serves
to increase the surfeit.
Is my young master a little out of order, the first ques-
tion is, What will my dear eat? What shall I get for theef
Eating and drinking are instantly pressed; and every body's
invention is set on work to find out something luscious and
delicate enough to prevail over that want of appetite, which
nature has wisely order'd in the beginning of distempers,
as a defence against their increase; that being freed from
the ordinary labour of digesting any new load in the stomach,
she may be at leisure to correct and master the peccant
humours.
And where children are so happy in the care of their
parents, as by their prudence to be kept from the excess of
their tables, to the sobriety of a plain and simple diet, yet
there too they are scarce to be preserved from the contagion
that poisons the mind; though, by a discreet management
whilst they are under tuition, their healths perhaps may be
pretty well secure, yet their desires must needs yield to the
lessons which every where will be read to them upon this part
of epicurism. The commendation that eating well has every
where, cannot fail to be a successful incentive to natural ap-
petites, and bring them quickly to the liking and expence of
a fashionable table. This shall have from every one, even
the reprovers of vice, the title of living well. And what
shall sullen reason dare to say against the publick testi-
mony? Or can it hope to be heard, if it should call that
luxury, which is so much own'd and universally practised by
those of the best quality?
This is now so grown a vice, and has so great supports
that I know not whether it do not put in for the name of
virtue; and whether it will not be thought folly, or want of
knowledge of the world, to open one's mouth against it?
(l) HC XX XVII
CRAVING 33
And truly I should suspect, that what I have here said of it,
might be censur'd as a little satire out of my way, did I not
mention it with this view, that it might awaken the care and
watchfulness of parents in the education of their children,
when they see how they are beset on every side, not only
with temptations, but instructors to vice, and that, perhaps,
in those they thought places of security.
I shall not dwell any longer on this subject, much less run
over all the particulars that would shew what pains are us'd
to corrupt children, and instil principles of vice into them:
but I desire parents soberly to consider, what irregularity
or vice there is which children are not visibly taught, and
whether it be not their duty and wisdom to provide them
other instructions.
§ 38. It seems plain to me, that the principle of all virtue
and excellency lies in a power of denying ourselves the sat-
isfaction of our own desires, where reason does not au-
thorize them. This power is to be got and improved by
custom, made easy and familiar by an early practice. If
therefore I might be heard, I would advise, that, contrary
to the ordinary way, children should be us'd to submit their
desires, and go without their longings, even from their very
cradles. The first thing they should learn to know, should
be, that they were not to have anything because it pleas'd
them, but because it was thought fit for them. If things
suitable to their wants were supply'd to them, so that they
were never suffered to have what they once cry'd for, they
would learn to be content without it, would never, with
bawling and peevishness, contend for mastery, nor be half
so uneasy to themselves and others as they are, because
from the first beginning they are not thus handled. If they
were never suffer'd to obtain their desire by the impatience
they express'd for it, they would no more cry for another
thing, than they do for the moon.
§ 39. I say not this, as if children were not to be indulged
in anything, or that I expected they should in hanging-
sleeves have the reason and conduct of counsellors. I con-
sider them as children, who must be tenderly us'd, who must
play, and have play-things. That which I mean, is, that
whenever they crav'd what was not fit for them to have or
(2) HC xxxvii
34 JOHN LOCKE
do, they should not be permitted it because they were little,
and desir'd it: nay, whatever they were importunate for,
they should be sure, for that very reason, to be deny'd. I
have seen children at a table, who, whatever was there, never
ask'd for anything, but contentedly took what was given
them: and at another place, I have seen others cry for
everything they saw; must be serv'd out of every dish, and
that first too. What made this vast difference but this?
that one was accustom'd to have what they call'd or cry'd
for, the other to go without it. The younger they are, the
less I think are their unruly and disorderly appetites to be
comply 'd with; and the less reason they have of their own,
the more are they to be under the absolute power and re-
straint of those in whose hands they are. From which
I confess it will follow, that none but discreet people should
be about them. If the world commonly does otherwise, I
cannot help that. I am saying what I think should be;
which if it were already in fashion, I should not need to
trouble the world with a discourse on this subject. But
yet I doubt not, but when it is considered, there will be others
of opinion with me, that the sooner this way is begun with
children, the easier it will be for them and their governors
too; and that this ought to be observed as an inviolable
maxim, that whatever once is deny'd them, they are cer-
tainly not to obtain by crying or importunity, unless one has
a mind to teach them to be impatient and troublesome, by
rewarding them for it when they are so.
§ 40. Those therefore that intend ever to govern their
children, should begin it whilst they are very little, and look
that they perfectly comply with the will of their parents.
Would you have your son obedient to you when past a child ;
be sure then to establish the authority of a father as soon
as he is capable of submission, and can understand in whose
power he is. If you would have him stand in awe of you,
imprint it in his infancy; and as he approaches more to a
man, admit him nearer to your familiarity ; so shall you have
him your obedient subject (as is fit) whilst he is a child,
and your affectionate friend when he is a man. For me-
thinks they mightily misplace the treatment due to their
children, who are indulgent and familiar when they are little,
EARLY TRAINING 35
but severe to them, and keep them at a distance, when they
are grown up: for liberty and indulgence can do no good
to children; their want of judgment makes them stand in
need of restraint and discipline ; and on the contrary, imperi-
ousness and severity is but an ill way of treating men, who
have reason of their own to guide them; unless you have a
mind to make your children, when grown up, weary of you,
and secretly to say within themselves, When will you die,
father?
§ 41. I imagine every one will judge it reasonable, that
their children, when little, should look upon their parents
as their lords, their absolute governors, and as such stand
in awe of them; and that when they come to riper years,
they should look on them as their best, as their only sure
friends, and as such love and reverence them. The way I
have mentioned, if I mistake not, is the only one to obtain
this. We must look upon our children, when grown up,
to be like ourselves, with the same passions, the same desires.
We would be thought rational creatures, and have our
freedom; we love not to be uneasy under constant re-
bukes and brow-beatings, nor can we bear severe humours
and great distance in those we converse with. Whoever has
such treatment when he is a man, will look out other com-
pany, other friends, other conversation, with whom he can
be at ease. If therefore a strict hand be kept over children
from the beginning, they will in that age be tractable, and
quietly submit to it, as never having known any other: and
if, as they grow up to the use of reason, the rigour of gov-
ernment be, as they deserve it, gently relaxed, the father's
brow more smoothed to them, and the distance by degrees
abated, his former restraints will increase their love, when
they find it was only a kindness to them, and a care to make
them capable to deserve the favour of their parents, and
the esteem of everybody else.
§ 42. Thus much for the settling your authority over your
children in general. Fear and awe ought to give you the
first power over their minds, and love and friendship in riper
years to hold it: for the time must come, when they will be
past the rod and correction; and then, if the love of you
make them not obedient and dutiful, if the love of virtue
36 JOHN LOCKE
and reputation keep them not in laudable courses, I ask,
what hold will you have upon them to turn them to it? In-
deed, fear of having a scanty portion if they displease you,
may make them slaves to your estate, but they will be never-
theless ill and wicked in private; and that restraint will not
last always. Every man must some time or other be trusted
to himself and his own conduct; and he that is a good, a
virtuous, and able man, must be made so within. And there-
fore what he is to receive from education, what is to sway
and influence his life, must be something put into him be-
times; habits woven into the very principles of his nature,
and not a counterfeit carriage, and dissembled outside, put
on by fear, only to avoid the present anger of a father who
perhaps may disinherit him.
§ 43. This being laid down in general, as the course that
ought to be taken, 'tis fit we now come to consider the parts
of the discipline to be us'd, a little more particularly. I have
spoken so much of carrying a strict hand over children, that
perhaps I shall be suspected of not considering enough,
what is due to their tender age and constitutions. But
that opinion will vanish, when you have heard me a little
farther: for I am very apt to think, that great severity of
punishment does but very little good, nay, great harm in
education; and I believe it will be found that, cceteris pari-
bus, those children who have been most chastis'd, seldom
make the best men. All that I have hitherto contended for,
IS, that whatsoever rigor is necessary, it is more to be us'd,
the younger children are; and having by a due application
wrought its effect, it is to be relaxed, and changed into a
milder sort of government.
§ 44. A compliance and sup^eness of their wills, being
by a steady hand introduced by parents, before children
have memories to retain the beginnings of it, will seem
natural to them, and work afterwards in them as if it were
so, preventing all occasions of struggling or repining. The
only care is, that it be begun early, and inflexibly kept to
'till awe and respect be grown familiar, and there appears
not the least reluctancy in the submission, and ready obe-
dience of their minds. When this reverence is once thus
established, (which it must be early, or else it will cost pains
SELF-DENIAL 37
and blows to recover it, and the more the longer it is de-
ferred) 'tis by it, still mix'd with as much indulgence as they
make not an ill use of, and not by beating, chiding, or other
servile punishments, they are for the future to be governed
as they grow up to more understanding.
§ 45. That this is so, will be easily allowed, when it is but
considered, what is to be aim'd at in an ingenuous education ;
and upon what it turns.
I. He that has not a mastery over his inclinations, he that
knows not how to resist the importunity of present pleasure
or pain, for the sake of what reason tells him is fit to be
done, wants the true principle of virtue and industry, and
is in danger never to be good for anything. This temper
therefore, so contrary to unguided nature, is to be got be-
times ; and this habit, as the true foundation of future ability
and happiness, is to be wrought into the mind as early as
may be, even from the first dawnings of knowledge or appre-
hension in children, and so to be confirmed in them, by all
the care and ways imaginable, by those who have the over-
sight of their education.
§ 46. 2. On the other side, if the mind be curb'd, and hum-
bled too much in children; if their spirits be abas'd and
broken much, by too strict an hand over them, they lose all
their vigour and industry, and are in a worse state than the
former. For extravagant young fellows, that have liveli-
ness and spirit, come sometimes to be set right, and so make
able and great men ; but dejected minds, timorous and tame,
and low spirits, are hardly ever to be rais'd, and very seldom
attain to any thing. To avoid the danger that is on either
hand, is the great art; and he that has found a way how to
keep up a child's spirit easy, active, and free, and yet at
the same time to restrain him from many things he has a
mind to, and to draw him to things that are uneasy to him ;
he, I say, that knows how to reconcile these seeming con-
tradictions, has, in my opinion, got the true secret of edu-
cation.
§ 47. The usual lazy and short way by chastisement and
the rod, which is the only instrument of government that
tutors generally know, or ever think of, is the most unfit
of any to be us'd in education, because it tends to both
38 JOHN LOCKE
those mischiefs; which, as we have shewn, are the Scylla
and Charyhdis, which on the one hand or the other ruin
all that miscarry.
§ 48. I. This kind of punishment contributes not at all
to the mastery of our natural propensity to indulge corporal
and present pleasure, and to avoid pain at any rate, but
rather encourages it, and thereby strengthens that in us,
which is the root from whence spring all vicious actions,
and the irregularities of life. For what other motive, but
of sensual pleasure and pain, does a child act by, who
drudges at his book against his inclination, or abstains from
eating unwholesome fruit, that he takes pleasure in, only
out of fear of whipping? He in this only prefers the greater
corporal pleasure, or avoids the greater corporal pain. And
what is it, to govern his actions, and direct his conduct by
such motives as these? What is it, I say, but to cherish
that principle in him, which it is our business to root out
and destroy? And therefore I cannot think any correction
useful to a child, where the shame of suffering for having
done amiss, does not work more upon him than the pain.
§ 49. 2. This sort of correction naturally breeds an aver-
sion to that which 'tis the tutor's business to create a liking
to. How obvious is it to observe, that children come to
hate things which were at first acceptable to them, when
they find themselves whipp'd, and chid, and teas'd about
them ? And it is not to be wonder'd at in them, when grown
men would not be able to be reconcil'd to any thing by such
ways. Who is there that would not be disgusted with any
innocent recreation, in itself indifferent to him, if he should
with blows or ill language be haled to it, when he had no
mind? Or be constantly so treated, for some circumstances
in his application to it? This is natural to be so. Offen-
sive circumstances ordinarily infect innocent things which
they are join'd with; and the very sight of a cup wherein
any one uses to take nauseous physick, turns his stomach,
so that nothing will relish well out of it, tho' the cup be
never so clean and well-shap'd, and of the richest materials.
§ 50. 3. Such a sort of slavish discipline makes a slavish
temper. The child submits, and dissembles obedience, whilst
the fear of the rod hangs over him; but when that is re-
REWARDS 39
mov'd, and by being out of sight, he can promise himself
impunity, he gives the greater scope to his natural inclina-
tion ; which by this way is not at all alter'd, but, on the con-
trary, heightened and increas'd in him; and after such re-
straint, breaks out usually with the more violence ; or,
§ 51. 4. If severity carry'd to the highest pitch does pre-
vail, and works a cure upon the present unruly distemper,
it often brings in the room of it a worse and more dangerous
disease, by breaking the mind; and then, in the place of a
disorderly young fellow, you have a low spirited moap'd
creature, who, however with his unnatural sobriety he may
please silly people, who commend tame unactive children,
because they make no noise, nor give them any trouble;
yet at last, will probably prove as uncomfortable a thing to
his friends, as he will be all his life an useless thing to him-
self and others.
§ 52. Beating them, and all other sorts of slavish and cor-
poral punishments, are not the discipline fit to be used in the
education of those we would have wise, good, and in-
genuous men; and therefore very rarely to be apply'd, and
that only in great occasions, and cases of extremity. On
the other side, to flatter children by rewards of things that
are pleasant to them, is as carefully to be avoided. He that
will give to his son apples or sugar-plumbs, or what else of
this kind he is most delighted with, to make him learn his
book, does but authorize his love of pleasure, and cocker up
that dangerous propensity, which he ought by all means to
subdue and stifle in him. You can never hope to teach him
to master it, whilst you compound for the check you gave
his inclination in one place, by the satisfaction you propose
to it in another. To make a good, a wise, and a virtuous
man, 'tis fit he should learn to cross his appetite, and deny
his inclination to riches, finery, or pleasing his palate, &c.
whenever his reason advises the contrary, and his duty re-
quires it. But when you draw him to do any thing that is fit
by the offer of money, or reward the pains of learning his
book by the pleasure of a luscious morsel; when you promise
him a lace-cravat or a fine new suit, upon performance of
some of his little tasks; what do you by proposing these as
rewards, but allow them to be the good things he should aim
40 JOHN LOCKE
at, and thereby encourage his longing for 'em, and accus-
tom him to place his happiness in them? Thus people, to
prevail with children to be industrious about their grammar,
dancing, or some other such matter, of no great moment
to the happiness or usefulness of their lives, by misapply'd
rewards and punishments, sacrifice their virtue, invert the
order of their education, and teach them luxury, pride, or
covetousness, &c. For in this v^ay, flattering those wrong
inclinations which they should restrain and suppress, they
lay the foundations of those future vices, which cannot be
avoided but by curbing our desires and accustoming them
early to submit to reason.
§ 53. I say not this, that I would have children kept from
the conveniences or pleasures of life, that are not injurious
to their health or virtue. On the contrary, I would have
their lives made as pleasant and as agreeable to them as may
be, in a plentiful enjoyment of whatsoever might innocently
delight them ; provided it be with this caution, that they have
those enjoyments, only as the consequences of the state of
esteem and acceptation they are in with their parents and
governors; but they should never be offered or bestow'd
on them, -as the rewards of this or that particular perform-
ance, that they shew an aversion to, or to which they would
not have apply'd themselves without that temptation.
§ 54. But if you take away the rod on one hand, and these
little encouragements which they are taken with, on the
other, how then (will you say) shall children be governed?
Remove hope and fear, and there is an end of all discipline.
I grant that good and evil, reward and punishment, are the
only motives to a rational creature : these are the spur and
reins whereby all mankind are set on work, and guided, and
therefore they are to be made use of to children too. For
I advise their parents and governors always to carry this
in their minds, that children are to be treated as rational
creatures.
§ 55. Rewards, I grant, and punishments must be proposed
to children, if we intend to work upon them. The mistake I
imagine is, that those that are generally made use of, are ill
chosen. The pains and pleasures of the body are, I think, of
ill consequence, when made the rewards and punishments
REPUTATION 41
whereby men would prevail on their children ; for, as I said
before, they serve but to increase and strengthen those in-
clinations, which 'tis our business to subdue and master.
What principle of virtue do you lay in a child, if you will
redeem his desires of one pleasure, by the proposal of
another? This is but to enlarge his appetite, and instruct it
to wander. If a child cries for an unwholesome and dan-
gerous fruit, you purchase his quiet by giving him a less
hurtful sweet-meat. This perhaps may preserve his health,
but spoils his mind, and sets that farther out of order. For
here you only change the object, but flatter still his appe-
tite, and allow that must be satisfy'd, wherein, as I have
shew'd, lies the root of the mischief; and till you bring him
to be able to bear a denial of that satisfaction, the child may
at present be quiet and orderly, but the disease is not cured.
By this way of proceeding, you foment and cherish in him
that which is the spring from whence all the evil flows,
which will be sure on the next occasion to break out again
with more violence, give him stronger longings, and you
more trouble.
§ 56. The rewards and punishments then, whereby we
should keep children in order, are quite of another kind, and
of that force, that when we can get them once to work, the
business, I think, is done, and the difficulty is over. Esteem
and disgrace are, of all others, the most powerful incentives
to the mind, when once it is brought to relish them. If you
can once get into children a love of credit, and an appre-
hension of shame and disgrace, you have put into 'em the
true principle, which will constantly work and incline them
to the right. But it Will be ask'd. How shall this be done?
I confess it does not at first appearance want some diffi-
culty; but yet I think it worth our while to seek the ways
(and practise them when found) to attain this, which I look
on as the great secret of education.
§ 57. First, children (earlier perhaps than we think) are
very sensible of praise and commendation. They find a
pleasure in being esteemed and valu'd, especially by their
parents and those whom they depend on. If therefore the
father caress and commend them when they do well,
shew a cold and neglectful countenance to them upon doing
42 JOHN LOCKE
ill, and this accompany^ by a like carriage of the mother
and all others that are about them, it will, in a little time,
make them sensible of the difference ; and this, if constantly
observed, I doubt not but will of itself work more than
threats or blows, which lose their force when once grown
common, and are of no use when shame does not attend
them ; and therefore are to be forborne, and never to be us'd,
but in the case hereafter-mention'd, when it is brought to
extremity.
§ 58. But secondly, to make the sense of esteem or dis-
grace sink the deeper, and be of the more weight, other agree-
able or disagreeable things should constantly accompany these
different states; not as particular rewards and punishments
of this or that particular action, but as necessarily belonging
to, and constantly attending one, who by his carnage has
brought himself into a state of disgrace or commendation.
By which way of treating them, children may as much as
possible be brought to conceive, that those that are com-
mended, and in esteem for doing well, will necessarily be
belov'd and cherish'd by every body, and have all other good
things as a consequence of it; and on the other side, when
any one by miscarriage falls into disesteem, and cares not
to preserve his credit, he will unavoidably fall under neglect
and contempt; and in that state, the want of whatever might
satisfy or delight him will follow. In this way the objects
of their desires are made assisting to virtue, when a settled
experience from the beginning teaches children that the
things they delight in, belong to, and are to be enjoy'd by
those only who are in a state of reputation. If by these
means you can come once to shame them out of their faults,
(for besides that, I would" willingly have no punishment) and
make them in love with the pleasure of being well thought
on, you may turn them as you please, and they will be in
love with all the ways of virtue.
§ 59. The great difficulty here is, I imagine, from the
folly and perverseness of servants, who are hardly to be
hinder'd from crossing herein the design of the father and
mother. Children discountenanced by their parents for any
fault, find usually a refuge and relief in the caresses of
those foolish flatterers, who thereby undo whatever the
SHAME' 43
parents endeavour to establish. When the father or mother
looks sowre on the child, everybody else should put on the
same coldness to him, and nobody give him countenance, Hill
forgiveness ask'd, and a reformation of his fault has set him
right again, and restored him to his former credit. If this
were constantly observed, I guess there would be little need
of blows or chiding: their own ease and satisfaction would
quickly teach children to court commendation, and avoid
doing that which they found everybody condemned and they
were sure to suffer for, without being chid or beaten. This
would teach them modesty and shame; and they would
quickly come to have a natural abhorrence for that which
they found made them slighted and neglected by every
body. But how this inconvenience from servants is to be
remedy'd, I must leave to parents' care and consideration.
Only I think it of great importance; and that they are very
happy who can get discreet people about their children.
§ 60. Frequent beating or chiding is therefore carefully
to be avoided: because this sort of correction never pro-
duces any good, farther than it serves to raise shame and
abhorrence of the miscarriage that brought it on them. And
if the greatest part of the trouble be not the sense that they
have done amiss, and the apprehension that they have
drawn on themselves the just displeasure of their best
friends, the pain of whipping will work but an imperfect
cure. It only patches up for the present, and skins it over,
but reaches not to the bottom of the sore; ingenuous shame,
and the apprehensions of displeasure, are the only true re-
straint. These alone ought to hold the reins, and keep
the child in order. But corporal punishments must neces-
sarily lose that effect, and wear out the sense of shame,
where they frequently return. Shame in children has the
same place that modesty has in women, which cannot be
kept and often transgressed against. And as to the ap-
prehension of displeasure in the parents, that will come to be
very insignificant, if the marks of that displeasure quickly
cease, and a few blows fully expiate. Parents should well con-
sider what faults in their children are weighty enough to
deserve the declaration of their anger: but when their
displeasure is once declared to a degree that carries any
44 JOHN LOCKE
punishment with it, they ought not presently to lay by the
severity of their brows, but to restore their children to their
former grace with some difficulty, and delay a full recon-
ciliation, 'till their conformity and more than ordinary merit,
make good their amendment. If this be not so order 'd,
punishment will, by familiarity, become a mere thing of
course, and lose all its influence; offending, being chastised,
and then forgiven, will be thought as natural and neces-
sary, as noon, night, and morning following one another.
§ 6i. Concerning reputation, I shall only remark this
one thing more of it, that though it be not the true principle
and measure of virtue, (for that is the knowledge of a
man's duty, and the satisfaction it is to obey his maker, in
following the dictates of that light God has given him,
with the hopes of acceptation and reward) yet it is that which
comes nearest to it: and being the testimony and applause
that other people's reason, as it were by a common con-
sent, gives to virtuous and well-order'd actions, it is the
proper guide and encouragement of children, 'till they grow
able to judge for themselves, and to find what is right by
their own reason.
§ 62. This consideration may direct parents how to man-
age themselves in reproving and commending their chil-
dren. The rebukes and chiding, which their faults will
sometimes make hardly to be avoided, should not only be
in sober, grave, and unpassionate words, but also alone and
in private: but the commendations children deserve, they
should receive before others. This doubles the reward, by
spreading their praise; but the backwardness parents shew
in divulging their faults, will make them set a greater value
on their credit themselves, and teach them to be the more
careful to preserve the good opinion of others, whilst they
think they have it: but when being expos'd to shame by
publishing their miscarriages, they give it up for lost, that
check upon them is taken off, and they will be the less
careful to preserve others' good thoughts of them, the more
they suspect that their reputation with them is already
blemish'd.
§ 63. But if a right course be taken with children, there
will not be so much need of the application of the com-
RULES 45
moll rewards and punishments as we imagine, and as the
general practice has established. For all their innocent
folly, playing and childish actions, are to be left perfectly
free and unrestrained, as far as they can consist with the
respect due to those that are present; and that with the
greatest allowance. If these faults of their age, rather
than of the children themselves, were, as they should be,
left only to time and imitation and riper years to cure,
children would escape a great deal of misapply 'd and use-
less correction, which either fails to overpower the natural
disposition of their childhood, and so by an ineffectual
familiarity, makes correction in other necessary cases of
less use; or else if it be of force to restrain the natural
gaiety of that age, it serves only to spoil the temper both
of body and mind. If the noise and bustle of their play
prove at any time inconvenient, or unsuitable to the place
or company they are in, (which can only be where their
parents are) a look or a word from the father or mother,
if they have established the authority they should, will be
enough either to remove or quiet them for that time. But
this gamesome humour, which is wisely adapted by nature
to their age and temper, should rather be encouraged to
keep up their spirits, and improve their strength and health,
than curbed and restrained; and the chief art is to make all
that they have to do, sport and play too.
§ 64. And here give me leave to take notice of one
thing I think a fault in the ordinary method of education;
and that is, the charging of children's memories, upon all
occasions, with rules and precepts, which they often do not
understand, and constantly as soon forget as given. If it
be some action you would have done, or done otherwise,
whenever they forget, or do it awkwardly, make them do
it over and over again, etill they are perfect, whereby you
will get these two advantages. First, to see whether it be
an action they can do, or is fit to be expected of them:
for sometimes children are bid to do things which upon
trial they are found not able to do, and had need be
taught and exercis'd in before they are required to do them.
But it is much easier for a tutor to command than to teach.
Secondly, another thing got by it will be this, that by re-
46 JOHN LOCKE
peating the same action 'till it be grown habitual in them,
the performance will not depend on memory or reflection,
the concomitant of prudence and age, and not of child-
hood, but will be natural in them. Thus bowing to a gentle-
man, when he salutes him, and looking in his face, when he
speaks to him, is by constant use as natural to a well-bred
man, as breathing; it requires no thought, no reflection.
Having this way cured in your child any fault, it is cured
for ever: and thus one by one you may weed them out all,
and plant what habits you please.
§ 65. I have seen parents so heap rules on their chil-
dren, that it was impossible for the poor little ones to re-
member a tenth part of them, much less to observe them.
However, they were either by words or blows corrected for
the breach of those multiply'd and often very impertinent
precepts. Whence it naturally follow'd that the children
minded not what was said to them, when it was evident to
them that no attention they were capable of was sufficient
to preserve them from transgression, and the rebukes which
follow'd It.
Let therefore your rules to your son be as few as possible,
and rather fewer than more than seem absolutely neces-
sary. For if you burden him with many rules, one of these
two things must necessarily follow; that either he must be
very often punish'd, which will be of ill consequence, by
making punishment too frequent and familiar; or else you
must let the transgressions of some of your rules go un-
punished, whereby they will of course grow contemptible,
and your authority become cheap to him. Make but few
laws, but see they be well observed when once made. Few
years require but few laws, and as his age increases, when
one rule is by practice well established, you may add an-
other.
§ 66. But pray remember, children are not to be taught
by rules which will be always slipping out of their memories.
What you think necessary for them to do, settle in them by
an indispensable practice, as often as the occasion returns;
and if it be possible, make occasions. This will beget habits
in them which being once established, operate of themselves
easily and naturally, without the assistance of the memory.
RULES 47
But here let me give two cautions, i. The one is, that you
keep them to the practice of what you would have grow into
a habit in them, by kind words, and gentle admonitions, rather
as minding them of what they forget, than by harsh rebukes
and chiding, as if they were wilfully guilty. 2. Another
thing you are to take care of, is, not to endeavour to settle
too many habits at once, lest by variety you confound them,
and so perfect none. When constant custom has made any one
thing easy and natural to 'em, and they practise it without
reflection, you may then go on to another.
This method of teaching children by a repeated practice,
and the same action done over and over again, under tlfie
eye and direction of the tutor, 'till they have got the habit
of doing it well, and not by relying on rules trusted to their
memories, has so many advantages, which way soever we
consider it, that I cannot but wonder (if ill customs could
be wondered at in any thing) how it could possibily be so
much neglected. I shall name one more that comes now
in my way. By this method we shall see whether what is re-
quired of him be adapted to his capacity, and any way suited
to the child's natural genius and constitution; for that too
much be consider'd in a right education. We must not hope
wholly to change their original tempers, nor make the gay
pensive and grave, nor the melancholy sportive, without spoil-
ing them. God has stamp'd certain characters upon men's
minds, which like their shapes, may perhaps be a little
mended, but can hardly be totally alter'd and trans form'd
into the contrary.
He therefore that is about children should well study
their natures and aptitudes, and see by often trials what
turn they easily take, and what becomes them ; observe what
their native stock is, how it may be improv'd, and what it
is fit for: he should consider what they want, whether they
be capable of having it wrought into them by industry, and
incorporated there by practice; and whether it be worth
while to endeavour it. For in many cases, all that we can
do, or should aim at, is, to make the best of what nature
has given, to prevent the vices and faults to which such
a constitution is most inclin'd, and give it all the advantages
it is capable of. Every one's natural genius should be carry'd
48 JOHN LOCKE
as far as it could; but to attempt the putting another upon
him, will be but labour in vain; and what is so plaister'd
on, will at best sit but untowardly, and have always hanging
to it the ungracefulness of constraint and affectation.
Affectation is not, I confess, an early fault of childhood,
or the product of untaught nature. It is of that sort of
weeds which grow not in the wild uncultivated waste, but
in garden-plots, under the negligent hand or unskilful care
of a gardener. Management and instruction, and some sense
of the necessity of breeding, are requisite to make any one
capable of affectation, which endeavours to correct natural
defects, and has always the laudable aim of pleasing, though
h always misses it ; and the more it labours to put on grace-
fulness, the farther it is from it. For this reason, it is the
more carefully to be watch'd, because it is the proper fault
of education; a perverted education indeed, but such as
young people often fall into, either by their own mistake, or
the ill conduct of those about them.
He that will examine wherein that gracefulness lies, which
always pleases, will find it arises from that natural coherence
which appears between the thing done and such a temper
of mind as cannot but be approved of as suitable to the
occasion. We cannot but be pleasM with an humane, friendly,
civil temper wherever we meet with it. A mind free, and
master of itself and all its actions, not low and narrow, not
haughty and insolent, not blemish'd with any great defect,
is what every one is taken with. The actions which naturally
flow from such a well-form'd mind, please us also, as the
genuine marks of it ; and being as it were natural emanations
from the spirit and disposition within, cannot but be easy
and unconstrained. This seems to me to be that beauty
which shines through some men's actions, sets off all that
they do, and takes all they come near; when by a constant
practice, they have fashioned their carriage, and made all
those little expressions of civility and respect, which nature
or custom has established in conversation, so easy to them-
selves, that they seem not artificial or studied, but naturally
to follow from a sweetness of mind and a well-turn'd dis-
position.
On the other side, affectation is an awkward and forc'd
AFFECTATION 49
imitation of what should he genuine and easy, wanting the
beauty that accompanies what is natural; because there is
always a disagreement between the outward action, and
the mind within, one of these two ways: i. Either when
a man would outwardly put on a disposition of mind, which
then he really has not, but endeavours by a forc'd carriage
to make shew of; yet so, that the constraint he is under
discovers itself: and thus men affect sometimes to appear
sad, merry, or kind, when in truth they are not so.
2. The other is, when they do not endeavour to make
shew of dispositions of mind, which they have not, but to
express those they have by a carriage not suited to them.
And such in conversation are all constrained motions, actions,
words, or looks, which, though designed to shew either their
respect or civility to the company, or their satisfaction and
easiness in it, are not yet natural nor genuine marks of the
one or the other, but rather of some defect or mistake
within. Imitation of others, without discerning what is
graceful in them, or what is peculiar to their characters,
often makes a great part of this. But affectation of all kinds,
whencesoever it proceeds, is always offensive; because we
naturally hate whatever is counterfeit, and condemn those
who have nothing better to recommend themselves by.
Plain and rough nature, left to itself, is much better than
an artificial ungracefulness, and such study*d ways of being
illfashion'd. The want of an accomplishment, or some de-
fect in our behaviour, coming short of the utmost grace-
fulness, often escapes observation and censure. But affecta-
tion in any part of our carriage is lighting up a candle to our
defects, and never fails to make us be taken notice of, either
as wanting sense, or wanting sincerity. This governors
ought the more diligently to look after, because, as I above
observ'd, 'tis an acquired ugliness, owing to mistaken edu-
cation, few being guilty of it but those who pretend to breed-
ing, and would not be thought ignorant of what is fashion-
able and becoming in conversation; and, if I mistake not,
it has often its rise from the lazy admonitions of those who
give rules, and propose examples, without joining practice
with their instructions and making their pupils repeat the
action in their sight, that they may correct what is indecent
50 JOHN LOCKE /
or oonstrain'd in it, till it be perfected into an habitual and
becoming easiness.
§ 67. Manners, as they call it, about which children are
so often perplex'd, and have so many goodly exhortations
made them by their wise maids and governesses, I think,
are rather to be learnt by example than rules; and then
children, if kept out of ill company, will take a pride to
behave themselves prettily, after the fashion of others, per-
ceiving themselves esteemed and commended for it. But if
by a little negligence in this part, the boy should not pull
off his hat, nor make legs very gracefully, a dancing-master
will cure that defect, and wipe off all that plainness of na-
ture, which the a-la-mode people call clownishness. And
since nothing appears to me to give children so much be-
coming confidence and behaviour, and so to raise them to
the conversation of those above their age, as dancing, I think
they should be taught to dance as soon as they are capable
of learning it. For tho' this consist only in outward grace-
fulness of motion, yet, I know not how, it gives children
manly thoughts and carriage, more than any thing. But
otherwise, I would not have little children much tormented
about punctilio's or niceties of breeding.
Never trouble your self about those faults in them, which
you know age will cure : and therefore want of well-fashion'd
civility in the carriage, whilst civility is not wanting in the
mind, (for there you must take care to plant it early) should
be the parents' least care, whilst they are young. If his tender
mind be fill'd with a veneration for his parents and teachers,
which consists of love and esteem, and a fear to offend them ;
and with respect and good will to all people ; that respect will
of itself teach those ways of expressing it, which he observes
most acceptable. Be sure to keep up in him the principles
of good nature and kindness ; make them as habitual as you
can, by credit and commendation, and the good things accom-:
panying that state: and when they have taken root in his
mind, and are settled there by a continued practice, fear
not, the ornaments of conversation, and the outside of fashr
ionable manners, will come in their due time; if when they
are remov'd out of their maid's care, they are put into the
hands of a well-bred man to be their governor.
MANNERS n
Whilst they are very young, any carelessness is to be
borne with in children, that carries not with it the marks of
pride or ill nature; but those, whenever they appear in any
action, are to be corrected immediately by the ways above-
mentioned. What I have said concerning manners, I would
not have so understood, as if I meant that those who have
the judgment to do it, should not gently fashion the motions
and carriage of children, when they are very young. It
would be of great advantage, if they had people about them
from their being first able to go, that had the skill, and would
take the right way to do it. That which I complain of, is
the wrong course that is usually taken in this matter. Chil-
dren, who were never taught any such thing as behaviour,
are often (especially when strangers are present) chid for
having some way or other fail'd in good manners, and have
thereupon reproofs and precepts heap'd upon them, concern-
ing putting off their hats, or making of legs, &c. Though
in this, those concerned pretend to correct the child, yet
in truth, for the most part, it is but to cover their own
shame ; and they lay the blame on the poor little ones, some-
times passionately enough, to divert it from themselves,
for fear the by-standers should impute to their want of care
and skill the child's ill behaviour.
For, as for the children themselves, they are never one
jot bettered by such occasional lectures. They at other times
should be shewn what to do, and by reiterated actions be
fashioned beforehand into the practice of what is fit and
becoming, and not told and talked to do upon the spot, of
what they have never been accustomed nor know how to
do as they should. To hare and rate them thus at every
turn, is not to teach them, but to vex and torment them to
no purpose. They should be let alone, rather than chid
for a fault which is none of theirs, nor is in their power to
mend for speaking to. And it were much better their natural
childish negligence or plainness should be left to the care of
riper years, than that they should frequently have rebukes
misplac'd upon them, which neither do nor can give them
graceful motions. If their minds are well-dispos'd, and
principled with inward civility, a great part of the roughness
which sticks to the outside for want of better teaching, time
52 JOHN LOCKE
and observation will rub off, as they grow up, if they are
bred in good company ; but if in ill, all the rules in the world,
all the correction imaginable, will not be able to polish them.
For you must take this for a certain truth, that let them have
what instructions you will, and ever so learned lectures of
breeding daily inculcated into them, that which will most
influence their carriage will be the company they converse
with, and the fashion of those about them. Children (nay,
and men too) do most by example. We are all a sort of
camelions, that still take a tincture from things near us;
nor is it to be wonder'd at in children, who better under-
stand what they see than what they hear.
§ 68. I mention'd above one great mischief that came by
servants to children, when by their flatteries they take off
the edge and force of the parents' rebukes, and so lessen
their authority: and here is another great inconvenience
which children receive from the ill examples which they
meet with amongst the meaner servants.
They are wholly, if possible, to be kept from such con-
versation; for the contagion of these ill precedents, both
in civility and virtue, horribly infects children, as often as
they come within reach of it. They frequently learn from
inibred or debauch'd servants such language, untowardly
tricks and vices, as otherwise they possibly would be ignorant
of all their lives.
§ 69. 'Tis a hard matter wholly to prevent this mischief.
You will have very good luck, if you never have a clownish
or vicious servant, and if from them your children never
get any infection: but yet as much must be done towards
it as can be, and the children kept as much as may be Hn
the company of their parents, and those to whose care they
are committed. To this purpose, their being in their pres-
ence should be made easy to them; they should be allowed
the liberties and freedoms suitable to their ages, and not
be held under unnecessary restraints, when in their parents'
or governor's sight. If it be a prison to them, 'tis no wonder
they should not like it. They must not be hinder'd from
being children, or from playing, or doing as children, but
1 Ho7V much the Romans thought the education of their children a busi-
ness that properly belonged to the parents themselves, see in Suetonius,
August, § 64. Plutarch in vita Catonis Censoris, Diodorus Siculus, L 2, cap, 3*
COMPANY 53
from doing ill ; all other liberty is to be allow'd them. Next,
to make them in love with the company of their parents, they
should receive all their good things there, and from their
hands. The servants should be hindered from making court
to them by giving them strong drink, wine, fruit, play-
things, and other such matters, which may make them in love
with their conversation.
§ 70. Having nam'd company, I am almost ready to throw
away my pen, and trouble you no farther on this subject:
for since that does more than all precepts, rules and in-
structions, methinks 'tis almost wholly in vain to make a
long discourse of other things, and to talk of that almost to no
purpose. For you will be ready to say, what shall I do with
my son? If I keep him always at home, he will be in
danger to be my young master; and if I send fiim abroad,
how is it possible to keep him from the contagion of rude-
ness and vice, which is every where so in fashion? In my
house he will perhaps be more innocent, but more ignorant
too of the world; wanting there change of company, and
being us'd constantly to the same faces, he will, when he
comes abroad, be a sheepish or conceited creature.
I confess both sides have their inconveniences. Being
abroad, 'tis true, will make him bolder, and better able to
bustle and shift among boys of his own age; and the emu-
lation of school-fellows often puts life and industry into
young lads. But still you can find a school, wherein it is
possible for the master to look after the manners of his
scholars, and can shew as great effects of his care of form-
ing their minds to virtue, and their carriage to good breed-
ing, as of forming their tongues to the learned languages,
you must confess, that you have a strange value for words,
when preferring the languages of the antient Greeks and
Romans to that which made 'em such brave men, you think
it worth while to hazard your son's innocence and virtue for
a little Greek and Latin. For, as for that boldness and
spirit which lads get amongst their play-fellows at school,
it has ordinarily such a mixture of rudeness and ill-turn'd
confidence, that those misbecoming and disingenuous ways
of shifting in the world must be unlearnt, and all the tinc-
ture wash'd out again, to make way for better principles,
54 JOHN LOCKE
and such manners as make a truly worthy man. He that
considers how diametrically opposite the skill of living well,
and managing, as a man should do, his affairs in the
world, is to that mal-pertness, tricking, or violence learnt
amongst school-boys, will think the faults of a privater edu-
cation infinitely to be preferred to such improvements, and
will take care to preserve his child's innocence and modesty
at home, as being nearer of kin, and more in the way of
those qualities which make an useful and able man. Nor
does any one find, or so much as suspect, that that retire-
ment and bashfulness which their daughters are brought up
in, makes them less knowing, or less able women. Con-
versation, when they come into the world, soon gives them
a becoming assurance; and whatsoever, beyond that, there
is of rough and boisterous, may in men be very well spar'd
too; for courage and steadiness, as I take it, lie not in
roughness and ill breeding.
Virtue is harder to be got than a knowledge of the
world; and if lost in a young man, is seldom recovered.
Sheepishness and ignorance of the world, the faults imputed
to a private education, are neither the necessary conse-
quences of being bred at home, nor if they were, are they
incurable evils. Vice is the more stubborn, as well as the
more dangerous evil of the two; and therefore in the first
place to be fenced against. If that sheepish softness which
often enervates those who are bred like fondlings at home,
be carefully to be avoided, it is principally so for virtue's
sake ; for fear lest such a yielding temper should be too sus-
ceptible of vicious impressions, and expose the novice too
easily to be corrupted. A young man before he leaves
the shelter of his father's house, and the guard of a tutor,
should be fortify'd with resolution, and made acquainted with
men, to secure his virtues, lest he should be led into some
ruinous course, or fatal precipice, before he is sufficiently
acquainted with the dangers of conversation, and has steadi-
ness enough not to yield to every temptation. Were it not
for this, a young man's bashfulness and ignorance in the
world, would not so much need an early care. Conversa-
tion would cure it in a great measure; or if that will not
do it early enough, it is only a stronger reason for a good
COMPANY 55
tutor at home. For if pains be to be taken to give him a
manly air and assurance betimes, it is chiefly as a fence
to his virtue when he goes into the world under his own
conduct.
It is preposterous therefore to sacrifice his innocency to
the attaining of confidence and some little skill of bustling
for himself among others, by his conversation with illbred
and vicious boys; when the chief use of that sturdiness,
and standing upon his own legs, is only for the preserva-
tion of his virtue. For if confidence or cunning come once
to mix with vice, and support his miscarriages, he is only
the surer lost; and you must undo again, and strip him of
that he has got from his companions, or give him up to
ruin. Boys will unavoidably be taught assurance by con-
versation with men, when they are brought into it; and
that is time enough. Modesty and submission, till then,
better fits them for instruction; and therefore there needs
not any great care to stock them with confidence before-
hand. That which requires most time, pains, and assiduity,
is, to work into them the principles and practice of virtue
and good breeding. This is the seasoning they should be
prepared with, so as not easily to be got out again. This
they had need to be well provided with, for conversation,
when they come into the world, will add to their knowledge
and assurance, but be too apt to take from their virtue;
which therefore they ought to be plentifully stor'd with,
and have that tincture sunk deep into them.
How they should be fitted for conversation, and entered
into the world, when they are ripe for it, we shall consider
in another place. But how any one's being put into a
mix'd herd of unruly boys, and there learning to wrangle at
trap, or rook at span-farthing, fits him for civil conversa-
tion or business, I do not see. And what qualities are
ordinarily to be got from such a troop of play-fellows as
schools usually assemble together from parents of all
kinds, that a father should so much covet, is hard to divine.
I am sure, he who is able to be at the charge of a tutor at
home, may there give his son a more genteel carriage, more
manly thoughts, and a sense of what is worthy and becom-
ing, with a greater proficiency in learning into the bargain,
56 JOHN LOCKE
and ripen him up sooner into a man, than any at school
can do. Not that I blame the schoolmaster in this, or think
it to be laid to his charge. The difference is great between
two or three pupils in the same house, and three or four
score boys lodged up and down: for let the master's in-
dustry and skill be never so great, it is impossible he should
have fifty or an hundred scholars under his eye, any longer
than they are in the school together: Nor can it be ex-
pected, that he should instruct them successfully in any
thing but their books ; the forming of their minds and man-
ners requiring a constant attention, and particular applica-
tion to every single boy, which is impossible in a numerous
flock, and would be wholly in vain (could he have time to
study and correct every one's particular defects and wrong
inclinations) when the lad was to be left to himself, or the
prevailing infection of his fellows, the greatest part of the
four and twenty hours.
But fathers, observing that fortune is often most suc-
cessfully courted by bold and bustling men, are glad to see
their sons pert and forward betimes; take it for an happy
omen that they will be thriving men, and look on the tricks
they play their school-fellows, or learn from them, as a
proficiency in the art of living, and making their way
through the world. But I must take the liberty to say, that
he that lays the foundation of his son's fortune in virtue
and good breeding, takes the only sure and warrantable way.
And 'tis not the waggeries or cheats practis'd amongst
school-boys, 'tis not their roughness one to another, nor the
well-laid plots of robbing an orchard together, that make
an able man; but the principles of justice, generosity, and
sobriety, join'd with observation and industry, qualities
which I judge school-boys do not learn much of one an-
other. And if a young gentleman bred at home, be not
taught more of them than he could learn at school, his
father has made a very ill choice of a tutor. Take a boy
from the top of a grammar-school, and one of the same
age bred as he should be in his father's family, and bring
them into good company together, and then see which of the
two will have the more manly carriage, and address him-
self with the more becoming assurance to strangers. Here
VIRTUE 57
I imagine the school-boy's confidence will either fail or dis-
credit him; and if it be such as fits him only for the con-
versation of boys, he were better to be without it.
Vice, if we may believe the general complaint, ripens
so fast now-a-days, and runs up to seed so early in young
people, that it is impossible to keep a lad from the spread-
ing contagion, if you will venture him abroad in the herd,
and trust to chance or his own inclination for the choice
of his company at school. By what fate Vice has so
thriven amongst us these years past, and by what hands it
has been nurs'd up into so uncontroul'd a dominion, I shall
leave to others to enquire. I wish that those who complain
of the great decay of Christian piety and virtue every where,
and of learning and acquired improvements in the gentry
of this generation, would consider how to retrieve them in
the next. This I am sure, that if the foundation of it be
not laid in the education and principling of the youth, all
other endeavours will be in vain. And if the innocence,
sobriety, and industry of those who are coming up, be not
taken care of and preserved, 'twill be ridiculous to expect,
that those who are to succeed next on the stage, should
abound in that virtue, ability, and learning, which has
hitherto made England considerable in the world. I was
going to add courage too, though it has been look'd on as
the natural inheritance of Englishmen. What has been
talk'd of some late actions at sea, of a kind unknown to
our ancestors, gives me occasion to say, that debauchery
sinks the courage of men; and when dissoluteness has
eaten out the sense of true honour, bravery seldom stays
long after it. And I think it impossible to find an instance
of any nation, however renown'd for their valour, who ever
kept their credit in arms, or made themselves redoubtable
amongst their neighbours, after corruption had once broke
through and dissolv'd the restraint of discipline, and vice
was grown to such an head, that it durst shew itself bare-
faced without being out of countenance.
'Tis virtue then, direct virtue, which is the hard and
valuable part to be aim'd at in education, and not a forward
pertness, or any little arts of shifting. All other considera-
tions and accomplishments should give way and be post-
58 JOHN LOCKE
pon'd to this. This is the solid and substantial good which*
tutors should not only read lectures, and talk of, but the
labour and art of education should furnish the mind with,
and fasten there, and never cease till the young man had
a true relish of it, and plac'd his strength, his glory, and his
pleasure in it.
The more this advances, the easier way will be made
for other accomplishments in their turns. For he that
is brought to submit to virtue, will not be refractory, or
resty, in any thing that becomes him ; and therefore I cannot
but prefer breeding of a young gentleman at home in his
father's sight, under a good governour, as much the best
and safest way to this great and main end of education,
when it can be had, and is order'd as it should be. Gen-
tlemen's houses are seldom without variety of company.
They should use their sons to all the strange faces that
come here, and engage them in conversation with men of
parts and breeding, as soon as they are capable of it. And
why those who live in the country should not take them with
them, when they make visits of civility to their neigh-
bours, I know not. This I am sure, a father that breeds
his son at home, has the opportunity to have him more in
his own company, and there give him what encouragement
he thinks fit, and can keep him better from the taint of
servants and the meaner sort of people, than is possible
to be done abroad. But what shall be resolv'd in the case,
must in great measure be left to the parents, to be de-
termined by their circumstances and conveniences; only I
think it the worst sort of good husbandry for a father not
to strain himself a little for his son's breeding; which,
let his condition be what it will, is the best portion he can
leave him. But if, after all, it shall be thought by some,
that the breeding at home has too little company, and that
at ordinary schools, not such as it should be for a young
gentleman, I think there might be ways found out to avoid
the inconveniences on the one side and the other.
§ 71. Having under consideration how great the influence
of company is, and how prone we are all, especially chil-
dren, to imitation, I must here take the liberty to mind
parents of this one thing, vis. That he that will have his
PUNISHMENT 59
son have a respect for him and his orders, must himself
have a great reverence for his son. Maxima debetur pueris
reverentia. You must do nothing before him, which you
would not have him imitate. If any thing escape you, which
you would have pass for a fault in him, he will be sure to
shelter himself under your example, and shelter himself
so as that it will not be easy to come at him, to correct it in
him the right way. If you punish him for what he sees
you practise yourself, he will not think that severity to
proceed from kindness in you, careful to amend a fault in
him; but will be apt to interpret it the peevishness and
arbitrary imperiousness of a father, who, without any ground
for it, would deny his son the liberty and pleasures he takes
himself. Or if you assume to yourself the liberty you have
taken, as a privilege belonging to riper years, to which a
child must not aspire, you do but add new force to your
example, and recommend the action the more powerfully
to him. For you must always remember, that children affect
to be men earlier than is thought; and they love breeches,
not for their cut or ease, but because the having them
is a mark or step towards manhood. What I say of the
father's carriage before his children, must extend itself
to all those who have any authority over them, or for whom
he would have them have any respect.
§ 72. But to return to the business of rewards and pun-
ishments. All the actions of childishness, and unfashion-
able carriage, and whatever time and age will of itself be
sure to reform, being (as I have said) exempt from the
discipline of the rod, there will not be so much need of
beating children as is generally made use of. To which
if we add learning to read, write, dance, foreign language,
&c. as under the same privilege, there will be but very rarely
an occasion for blows or force in an ingenuous educa-
tion. The right way to teach them those things, is, to
give them a liking and inclination to what you suppose to
them to be learn'd, and that will engage their industry and
application. This I think no hard matter to do, if children
be handled as they should be, and the rewards and punish-
ments above-mention'd be carefully apply'd, and with them
these few rules observed in the method of instructing them.
60 JOHN LOCKE
§ y}^, I. None of the things they are to learn, should ever
be made a burthen to them, or imposed on them as a task.
Whatever is so proposed, presently becomes irksome; the
mind takes an aversion to it, though before it were a thing of
delight or indifferency. Let a child but be ordered to whip
his top at a certain time every day, whether he has or has
not a mind to it; let this be but requir'd of him as a duty,
wherein he must spend so many hours morning and after-
noon, and see whether he will not soon be weary of any
play at this rate. Is it not so with grown men ? What they
do chearfully of themselves, do they not presently grow
sick of, and can no more endure, as soon as they find it is
expected of them as a duty? Children have as much a mind
to shew that they are free, that their own good actions
come from themselves, that they are absolute and inde-
pendent, as any of the proudest of you grown men, think of
them as you please.
§ 74. 2. As a consequence of this, they should seldom
be put about doing even those things you have got an in-
clination in them to, but when they have a mind and dis-
position to it. He that loves reading, writing, musick, &c.
finds yet in himself certain seasons wherein those things
have no relish to him; and if at that time he forces himself
to it, he only pothers and wearies himself to no purpose.
So it is with children. This change of temper should be
carefully observed in them, and the favourable seasons of
aptitude and inclination be heedfully laid hold of: and if
they are not often enough forward of themselves, a good dis-
position should be talk'd into them, before they be set upon
any thing. This I think no hard matter for a discreet tutor to
do, who has study'd his pupil's temper, and will be at a little
pains to fill his head with suitable ideas, such as may make
him in love with the present business. By this means a great
deal of time and tiring would be sav'd: for a child will learn
three times as much when he is in tune, as he will with
double the time and pains when he goes awkwardly or is
dragged unwillingly to it. If this were minded as it should,
children might be permitted to weary themselves with play,
and yet have time enough to learn what is suited to the
capacity of each age. But no such thing is considered in the
DISPOSITION 61
ordinary way of education, nor can it well be. That rough
discipline of the rod is built upon other principles, has no
attraction in it, regards not what humour children are in,
nor looks after favourable seasons of inclination. And
indeed it would be ridiculous, when compulsion and blows
have rais'd an aversion in the child to his task, to expect
he should freely of his own accord leave his play, and with
pleasure court the occasions of learning; whereas, were
matters ordered right, learning anything they should be
taught might be made as much a recreation to their play,
as their play is to their learning. The pains are equal on
both sides. Nor is it that which troubles them; for they
love to be busy, and the change and variety is that which
naturally delights them. The only odds is, in that which
we call play they act at liberty, and employ their pains
(whereof you may observe them never sparing) freely; but
what they are to learn is forced upon them, they are call'd,
compeird, and driven to it. This is that, that at first en-
trance balks and cools them; they want their liberty. Get
them but to ask their tutor to teach them, as they do often
their play-fellows, instead of his calling upon them to learn,
and they being satisfy'd that they act as freely in this as
they do in other things, they will go on with as much pleasure
in it, and it will not differ from their other sports and
play. By these ways, carefully pursu'd, a child may be
brought to desire to be taught any thing you have a mind
he should learn. The hardest part, I confess, is with the
first or eldest; but when once he is set right, it is easy by
him to lead the rest whither one will.
§ 75. Though it be past doubt, that the fittest time for
children to learn any thing, is, when their minds are in
tune, and well disposed to it ; when neither flagging of spirit,
nor intentness of thought upon something else, makes them
awkward and averse; yet two things are to be taken care
of: I. That these seasons either not being warily observed,
and laid hold on as often as they return, or else, not return-
ing as often as they should, the improvement of the child
be not thereby neglected, and so he be let grow into an habit-
ual idleness, and confirmed in this disposition: 2. That
though other things are ill learn'd, when the mind is either
62 JOHN LOCKE
indisposed, or otherwise taken up; yet it is of great moment,
and worth our endeavours, to teach the mind to get the mas-
tery over itself, and to be able, upon choice, to take itself off
from the hot pursuit of one thing, and set itself upon another
with facility and delight, or at any time to shake off its slug-
gishness, and vigorously employ itself about what reason, or
the advice of another shall direct. This is to be done in
children, by trying them sometimes, when they are by lazi-
ness unbent, or by avocation bent another way, and en-
deavouring to make them buckle to the thing proposed. If
by this means the mind can get an habitual dominion over
itself, lay by ideas or business as occasion requires, and be-
take itself to new and less acceptable employments without
reluctancy or discomposure, it will be an advantage of more
consequence than Latin or logick or most of those things
children are usually required to learn.
§ 76. Children being more active and busy in that age,
than in any other part of their life, and being indifferent
to any thing they can do, so they may be but doing, dancing
and Scotch-hoppers would be the same thing to them, were
the encouragements and discouragements equal. But to
things we would have them learn, the great and only dis-
couragement I can, observe, is, that they are call'd to it, 'tis
made their business, they are teaz'd and chid about it, and
do it with trembling and apprehension; or, when they come
willingly to it, are kept too long at it, till they are quite
tir'd: all which intrenches too much on that natural free-
dom they extremely affect. And it is that liberty alone which
gives the true relish and delight to their ordinary play-games.
Turn the tables, and you will find they will soon change their
application; especially if they see the examples of others
whom they esteem and think above themselves. And if the
things which they observe others to do, be ordered so, that
they insinuate themselves into them as the privilege of an
age or condition above theirs; then ambition, and the desire
still to get forward and higher, and to be like those above
them, will set them on work, and make them go on with
vigour and pleasure; pleasure in what they have begun by
their own desire, in which way the enjoyment of their
dearly beloved freedom will be no small encouragement to
CHIDING 63
them. To all which, if there be added the satisfaction of
credit and reputation, I am apt to think there will need no
other spur to excite their application and assiduity, as much
as is necessary. I confess, there needs patience and skill,
gentleness and attention, and a prudent conduct to attain
this at first. But why have you a tutor, if there needed
no pains? But when this is once established, all the rest
will follow, more easily than in any more severe and im-
perious discipline. And I think it no hard matter to gain
this point; I am sure it will not be, where children have no
ill examples set before them. The great danger therefore,
I apprehend, is only from servants, and other ill-order'd
children, or such other vicious or foolish people, who spoil
children both by the ill pattern they set before them in their
own ill manners, and by giving them together the two things
they should never have at once ; I mean vicious pleasures and
commendation.
§ yj. As children should very seldom be corrected by
blows, so I think frequent, and especially passionate chiding
of almost as ill consequence. It lessens the authority of the
parents, and the respect of the child; for I bid you still
remember, they distinguish early betwixt passion and reason :
and as they cannot but have a reverence for what comes
from the latter, so they quickly grow into a contempt of the
former; or if it causes a present terror, yet it soon wears
off, and natural inclination will easily learn to slight such
scare-crows which make a noise, but are not animated by
reason. Children being to be restrained by the parents only
in vicious (which, in their tender years, are only a few)
things, a look or nod only ought to correct them when they
do amiss ; or, if words are sometimes to be us'd, they ought
to be grave, kind, and sober, representing the ill or unbecom-
ingness of the faults, rather than a hasty rating of the child
for it ; which makes him not sufficiently distinguish, whether
your dislike be not more directed to him than his fault. Pas-
sionate chiding usually carries rough and ill language with
it, which has this farther ill effect, that it teaches and justifies
it in children : and the names that their parents or praeceptors
give them, they will not be asham'd or backward to bestow
on others, having so good authority for the use of them.
64 JOHN LOCKE
§ 78. I foresee here it will be objected to me, what then,
will you have children never beaten nor chid for any fault?
This will be to let loose the reins to all kind of disorder.
Not so much, as is imagined, if a right course has been taken
in the first seasoning of their minds, and implanting that
awe of their parents above mentioned. For beating, by
constant observation, is found to do little good, where the
smart of it is all the punishment is fear'd or felt in it; for
the influence of that quickly wears out, with the memory
of it. But yet there is one, and but one fault, for which,
I think, children should be beaten, and that is, obstinacy or
rebellion. And in this too, I would have it order'd so, if it
can be, that the shame of the whipping, and not the pain,
should be the greatest part of the punishment. Shame of do-
ing amiss, and deserving chastisement, is the only true re-
straint belonging to virtue. The smart of the rod, if shame
accompanies it not, soon ceases, and is forgotten, and will
quickly by use lose its terror. I have known the children
of a person of quality kept in awe by the fear of having
their shoes pulFd off, as much as others by apprehensions of
a rod hanging over them. Some such punishment I think
better than beating; for 'tis shame of the fault, and the dis-
grace that attends it, that they should stand in fear of, rather
than pain, if you would have them have a temper truly in-
genuous. But stubbornness, and an obstinate disobedience,
must be mastered with force and blows ; for this there is no
other remedy. Whatever particular action you bid him do,
or forbear, you must be sure to see your self obey'd; no
quarter in this case, no resistance : for when once it comes to
be a trial of skill, a contest for mastery betwixt you, as it
is if you command and he refuses, you must be sure to carry
it, whatever blows it costs, if a nod or words will not prevail ;
unless, for ever after, you intend to live in obedience to your
son. A prudent and kind mother of my acquaintance, was,
on such an occasion, forced to whip her little daughter, at
her first coming home from nurse, eight times successively
the same morning, before she could master her stubbornness,
and obtain a compliance in a very easy and indifferent matter.
If she had left off sooner, and stopped at the seventh whip-
ping, she had spoil'd the child for ever, and, by her unprevail-
OBSTINACY 65
ing blows, only confirmed her refractoriness, very hardly
afterwards to be cur'd : but wisely persisting till she had bent
her mind, and suppled her will, the only end of correction
and chastisement, she established her authority thoroughly
in the very first occasions, and had ever after a very ready
compliance and obedience in all things from her daughter;
for as this was the first time, so I think it was the last too
she ever struck her.
The pain of the rod, the first occasion that requires it,
continued and increased, without leaving off till it has
throughly prevailed, should first bend the mind, and settle
the parent's authority ; and then gravity, mix'd with kindness,
should for ever after keep it.
This, if well reflected on, would make people more wary
in the use of the rod and the cudgel, and keep them from
being so apt to think beating the safe and universal remedy
to be apply'd at random on all occasions. This is certain,
however, if it does no good, it does great harm; if it reaches
not the mind, and makes not the will supple, it hardens
the offender; and whatever pain he has suffered for it, does
but endear him to his beloved stubbornness, which has got
him this time the victory, and prepares him to contest, and
hope for it for the future. This I doubt not but by ill-order'd
correction many have been taught to be obstinate and re-
fractory who otherwise would have been very pliant and
tractable. For if you punish a child so, as if it were only to
revenge the past fault, which has raised your choler, what
operation can this have upon his mind, which is the part to
be amended? If there were no sturdy humor or zvilfulness
mix'd with his fault, there was nothing in it that requir'd the
severity of blows. A kind or grave admonition is enough to
remedy the slips of frailty, forgetfulness, or inadvertency,
and is as much as they will stand in need of. But if there
were a perverseness in the will, if it were a design'd,
resolv'd disobedience, the punishment is not to be meas-
ured by the greatness or smallness of the matter wherein
it appeared, but by the opposition it carries, and stands in,
to that respect and submission is due to the father's or-
ders; which must always be rigorously exacted, and the
blows by pauses laid on, till they reach the mind, and you
(3) HC XXXVII
66 JOHN LOCKE
perceive the signs of a true sorrow, shame, and purpose of
obedience.
This, I confess, requires something more than setting
children a task, and whipping them without any more a-do
if it be not done, and done to our fancy. This requires
care, attention, observation, and a nice study of children's
tempers, and weighing their faults well, before we come to
this sort of punishment. But is not that better than always
to have the rod in hand as the only instrument of govern-
ment? And by frequent use of it on all occasions, misapply
and render inefficacious this last and useful remedy, where
there is need of it? For what else can be expected, when
it is promiscuously us'd upon every little slip? When a mis-
take in concordance, or a wrong position in verse, shall have
the severity of the lash, in a well-temper'd and industrious
lad, as surely as a wilful crime in an obstinate and perverse
offender; how can such a way of correction be expected to
do good on the mind, and set that right ? Which is the only
thing to be look'd after; and when set right, brings all the
rest that you can desire along with it.
§ 79. Where a wrong bent of the will wants not amend-
ment, there can be no need of blows. All other faults,
where the mind is rightly disposed, and refuses not the govern-
ment and authority of the father or tutor, are but mistakes,
and may often be overlooked; or when they are taken
notice of, need no other but the gentle remedies of advice,
direction, and reproof, till the repeated and wilful neglect
of those, shews the fault to be in the mind, and that a mani-
fest perverseness of the will lies at the root of their dis-
obedience. But whenever obstinacy, which is an open de-
fiance, appears, that cannot be wink'd at or neglected, but
must, in the first instance, be subdu'd and mastered ; only care
must be had, that we mistake not and we must be sure
it is obstinacy and nothing else.
§ 80. But since the occasions of punishment, especially
beating, are as much to be avoided as may be, I think it
should not be often brought to this point. If the awe I
spoke of be once got, a look will be sufficient in most cases.
Nor indeed should the same carriage, seriousness, or ap-
plication be expected from young children as from those of
REASONING 67
riper growth. They must be permitted, as I said, the foolish
and childish actions suitable to their years, without taking
notice of them. Inadvertency, carelessness, and gayety, is
the character of that age. I think the severity I spoke of is
not to extend itself to such unseasonable restraints. Nor is
that hastily to be interpreted obstinacy or wilfulness, which
is the natural product of their age or temper. In such mis-
carriages they are to be assisted, and help'd towards an
amendment, as weak people under a natural infirmity ; which,
though they are warn'd of, yet every relapse must not be
counted a perfect neglect, and they presently treated as
obstinate. Faults of frailty, as they should never be neg-
lected, or let pass without minding, so, unless the will mix
with them, they should never be exaggerated, or very sharply
reprov'd; but with a gentle hand set right, as time and age
permit. By this means, children will come to see what 'tis
in any miscarriage that is chiefly offensive, and so learn to
avoid it. This will encourage them to keep their wills
right; which is the great business, when they find that it
preserves them from any great displeasure, and that in all
their other failings they meet with the kind concern and
help, rather than the anger and passionate reproaches of their
tutor and parents. Keep them from vice and vicious dis-
positions, and such a kind of behaviour in general will come
with every degree of their age, as is suitable to that age and
the company they ordinarily converse with ; and as they grow
in years, they will grow in attention and application. But
that your words may always carry weight and authority with
them, if it shall happen, upon any occasion, that you bid
him leave off the doing of any even childish things, you must
be sure to carry the point, and not let him have the mastery.
But yet, I say, I would have the father seldom interpose his
authority and command in these cases, or in any other, but
such as have a tendency to vicious habits. I think there
are better ways of prevailing with them: and a gentle per-
suasion in reasoning, (when the first point of submission to
your will is got) will most times do much better.
§8i. It will perhaps be wonder'd, that I mention reason-
ing with children; and yet I cannot but think that the true
way of dealing with them. They understand it as early as
66 JOHN LOCKE
they do language; and, if I misobserve not, they love to be
treated as rational creatures, sooner than is imagined. 'Tis
a pride should be cherished in them, and, as much as can
be, made the greatest instrument to turn them by.
But when I talk of reasoning, I do not intend any other
but such as is suited to the child's capacity and apprehen-
sion. No body can think a boy of three or seven years
old should be argu'd with as a grown man. Long dis-
courses, and philosophical reasonings, at best, amaze and
confound, but do not instruct children. When I say, there-
fore, that they must be treated as rational creatures, I mean
that you should make them sensible, by the mildness of your
carriage, and the composure even in your correction of them,
that what you do is reasonable in you, and useful and neces-
sary for them; and that it is not out of caprichio, passion
or fancy, that you command or forbid them any thing. This
they are capable of understanding; and there is no virtue
they should be excited to, nor fault they should be kept from,
which I do not think they may be convinced of; but it must
be by such reasons as their age and understandings are capa-
ble of, and those propos'd always in very few and plain
words. The foundations on which several duties are built,
and the fountains of right and Wrong from which they
spring, are not perhaps easily to be let into the minds of
grown men, not us'd to abstract their thoughts from com-
mon received opinions. Much less are children capable of
reasonings from remote principles. They cannot conceive
the force of long deductions. The reasons that move them
must be obvious, and level to their thoughts, and such as may
(if I may so say) be felt and touched. But yet, if their
age, temper, and inclination be considered, there will never
want such motives as may be sufficient to convince them.
If there be no other more particular, yet these will always
be intelligible, and of force, to deter them from any fault
fit to be taken notice of in them, {vis.) That it will be a
discredit and disgrace to them, and displease you.
§ 82. But of all the ways whereby children are to be in-
structed, and their manners formed, the plainest, easiest, and
most efficacious, is, to set before their eyes the examples of
those things you would have them do, or avoid ; which, when
WHIPPING 69
they are pointed out to them, in the practice of persons within
their knowledge, with some reflections on their beauty and
unbecomingness, are of more force to draw or deter their
imitation, than any discourses which can be made to them.
Virtues and vices can by no words be so plainly set before
their understandings as the actions of other men will shew
them, when you direct their observation, and bid them view
this or that good or bad quality in their practice. And the
beauty or uncomeliness of many things, in good and ill breed-
ing, will be better learnt, and make deeper impressions on
them, in the examples of others, than from any rules or in-
structions can be given about them.
This is a method to be us'd, not only whilst they are young,
but to be continu'd even as long as they shall be under an-
other's tuition or conduct ; nay, I know not whether it be not
the best way to be us'd by a father, as long as he shall think
fit, on any occasion, to reform any thing he wishes mended
in his son ; nothing sinking so gently, and so deep, into men's
minds, as example. And what ill they either overlook or in-
dulge in themselves, they cannot but dislike and be asham'd
of, when it is set before them in another.
§ 83. It may be doubted, concerning whipping, when as
the last remedy, it comes to be necessary, at what times, and
by whom it should be done; whether presently upon the
committing the fault, whilst it is yet fresh and hot; and
whether parents themselves should beat their children. As
to the first, I think it should not be done presently, lest
passion mingle with it; and so, though it exceed the just
proportion, yet it lose of its due weight: for even children
discern when we do things in passion. But, as I said before,
that has most weight with them, that appears sedately to
come from their parents' reason; and they are not without
this distinction. Next, if you have any discreet servant
capable of it, and has the place of governing your child
(for if you have a tutor, there is no doubt) I think it is
best the smart should come immediately from another's hand,
though by the parent's order, who should see it done;
whereby the parent's authority will be preserv'd, and the
child's aversion, for the pain it suffers, rather to be turn'd
on the person that immediately inflicts. For I would have
70 JOHN LOCKE
a father seldom strike his child, but upon very urgent
necessity, and as the last remedy; and then perhaps it will
be fit to do it so that the, child should not quickly forget it.
§ 84. But, as I said before, beating is the worst, and
therefore the last means to be us'd in the correction of
children, and that only in cases of extremity, after all
gentle ways have been try'd, and prov'd unsuccessful ; which,
if well observed, there will be very seldom any need of
blows. For, it not being to be imagined that a child will
often, if ever, dispute his father's present command in any
particular instance, and the father not interposing his abso-
lute authority, in peremptory rules, concerning either child-
ish or indifferent actions, wherein his son is to have his
liberty, or concerning his learning or improvement, wherein
there is no compulsion to be us'd: there remains only the
prohibition of some vicious actions, wherein a child is
capable of obstinacy, and consequently can deserve beating;
and so there will be but very few occasions of that dis-
cipline to be us'd by any one who considers well and
orders his child's education as it should be. For the first
seven years, what vices can a child be guilty of, but lying
or some ill-natur'd tricks; the repeated commission whereof,
after his father's direct command against it, shall bring
him into the condemnation of obstinacy, and the chastise-
ment of the rod? If any vicious inclination in him be,
in the first appearance and instances of it, treated as it
should be, first with your wonder, and then, if returning
again, a second time discountenanced with the severe brow
of a father, tutor, and all about him, and a treatment
suitable to the state of discredit before-mention'd; and this
continued till he be made sensible and asham'd of his fault,
I imagine there will be no need of any other correction, nor
ever any occasion to come to blows. The necessity of such
chastisement is usually the consequence only of former indul-
gences or neglects: If vicious inclinations were watch'd from
the beginning, and the first irregularities which they cause,
corrected by those gentler ways, we should seldom have
to do with more than one disorder at once; which would be
easily set right without any stir or noise, and not require
so harsh a discipline as beating. Thus one by one as they
WHIPPING 71
appeared, they might all be weeded out, without any signs
or memory that ever they had been there. But we letting
their faults (by indulging and humouring our little ones)
grow up, till they are sturdy and numerous, and the deformity
of them makes us asham'd and uneasy, we are fain to
come to the plough and the harrow; the spade and the
pick-ax must go deep to come at the roots ; and all the force,
skill, and diligence we can use, is scarce enough to cleanse
the vitiated seed-plat, overgrown with weeds, and restore
us the hopes of fruits, to reward our pains in its season.
§ 85. This course, if observed, will spare both father and
child the trouble of repeated injunctions, and multiply'd
rules of doing and forbearing. For I am of opinion, that
of those actions which tend to vicious habits, (which are
those alone that a father should interpose his authority
and commands in) none should be forbidden children till
they are found guilty of them. For such untimely pro-
hibitions, if they do nothing worse, do at least so much to-
wards teaching and allowing 'em, that they suppose that
children may be guilty of them, who would possibly be
safer in the ignorance of any such faults. And the best
remedy to stop them, is, as I have said, to shew wonder
and amazement at any such action as hath a vicious ten-
dency, when it is first taken notice of in a child. For ex-
ample, when he is first found in a lie, or any ill-natur'd
trick, the first remedy should be, to talk to him of it as a
strange monstrous matter, that it could not be imagined he
would have done, and so shame him out of it.
§ 86. It will be ('tis like) objected, that whatsoever I
fancy of the tractableness of children, and the prevalency
of those softer ways of shame and commendation; yet
there are many who will never apply themselves to their
books, and to what they ought to learn, unless they are
scourg'd to it. This, I fear, is nothing but the language of
ordinary schools and fashion, which have never suffer'd the
other to be try'd as it should be, in places where it could be
taken notice of. Why, else, does the learning of Latin and
Greek need the rod, when French and Italian need it not?
Children learn to dance and fence without whipping; nay,
Arithmetick, drawing, &c. they apply themselves well enough
72 JOHN LOCKE
to without beating: which would make one suspect, that
there is something strange, unnatural, and disagreeable to
that Age, in the things required in grammar-schools, or
in the methods us'd there, that children cannot be brought
to, without the severity of the lash, and hardly with that
too; or else, that it is a mistake, that those tongues could
not be taught them without beating.
§ 87. But let us suppose some so negligent or idle, that
they will not be brought to learn by the gentle ways pro-
posed, (for we must grant, that there will be children found
of all tempers,) yet it does not thence follow, that the
rough discipline of the cudgel is to be us'd to all. Nor can
any one be concluded unmanageable by the milder methods
of government, till they have been throughly try'd upon
him; and if they will not prevail with him to use his en-
deavours, and do what is in his power to do, we make no
excuses for the obstinate. Blows are the proper remedies
for those; but blows laid on in a way different from the
ordinary. He that wilfully neglects his book, and stub-
bornly refuses any thing he can do, required of him by his
father, expressing himself in a positive serious command,
should not be corrected with two or three angry lashes, for
not performing his task, and the same punishment repeated
again and again upon every the like default; but when it is
brought to that pass, that wilfulness evidently shews itself,
and makes blows necessary, I think the chastisement should
be a little more sedate, and a little more severe, and the
whipping (mingled with admonition between) so continued,
till the impressions of it on the mind were found legible in
the face, voice, and submission of the child, not so sensible
of the smart as of the fault he has been guilty of, and
melting in true sorrow vmder it. If such a correction as this,
try'd some few times at fit distances, and carry'd to the
utmost severity, with the visible displeasure of the father all
the while, will not work the effect, turn the mind, and pro-
duce a future compliance, what can be hop'd from blows, and
to what purpose should they be any more usM? Beating,
when you can expect no good from it, will look more like
the fury of an enrag'd enemy, than the good-will of a
compassionate friend; and such chastisement carries with
TUTOR 73
it only provocation, without any prospect of amendment.
If it be any father's misfortune to have a son thus perverse
and untractable, I know not what more he can do but pray
for him. But, I imagine, if a right course be taken with
children from the beginning, very few will be found to be
such; and when there are any such instances, they are not
to be the rule for the education of those who are better
natur'd, and may be managed with better usage.
§ 88. If a tutor can be got, that, thinking himself in
the father's place, charg'd with his care, and relishing these
things, will at the beginning apply himself to put them in
practice, he will afterwards find his work very easy ; and you
will, I guess, have your son in a little time a greater pro-
ficient in both learning and breeding than perhaps you im-
agine. But let him by no means beat him at any time
without your consent and direction; at least till you have
experience of his discretion and temper. But yet, to keep
up his authority with his pupil, besides concealing that he
has not the power of the rod, you must be sure to use
him with great respect yourself, and cause all your family
to do so too: for you cannot expect your son should have
any regard for one whom he sees you, or his mother, or
others slight If you think him worthy of contempt, you
have chosen amiss; and if you shew any contempt of him,
he will hardly escape it from your son: and whenever that
happens, whatever worth he may have in himself, and
abilities for this employment, they are all lost to your child,
and can afterwards never be made useful to him.
§ 89. As the father's example must teach the child respect
for his tutor, so the tutor's example must lead the child into
those actions he would have him do. His practice must
by no means cross his precepts, unless he intend to set him
wrong. It will be to no purpose for the tutor to talk of
the restraint of the passions whilst any of his own are
let loose; and he will in vain endeavour to reform any vice
or indecency in his pupil, which he allows in himself.
Ill patterns are sure to be follow'd more than good rules;
and therefore he must always carefully preserve him from
the influence of ill precedents, especially the most dan-
gerous of all, the examples of the servants; from whose
74 JOHN LOCKE
company he is to be kept, not by prohibitions, for that
will but give him an itch after it, but by other ways I have
mentioned.
§ 90. In all the whole business of education, there is
nothing like to be less hearkened to, or harder to be well
observed, than what I am now going to say; and that is,
that children should, from their first beginning to talk, have
some discreet, sober, nay, wise person about them, whose
care it should be to fashion them aright, and keep them
from all ill, especially the infection of bad company. I
think this province requires great sobriety, temperance,
tenderness, diligence, and discretion; qualities hardly to be
found united in persons that are to be had for ordinary
salaries, nor easily to be found any where. As to the
charge of it, I think it will be the money best laid out that
can be, about our children; and therefore, though it may
be expensive more than is ordinary, yet it cannot be thought
dear. He that at any rate procures his child a good mind,
well-principled, temper'd to virtue and usefulness, and
adorn'd with civility and good breeding, makes a better
purchase for him than if he laid out the money for an
addition of more earth to his former acres. Spare it in
toys and play-games, in silk and ribbons, laces, and other
useless expenses, as much as you please ; but be not sparing
in so necessary a part as this. 'Tis not good husbandry
to make his fortune rich, and his mind poor. I have often
with great admiration seen people lavish it profusely in
tricking up their children in fine clothes, lodging and feed-
ing them sumptuously, allowing them more than enough of
useless servants, and yet at the same time starve their minds,
and not take sufficient care to cover that which is the most
shameful nakedness, vis. their natural wrong inclinations
and ignorance. This I can look on as no other than a sacri-
ficing to their own vanity, it shewing more their pride
than true care of the good of their children; whatsoever
you employ to the advantage of your son's mind, will shew
your true kindness, tho' it be to the lessening of his estate.
A wise and good man can hardly want either the opinion
or reality of being great and happy; but he that is foolish
or vicious, can be neither great nor happy, what estate
GOVERNOR 75
soever you leave him : and I ask you, whether there be not
men in the world, whom yoU had rather have your son be
with five hundred pounds per annum, than some other you
know with five thousand pounds.
§ 91. The consideration of charge ought not therefore
to deter those who are able. The great difficulty will be
where to find a proper person: for those of small age,
parts, and virtue, are unfit for this employment, and those
that have greater, will hardly be got to undertake such a
charge. You must therefore look out early, and enquire
every where; for the world has people of all sorts. And
I remember, Montaigne says in one of his essays, that the
learned Castalio was fain to make trenchers at Basle, to
keep himself from starving, when his father would have
given any money for such a tutor for his son, and Castalio
have willingly embraced such an employment upon very
reasonable terms; but this was for want of intelligence.
§ 92. If you find it difficult to meet with such a tutor
as we desire, you are not to wonder. I only can say, spare
no care nor cost to get such an one. All things are to be
had that way: and I dare assure you, that if you can get
a good one, you will never repent the charge ; but will always
have the satisfaction to think it the money of all other the
best laid out. But be sure take no body upon friends, or
charity, no, nor upon great commendations. Nay, if you
will do as you ought, the reputation of a sober man, with
a good stock of learning, (which is all usually required in
a tutor) will not be enough to serve your turn. In this
choice be as curious as you would be in that of a wife
for him ; for you must not think of trial or changing after-
wards: This will cause great inconvenience to you, and
greater to your son. When I consider the scruples and cau-
tions I here lay in your way, methinks it looks as if I advis'd
you to something which I would have offered at, but in
effect not done. But he that shall consider how much the
business of a tutor, rightly employed, lies out of the road,
and how remote it is from the thoughts of many, even of
those who propose to themselves this employment, will per-
haps be of my mind, that one fit to educate and form the
mind of a young gentleman is not every where to be found,
76 JOHN LOCKE
and that more than ordinary care is to be taken in the
choice of him, or else you may fail of your end.
§ 93. The character of a sober man and a scholar is, as
I have above observed, what every one expects in a tutor.
This generally is thought enough, and is all that parents
commonly look for: But when such an one has empty'd
out into his pupil all the Latin and logick he has brought
from the university, will that furniture make him a fine
gentleman ? Or can it be expected, that he should be better
bred, better skill'd in the world, better principled in the
grounds and foundations of true virtue and generosity, than
his young tutor is?
To form a young gentleman as he should be, 'tis fit his
governor should himself be well-bred, understanding the
ways of carriage and measures of civility in all the variety
of persons, times, and places; and keep his pupil, as much
as his age requires, constantly to the observation of them.
This is an art not to be learnt nor taught by books. Nothing
can give it but good company and observation join'd to-
gether. The taylor may make his clothes modish, and the
dancing-master give fashion to his motions; yet neither
of these, tho' they set off well, make a well-bred gentleman:
no, tho' he have learning to boot, which, if not well manag'd,
makes him more impertinent and intolerable in conversation.
Breeding is that which sets a gloss upon all his other good
qualities, and renders them useful to him, in procuring him
the esteem and good-will of all that he comes near. Without
good breeding his other accomplishments make him pass but
for proud, conceited, vain, or foolish.
Courage in an ill-bred man has the air and escapes not
the opinion of brutality: Learning becomes pedantry; wit,
buffoonery; plainness, rusticity; good nature, fawning. And
there cannot be a good quality in him, which want of
breeding will not warp and disfigure to his disadvantage.
Nay, virtue and parts, though they are allowed their due
commendation, yet are not enough to procure a man a good
reception, and make him welcome wherever he comes.
No body contents himself with rough diamonds, and wears
them so, who would appear with advantage. When they are
polish'd and set, then they give a lustre. Good qualities are
TUTOR 77
the substantial riches of the mind, but 'tis good breeding
sets them off: and he that will be acceptable, must give
beauty, as well as strength, to his actions. Solidity, or even
usefulness, is not enough: a graceful way and fashion in
every thing, is that which gives the ornament and liking.
And in most cases, the manner of doing is of more con-
sequence than the thing done; and upon that depends the
satisfaction or disgust wherewith it is received. This there-
fore, which lies not in the putting off the hat, nor making
of compliments, but in a due and free composure of language,
looks, motion, posture, place, &c. suited to persons and
occasions, and can be learn'd only by habit and use, though
it be above the capacity of children, and little ones should
not be perplex'd about it, yet it ought to be begun and in a
good measure learn'd by a young gentleman whilst he is
under a tutor, before he comes into the world upon his own
legs: for then usually it is too late to hope to reform
several habitual indecencies, which lie in little things. For
the carriage is not as it should be, till it is become natural
in every part, falling, as skilful musicians' fingers do, into
harmonious order without care and without thought. If
in conversation a man's mind be taken up with a solicitous
watchfulness about any part of his behaviour; instead of
being mended by it, it will be constrained, uneasy, and un-
graceful.
Besides, this part is most necessary to be form'd by the
hand and care of a governor, because, though the errors
committed in breeding are the first that are taken notice of
by others, yet they are the last that any one is told of; not
but that the malice of the world is forward enough to
tattle of them; but it is always out of his hearing, who
should make profit of their judgment and reform himself
by their censure. And indeed, this is so nice a point to be
meddled with, that even those who are friends, and wish
it were mended, scarce ever dare mention it, and tell those
they love that they are guilty in such or such cases of ill
breeding. Errors in other things may often with civility
be shewn another; and 'tis no breach of good manners or
friendship to set him right in other mistakes; but good
breeding itself allows not a man to touch upon this, or to
78 JOHN LOCKE
insinuate to another that he is guilty of want of bfeeding.
Such information can come only from those who have
authority over them; and from them too it coities very
hardly and harshly to a grown man ; and however soften'd,
goes but ill down with any one who has liv'd ever so little
in the world. Wherefore it is necessary that this part
should be the governor's principal care, that an habitual
gracefulness, and politeness in all his carriage, may be
settled in his charge, as much as may be, before he goes
out of his hands; and that he may not need advice in this
point when he has neither time nor disposition to receive
it, nor has any body left to give it him. The tutor therefore
ought in the first place to be well-bred : and a young gentle-
man, who gets this one qualification from his governor,
sets out with great advantage, and will find that this one
accomplishment will more open his way to him, get him
more friends, and carry him farther in the world, than all
the hard words or real knowledge he has got from the
liberal arts, or his tutor's learned encyclopaedia: not that
those should be neglected, but by no means preferr'd, or
suffer'd to thrust out the other.
§ 94. Besides being well-bred, the tutor should know
the world well; the ways, the humours, the follies, the
cheats, the faults of the age he is fallen into, and particularly
of the country he lives in. These he should be able to
shew to his pupil, as he finds him capable; teach him skill
in men, and their manners; pull off the mask which their
several callings and pretences cover them with, and make
his pupil discern what lies at the bottom under such appear-
ances, that he may not, as unexperienc'd young men are
apt to do if they are unwarn'd, take one thing for another,
judge by the outside, and give himself up to shew, and the in-
sinuation of a fair carriage, or an obliging application. A
governor should teach his scholar to guess at and beware
of the designs of men he hath to do with, neither with too
much suspicion, nor too much confidence; but as the young
man is by nature most inclinM to either side, rectify him,
and bend him the other way. He should accustom him to
make, as much as is possible, a true judgment of men by
those marks which serve best to shew what they are, and
TUTOR 79
give a prospect into their inside, which often shows itself
in little things, especially when they are not in parade, and
upon their guard. He should acquaint him with the true state
of the world, and dispose him to think no man better or
worse, wiser or foolisher, than he really is. Thus, by safe
and insensible degrees, he will pass from a boy to a man;
which is the most hazardous step in all the whole course
of life. This therefore should be carefully watch'd, and a
young man with great diligence handed over it; and not as
now usually is done, be taken from a governor's conduct, and
all at once thrown into the world under his own, not with-
out manifest dangers of immediate spoiling; there being
nothing more frequent than instances of the great looseness,
extravagancy, and debauchery, which young men have run
into as soon as they have been let loose from a severe and
strict education: Which I think may be chiefly imputed to
their wrong way of breeding, especially in this part; for
having been bred up in a great ignorance of what the world
truly is, and finding it a quite other thing, when they come
into it, than what they were taught it should be, and so
imagined it was, are easily persuaded, by other kind of tutors,
which they are sure to meet with, that the discipline they
were kept under, and the lectures read to them, were but
the formalities of education and the restraints of childhood;
that the freedom belonging to men is to take their swing
in a full enjoyment of what was before forbidden them.
They shew the young novice the world full of fashionable
and glittering examples of this every where, and he is
presently dazzled with them. My young master failing
not to be willing to shew himself a man, as much as any
of the sparks of his years, lets himself loose to all the irregu-
larities he finds in the most debauch'd; and thus courts
credit and manliness in the casting off the modesty and
sobriety he has till then been kept in; and thinks it brave,
at his first setting out, to signalize himself in running
counter to all the rules of virtue which have been preach'd
to him by his tutor.
The shewing him the world as really it is, before he
comes wholly into it, is one of the best means, I think, to
prevent this mischief. He should by degrees be informed
80 JOHN LOCKE
of the vices in fashion, and warned of the applications and
designs of those who will make it their business to corrupt
him. He should be told the arts they use, and the trains
they lay; and now and then have set before him the tragical
or ridiculous examples of those who are ruining or ruin'd
this way. The age is not like to want instances of this kind,
which should be made land-marks to him, that by the
tiisgraces, diseases, beggary, and shame of hopeful young
men thus brought to ruin, he may be precaution'd, and be
made see, how those join in the contempt and neglect of
them that are undone, who, by pretences of friendship and
respect, lead them to it, and help to prey upon them whilst
they were undoing; that he may see, before he buys it by
a too dear experience, that those who persuade him not
to follow the sober advices he has received from his gover-
nors, and the counsel of his own reason, which they call
being governed by others, do it only that they may have the
government of him themselves; and make him believe, he
goes like a man of himself, by his own conduct, and for his
own pleasure, when in truth he is wholly as a child led by
them into those vices which best serve their purposes. This
is a knowledge which, upon all occasions, a tutor should
endeavour to instil, and by all methods try to make him com-
prehend, and thoroughly relish.
I know it is often said, that to discover to a young man
the vices of the age is to teach them him. That, I con-
fess, is a good deal so, according as it is done ; and therefore
requires a discreet man of parts, who knows the world, and
can judge of the temper, inclination, and weak side of his
pupil. This farther is to be remembered, that it is not
possible now (as perhaps formerly it was) to keep a young
gentleman from vice by a total ignorance of it, unless
you will all his life mew him up in a closet, and never let
him go into company. The longer he is kept thus hood-
winked, the less he will see when he comes abroad into
open daylight, and be the more exposed to be a prey
to himself and others. And an old boy, at his first
appearance, with all the gravity of his ivy-bush about
him, is sure to draw on him the eyes and chirping of the
whole town volery; amongst which there will not be want-
TUTOR 81
ing some birds of prey, that will presently be on the wing"
for him.
The only fence against the world, is, a thorough knowl-
edge of it, into which a young gentleman should be entered
by degrees, as he can bear it ; and the earlier the better, so
he be in safe and skilful hands to guide him. The scene
should be gently open'd, and his entrance made step by
step, and the dangers pointed out that attend him from the
several degrees, tempers, designs, and clubs of men. He
should be prepared to be shocked by some, and caressed by
others; warn'd who are like to oppose, who to mislead, who
to undermine him, and who to serve him. He should be in-
structed how to know and distinguish them ; where he should
let them see, and when dissemble the knowledge of them and
their aims and workings. And if he be too forward to ven-
ture upon his own strength and skill, the perplexity and
trouble of a misadventure now and then, that reaches not
his innocence, his health, or reputation, may not be an ill
way to teach him more caution.
This, I confess, containing one great part of wisdom, is
not the product of some superficial thoughts, or much
reading; but the eflFect of experience and observation in a
man who has liv'd in the world with his eyes open, and
conversed with men of all sorts. And therefore I think it of
most value to be instiird into a young man upon all occa-
sions which offer themselves, that when he comes to launch
into the deep himself, he may not be like one at sea without
a line, compass or sea-chart; but may have some notice
before-hand of the rocks and shoals, the currents and quick-
sands, and know a little how to steer, that he sink not before
he get experience. He that thinks not this of more moment
to his son, and for which he more needs a governor, than
the languages and learned sciences, forgets of how much
more use it is to judge right of men, and manage his affairs
wisely with them, than to speak Greek and Latin, or argue
in mood and figure; or to have his head filFd with the
abstruse speculations of natural philosophy and metaphy-
sicks; nay, than to be well vers'd in Greek and Roman
writers, though that be much better for a gentleman than
to be a good Peripatetick or Cartesian, because those antient
83 JOHN LOCKE /
/
authors observ'd and painted mankind well, and g'lve the
best light into that kind of knowledge. He that goes into
the eastern parts of Asia, will find able and acceptable men
without any of these; but without virtue, knowlecfge of the
world, and civility, an accomplished and valuable man can
be found no where.
A great part of the learning now in fashion in the schools
of Europe, and that goes ordinarily into the round of edu-
cation, a gentleman may in a good measure be unfurnish'd
with, without any great disparagement to himself or prej-
udice to his affairs. But prudence and good breeding are
in all the stations and occurrences of life necessary; and
most young men suffer in the want of them, and come
rawer and more awkward into the world than they should,
for this very reason, because these qualities, which are of all
other the most necessary to be taught, and stand most in
need of the assistance and help of a teacher, are generally
neglected and thought but a slight or no part of a tutor's
business. Latin and learning make all the noise; and the
main stress is laid upon his proficiency in things a great
part whereof belong not to a gentleman's calling; which
is to have the knowledge of a man of business, a carriage
suitable to his rank, and to be eminent and useful in his
country, according to his station. Whenever either spare
hours from that, or an inclination to perfect himself in
some parts of knowledge, which his tutor did but just enter
him in, set him upon any study, the first rudiments of it,
which he learn'd before, will open the way enough for his
own industry to carry him as far as his fancy will prompt,
or his parts enable him to go. Or, if he thinks it may save
his time and pains to be help'd over some difficulties by the
hand of a master, he may then take a man that is perfectly
well skilled in it, or chuse such an one as he thinks fittest
for his purpose. But to initiate his pupil in any part of
learning, as far as is necessary for a young man in the
ordinary course of his studies, an ordinary skill in the
governor is enough. Nor is it requisite that he should be
a thorough scholar, or possess in perfection all those sciences
which 'tis convenient a young gentleman should have a
taste of in some general view, or short system. A gentleman
TUTOR 83
that ^ould penetrate deeper must do it by his own genius
and industry afterwards: For no body ever went far in
knowledge, or became eminent in any of the sciences, by
the discipline and constraint of a master.
The great work of a governor, is to fashion the carriage,
and form the mind; to settle in his pupil good habits and
the principles of virtue and wisdom; to give him by little
and little a view of mankind, and work him into a love and
imitation of what is excellent and praise-worthy ; and, in the
prosecution of it, to give him vigour, activity, and industry.
The studies which he sets him upon, are but as it were the
exercises of his faculties, and employment of his time, to
keep him from sauntering and idleness, to teach him appli-
cation, and accustom him to take pains, and to give him some
little taste of what his own industry must perfect For
who expects, that under a tutor a young gentleman should
be an accomplished critick, orator, or logician? go to the
bottom of metaphysicks, natural philosophy, or mathemat-
icks? or be a master in history or chronology? though
something of each of these is to be taught him: But it is
only to open the door, that he may look in, and as it were
begin an acquaintance, but not to dwell there : And a gover-
nor would be much blam'd that should keep his pupil too
long, and lead him too far in most of them* But of good
breeding, knowledge of the world, virtue, industry, and a
love of reputation, he cannot have too much: And if he
have these, he will not long want what he needs or desires
of the other.
And since it cannot be hop'd he should have time and
strength to learn all things, most pains should be taken
about that which is most necessary; and that principally
look'd after which will be of most and frequentest use to him
in the world.
Seneca complains of the contrary practice in his time;
and yet the Burgursdicius's and the Scheiblers did not swarm
in those days as they do now in these. What would he
have thought if he had liv'd now, when the tutors think it
their great business to fill the studies and heads of their
pupils with such authors as these? He would have had
much more reason to say, as he does, non vitce sed scholcs
84 JOHN LOCKE ^
discimtis, we learn not to live, but to dispute; and our
education fits us rather for the university than th^ v^orld.
But 'tis no wonder if those who make the fashion suit it to
what they have, and not to what their pupils want. The
fashion being once established, who can think it strange,
that in this," as well as in all other things, it should prevail?
And that the greatest part of those, who find their account
in an easy submission to it, should be ready to cry out.
Heresy, when any one departs from it? 'Tis nevertheless
matter of astonishment that men of quality and parts should
suffer themselves to be so far misled by custom and implicit
faith. Reason, if consulted with, would advise, that their
children's time should be spent in acquiring what might
be useful to them when they come to be men, rather than
to have their heads stuff'd with a deal of trash, a great
part whereof they usually never do ('tis certain they never
need to) think on again as long as they live; and so much
of it as does stick by them they are only the worse for.
This is so well known, that I appeal to parents themselves,
who have been at cost to have their young heirs taught
it, whether it be not ridiculous for their sons to have any
tincture of that sort of learning, when they come abroad
into the world? whether any appearance of it would not
lessen and disgrace them in company? And that certainly
must be an admirable acquisition, and deserves well to
make a part in education, which men are asham'd of
where they are most concerned to shew their parts and
breeding.
There is yet another reason why politeness of manners,
and knowledge of the world should principally be look'd
after in a tutor; and that is, because a man of parts and
years may enter a lad far enough in any of those sciences,
which he has no deep insight into himself. Books in these
will be able to furnish him, and give him light and pre-
cedency enough to go before a young follower: but he
will never be able to set another right in the knowledge of
the world, and above all in breeding, who is a novice in
them himself.
This is a knowledge he must have about him, worn into
him by use and conversation and a long forming himself
FAMILIARITY 85
by what he has observed to be practis'd and allowed in the
best company. This, if he has it not of his own, is no
where to be borrowed for the use of his pupil; or if he
could find pertinent treatises of it in books that would
reach all the particulars of an English gentleman's beha-
viour, his own ill-fashion'd example, if he be not well-bred
himself, would spoil all his lectures; it being impossible,
that any one should come forth well-fashion'd out of un-
polish'd, ill-bred company.
I say this, not that I think such a tutor is every day to
be met with, or to be had at the ordinary rates; but that
those who are able, may not be sparing of enquiry or cost
in what is of so great moment; and that other parents,
whose estates will not reach to greater salaries, may yet
remember what they should principally have an eye to in
the choice of one to whom they would commit the educa-
tion of their children; and what part they should chiefly
look after themselves, whilst they are under their care, and
as often as they come within their observation; and not
think that all lies in Latin and French or some dry systems
of logick and philosophy.
§ 95. But to return to our method again. Though I
have mentioned the severity of the father's brow, and the
awe settled thereby in the mind of children when young,
as one main instrument whereby their education is to be
managed; yet I am far from being of an opinion that it
should be continued all along to them, whilst they are under
the discipline and government of pupilage; I think it should
be relax'd, as fast as their age, discretion and good be-
haviour could allow it; even to that degree, that a father
will do well, as his son grows up, and is capable of it,
to talk familiarly with him ; nay, ask his advice, and consult
with him about those things wherein he has any knowledge
or understanding. By this, the father will gain two things,
both of great moment. The one is, that it will put serious
considerations into his son's thoughts, better than any rules
or advices he can give him. The sooner you treat him as
a man, the sooner he will begin to be one: and if you admit
him into serious discourses sometimes with you, you will
insensibly raise his mind above the usual amusements of
86 JOHN LOCKE
youth, and those trifling occupations which it is commonly
wasted in. For it is easy to observe, that many young
men continue longer in the thought and conversation of
school-boys than otherwise they would, because their par-
ents keep them at that distance, and in that low rank, by
all their carriage to them.
§ 96. Another thing of greater consequence, which ydu
will obtain by such a way of treating him, will be his
friendship. Many fathers, though they proportion to their
sons liberal allowances, according to their age and con-
dition, yet they keep the knowledge of their estates and
concerns from them with as much reservedness as if they
were guarding a secret of state from a spy or an enemy.
This, if it looks not like jealousy, yet it wants those marks
of kindness and intimacy which a father should shew to
his son, and no doubt often hinders or abates that chear-
fulness and satisfaction wherewith a son should address
himself to and rely upon his father. And I cannot but
often wonder to see fathers who love their sons very well,
yet so order the matter by a constant stiffness and a mien
of authority and distance to them all their lives, as if they
were never to enjoy, or have any comfort from those they
love best in the world, till they had lost them by being
remov'd into another. Nothing cements and establishes
friendship and good-will so much as confident communica-
tion of concernments and affairs. Other kindnesses, with-
out this, leave still some doubts: but when your son sees
you open your mind to him, when he finds that you interest
him in your affairs, as things you are willing should in
their turn come into his hands, he will be concern'd for
them as for his own, wait his season with patience, and love
you in the mean time, who keep him not at the distance of
a stranger. This will also make him see, that the enjoy-
ment you have, is not without care; which the more he is
sensible of, the less will he envy you the possession, and
the more think himself happy under the management of so
favourable a friend and so careful a father. There is scarce
any young man of so little thought, or so void of sense^
that would not be glad of a sure friend, that he might have
recourse to, and freely consult on occasion. The re-
FAMILIARITY 87
servedness and distance that fathers keep, often deprive
their sons of that refuge which would be of more advan-
tage to them than an hundred rebukes and chidings. Would
your son engage in some frolick, or take a vagary, were
it not much better he should do it with, than without your
knowledge? For since allowances for such things must be
made to young men, the more you know of his intrigues
and designs, the better will you be able to prevent great
mischiefs; and by letting him see what is like to follow,
take the right way of prevailing with him to avoid less
inconveniences. Would you have him open his heart to
you, and ask your advice? you must begin to do so with
him first, and by your carriage beget that confidence.
§ 97. But whatever he consults you about, unless it lead
to some fatal and irremediable mischief, be sure you ad-
vise only as a friend of more experience; but with your
advice mingle nothing of command or authority, nor more
than you would to your equal or a stranger. That would
be to drive him for ever from any farther demanding, or
receiving advantage from your counsel. You must con-
sider that he is a young man, and has pleasures and fancies
which you are passed. You must not expect his inclination
should be just as yours, nor that at twenty he should have
the same thoughts you have at fifty. All that you can wish,
is, that since youth must have some liberty, some out-
leaps, they might be with the ingenuity of a son, and under
the eye of a father, and then no very great harm can come
of it. The way to obtain this, as I said before, is (accord-
ing as you find him capable) to talk with him about your
affairs, propose matters to him familiarly, and ask his
advice; and when he ever lights on the right, follow it as
his; and if it succeed well, let him have the commenda-
tion. This will not at all lessen your authority, but increase
his love and esteem of you. Whilst you keep your estate,
the staff will be in your own hands; and your authority
the surer, the more it is strengthened with confidence and
kindness. For you have not that power you ought to have
over him, till he comes to be more afraid of offending so
good a friend than of losing some part of his future ex-
pectation.
88 JOHN LOCKE
§ 98. Familiarity of discourse, if it can become a father
to his son, may much more be condescended to by a tutor
to his pupil. All their time together should not be spent
in reading of lectures, and magisterially dictating to him
what he is to observe and follow. Hearing him in his
turn, and using him to reason about what is proposed, will
make the rules go down the easier and sink the deeper,
and will give him a liking to study and instruction: And
he will then begin to value knowledge, when he sees that
it enables him to discourse, and he finds the pleasure and
credit of bearing a part in the conversation, and of having
his reasons sometimes approved and hearkened to; particu-
larly in morality, prudence, and breeding, cases should be
put to him, and his judgment ask'd. This opens the un-
derstanding better than maxims, how well soever explain'd,
and settles the rules better in the memory for practice.
This way lets things into the mind which stick there, and
retain their evidence with them; whereas words at best
are faint representations, being not so much as the true
shadows of things, and are much sooner forgotten. He
will better comprehend the foundations and measures of
decency and justice, and have livelier, and more lasting
impressions of what he ought to do, by giving his opinion
on cases proposed, and reasoning with his tutor on fit in-
stances, than by giving a silent, negligent, sleepy audi-
ence to his tutor's lectures ; and much more than by captious
logical disputes, or set declamations of his own, upon any
question. The one sets the thoughts upon wit and false
colours, and not upon truth; the other teaches fallacy,
wrangling, and opiniatry; and they are both of them things
that spoil the judgment, and put a man out of the way
of right and fair reasoning; and therefore carefully to be
avoided by one who would improve himself, and be ac-
ceptable to others.
§ 99. When by making your son sensible that he de-
pends on you, and is in your power, you have established
your authority; and by being inflexibly severe in your car-
riage to him when obstinately persisting in any illnatur'd
trick which you have forbidden, especially lying, you have
imprinted on his mind that awe which is necessary; and,
TEMPER 89
on the other side, when (by permitting him the full liberty
due to his age, and laying no restraint in your presence
to those childish actions and gaiety of carriage, which,
whilst he is very young, is as necessary to him as meat
or sleep) you have reconciled him to your company, and
made him sensible of your care and love of him, by in-
dulgence and tenderness, especially caressing him on all
occasions wherein he does any thing well, and being kind
to him after a thousand fashions suitable to his age, which
nature teaches parents better than I can: When, I say, by
these ways of tenderness and affection, which parents never
want for their children, you have also planted in him a
particular affection for you ; he is then in the state you could
desire, and you have formed in his mind that true reverence
which is always afterwards carefully to be continued, and
maintained in both parts of it, love, and fear, as the great
principles whereby you will always have hold upon him,
to turn his mind to the ways of virtue and honour.
§ 100. When this foundation is once well lay'd, and you
find this reverence begin to work in him, the next thing
to be done, is carefully to consider his temper, and the
particular constitution of his mind. Stubbornness, lying,
and ill-natur'd actions, are not (as has been said) to be
permitted in him from the beginning, whatever his tem-
per be. Those seeds of vices are not to be suffered to take
any root, but must be carefully weeded out, as soon as
ever they begin to shew themselves in him; and your au-
thority is to take place and influence his mind, from the
very dawning of any knowledge in him, that it may operate
as a natural principle, whereof he never perceived the be-
ginning, never knew that it was, or could be otherwise.
By this, if the reverence he owes you be established early,
It will always be sacred to him, and it will be as hard for
him to resist as the principles of his nature.
§ loi. Having thus very early set up your authority, and
by the gentler applications of it sham'd him out of what
leads towards an immoral habit, as soon as you have ob-
served it in him, (for I would by no means have chiding
us'd, much less blows, till obstinacy and incorrigibleness
make it absolutely necessary) it will be fit to consider which
90 JOHN LOCKE
way the natural make of his mind inclines him. Some
men by the unalterable frame of their constitutions, are
stout, others timorous, some confident, others modest,
tractable, or obstinate, curious or careless, quick or slow.
There are not more differences in men's faces, and the out-
ward lineaments of their bodies, than there are in the makes
and tempers of their minds; only there is this difference,
that the distinguishing characters of the face, and the
lineaments of the body, grow more plain and visible with
time and age; but the peculiar physiognomy of the mind is
most discernible in children, before art and cunning have
taught them to hide their deformities, and conceal their ill
inclinations under a dissembled outside.
§ 102. Begin therefore betimes nicely to observe your
son's temper; and that, when he is under least restraint,
in his play, and as he thinks out of your sight. See what
are his predominate passions and prevailing inclinations;
whether he be fierce or mild, bold or bashful, compassionate
or cruel, open or reserv'd, &c. For as these are different in
him, so are your methods to be different, and your au-
thority must hence take measures to apply itself different
ways to him. These native propensities, these prevalencies
of constitution, are not to be cur'd by rules, or a direct
contest, especially those of them that are the humbler
and meaner sort, which proceed from fear, and lowness of
spirit; though with art they may be much mended, and
turn'd to good purposes. But this, be sure, after all is
done, the byass will always hang on that side that nature
first plac'd it: And if you carefully observe the char-
acters of his mind, now in the first scenes of his life, you
will ever after be able to judge which way his thoughts
lean, and what he aims at even hereafter, when, as he
grows up, the plot thickens, and he puts on several shapes
to act it.
§ 103. I told you before, that children love liberty; and
therefore they should be brought to do the things are fit
for them, without feeling any restraint laid upon them,
I now tell you, they love something more; and that is
dominion: And this is the first original of most vicious
habits, that are ordinary and natural This love of power.
CRAVING 91
and dominion shews itself very early, and that in these
two things,
§ 104, I, We see children, as soon almost as they are
born (I am sure long before they can speak) cry, grow
peevish, sullen, and out of humour, for nothing but to have
their wills. They would have their desires submitted to
by others; they contend for a ready compliance from all
about them, especially from those that stand near or be-
neath them in age or degree, as soon as they come to con-
sider others with those distinctions.
§ 105. 2. Another thing wherein they shew their love of
dominion, is, their desire to have things to be theirs: They
would have propriety and possession, pleasing themselves
with the power which that seems to give, and the right
they thereby have, to dispose of them as they please. He
that has not observed these two humours working very
betimes in children, has taken little notice of their actions:
And he who thinks that these two roots of almost all the
injustice and contention that so disturb human life, are
not early to be weeded out, and contrary habits introduced,
neglects the proper season to lay the foundations of a good
and worthy man. To do this, I imagine these following
things may somewhat conduce.
§ 106. I. That a child should never be suffered to have
what he craves, much less what he cries for, I had said, or
so much as speaks for: But that being apt to be misunder-
stood, and interpreted as if I meant a child should never
speak to his parents for any thing, which will perhaps
be thought to lay too great a curb on the minds of chil-
dren, to the prejudice of that love and affection which
should be between them and their parents; I shall explain
my self a little more particularly. It is fit that they should
have liberty to declare their wants to their parents, and
that with all tenderness they should be hearken'd to, and
supply'd, at least whilst they are very little. But 'tis one
thing to say, I am hungry, another to say, I would have
roast-meat. Having declared their wants, their natural
wants, the pain they feel from hunger, thirst, cold, or any
other necessity of nature, 'tis the duty of their parents and
those about them to relieve them: But children must leave
92 JOHN LOCKE
it to the choice and ordering of their parents, what they
think properest for them, and how much; and must not
be permitted to chuse for themselves, and say, I would
have wine, or white-bread ; the very naming of it should
make them lose it.
§ 107. That which parents should take care of here, is
to distinguish between the wants of fancy, and those of
nature; which Horace has well taught them to do in this
verse :
QuHs humana sibi doleat natura negatis.
Those are truly natural wants, which reason alone, with-
out some other help, is not able to fence against, nor
keep from disturbing us. The pains of sickness and hurts,
hunger, thirst, and cold, want of sleep and rest or re-
laxation of the part weary'd with labour, are what all men
feel and the best disposed minds cannot but be sensible of
their uneasiness; and therefore ought, by fit applications, to
seek their removal, though not with impatience, or over
great haste, upon the first approaches of them, where delay
does not threaten some irreparable harm. The pains that
come from the necessities of nature, are monitors to us to
beware of greater mischiefs, which they are the forerunners
of; and therefore they must not be wholly neglected, nor
strain'd too far. But yet the more children can be inur'd
to hardships of this kind, by a wise care to make them
stronger in body and mind, the better it will be for them.
I need not here give any caution to keep within the bounds
of doing them good, and to take care, that what children
are made to suffer, should neither break their spirits, nor
injure their health, parents being but too apt of them-
selves to incline more than they should to the softer side.
But whatever compliance the necessities of nature may
require, the wants of fancy children should never be grati-
fy'd in, nor suffered to mention. The very speaking for
any such thing should make them lose it. Clothes, when
they need, they must have; but if they speak for this stuff
or that colour, they should be sure to go without it. Not
that I would have parents purposely cross the desires of
their children in matters of indifferency; on the contrary,
CRAVING 93
where their carriage deserves it, and one is sure it will not
corrupt or effeminate their minds, and make them fond of
trifles, I think all things should be contrived, as much as
could be, to their satisfaction, that they may find the ease
and pleasure of doing well. The best for children is that
they should not place any pleasure in such things at all,
nor regulate their delight by their fancies, but be indifferent
to all that nature has made so. This is what their parents
and teachers should chiefly aim at; but till this be obtain'd,
all that I oppose here, is the liberty of asking, which in
these things of conceit ought to be restrained by a constant
forfeiture annexed to it.
This may perhaps be thought a little too severe by the
natural indulgence of tender parents; but yet it is no more
than necessary: For since the method I propose is to
banish the rod, this restraint of their tongues will be of
great use to settle that awe we have elsewhere spoken of,
and to keep up in them the respect and reverence due to
their parents. Next, it will teach to keep in, and so master
their inclinations. By this means they will be brought to
learn the art of stifling their desires, as soon as they rise up
in them, when they are easiest to be subdu'd. For giving
vent, gives life and strength to our appetites; and he that
has the confidence to turn his wishes into demands, will
be but a little way from thinking he ought to obtain them.
This, I am sure, every one can more easily bear a denial
from himself, than from any body else. They should there-
fore be accustom'd betimes to consult, and make use of
their reason, before they give allowance to their inclina-
tions. 'Tis a great step towards the mastery of our de-
sires, to give this stop to them, and shut them up in silence.
This habit got by children, of staying the forwardness of
their fancies, and deliberating whether it be fit or no,
before they speak, will be of no small advantage to them
in matters of greater consequence, in the future course of
their lives. For that which I cannot too often inculcate, is,
that whatever the matter be about which it is conversant,
whether great or small, the main (I had almost said only)
thing to be considered in every action of a child, is, what
influence it will have upon his mind; .what habit it tends
94 JOHN LOCKE
to, and is like to settle in him ; how it will become him when
he is bigger; and if it be encourag'd, whither it will lead
him when he is grown up.
My meaning therefore is not, that children should pur-
posely be made uneasy. This would relish too much of
inhumanity and ill nature, and be apt to infect them with
it. They should be brought to deny their appetites; and
their minds, as well as bodies, be made vigorous, easy,
and strong, by the custom of having their inclinations in
subjection, and their bodies exercis'd with hardships: But
all this, without giving them any mark or apprehension
of ill will towards them. The constant loss of what they
crav'd or carv'd to themselves, should teach them modesty,
submission, and a power to forbear: But the rewarding
their modesty, and silence, by giving them what they
lik'd, should also assure them of the love of those who
rigorously exacted this obedience. The contenting them-
selves now in the want of what they wished for, is a virtue
that another time should be rewarded with what is suited
and acceptable to them; which should be bestow'd on them
as if it were a natural consequence of their good behaviour,
and not a bargain about it. But you will lose your labour,
and what is more, their love and reverence too, if they
can receive from others what you deny them. This is
to be kept very staunch, and carefully to be watch'd. And
here the servants come again my way.
§ 1 08. If this be begun betimes, and they accustom them-
selves early to silence their desires, this useful habit will
settle them; and as they come to grow up in age and dis-
cretion, they may be allow'd greater liberty, when reason
comes to speak in ^em, and not passion : For whenever
reason would speak, it should be hearkened to. But as
they should never be heard, when they speak for any par-
ticular thing they would have, unless it be first propos'd
to them; so they should always be heard, and fairly and
kindly answered, when they ask after any thing they would
know, and desire to be informed about. Curiosity should be
as carefully cherished in children, as other appetites sup-
pressed.
However strict an hand is to be kept upon all desires
RECREATION 95
of fancy, yet there is one case wherein fancy must be per-
mitted to speak, and be hearkened to also. Recreation is
as necessary as labour or food. But because there can
be no recreation without delight, which depends not always
on reason, but oftner fancy, it must be permitted children
not only to divert themselves, but to do it after their own
fashion, provided it be innocently, and without prejudice
to their health; and therefore in this case they should not
be deny'd, if they proposed any particular kind of recrea-
tion, Tho' I think in a well-order'd education, they will
seldom be brought to the necessity of asking any such
liberty. Care should be taken, that what is of advantage
to them, they should always do with delight; and before
they are weary'd with one, they should be timely diverted
to some other useful employment. But if they are not yet
brought to that degree of perfection, that one way of im-
provement can be made a recreation to them, they must be
let loose to the childish play they fancy; which they should
be wean'd from by being made to surfeit of it: But from
things of use, that they are employed in, they should always
be sent away with an appetite; at least be dismissed before
they are tir'^', and grow quite sick of it, that so they may
return to it again, as to a pleasure that diverts them. For
you must never think them set right, till they can find de-
light in the practice of laudable things; and the useful
exercises of the body and mind, taking their turns, make
their lives and improvement pleasant in a continued train of
recreations, wherein the weary'd part is constantly reliev'd
and refreshed. Whether this can be done in every temper,
or whether tutors and parents will be at the pains, and
have the discretion and patience to bring them to this,
I know not; but that it may be done in most children,
if a right course be taken to raise in them the desire of
credit, esteem, and reputation, I do not at all doubt. And
when they have so much true life put into them, they
may freely be talk'd with about what most delights them,
and be directed or let loose to it; so that they may per-
ceive that they are belov'd and cherished, and that those
under whose tuition they are, are not enemies to their
satisfaction. Such a management will make them in love
96 JOHN LOCKE
with the hand that directs them, and the virtue they are
directed to.
This farther advantage may be made by a free liberty
permitted them in their recreations, that it will discover
their natural tempers, shew their inclinations and aptitudes,
and thereby direct wise parents in the choice both of the
course of life and employment they shall design them for,
and of fit remedies, in the mean time, to be apply'd to what-
ever bent of nature they may observe most likely to mis-
lead any of their children.
§ 109. 2. Children who live together, often strive for
mastery, whose wills shall carry it over the rest: whoever
begins the contest, should be sure to be cross'd in it. But
not only that, but they should be taught to have all the
deference, complaisance, and civility one for the other im-
aginable. This, when they see it procures them respect,
love and esteem, and that they lose no superiority by it, they
will take more pleasure in, than in insolent domineering;
for so plainly is the other.
The accusations of children one against another, which
usually are but the clamours of anger and revenge de-
siring aid, should not be favourably received, nor hearkened
to. It weakens and effeminates their minds to suffer them
to complain; and if they endure sometimes crossing or pain
from others without being permitted to think it strange or
intolerable, it will do them no harm to learn sufferance, and
harden them early. But though you give no countenance
to the complaints of the querulous, yet take care to curb
the insolence and ill nature of the injurious. When you
observe it your self, reprove it before the injured party:
but if the complaint be of something really worth your
notice, and prevention another time, then reprove the
offender by himself alone, out of sight of him that com-
plained and make him go and ask pardon, and make repa-
ration: which coming thus, as it were from himself, will be
the more chearfully performed, and more kindly received,
the love strengthened between them, and a custom of
civility grow familiar amongst your children.
§ no. 3. As to the having and possessing of things, teach
them to part with what they have, easily and freely to their
JUSTICE 97
friends, and let them find by experience that the most liberal
has always the most plenty, with esteem and commenda-
tion to boot, and they will quickly learn to practise it.
This I imagine, will make brothers and sisters kinder and
civiller to one another, and consequently to others, than
twenty rules about good manners, with which children
are ordinarily perplex'd and cumbered. Covetousness, and
the desire of having in our possession, and under our
dominion, more than we have need of, being the root of
all evil, should be early and carefully weeded out, and the
contrary quality of a readiness to impart to others, im-
planted. This should be encouraged by great commenda-
tion and credit, and constantly taking care that he loses
nothing by his liberality. Let all the instances he give^
of such freeness be always repay'd, and with interest; and
let him sensibly perceive, that the kindness he shews to
others, is no ill husbandry for himself; but that it brings
a return of kindness both from those that receive it, and
those who look on. Make this a contest among children,
who shall out-do one another this way: and by this means,
by a constant practice, children having made it easy to
themselves to part with what they have, good nature may
be settled in them into an habit, and they may take pleas-
ure, and pique themselves in being kind, liberal and civil,
to others.
If liberality ought to be encouraged certainly great care
is to be taken that children transgress not the rules of
Justice: and whenever they do, they should be set right,
and if there be occasion for it, severely rebuk'd.
Our first actions being guided more by self-love than
reason or reflection, 'tis no wonder that in children they
should be very apt to deviate from the just measures of
right and wrong; which are in the mind the result of
improved reason and serious meditation. This the more
they are apt to mistake, the more careful guard ought to be
kept over them; and every the least slip in this great social
virtue taken notice of, and rectify'd; and that in things of
the least weight and moment, both to instruct their ig-
norance, and prevent ill habits; which from small begin-
nings in pins and cherry-stones, will, if let alone, grow up
(4) HC XXXVII
98 JOHN LOCKE
to higher frauds, and be in danger to end at last in down-
right hardened dishonesty. The first tendency to any in-
justice that appears, must be suppressed with a shew of
wonder and abhorrence in the parents and governors. But
because children cannot well comprehend what injustice
is, till they understand property, and how particular persons
come by it, the safest way to secure honesty, is to lay the
foundations of it early in liberality, and an easiness to
part with to others whatever they have or like themselves.
This may be taught them early, before they have language
and understanding enough to form distinct notions of prop-
erty, and to know what is theirs by a peculiar right ex-
clusive of others. And since children seldom have any
thing but by gift, and that for the most part from their
parents, they may be at first taught not to take or keep
any thing but what is given them by those, whom they take
to have power over it. And as their capacities enlarge,
other rules and cases of justice, and rights concerning
Meum and Tuum, may be proposed and inculcated. If any
act of injustice in them appears to proceed, not from mis-
take, but a perverseness in their wills, when a gentle re-
buke and shame will not reform this irregular and covetous
inclination, rougher remedies must be apply'd: And 'tis but
for the father and tutor to take and keep from them some-
thing that they value and think-^their own, or order some-
body else to do it; and by such instances, make them
sensible what little advantage they are like to make by
possessing themselves unjustly of what is another's, whilst
there are in the world stronger and more men than they.
But if an ingenuous detestation of this shameful vice be
but carefully and early instill'd into 'em, as I think it may,
that is the true and genuine method to obviate this crime,
and will be a better guard against dishonesty than any con-
siderations drawn from interest; habits working more con-
stantly, and with greater facility, than reason, which, when
we have most need of it, is seldom fairly consulted, and
more rarely obey'd.
§ III. Crying is a fault that should not be tolerated in
children; not only for the unpleasant and unbecoming noise
it fills the house with, but for more considerable reasons,
CRYING 99
in reference to the children themselves; which is to be
our aim in education.
Their crying is of two sorts; either stubborn and domi-
neering, or querulous and whining.
I. Their crying is very often a striving for mastery, and
an open declaration of their insolence or obstinacy; when
they have not the power to obtain their desire, they will,
by their clamour and sobbing, maintain their title and right
to it. This is an avowed continuing their claim, and a sort
of remonstrance against the oppression and injustice of
those who deny them what they have a mind to.
§ 112. 2. Sometimes their crying is the effect of pain,
or true sorrow, and a bemoaning themselves under it.
These two, if carefully observed, may, by the mien, looks,
actions, and particularly by the tone of their crying be
easily distinguished; but neither of them must be suffer'd,
much less encourag'd.
I. The obstinate or stomachful crying should by no
means be permitted, because it is but another way of
flattering their desires, and encouraging those passions
which 'tis our main business to subdue: and if it be, as
often it is, upon the receiving any correction, it quite de-
feats all the good effects of it; for any chastisement which
leaves them in this declared opposition, only serves to make
them worse. The restraints and punishments laid on chil-
dren are all misapply'd and lost, as far as they do not
prevail over their wills, teach them to submit their pas-
sions, and make their minds supple and pliant to what
their parents' reason advises them now, and so prepare
them to obey what their own reason shall advise hereafter.
But if in any thing wherein they are crossed, they may be
suffer'd to go away crying, they confirm themselves in their
desires, and cherish the ill humour, with a declaration of
their right, and a resolution to satisfy their inclination the
first opportunity. This therefore is another argument
against the frequent use of blows: for, whenever you
come to that extremity, 'tis not enough to whip pr beat
them, you must do it, till you find you have ^p'odu^d> their
minds, till with submission and patience, the}^ ^ yield -tp the
correction; which you shall best disco\er, by {iheir crying,
TOO JOHN LOCKE
and their ceasing from it upon your bidding. Without
this, the beating of children is but a passionate tyranny
over them; and it is mere cruelty, and not correction,
to put their bodies in pain, without doing their minds
any good. As this gives us a reason why children should
seldom be corrected, so it also prevents their being so. For
if, whenever they are chastised, it were done thus with-
out passion, soberly, and yet effectually too, laying on the
blows and smart not furiously, and all at once, but slowly,
with reasoning between, and with observation how it
wrought, stopping when it had made them pliant, penitent
and yielding; they would seldom need the like punishment
again, being made careful to avoid the fault that deserved
it. Besides, by this means, as the punishment would not
be lost for being too little, and not effectual, so it would
be kept from being too much, if we gave off as soon as
we perceived that it reached the mind, and that was bettered.
For since the chiding or beating of children should be
always the least that possibly may be, that which is laid
on in the heat of anger, seldom observes that measure,
but is commonly more than it should be, though it prove
less than enough.
§ 113. 2. Many children are apt to cry, upon any little
pain they suffer, and the least harm that befalls them puts
them into complaints and hazvUng. This few children avoid :
for it being the first and natural way to declare their suf-
ferings or wants, before they can speak, the compassion that
is thought due to that tender age foolishly encourages, and
continues it in them long after they can speak. 'Tis the duty,
I confess, of those about children, to compassionate them,
whenever they suffer any hurt; but not to shew it in pity-
ing them. Help and ease them the best you can, but by no
means bemoan them. This softens their minds, and makes
them yield to the little harms that happen to them; whereby
they sink deeper into that part which alone feels, and makes
larger wounds there, than otherwise they would. They
should be haj'den'd against all sufferings, especially of the
body, ^iid h^ve no tenderness but what rises from an in-
genuous sh'^me, and a quick sense of reputation. The many
inccnVenienccis tiiis life is exposed to, require we should
CRYING 101
not be too sensible of every little hurt. What our minds
yield not to, makes but a slight impression, and does us but
very little harm. Tis the suffering of our spirits that gives
and continues the pain. This brawniness and insensibility
of mind, is the best armour we can have against the com-
mon evils and accidents of life; and being a temper that is
to be got by exercise and custom, more than any other way,
the practice of it should be begun betimes; and happy is he
that is taught it early. That effeminacy of spirit, which is
to be prevented or cured, as nothing that I know so much
increases in children as crying; so nothing, on the other
side, so much checks and restrains, as their being hinder'd
from that sort of complaining. In the little harms they
suffer from knocks and falls, they should not be pitied for
falling, but bid do so again; which besides that it stops
their crying, is a better way to cure their heedlessness, and
prevent their tumbling another time, than either chiding or
bemoaning them. But, let the hurts they receive be what
they will, stop their crying, and that will give them more
quiet and ease at present, and harden them for the future.
§ 114. The former sort of crying requires severity to
silence it; and where a look, or a positive command will not
do it, blows must: for it proceeding from pride, obstinacy,
and stomach, the will, where the fault lies, must be bent, and
made to comply, by a rigour sufficient to master it. But this
latter being ordinarily from softness of mind, a quite con-
trary cause, ought to be treated with a gentler hand. Per-
suasion, or diverting the thoughts another way, or laughing
at their whining, may perhaps be at first the proper method :
but for this, the circumstances of the thing, and the par-
ticular temper of the child, must be considered. No cer-
tain unvariable rules can be given about it; but it must be
left to the prudence of the parents or tutor. But this, I
think, I may say in general, that there should be a constant
discountenancing of this sort of crying also; and that the
father, by his authority, should always stop it, mixing a
greater degree of roughness in his looks or words, pro-
portionately as the child is of a greater age, or a sturdier
temper: But always let it be enough to silence their whim-
pering, and put an end to the disorder.
102 JOHN LOCKE
§ 115. Cowardice and courage are so nearly related to
the foremention'd tempers, that it may not be amiss here to
take notice of them. Fear is a passion that, if rightly gov-
erned, has its use. And though self-love seldom fails to
keep it watchful and high enough in us, yet there may be
an excess on the daring side ; fool-hardiness and insensibility
of danger being as little reasonable, as trembling and shrink-
ing at the approach of every little evil. Fear was given us as
a monitor to quicken our industry, and keep us upon our
guard against the approaches of evil; and therefore to have
no apprehension of mischief at hand, not to make a just esti-
mate of the danger, but heedlessly to run into it, be the
hazard what it will, without considering of what use or con-
sequence it may be, is not the resolution of a rational crea-
ture, but brutish fury. Those who have children of this
temper, have nothing to do, but a little to awaken their
reason, which self-preservation will quickly dispose them to
hearken to, unless (which is usually the case) some other
passion hurries them on head-long, without sense and with-
out consideration. A dislike of evil is so natural to man-
kind, that nobody, I think, can be without fear of it: fear
being nothing but an uneasiness under the apprehension of
that coming upon us, which we dislike. And therefore,
whenever any one runs into danger, we may say, 'tis under
the conduct of ignorance, or the command of some more
imperious passion, nobody being so much an enemy to him-
self, as to come within the reach of evil, out of free choice,
and court danger for danger's sake. If it be therefore pride,
vain-glory, or rage, that silences a child's fear, or makes
him not hearken to its advice, those are by fit means to be
abated, that a little consideration may allay his heat, and
make him bethink himself, whether this attempt be worth
the venture. But this being a fault that children are not
so often guilty of, I shall not be more particular in its cure.
Weakness of spirit is the more common defect, and there-
fore will require the greater care.
Fortitude is the guard and support of the other virtues;
and without courage a man will scarce keep steady to his
duty, and fill up the character of a truly worthy man.
Courage, that makes us bear up against dangers that we
COURAGE 103
fear and evils that we feel, is of great use in an estate, as
ours is in this life, expos'd to assaults on all hands: and
therefore it is very advisable to get children into this armour
as early as we can. Natural temper, I confess, does here a
great deal : but even where that is defective, and the heart
is in itself weak and timorous, it may, by a right manage-
ment, be brought to a better resolution. What is to be done
to prevent breaking children's spirits by frightful apprehen-
sions instiird into them when young, or bemoaning them-
selves under every little suffering, I have already taken
notice ; how to harden their tempers, and raise their courage,
if we find them too much subject to fear, is farther to be
considered.
True fortitude, I take to be the quiet possession of a
man's self, and an undisturb'd doing his duty, whatever
evil besets, or danger lies in his way. This there are so
few men attain to, that we are not to expect it from children.
But yet something may be done: and a wise conduct by in-
sensible degrees may carry them farther than one expects.
The neglect of this great care of them, whilst they are
young, is the reason, perhaps, why there are so few that
have this virtue in its full latitude when they are men. I
should not say this in a nation so naturally brave, as ours
is, did I think* that true fortitude required nothing but
courage in the field, and a contempt of life in the face of an
enemy. This, I confess, is not the least part of it, nor can
be denied the laurels and honours always justly due to the
valour of those who venture their lives for their country.
But yet this is not all. Dangers attack us in other places
besides the field of battle; and though death be the king
of terrors, yet pain, disgrace and poverty, have frightful
looks, able to discompose most men whom they seem ready
to seize on: and there are those who contemn some of these,
and yet are heartily frighted with the other. True fortitude
is prepared for dangers of all kinds, and unmoved, whatso-
ever evil it be that threatens. I do not mean unmoved
with any fear at all. Where danger shews it self, appre-
hension cannot, without stupidity, be wanting; where dan-
ger is, sense of danger should be ; and so much fear as should
keep us awake, and excite our attention, industry, and
104 JOHN LOCKE
vigour; but not disturb the calm use of our reason, nor
hinder the execution of what that dictates.
The first step to get this noble and manly steadiness, is,
what I have above mentioned, carefully to keep children
from frights of all kinds, when they are young. Let not
any fearful apprehensions be talked into them, nor terrible
objects surprise them. This often so shatters and discom-
poses the spirits, that they never recover it again ; but during
their whole life, upon the first suggestion or appearance of
any terrifying idea, are scattered and confounded; the body
is enervated, and the mind disturb'd, and the man scarce
himself, or capable of any composed or rational action.
Whether this be from an habitual motion of the animal
spirits, introduced by the first strong impression, or from the
alteration of the constitution by some more unaccountable
way, this is certain, that so it is. Instances of such who
in a weak timorous mind, have borne, all their whole lives
through, the effects of a fright when they were young,
are every where to be seen, and therefore as much as may
be to be prevented.
The next thing is by gentle degrees to accustom children
to those things they are too much afraid of. But here great
caution is to be used, that you do not make too much haste,
nor attempt this cure too early, for fear lest you increase
the mischief instead of remedying it. Little ones in arms
may be easily kept out of the way of terrifying objects,
and till they can talk and understand what is said to them,
are scarce capable of that reasoning and discourse which
should be used to let them know there is no harm in those
frightful objects, which we would make them familiar with,
and do, to that purpose by gentle degrees bring nearer and
nearer to them. And therefore 'tis seldom there is need
of any application to them of this kind, till after they can
run about and talk. But yet, if it should happen that infants
should have taken offence at any thing which cannot be
easily kept out of their way, and that they shew marks of
terror as often as it comes in sight ; all the allays of fright,
by diverting their thoughts, or mixing pleasant and agree-
able appearances with it, must be used, till it be grown fa-
miUar and inoffensive to them.
TIMOROUSNESS 105
I think we may observe, that, when children are first
born, all objects of sight that do not hurt the eyes, are in-
different to them; and they are no more afraid of a blacka-
moor or a lion, than of their nurse or a cat. What is it
then, that afterwards, in certain mixtures of shape and
colour, comes to affright them? Nothing but the appre-
hensions of harm that accompanies those things. Did a
child suck every day a new nurse, I make account it would
be no more affrighted with the change of faces at six
months old, than at sixty. The reason then why it will not
come to a stranger, is, because having been accustomed to
receive its food and kind usage only from one or two that
are about it, the child apprehends, by coming into the arms
of a stranger, the being taken from what delights and feeds
it and every moment supplies its wants, which it often feels,
and therefore fears when the nurse is away.
The only thing we naturally are afraid of is pain, or loss
of pleasure. And because these are not annexed to any
shape, colour, or size of visible objects, we are frighted
with none of them, till either we have felt pain from them,
or have notions put into us that they will do us harm. The
pleasant brightness and lustre of flame and fire so delights
children, that at first they always desire to be handling of
it: but when constant experience has convinced them, by
the exquisite pain it has put them to, how cruel and
unmerciful it is, they are afraid to touch it, and carefully
avoid it. This being the ground of fear, 'tis not hard to
find whence it arises, and how it is to be cured in all mis-
taken objects of terror. And when the mind is confirmed
against them, and has got a mastery over it self and its
usual fears in lighter occasions, it is in good preparation
to meet more real dangers. Your child shrieks, and runs
away at the sight of a frog; let another catch it, and lay it
down at a good distance from him: at first accustom him
to look upon it; when he can do that, then to come nearer
to it, and see it leap without emotion; then to touch it
lightly, when it is held fast in another's hand; and so on,
till he can come to handle it as confidently as a butterfly
or a sparrow. By the same way any other vain terrors
may be remov'd; if care be taken, that you go not too fast,
106 JOHN LOCKE
and push not the child on to a new degree of assurance, till
he be thoroughly confirmed in the former. And thus the
young soldier is to be train'd on to the warfare of life;
wherein care is to be taken, that more things be not repre-
sented as dangerous than really are so ; and then, that what-
ever you observe him to be more frighted at than he should,
you be sure to tole him on to by insensible degrees, till he
at last, quitting his fears, masters the difficulty, and comes
off with applause. Successes of this kind, often repeated,
will make him find, that evils are not always so certain or
so great as our fears represent them; and that the way to
avoid them, is not to run away, or be discomposed, dejected,
and deterr'd by fear, where either our credit or duty re-
quires us to go on.
But since the great foundation of fear in children is pain,
the way to harden and fortify children against fear and
danger is to accustom them to suffer pain. This 'tis possi-
ble will be thought, by kind parents, a very unnatural thing
towards their children; and by most, unreasonable, to en-
deavour to reconcile any one to the sense of pain, by
bringing it upon him. 'Twill be said : * It may perhaps
give the child an aversion for him that makes him suffer;
but can never recommend to him suffering itself. This is a
strange method. You will not have children whipp'd and
punish'd for their faults, but you would have them tor-
mented for doing well, or for tormenting sake.' I doubt
not but such objections as these will be made, and I shall be
thought inconsistent with my self, or fantastical, in pro-
posing it. I confess, it is a thing to be managed with great
discretion, and therefore it falls not out amiss, that it will
not be received or relish'd, but by those who consider well,
and look into the reason of things. I would not have chil-
dren much beaten for their faults, because I would not have
them think bodily pain the greatest punishment: and I
would have them, when they do well, be sometimes put in
pain, for the same reason, that they might be accustom'd
to bear it, without looking on it as the greatest evil. How
much education may reconcile young people to pain and suf-
ference, the examples of Sparta do sufficiently shew: and
they who have once brought themselves not to think bodily
HARDINESS 107
pain the greatest of evils, or that which they ought to stand
most in fear of, have made no small advance towards virtue.
But I am not so foolish to propose the Lacedcemonian disci-
pline in our age or constitution. But yet I do say, that in-
uring children gently to suffer some degrees of pain with-
out shrinking, is a way to gain firmness to their minds,
and lay a foundation for courage and resolution in the
future part of their lives.
Not to bemoan them, or permit them to bemoan themselves,
on every little pain they suffer, is the first step to be made.
But of this I have spoken elsewhere.
The next thing is, sometimes designedly to put them in
pain: but care must be taken that this be done when the
child is in good humour, and satisfied of the good-will and
kindness of him that hurts him, at the time that he
does it. There must no marks of anger or displeasure on
the one side, nor compassion or repenting on the other, go
along with it: and it must be sure to be no more than the
child can bear without repining or taking it amiss, or for a
punishment. Managed by these degrees, and with such cir-
cumstances, I have seen a child run away laughing with
good smart blows of a wand on his back, who would have
cried for an unkind word, and have been very sensible of
the chastisement of a cold look, from the same person.
Satisfy a child by a constant course of your care and kind-
ness, that you perfectly love him, and he may by degrees
be accustom'd to bear very painful and rough usage from
you, without flinching or complaining: and this we see
children do every day in play one with another. The
softer you find your child is, the more you are to seek occa-
sions, at fit times, thus to harden him. The great art in
this is, to begin with what is but very little painful, and to
proceed by insensible degrees, when you are playing, and
in good humour with him, and speaking well of him: and
when you have once got him to think himself made amends
for his suffering by the praise is given him for his courage ;
when he can take a pride in giving such marks of his man-
liness, and can prefer the reputation of being brave and
stout, to the avoiding a little pain, or the shrinking under
it; you need not despair in time and by the assistance of
108 JOHN LOCKE
his growing reason, to master his timorousness, and mend
the weakness of his constitution. As he grows bigger, he
is to be set upon bolder attempts than his natural temper
carries him to; and whenever he is observed to flinch from
what one has reason to think he would come off well in, if
he had but courage to undertake, that he should be assisted
in at first, and by degrees sham'd to, till at last practice has
given more assurance, and with it a mastery; which must
be rewarded with great praise, and the good opinion of
others, for his performance. When by these steps he has
got resolution enough not to be deterr'd from what he ought
to do, by the apprehension of danger; when fear does not,
in sudden or hazardous occurrences, discompose his mind
set his body a-trembling, and make him unfit for actibn, or
run away from it, he has then the courage of a rational
creature : and such an hardiness we should endeavour by cus-
tom and use to bring children to, as proper occasions come
in our way.
§ ii6. One thing I have frequently observ'd in children,
that when they have got possession of any poor creature,
they are apt to use it ill: they often torment, and treat
very roughly, young birds, butterflies, and such other poor
animals which fall into their hands, and that with a seeming
kind of pleasure. This I think should be watched in them,
and if they incline to any such cruelty, they should be taught
the contrary usage. For the custom of tormenting and
killing of beasts, will, by degrees, harden their minds even
towards men; and they who delight in the suffering and de-
struction of inferior creatures, will not be apt to be very
compassionate or benign to those of their own kind. Our
practice takes notice of this in the exclusion of butchers
from juries of life and death. Children should from the
beginning be bred up in an abhorrence of killing or tor-
menting any living creature; and be taught not to spoil or
destroy any thing, unless it be for the preservation or ad-
vantage of some other that is nobler. And truly, if the
preservation of all mankind, as much as in him lies, were
every one's persuasion, as indeed it is every one's duty, and
the true principle to regulate our religion, politicks and
morality by, the world would be much quieter, and better
CRUELTY 109
natar'd than it is. But to return to our present business ; I
cannot but commend both the kindness and prudence of a
mother I knew, who was wont always to indulge her daugh-
ters, when any of them desired dogs, squirrels, birds, or any
such things as young girls use to be delighted with: but
then, when they had them, they must be sure to keep them
well, and look diligently after them, that they wanted
nothing, or were not ill used. For if they were negligent in
their care of them, it was counted a great fault, which
often forfeited their possession, or at least they fail'd not
to be rebuked for it; whereby they were early taught dili-
gence and good nature. And indeed, I think people should
be accustomed, from their cradles, to be tender to all sensible
creatures, and to spoil or waste nothing at all.
This delight they take in doing of mischiefs whereby I
mean spoiling of any thing to no purpose, but more espe-
cially the pleasure they take to put any thing in pain, that is
capable of it; I cannot persuade my self to be any other
than a foreign and introduced disposition, an habit bor-
rowed from custom and conversation. People teach children
to strike, and laugh when they hurt or see harm come to
others: and they have the examples of most about them, to
confirm them in it. All the entertainment and talk of his-
tory is nothing almost but fighting and killing: and the
honour and renown that is bestowed on conquerors (who
for the most part are but the great butchers of mankind)
farther mislead growing youth, who by this means come
to think slaughter the laudable business of mankind, and
the most heroick of virtues. By these steps unnatural
cruelty is planted in us; and what humanity abhors, custom
reconciles and recommends to us, by laying it in the way
to honour. Thus, by fashion and opinion, that comes to be
a pleasure, which in itself neither is, nor can be any. This
ought carefully to be watched, and early remedied; so as to
settle and cherish the contrary and more natural temper
of benignity and compassion in the room of it; but still
by the same gentle methods which are to be applied to the
other two faults before mention'd. It may not perhaps be
unreasonable here to add this farther caution, vis., That
the mischiefs or harms that come by play, inadvertency, or
110 JOHN LOCKE
ignorance, and were not known to be harms, or design^ for
mischief's sake, though they may perhaps be sometimes of
considerable damage, yet are not at all, or but very gently,
to be taken notice of. For this, I think, I cannot too often
inculcate, that whatever miscarriage a child is guilty of,
and whatever be the consequence of it, the thing to be re-
garded in taking notice of it, is only what root it springs
from, and what habit it is like to establish: and to that
the correction ought to be directed, and the child not to
suffer any punishment for any harm which may have come
by his play or inadvertency. The faults to be amended lie
in the mind; and if they are such as either age will cure,
or no ill habits will follow from, the present action, what-
ever displeasing circumstances it may have, is to be passed
by without any animadversion.
§ 117. Another way to instill sentiments of humanity,
and to keep them lively in young folks, will be, to ac-
custom them to civility in their language and deportment
towards their inferiors and the meaner sort of people,
particularly servants. It 'is not unusual to observe the
children in gentlemen's families treat the servants of the
house with domineering words, names of contempt, and
an imperious carriage; as if they were of another race and
species beneath them. Whether ill example, the advantage
of fortune, or their natural vanity, inspire this haughtiness,
it should be prevented, or weeded out; and a gentle, cour-
teous, affable carriage towards the lower ranks of men,
placed in the room of it. No part of their superiority will
be hereby lost; but the distinction increased, and their
authority strengthened; when love in inferiors is join'd to
outward respect, and an esteem of the person has a share
in their submission: and domesticks will pay a more ready
and chearful service, when they find themselves not spurn'd
because fortune has laid them below the level of others at
their master's feet. Children should not be suffered to lose
the consideration of human nature in the shufflings of out-
ward conditions. The more they have, the better humor'd
they should be taught to be, and the more compassionate
and gentle to those of their brethren who are placed lower,
and have scantier portions. If they are suffer'd from their
CURIOSITY 111
cradles to treat men ill and rudely, because, by their father's
title, they think they have a little power over them, at best
it is ill-bred; and if care be not taken, will by degrees
nurse up their natural pride into an habitual contempt of
those beneath them. And where will that probably end but
in oppression and cruelty?
§ ii8. Curiosity in children (which I had occasion just
to mention § io8) is but an appetite after knowledge;
and therefore ought to be encouraged in them, not only
as a good sign, but as the great instrument nature has
provided to remove that ignorance they were bom with;
and which, without this busy inquisitiveness, will make
them dull and useless creatures. The ways to encourage
it, and keep it active and busy, are, I suppose, these
following :
I. Not to check or discountenance any enquiries he shall
make, nor suffer them to be laugh'd at ; but to answer all his
questions, and explain the matter he desires to know, so as to
make them as much intelligible to him as suits the capacity
of his age and knowledge. But confound not his under-
standing with explications or notions that are above it; or
with the variety or number of things that are not to his
present purpose. Mark what *tis his mind aims at in the
question, and not what words he expresses it in: and when
you have informed and satisfied him in that, you shall see
how his thoughts will enlarge themselves, and how by fit
answers he may be led on farther than perhaps you could im-
agine. For knowledge is grateful to the understanding, as
light to the eyes: children are pleased and delighted with it
exceedingly, especially if they see that their enquiries are
regarded, and that their desire of knowing is encouraged
and commended. And I doubt not but one great reason why
many children abandon themselves wholly to silly sports, and
trifle away all their time insipidly, is, because they have
found their curiosity baulk'd, and their enquiries neglected.
But had they been treated with more kindness and respect,
and their questions answered, as they should, to their satis-
faction; I doubt not but they would have taken more pleas-
ure in learning, and improving their knowledge, wherein
there would be still newness and variety, which is what they
112 JOHN LOCKE
are delighted with, than in returning over and over to the
same play and play-things.
§ 119. 2. To this serious answering their questions, and
informing their understandings, in what they desire, as if
it were a matter that needed it, should be added some pecu-
liar ways of commendation. Let others whom they esteem,
be told before their faces of the knowledge they have in such
and such things; and since we are all, even from our
cradles, vain and proud creatures, let their vanity be flattered
with things that will do them good; and let their pride set
them on work on something which may turn to their ad-
vantage. Upon this ground you shall find, that there cannot
be a greater spur to the attaining what you would have the
eldest learn, and know himself, than to set him upon teach-
ing it his younger brothers and sisters,
§ 120. 3. As children's enquiries are not to be slighted;
so also great care is to be taken, that they never receive
deceitful and eluding answers. They easily perceive when
they are slighted or deceived; and quickly learn the trick
of neglect, dissimulation and falsehood, which they observe
others to make use of. We are not to intrench upon truth
in any conversation, but least of all with children; since if
we play false with them, we not only deceive their expecta-
tion, and hinder their knowledge, but corrupt their inno-
cence, and teach them the worst of vices. They are travel-
lers newly arrived in a strange country, of which they
know nothing; we should therefore make conscience not to
mislead them. And though their questions seem some-
times not very material, yet they should be seriously an-
swered: for however they may appear to us (to whom they
are long since known) enquiries not worth the making; they
are of moment to those who are wholly ignorant. Children
are strangers to all we are acquainted with; and all the
things they meet with, are at first unknown to them, as
they once were to us: and happy are they who meet with
civil people, that will comply with their ignorance, and help
them to get out of it.
If you or I now should be set down in Japan, with all
our prudence and knowledge about us, a conceit whereof
makes us, perhaps, so apt to slight the thoughts and eKi
CURIOSITY 113
quirics of children; should we, I say, be set down in Japan,
Vfe should, no doubt (if we would inform our selves of
what is there to be known) ask a thousand questions, which,
to a supercilious or inconsiderate Japaner, would seem very
idle and impertinent; though to us they would be very
material and of importance to be resolved; and we should
be glad to find a man so complaisant and courteous, as
to satisfy our demands, and instruct our ignorance.
When any new thing comes in their way, children usually
ask the common question of a stranger: What is it?
Whereby they ordinarily mean nothing but the name; and
therefore to tell them how it is call'd, is usually the proper
answer to that demand. And the next question usually
is, What is it for? And to this it should be answered truly
and directly: The use of the thing should be told, and the
way explained, how it serves to such a purpose, as far as
their capacities can comprehend it. And so of any other
circumstances they shall ask about it; not turning them
going, till you have given them all the satisfaction they are
capable of; and so leading them by your answers into
farther questions. And perhaps to a grown man, such con-
versation will not be altogether so idle and insignificant
as we are apt to imagine. The native and untaught sugges-
tions of inquisitive children do often offer things, that may
set a considering man's thoughts on work. And I think
there is frequently more to be learn'd from the unexpected
questions of a child, than the discourses of men, who talk
in a road, according to the notions they have borrowed, and
the prejudices of their education.
§ 121. 4. Perhaps it may not sometimes be amiss to ex-
cite their curiosity by bringing strange and new things in
their way, on purpose to engage their enquiry, and give
them occasion to inform themselves about them : and if by
chance their curiosity leads them to ask what they should
not know, it is a great deal better to tell them plainly, that
it is a thing that belongs not to them to know, than to pop
them off with a falsehood of a frivolous answer.
§ 122. Pertness, that appears sometimes so early, pro-
ceeds from a principle that seldom accompanies a strong
constitution of body, or ripens into a strong judgment of
114 JOHN LOCKE
mind. If it were desirable to have a child a more brisk
talker, I believe there might be ways found to make him
so: But I suppose a wise father had rather that his son
should be able and useful, when a man, than pretty company,
and a diversion to others, whilst a child: though if that
too were to be consider'd, I think I may say, there is not so
much pleasure to have a child prattle agreeably, as to
reason well. Encourage therefore his inquisitiveness all you
can, by satisfying his demands, and informing his judgment,
as far as it is capable. When his reasons are any way tolera-
ble, let him find the credit and commendation of it: and
when they are quite out of the way, let him, without being
laugh'd at for his mistake, be gently put into the right; and
if he shew a forwardness to be reasoning about things that
come in his way, take care, as much as you can, that no
body check this inclination in him, or mislead it by captious
or fallacious ways of talking with him. For when all is
done, this, as the highest and most important faculty of
our minds, deserves the greatest care and attention in culti-
vating it: the right improvement, and exercise of our
reason being the highest perfection that a man can attain
to in this life.
§ 123. Contrary to this busy inquisitive temper, there is
sometimes observable in children, a listless carelessness, a
want of regard to any thing, and a sort of triHing even at
their business. This sauntring humour I look on as one of
the worst qualities can appear in a child, as well as one of
the hardest to be cured, where it is natural. But it being
liable to be mistaken in some cases, care must be taken to
make a right judgment concerning that trifling at their
books or business, which may sometimes be complained of
in a child. Upon the first suspicion a father has, that his
son is of a sauntring temper, he must carefully observe him,
whether he be listless and indifferent in all in his actions,
or whether in some things alone he be slow and sluggish,
but in others vigorous and eager. For tho' we find that he
does loiter at his book, and let a good deal of the time he
spends in his chamber or study, run idly away; he must not
presently conclude, that this is from a sauntring humour in
his temper. It may be childishness, and a preferring some-
SAUNTERING 115
thing to his study, which his thoughts run on: and he
dislikes his book, as is natural, because it is forced upon
hiin as a task. To know this perfectly, you must watch
him at play, when he is out of his place and time of study,
following his own inclination; and see there whether he
be stirring and active; whether he designs any thing, and
with labour and eagerness pursues it, till he has accom-
plished what he aimed at, or whether he lazily and listlessly
dreams away his time. If this sloth be only when he is
about his book, I think it may be easily cured. If it be in
his temper, it will require a little more pains and attention
to remedy it.
§ 124 If you are satisfied by his earnestness at play,
or any thing else he sets his mind on, in the intervals be-
tween his hours of business, that he is not of himself in-
clined to laziness, but that only want of relish of his book
makes him negligent and sluggish in his application to it;
the first step is to try by talking to him kindly of the folly
and inconvenience of it, whereby he loses a good part of
his time, which he might have for his diversion: but be
sure to talk calmly and kindly, and not much at first, but
only these plain reasons in short. If this prevails, you
have gained the point in the most desirable way, which is
that of reason and kindness. If this softer application
prevails not, try to shame him out of it, by laughing at him
for it, asking every day, when he comes to table, if there
be no strangers there, how long he was that day about his
business: And if he has not done it in the time he might
be well supposed to have dispatched it, expose and turn
him into ridicule for it; but mix no chiding, only put on a
pretty cold brow towards him, and keep it till he reform;
and let his mother, tutor, and all about him do so too. If
this work not the effect you desire, then tell him he shall
be no longer troubled with a tutor to take care of his edu-
cation, you will not be at the charge to have him spend his
time idly with him; but since he prefers this or that [what-
ever play he delights in] to his book, that only he shall do;
and so in earnest set him to work on his beloved play, and
keep him steadily, and in earnest, to it morning and after-
noon, till he be fully surfeited, and would, at any rate, change
116 JOHN LOCKE
it for some hours at his book again. But when you thus
set him his task of play, you must be sure to look after
him your self, or set somebody else to do it, that may
constantly see him employed in it, and that he be not per-
mitted to be idle at that too. I say, your self look after
him; for it is worth the father's while, whatever business
he has, to bestow two or three days upon his son, to cure so
great a mischief as his sauntring at his business.
§ 125. This is what I propose, if it be idleness, not
from his general temper, but a peculiar or acquir'd aver-
sion to learning, which you must be careful to examine and
distinguish. But though you have your eyes upon him, to
watch what he does with the time which he has at his own
disposal, yet you must not let him perceive that you or any
body else do so; for that may hinder him from following
his own inclination, which he being full of, and not daring,
for fear of you, to prosecute what his head and heart are
set upon, he may neglect all other things, which then he
relishes not, and so may seem to be idle and listless, when
in truth it is nothing but being intent on that, which the
fear of your eye or knowledge keeps him from executing.
To be clear in this point, the observation must be made
when you are out of the way, and he not so much as under
the restraint of a suspicion that any body has an eye upon
him. In those seasons of perfect freedom, let some body
you can trust mark how he spends his time, whether he
unactively loiters it away, when without any check he is left
to his own inclination. Thus, by his employing of such
times of liberty, you will easily discern, whether it be
listlessness in his temper, or aversion to his book, that
makes him saunter away his time of study.
§ 126. If some defect in his constitution has cast a
damp on his mind, and he be naturally listless and dream-
ing, this unpromising disposition is none of the easiest to
be dealt with, because, generally carrying with it an uncon-
cernedness for the future, it wants the two great springs
of action, foresight and desire; which how to plant and
increase, where nature has given a cold and contrary
temper, will be the question. As soon as you are satisfied
that this is the case, you must carefully enquire whether
COMPULSION 117
there be nothing he delights in; Inform your self what it
is he is most pleased with ; and if you can find any particular
tendency his mind hath, increase it all you can, and make
use of that to set him on work, and to excite his industry.
If he loves praise, or play, or fine clothes, &c. or, on the
other side, dreads pain, disgrace, or your displeasure, &c.,
whatever it be that he loves most, except it be sloth (for
that will never set him on work) let that be made use of
to quicken him, and make him bestir himself. For in this
listless temper, you are not to fear an excess of appetite
(as in all other cases) by cherishing it. 'Tis that which
you want, and therefore must labour to raise and increase ;
for where there is no desire, there will be no industry.
§ 127. If you have not hold enough upon him this way,
to stir up vigour and activity in him, you must employ him
in some constant bodily labour, whereby he may get an
habit of doing something. The keeping him hard to some
study were the better way to get him an habit of exercising
and applying his mind. But because this is an invisible
attention, and no body can tell when he is or is not idle
at it, you must find bodily employments for him, which
he must be constantly busied in, and kept to; and if they
have some little hardship and shame in them, it may not be
the worse, that they may the sooner weary him, and make
him desire to return to his book. But be sure, when you
exchange his book for his other labour, set him such a task,
to be done in such a time as may allow him no opportunity
to be idle. Only after you have by this way brought him
to be attentive and industrious at his book, you may, upon
his dispatching his study within the time set him, give him
as a reward some respite from his other labour; which you
may diminish as you find him grow more and more steady
in his application, and at last wholly take off when his saimt-
ring at his book is cured.
§ 128. We formerly observed, that variety and freedom
was that that delighted children, and recommended their
plays to them; and that therefore their book or any thing
we would have them learn, should not be enjoined them as
business. This their parents, tutors, and teachers are apt to
forget; and their impatience to have them busied in what
118 JOHN LOCKE
is fit for them to do, suffers them not to deceive them into
it: but by the repeated injunctions they meet with, children
quickly distinguish between what is required of them, and
what not. When this mistake has once made his book
uneasy to him, the cure is to be applied at the other end.
And since it will be then too late to endeavour to make it
a play to him, you must take the contrary course: observe
what play he is most delighted with; enjoin that, and make
him play so many hours every day, not as a punishment
for playing, but as if it were the business required of him.
This, if I mistake not, will in a few days make him so
weary of his most beloved sport, that he will prefer his
book, or any thing to it, especially if it may redeem him
from any part of the task of play is set him, and he may
be suffered to employ some part of the time destined to his
task of play in his book, or such other exercise as is really
useful to him. This I at least think a better cure than that
forbidding, (which usually increases the desire) or any
other punishment should be made use of to remedy it: for
when you have once glutted his appetite (which may safely
be done in all things but eating and drinking) and made him
surfeit of what you would have him avoid, you have put
into him a principle of aversion, and you need not so much
fear afterwards his longing for the same thing again.
§ 129. This I think is sufficiently evident, that children
generally hate to be idle. All the care then is, that their
busy humour should be constantly employ'd in something
of use to them; which, if you will attain, you must make
what you would have them do a recreation to them, and
not a business. The way to do this, so that they may not
perceive you have any hand in it, is this proposed here ;
vi2. To make them weary of that which you would not
have them do, by enjoining and making them under some
pretence or other do it, till they are surfeited. For example:
Does your son play at top and scourge too much? Enjoin
him to play so many hours every day, and look that he do
it; and you shall see he will quickly be sick of it, and
willing to leave it. By this means making the recreations
you dislike a business to him, he will of himself with delight
betake himself to those things you would have him do.
PLAY-GAMES 119
especially if they be proposed as rewards for having per-
formed his task in that play which is commanded him. For
if he be ordered every day to whip his top so long as to make
him sufficiently weary, do you not think he will apply himself
with eagerness to his book, and wish for it, if you promise
it him as a reward of having whipped his top lustily, quite
out all the time that is set him? Children, in the things
they do, if they comport with their age, find little difference
so they may be doing: the esteem they have for one thing
above another they borrow from others; so that what
those about them make to be a reward to them, will really
be so. By this art it is in their governor's choice, whether
scotchhoppers shall reward their dancing, or dancing their
scotchhoppers; whether peg-top, or reading; playing at
trap, or studying the globes, shall be more acceptable and
pleasing to them; all that they desire being to be busy,
and busy, as they imagine, in things of their own choice,
and which they receive as favours from their parents or
others for whom they have respect and with whom they
would be in credit. A set of children thus ordered and
kept from the ill example of others, would all of them,
I suppose, with as much earnestness and delight, learn to
read, write, and what else one would have them, as others
do their ordinary plays: and the eldest being thus entered,
and this made the fashion of the place, it would be as im-
possible to hinder them from learning the one, as it is
ordinarily to keep them from the other.
§ 130. Play-things, I think, children should have, and
of divers sorts; but still to be in the custody of their tutors
or some body else, whereof the child should have in his
power but one at once, and should not be suffered to have
another but when he restored that. This teaches them
betimes to be careful of not losing or spoiling the things
they have ; whereas plenty and variety in their own keeping,
makes them wanton and careless, and teaches them from
the beginning to be squanderers and wasters. These, I
confess, are little things, and such as will seem beneath
the care of a governor; but nothing that may form chil-
dren's minds is to be overlooked and neglected, and what-
soever introduces habits, and settles customs in them.
120 JOHN LOCKE
deserves the care and attention of their governors, and
is not a small thing in its consequences.
One thing more about children's play-things may be
worth their parents' care. Though it be agreed they should
have of several sorts, yet, I think, they should have none
bought for them. This will hinder that great variety they
are often overcharged with, which serves only to teach
the mind to wander after change and superfluity, to be
unquiet, and perpetually stretching itself after something
more still, though it knows not what, and never to be satis-
fied with what it hath. The court that is made to people
of condition in such kind of presents to their children,
does the little ones great harm. By it they are taught
pride, vanity and covetousness, almost before they can
speak : and I have known a young child so distracted
with the number and variety of his play-games, that he
tired his maid every day to look them over; and was so
accustomed to abundance, that he never thought he had
enough, but was always asking. What more? What more?
What new thing shall I have? A good introduction to
moderate desires, and the ready way to make a contented
happy man !
" How then shall they have the play-games you allow
them, if none must be bought for them?" I answer, they
should make them themselves, or at least endeavour it, and
set themselves about it ; till then they should have none, and
till then they will want none of any great artifice. A smooth
pebble, a piece of paper, the mother's bunch of keys, or
any thing they cannot hurt themselves with, serves as much
to divert little children as those more chargeable and
curious toys from the shops, which are presently put out of
order and broken. Children are never dull, or out of humour,
for want of such play-things, unless they have been used to
them ; when they are little, whatever occurs serves the turn ;
and as they grow bigger, if they are not stored by the
expensive folly of others, they will make them themselves.
Indeed, when they once begin to set themselves to work
about any of their inventions, they should be taught and
assisted ; but should have nothing whilst they lazily sit still,
expecting to be furnish'd from other hands, without employ-
LYING 121
ing their own. And if you help them where they are at a
stand, it will more endear you to them than any chargeable
toys you shall buy for them. Play-things which are above
their skill to make, as tops, gigs, battledores, and the like,
which are to be used with labour, should indeed be procured
them. These 'tis convenient they should have, not for
variety but exercise; but these too should be given them as
bare as might be. If they had a top, the scourge-stick
and leather-strap should be left to their own making and
fitting. If they sit gaping to have such things drop into
their mouths, they should go without them. This will
accustom them to seek for what they want, in themselves
and in their own endeavours; whereby they will be taught
moderation in their desires, application, industry, thought,
contrivance, and good husbandry; qualities that will be
useful to them when they are men, and therefore cannot
be learned too soon, nor fixed too deep. All the plays and
diversions of children should be directed towards good and
useful habits, or else they will introduce ill ones. Whatever
they do, leaves some impression on that tender age, and
from thence they receive a tendency to good or evil: and
whatever hath such an influence, ought not to be neglected.
§ 131. Lying is so ready and cheap a cover for any mis-
carriage, and so much in fashion among all sorts of people,
that a child can hardly avoid observing the use is made
of it on all occasions, and so can scarce be kept without
great care from getting into it. But it is so ill a quality,
and the mother of so many ill ones that spawn from it,
and take shelter under it, that a child should be brought
up in the greatest abhorrence of it imaginable. I should
be always (when occasionally it comes to be mentioned)
spoke of before him with the utmost detestation, as a
quality so wholly inconsistent with the name and character
of a gentleman, that no body of any credit can bear the
imputation of a lie; a mark that is judg'd the utmost dis-
grace, which debases a man to the lowest degree of a
shameful meanness, and ranks him with the most contemp-
tible part of mankind and the abhorred rascality; and is not
to be endured in any one who would converse with people
of condition, or have any esteem or reputation in the
122 JOHN LOCKE
world. The first time he is found in a lie, it should rather
be wondered at as a monstrous thing in him, than reproved
as an ordinary fault. If that keeps him not from relapsing,
the next time he must be sharply rebuked, and fall into
the state of great displeasure of his father and mother and
all about him who take notice of it. And if this way work
not the cure, you must come to blows; for after he has
been thus warned, a premeditated lie must always be looked
upon as obstinacy, and never be permitted to escape un-
punished.
§ 132. Children, afraid to have their faults seen in their
naked colours, will, like the rest of the sons of Adam, be
apt to make excuses. This is a fault usually bordering upon,
and leading to untruth, and is not to be indulged in them;
but yet it ought to be cured rather with shame than rough-
ness. If therefore, when a child is questioned for any
thing, his first answer be an excuse, warn him soberly to
tell the truth; and then if he persists to shuffle it off with
a falsehood, he must be chastised; but if he directly confess,
you must commend his ingenuity, and pardon the fault, be
it what it will; and pardon it so, that you never so much
as reproach him with it, or mention it to him again : for
if you would have him in love with ingenuity, and by a
constant practice make it habitual to him, you must take
care that it never procure him the least inconvenience;
but on the contrary, his own confession bringing always
with it perfect impunity, should be besides encouraged by
some marks of approbation. If his excuse be such at any
time that you cannot prove it to have any falsehood in it,
let it pass for true, and be sure not to shew any suspicion
of it. Let him keep up his reputation with you as high
as is possible; for when once he finds he has lost that,
you have lost a great, and your best hold upon him. There-
fore let him not think he has the character of a liar with
you, as long as you can avoid it without flattering him in
it. Thus some slips in truth may be over-looked. But after
he has once been corrected for a lie, you must be sure never
after to pardon it in him, whenever you find and take
notice to him that he is guilty of it: for it being a fault
which he has been forbid, and may, unless he be wilful, avoid.
THE FOUR REQUISITES 123
the repeating of it is perfect perverseness, and must have
the chastisement due to that offence.
§ 133. This is what I have thought concerning the gen-
eral method of educating a young gentleman; which, though
I am apt to suppose may have some influence on the whole
course of his education, yet I am far from imagining it
contains all those particulars which his growing years or
peculiar temper may require. But this being premised in
general, we shall in the next place, descend to a more
particular consideration of the several parts of his edu-
cation.
§ 134. That which every gentleman (that takes any care
of his education) desires for his son, besides the estate
he leaves him, is contained (I suppose) in these four things,
virtue, wisdom, breeding and learning. I will not trouble
my self whether these names do not some of them some-
times stand for the same thing, or really include one another.
It serves my turn here to follow the popular use of these
words, which, I presume, is clear enough to make me be
understood, and I hope there will be no difficulty to compre-
hend my meaning.
§ 135- I place virtue as the first and most necessary of
those endowments that belong to a man or a gentleman;
as absolutely requisite to make him valued and beloved by
others, acceptable or tolerable to himself. Without that,
I think, he will be happy neither in this nor the other
world.
§ 136. As the foundation of this, there ought very early
to be imprinted on his mind a true notion of God, as
of the independent Supreme Being, Author and Maker of
all things, from Whom we receive all our good, Who loves
us, and gives us all things. And consequent to this, instil
into him a love and reverence of this Supreme Being. This
is enough to begin with, without going to explain this matter
any farther; for fear lest by talking too early to him of
spirits, and being unseasonably forward to make him under-
stand the incomprehensible nature of that Infinite Being,
his head be either fill'd with false, or perplexed with unin-
telligible notions of Him. Let him only be told upon occasion,
that God made and governs all things, hears and sees every
124 JOHN LOCKE
thing, and does all manner of good to those that love and
obey Him; you will find, that being told of such a God,
other thoughts will be apt to rise up fast enough in his
mind about Him ; which, as you observe them to have any
mistakes, you must set right. And I think it would be better
if men generally rested in such an idea of God, without
being too curious in their notions about a Being which all
must acknowledge incomprehensible; whereby many, who
have not strength and clearness of thought to distinguish
between what they can, and what they cannot know, run
themselves in superstitions or atheism, making God like
themselves, or (because they cannot comprehend any thing
else) none at all. And I am apt to think, the keeping
children constantly morning and evening to acts of devotion
to God, as to their Maker, Preserver and Benefactor, in some
plain and short form of prayer, suitable to their age and
capacity, will be of much more use to them in religion,
knowledge, and virtue, than to distract their thoughts with
curious enquiries into His inscrutable essence and being.
§ 137. Having by gentle degrees, as you find him ca-
pable of it, settled such an idea of God in his mind, and
taught him to pray to Him, and praise Him as the Author
of his being, and of all the good he does or can enjoy;
forbear any discourse of other spirits, till the mention of
them coming in his way, upon occasion hereafter to be
set down, and his reading the scripture-history, put him upon
that enquiry.
§ 138. But even then, and always whilst he is young,
be sure to preserve his tender mind from all impressions
and notions of spirits and goblins, or any fearful appre-
hensions in the dark. This he will be in danger of from
the indiscretion of servants, whose usual method is to awe
children, and keep them in subjection, by telling them of
raw-head and bloody-bones, and such other names as carry
with them the ideas of something terrible and hurtful, which
they have reason to be afraid of when alone, especially in
the dark. This must be carefully prevented: for though
by this foolish way, they may keep them from little faults,
yet the remedy is much worse than the disease; and there
are stamped upon their imaginations ideas that follow them
GOBLINS 125
with terror and affrightment. Such bug-bear thoughts once
got into the tender minds of children, and being set on
with a strong impression from the dread that accompanies
such apprehensions, sink deep, and fasten themselves so
as not easily, if ever, to be got out again; and whilst they
are there, frequently haunt them with strange visions,
making children dastards when alone, and afraid of their
shadows and darkness all their lives after. I have had
those complain to me, when men, who had been thus used
when young; that though their reason corrected the wrong
ideas they had taken in, and they were satisfied that there
was no cause to fear invisible beings more in the dark
than in the light, yet that these notions were apt still upon
any occasion to start up first in their prepossessed fancies,
and not to be removed without some pains. And to let
you see how lasting and frightful images are, that take
place in the mind early, I shall here tell you a pretty remark-
able but true story. There was in a town in the west a
man of a disturbed brain, whom the boys used to teaze when
he came in their way: this fellow one day seeing in the
street one of those lads, that used to vex him, stepped into
a cutler's shop he was near, and there seizing on a naked
sword, made after the boy ; who seeing him coming so armed,
betook himself to his feet, and ran for his life, and by good
luck had strength and heels enough to reach his father's
house before the mad-man could get up to him. The door
was only latch'd ; and when he had the latch in his hand,
he turn'd about his head, to see how near his pursuer was,
who was at the entrance of the porch, with his sword up
ready to strike ; and he had just time to get in, and clap to
the door to avoid the blow, which, though his body escaped,
his mind did not. This frightening idea made so deep an
impression there, that it lasted many years, if not all his
life after. For, telling this story when he was a man, he
said, that after that time till then, he never went in at
that door (that he could remember) at any time without
looking back, whatever business he had in his head, or
how little soever before he came thither he thought of this
mad-man.
If children were let alone, they would be no more
128 JOHN LOCKE
afraid in the dark, than in broad sun-shine: they would
in their turns as much welcome the one for sleep as the
other to play in. There should be no distinction made to
them by any discourse of more danger or terrible things
in the one than the other: but if the folly of any one
about them should do them this harm, and make them
think there is any difference between being in the dark and
winking, you must get it out of their minds as soon as you
can; and let them know, that God, who made all things
good for them, made the night that they might sleep
the better and the quieter; and that they being under his
protection, there is nothing in the dark to hurt them.
What is to be known more of God and good spirits, is to
be deferr'd till the time we shall hereafter mention; and of
evil spirits, 'twill be well if you can keep him from wrong
fancies about them till he is ripe for that sort of knowl-
edge.
§ 139. Having laid the foundations of virtue in a true
notion of a God, such as the creed wisely teaches, as far as
his age is capable, and by accustoming him to pray to Him;
the next thing to be taken care of is to keep him exactly
to speaking of truth, and by all the ways imaginable in-
clining him to be good-natured. Let him know that twenty
faults are sooner to be forgiven than the straining of truth
to cover any one by an excuse. And to teach him betimes
to love and be good-natur'd to others, is to lay early the
true foundation of an honest man; all injustice generally
springing from too great love of ourselves and too little
of others.
This is all I shall say of this matter in general, and is
enough for laying the first foundations of virtue in a
child: as he grows up, the tendency of his natural incli-
nation must be observed; which, as it inclines him more
than is convenient on one or t'other side from the right
path of virtue, ought to have proper remedies applied. For
few of Adam's children are so happy, as not to be born
with some byass in their natural temper, which it is the
business of education either to take off, or counterbalance.
But to enter into particulars of this, would be beyond the
design of this short treatise of education. I intend not
WISDOM 127
a discourse of all the virtues and vices, how each virtue
is to be attained, and every particular vice by its peculiar
remedies cured: though I have mentioned some of the
most ordinary faults, and the ways to be used in correcting
them.
§ 140. Wisdom I take in the popular acceptation, for
a man's managing his business ably and with foresight in
this world. This is the product of a good natural temper,
application of mind, and experience together, and so above
the reach of children. The greatest thing that in them can
be done towards it, is to hinder them, as much as may be,
from being cunning; which, being the ape of wisdom, is
the most distant from it that can be: and as an ape for the
likeness it has to a man, wanting what really should make
him so, is by so much the uglier; cunning is only the want of
understanding, which because it cannot compass its ends
by direct ways, would do it by a trick and circumvention;
and the mischief of it is, a cunning trick helps but once,
but hinders ever after. No cover was ever made either so
big or so fine as to hide it self: no body was ever so
cunning as to conceal their being so: and when they are
once discovered, every body is shy, every body distrustful
of crafty men; and all the world forwardly join to oppose
and defeat them; whilst the open, fair, wise man has every
body to make way for him, and goes directly to his busi-
ness. To accustom a child to have true notions of things,
and not to be satisfied till he has them; to raise his mind
to great and worthy thoughts, and to keep him at a dis-
tance from falsehood and cunning, which has always a
broad mixture of falsehood in it; is the fittest preparation
of a child for wisdom. The rest, which is to be learn'd
from time, experience, and observation, and an acquaint-
ance with men, their tempers and designs, is not to be
expected in the ignorance and inadvertency of childhood,
01 the inconsiderate heat and unweariness of youth: all
that can be done towards it, during this unripe age, is, as I
have said, to accustom them to truth and sincerity ; to a sub-
misson to reason; and as much as may be, to reflection on
their own actions.
§ 141. The next good quality belonging to a gentleman,
128 JOHN LOCKE
is good breeding. There are two sorts of ill breeding:
the one a sheepish bashfulness, and the other a mis-he com-
ing negligence and disrespect in our carriage; both which
are avoided by duly observing this one rule, not to think
meanly of ourselves, and not to think meanly of others.
§ 142. The first part of this rule must not be understood
in opposition to humility, but to assurance. We ought not
to think so well of our selves, as to stand upon our own
value; and assume to our selves a preference before others,
because of any advantage we may imagine we have over
them; but modestly to take what is offered, when it is our
due. But yet we ought to think so well of our selves, as
to perform those actions which are incumbent on, and ex-
pected of us, without discomposure or disorder, in whose
presence soever we are; keeping that respect and distance
which is due to every one's rank and quality. There is
often in people, especially children, a clownish shame-
facedness before strangers or those above them: they are
confounded in their thoughts, words, and looks; and so
lose themselves in that confusion as not to be able to do
any thing, or at least not to do it with that freedom and
gracefulness which pleases, and makes them be acceptable.
The only cure for this, as for any other miscarriage;, is
by use to introduce the contrary habit. But since we cannot
accustom ourselves to converse with strangers and persons
of quality without being in their company, nothing can
cure this part of ill-breeding but change and variety of
company, and that of persons above us.
§ 143. As the before-mentioned consists in too great a
concern how to behave ourselves towards others ; so the
other part of ill-breeding lies in the appearance of too
little care of pleasing or shelving respect to those we have
to do with. To avoid this these two things are requisite:
first, a disposition of the mind not to offend others; and
secondly, the most acceptable and agreeble way of ex-
pressing that disposition. From the one men are called
civil; from the other well-fashion' d. The latter of these is
that decency and gracefulness of looks, voice, words, motions,
gestures, and of all the whole outward demeanour, which
takes in company, and makes those with whom we may
CONTEMPT 129
converse, easy and well pleased. This is, as it were, the
language whereby that internal civility of the mind is
expressed; which, as other languages are, being very much
governed by the fashion and custom of every country,
must, in the rules and practice of it, be learn'd chiefly
from observation, and the carriage of those who are allowed
to be exactly well-bred. The other part, which lies deeper
than the outside, is that general good-will and regard for
all people, which makes any one have a care not to shew in
his carriage any contempt, disrespect, or neglect of them;
but to express, according to the fashion and way of that
country, a respect and value for them according to their
rank and condition. It is a disposition of the mind that
shews it self in the carriage, whereby a man avoids making
any one uneasy in conversation.
I shall take notice of four qualities, that are most directly
opposite to this first and most taking of all the social virtues.
And from some one of these four it is, that incivility com-
monly has its rise. I shall set them down, that children
may be preserved or recovered from their ill influence.
1. The first is, a natural roughness, which makes a man
uncomplaisant to others, so that he has no deference for
their inclinations, tempers, or conditions. 'Tis the sure
badge of a clown, not to mind what pleases or displeases
those he is with; and yet one may often find a man in
fashionable clothes give an unbounded swing to his own
humour, and suffer it to justle or over-run any one that
stands in its way, with a perfect indifferency how they take
it. This is a brutality that every one sees and abhors,
and no body can be easy with: and therefore this finds
no place in any one who would be thought to have the
least tincture of good-breeding. For the very end and
business of good-breeding is to supple the natural stiffness,
and so soften men's tempers, that they may bend to a com-
pliance, and accommodate themselves to those they have to
do with.
2. Contempt, or want of due respect, discovered either
in looks, words, or gesture : this, from whomsoever it
comes, brings always uneasiness with it. For no body can
contentedly bear being slighted.
(5) HC xxxvii
130 JOHN LOCKE
3. Censoriousness, and finding fault with others, has a
direct opposition to civility. Men, whatever they are or
are not guilty of, would not have their faults displayed and
set in open view and broad day-light, before their own or
other people's eyes. Blemishes affixed to any one always
carry shame with them: and the discovery, or even bare
imputation of any defect is not borne without some uneasi-
ness. Raillery is the most refined way of exposing the
faults of others: but, because it is usually done with wit
and good language, and gives entertainment to the company,
people are led into a mistake, that where it keeps within
fair bounds there is no incivility in it. And so the pleasan-
try of this sort of conversation often introduces it amongst
people of the better rank; and such talkers are favourably
heard and generally applauded by the laughter of the by-
standers on their side. But they ought to consider, that the
entertainment of the rest of the company is at the cost
of that one who is set out in their burlesque colours, who
therefore is not without uneasiness, unless the subject for
which he is rallied be really in itself matter of commen-
dation. For then the pleasant images and representations
which make the raillery carrying praise as well as sport
with them, the rallied person also finds his account, and takes
part in the diversion. But because the right management
of so nice and ticklish a business, wherein a little slip may
spoil all, is not every body's talent, I think those who would
secure themselves from provoking others, especially all young
people, should carefully abstain from raillery, which by a
small mistake or any wrong turn, may leave upon the mind
of those who are made uneasy by it, the lasting memory of
having been piquantly, tho' wittily, taunted for some thing
censurable in them.
Besides raillery, contradiction is a sort of censoriousness
wherein ill-breeding often shews it self. Complaisance does
not require that we should always admit all the reasonings
or relations that the company is entertained with, no, nor
silently to let pass all that is vented in our hearing. The
opposing the opinions, and rectifying the mistakes of others,
is what truth and charity sometimes require of us, and
civility does not oppose, if it be done with due caution and
CAPTIOUSNESS 131
care of circumstances. But there are some people, that one
may observe, possessed as it were with the spirit of contra-
diction, that steadily, and without regard to right or wrong,
oppose some one, or, perhaps, every one of the company,
whatever they say. This is so visible and outrageous a way
of censuring, that no body can avoid thinking himself injur'd
by it. All opposition to what another man has said, is so
apt to be suspected of censoriousness, and is so seldom
received without some sort of humiliation, that it ought to
be made in the gentlest manner, and softest words can be
found, and such as with the whole deportment may express
no forwardness to contradict. All marks of respect and
good will ought to accompany it, that whilst we gain the
argument, we may not lose the esteem of those that hear
us.
4. Captiousness is another fault opposite to civility; not
only because it often produces misbecoming and provoking
expressions and carriage ; but because it is a tacit accusation
and reproach of some incivility taken notice of in those
whom we are angry with. Such a suspicion or intimation
cannot be borne by any one without uneasiness. Besides,
one angry body discomposes the whole company, and the
harmony ceases upon any such jarring.
The happiness that all men so steadily pursue consisting
in pleasure, it is easy to see why the civil are more acceptable
than the useful. The ability, sincerity, and good intention
of a man of weight and worth, or a real friend, seldom
atones for the uneasiness that is produced by his grave
and solid representations. Power and riches, nay virtue
itself, are valued only as conducing to our happiness.
And therefore he recommends himself ill to another as aim-
ing at his happiness, who, in the services he does him, makes
him uneasy in the manner of doing them. He that knows
how to make those he converses with easy, without debas-
ing himself to low and servile flattery, has found the true
art of living in the world, and being both welcome and valued
every where. Civility therefore is what in the first place
should with great care be made habitual to children and
young people.
§ 144. There is another fault in good manners, and that
132 JOHN LOCKE
is excess of ceremony, and an obstinate persisting to force
upon another what is not his due, and what he cannot take
without folly or shame. This seems rather a design to
expose than oblige : or at least looks like a contest for
mastery, and at best is but troublesome, and so can be no
part of good-breeding, which has no other use or end but
to make people easy and satisfied in their conversation with
us. This is a fault few young people are apt to fall into ; but
yet if they are ever guilty of it, or are suspected to incline
that way, they should be told of it, and warned of this mis-
taken civility. The .thing they should endeavour and aim at
in conversation, should be to shew respect, esteem, and good-
will, by paying to every one that common ceremony and
regard which is in civility due to them. To do this without
a suspicion of flattery, dissimulation, or meanness, is a great
skill, which good sense, reason, and good company can
only teach; but is of so much use in civil life that it is well
worth the studying.
§ 145. Though the managing ourselves well in this part
of our behaviour has the name of good-breeding, as if
peculiarly the effect of education; yet, as I have said,
young children should not be much perplexed about it;
I mean, about putting off their hats, and making legs
modishly. Teach them humility, and to be good-natur'd,
if you can, and this sort of manners will not be wanting;
civility being in truth nothing but a care not to shew any
slighting or contempt of any one in conversation. What
are the most allowed and esteemed ways of expressing this,
we have above observed. It is as peculiar and different,
in several countries of the world, as their languages; and
therefore, if it be rightly considered, rules and discourses
made to children about it, are as useless and impertinent,
as it would be now and then to give a rule or two of
the Spanish tongue to one that converses only with En-
glishmen, Be as busy as you please with discourses of
civility to your son, such as is his company, such will be
his manners. A plough-man of your neighbourhood that
has never been out of his parish, read what lectures you
please to him, will be as soon in his language as his car-
riage a courtier; that is, in neither will be more polite
INTERRUPTION 133
than those he uses to converse with : and therefore, of
this no other care can be taken till he be of an age to
have a tutor put to him, who must not fail to be a well-
bred man. And, in good earnest, if I were to speak my
mind freely, so children do nothing out of obstinacy, pride,
and ill-nature, 'tis no great matter how they put off their
hats or make legs. If you can teach them to love and
respect other people, they will, as their age requires it,
find ways to express it acceptably to every one, according
to the fashions they have been used to: and as to their
motions and carriage of their bodies, a dancing-master,
as has been said, when it is fit, will teach them what
is most becoming. In the mean time, when they are young,
people expect not that children should be over-mindful of
these ceremonies ; carelessness is allow'd to that age, and be-
comes them as well as compliments do grown people: or,
at least, if some very nice people will think it a fault, I
am sure it is a fault that should be over-look'd, and left
to time, a tutor, and conversation to cure. And therefore
I think it not worth your while to have your son (as I
often see children are) molested or chid about it : but where
there is pride or ill-nature appearing in his carriage, there
he must be persuaded or shamed out of it.
Though children, when little, should not be much per-
plexed with rules and ceremonious parts of breeding, yet
there is a sort of unmannerliness very apt to grow up with
young people, if not early restrained, and that is, a for-
wardness to interrupt others that are speaking; and to
stop them with some contradiction. Whether the custom
of disputing, and the reputation of parts and learning usually
given to it as if it were the only standard and evidence of
knowledge, make young men so forward to watch occasions
to correct others in their discourse, and not to slip any
opportunity of shewing their talents: so it is, that I have
found scholars most blamed in this point. There cannot
be a greater rudeness, than to interrupt another in the
current of his discourse; for if there be not impertinent
folly in answering a man before we know what he will say,
yet it is a plain declaration, that we are weary to hear
him talk any longer, and have a dis-esteem of what he
134 JOHN LOCKE
says; which we judging not fit to entertain the company,
desire them to give audience to us, who have something
to produce worth their attention. This shews a very great
disrespect, and cannot but be offensive: and yet this is
what almost all interruption constantly carries with it. To
which, if there be added, as is usual, a correcting of any
mistake, or a contradiction of what has been said, it is a
mark of yet greater pride and self-conceitedness, when we
thus intrude our selves for teachers, and take upon us
either to set another right in his story, or shew the mis-
takes of his judgment.
I do not say this, that I think there should be no dif-
ference of opinions in conversation, nor opposition in men's
discourses: this would be to take away the greatest ad-
vantage of society, and the improvements are to be made
by ingenious company; where the light is to be got from
the opposite arguings of men of parts, shewing the different
sides of things and their various aspects and probabilities,
would be quite lost, if every one were obliged to assent
to, and say after the first speaker. 'Tis not the owning
one's dissent from another, that I speak against, but the
manner of doing it. Young men should be taught not to
be forward to interpose their opinions, unless asked, or
when others have done, and are silent; and then only by
way of enquiry, not instruction. The positive asserting, and
the magisterial air should be avoided; and when a gen-
eral pause of the whole company affords an opportunity,
they may modestly put in their question as learners.
This becoming decency will not cloud their parts, nor
weaken the strength of their reason; but bespeak the more
favourable attention, and give what they say the greater
advantage. An ill argument, or ordinary observation, thus
introduced, with some civil preface of deference and re-
spect to the opinions of others, will procure them more
credit and esteem than the sharpest wit, or profoundest
science, with a rough, insolent, or noisy management, which
always shocks the hearers, leaves an ill opinion of the
man, though he get the better of it in the argument.
This therefore should be carefully watched in young
people, stopp'd in the beginning, and the contrary habit
COMPANY 135
introduced in all their conversation. And the rather, be-
cause forwardness to talk, frequent interruptions in argu-
ing, and loud wrangling, are too often observable amongst
grown people, even of rank, amongst us. The Indians,
whom we call barbarous, observe much more decency and
civility in their discourses and conversation, giving one an-
other a fair silent hearing till they have quite done; and
then answering them calmly, and without noise or passion.
And if it be not so in this civilized part of the world, we
must impute it to a neglect in education, which has not
yet reform'd this antient piece of barbarity amongst us.
Was it not, think you, an entertaining spectacle, to see two
ladies of quality accidentally seated on the opposite sides
of a room, set round with company, fall into a dispute,
and grow so eager in it, that in the heat of the controversy,
edging by degrees their chairs forwards, they were in a little
time got up close to one another in the middle of the room;
where they for a good while managed the dispute as fiercely
as two game-cocks in the pit, without minding or taking
any notice of the circle, which could not all the while for-
bear smiling? This I was told by a person of quality, who
was present at the combat, and did not omit to reflect
upon the indecencies that warmth in dispute often runs
people into; which, since custom makes too frequent, edu-
cation should take the more care of. There is no body
but condemns this in others, though they overlook it in
themselves; and many who are sensible of it in themselves,
and resolve against it, cannot yet get rid of an ill custom,
which neglect in their education has suffered to settle into
an habit.
§ 146. What has been above said concerning company,
would perhaps, if it were well reflected on, give us a larger
prospect, and let us see how much farther its influence
reaches. 'Tis not the modes of civility alone, that are im-
printed by conversation: the tincture of company sinks
deeper than the out-side; and possibly, if a true estimate
were made of the morality and religions of the world, we
should find that the far greater part of mankind received
even those opinions, and ceremonies they would die for,
rather from the fashions of their countries, and the con-
136 JOHN LOCKE
stant practice of those about them, than from any con-
viction of their reasons. I mention this only to let you
see of what moment I think company is to your son in all
the parts of his life, and therefore how much that one
part is to be weighed and provided for; it being of greater
force to work upon him, than all you can do besides.
§ 147. You will wonder, perhaps, that I put learning last,
especially if I tell you I think it the least part. This may
seem strange in the mouth of a bookish man ; and this mak-
ing usually the chief, if not only bustle and stir about
children, this being almost that alone which is thought on,
when people talk of education, makes it the greater para-
dox. When I consider, what ado is made about a little Latin
and Greek, how many years are spent in it, and what a
noise and business it makes to no purpose, I can hardly
forbear thinking that the parents of children still live in
fear of the school-master's rod, which they look on as the
only instrument of education; as a language or two to
be its whole business. How else is it possible that a child
should be chain'd to the oar seven, eight, or ten of the
best years of his life, to get a language or two, which,
I think, might be had at a great deal cheaper rate of pains
and time, and be learn'd almost in playing?
Forgive me therefore if I say, I cannot with patience
think, that a young gentleman should be put into the herd,
and be driven with a whip and scourge, as if he were to
run the gantlet through the several classes, ad capiendiim
ingenii ciiltum. What then? say you, would you not have
him write and read? Shall he be more ignorant than the
clerk of our parish, who takes Hopkins and Sternhold for
the best poets in the world, whom yet he makes worse
than they are by his ill reading? Not so, not so fast, I
beseech you. Reading and writing and learning I allow to
be necessary, but yet not the chief business. I imagine
you would think him a very foolish fellow, that should not
value a virtuous or a wise man infinitely before a great
scholar. Not but that I think learning a great help to both
in well-dispos'd minds; but yet it must be confessed also,
that in others not so disposed, it helps them only to be the
more foolish, or worse men, I say this, that when you
READING 137
consider the breeding of your son, and are looking out
for a school-master or a tutor, you would not have (as
is usual) Latin and logick only in your thoughts. Learning
must be had, but in the second place, as subservient only to
greater qualities. Seek out somebody that may know how
discreetly to frame his manners: place him in hands where
you may, as much as possible, secure his innocence, cherish,
and nurse up the good, and gently correct and weed out
any bad inclinations, and settle in him good habits. This
is the main point, and this being provided for, learning
may be had into the bargain, and that, as I think, at a very
easy rate, by methods that may be thought on.
§ 148. When he can talk, 'tis time he should begin to
learn to read. But as to this, give me leave here to in-
culcate again, what is very apt to be forgotten, vis. That
great care is to be taken, that it be never made as a busi-
ness to him, nor he look on it as a task. We naturally, as
I said, even from our cradles, love liberty, and have there-
fore an aversion to many things for no other reason but
because they are enjoin'd us. I have always had a fancy
that learning might be made a play and recreation to chil-
dren ; and that they might be brought to desire to be taught,
if it were proposed to them as a thing of honour, credit,
delight, and recreation, or as a reward for doing some-
thing else; and if they were never chid or corrected for
the neglect of it. That which confirms me in this opinion
is, that amongst the Portuguese, 'tis so much a fashion and
emulation amongst their children, to learn to read and
write, that they cannot hinder them from it: they will
learn it one from another, and are as intent on it, as if
it were forbidden them. I remember that being at a friend's
house, whose younger son, a child in coats, was not easily
brought to his book (being taught to read at home by his
mother) I advised to try another way, than requiring it of
him as his duty; we therefore, in a discourse on purpose
amongst our selves, in his hearing, but without taking any
notice of him, declared, that it was the privilege and ad-
vantage of heirs and elder brothers, to be scholars; that
this made them fine gentlemen, and beloved by every body:
and that for younger brothers, 'twas a favour to admit
138 JOHN LOCKE
them to breeding; to be taught to read and write, was
more than came to their share; they might be ignorant
bumpkins and clowns, if they pleased. This so wrought
upon the child, that afterwards he desired to be taught;
would come himself to his mother to learn, and would not
let his maid be quiet till she heard him his lesson. I doubt
not but some way like this might be taken with other chil-
dren; and when their tempers are found, some thoughts
be instiird into them, that might set them upon desiring of
learning, themselves, and make them seek it as another
sort of play or recreation. But then, as I said before, it
must never be imposed as a task, nor made a trouble to
them. There may be dice and play-things, with the letters
on them to teach children the alphabet by playing; and
twenty other ways may be found, suitable to their particular
tempers, to make this kind of learning a sport to them.
§ 149. Thus children may be cozen'd into a knowledge
of the letters; be taught to read, without perceiving it to be
any thing but a sport, and play themselves into that which
others are whipped for. Children should not have any thing
like work, or serious, laid on them; neither their minds,
nor bodies will bear it. It injures their healths; and their
being forced and tied down to their books in an age at
enmity with all such restraint, has, I doubt not, been the
reason, why a great many have hated books and learning
all their lives after. 'Tis like a surfeit, that leaves an
aversion behind not to be removed.
§ 150. I have therefore thought, that if play-things were
fitted to this purpose, as they are usually to none, con-
trivances might be made to teach children to read, whilst
they thought they were only playing. For example, what if
an ivory-hall were made like that of the royal-oak lottery,
with thirty two sides, or one rather of twenty four or twenty
five sides; and upon several of those sides pasted on an A,
upon several others B, on others C, and on others D? I
would have you begin with but these four letters, or per-
haps only two at first; and when he is perfect in them, then
add another; and so on till each side having one letter,
there be on it the whole alphabet. This I would have
others play with before him, it being as good a sort of
READING ia&
play to lay a stake who shall first throw an A or B, as who
upon dice shall throw six or seven. This being a play
amongst you, tempt him not to it, lest you make it busi-
ness; for I would not have him understand 'tis any thing
but a play of older people, and I doubt not but he will
take to it of himself. And that he may have the more
reason to think it is a play, that he is sometimes in favour
admitted to, when the play is done the ball should be laid
up safe out of his reach, that so it may not, by his hav-
ing it in his keeping at any time, grow stale to him.
§ 151. To keep up his eagerness to it, let him think
it a game belonging to those above him: and when, by
this means, he knows the letters, by changing them into
syllables, he may learn to read, without knowing how he
did so, and never have any chiding or trouble about it,
nor fall out with books because of the hard usage and
vexation they have caus'd him. Children, if you observe
them, take abundance of pains to learn several games,
which, if they should be enjoined them, they would abhor
as a task and business. I know a person of great quality
(more yet to be honoured for his learning and virtue than
for his rank and high place) who by pasting on the six
vowels (for in our language Y is one) on the six sides of
a die, and the remaining eighteen consonants on the sides
of three other dice, has made this a play for his children,
that he shall win who, at one cast, throws most words on
these four dice; whereby his eldest son, yet in coats, has
play'd himself into spelling, with great eagerness, and with-
out once having been chid for it or forced to it.
§ 152. I have seen little girls exercise whole hours to-
gether and take abundance of pains to be expert at dih-
stones as they call it. Whilst I have been looking on, I
have thought it wanted only some good contrivance to
make them employ all that industry about something that
might be more useful to them; and methinks 'tis only the
fault and negligence of elder people that it is not so.
Children are much less apt to be idle than men; and men
are to be blamed if some part of that busy humour be not
turned to useful things; which might be made usually as
delightful to them as those they are employed in, if men
140 JOHN LOCKE
would be but half so forward to lead the way, as these
little apes would be to follow. I imagine some wise Portu-
guese heretofore began this fashion amongst the children
of his country, where I have been told, as I said, it is
impossible to hinder the children from learning to read and
write: and in some parts of France they teach one another
to sing and dance from the cradle.
§ 153. The letters pasted upon the sides of the dice, or
polygon, were best to be of the size of those of the folio
Bible, to begin with, and none of them capital letters;
when once he can read what is printed in such letters,
he will not long be ignorant of the great ones: and in the
beginning he should not be perplexed with variety. With
this die also, you might have a play just like the royal
oak, which would be another variety, and play for cher-
ries or apples, &c.
§ 154. Besides these, twenty other plays might be in-
vented depending on letters, which those who like this way,
may easily contrive and get made to this use if they will.
But the four dice above-mentioned I think so easy and
useful, that it will be hard to find any better, and there
will be scarce need of any other.
§ 155. Thus much for learning to read, which let him
never be driven to, nor chid for; cheat him into it if you
can, but make it not a business for him. 'Tis better it be
a year later before he can read, than that he should this
way get an aversion to learning. If you have any con-
test with him, let it be in matters of moment, of truth,
and good nature; but lay no task on him about ABC.
Use your skill to make his will supple and pliant to reason :
teach him to love credit and commendation ; to abhor being
thought ill or meanly of, especially by you and his mother,
and then the rest will come all easily. But I think if you
will do that, you must not shackle and tie him up with
rules about indifferent matters, nor rebuke him for every
little fault, or perhaps some that to others would seem great
ones; but of this I have said enough already.
§ 156. When by these gentle ways he begins to read,
some easy pleasant book, suited to his capacity, should be
put into his hands, wherein the entertainment that he finds
READING 141
might draw him on, and reward his pains in reading, and
yet not such as should fill his head with perfectly use-
less trumpery, or lay the principles of vice and folly. To
this purpose, I think Msop's Fables the best, which being
stories apt to delight and entertain a child, may yet afford
useful reflections to a grown man; and if his memory
retain them all his life after, he will not repent to find
them there, amongst his manly thoughts and serious busi-
ness. If his ^sop has pictures in it, it will entertain him
much the better, and encourage him to read, when it carries
the increase of knowledge with it: for such visible ob-
jects children hear talked of in vain and without any satis-
faction whilst they have no ideas of them; those ideas
being not to be had from sounds, but from the things
themselves or their pictures. And therefore I think as
soon as he begins to spell, as many pictures of animals
should be got him as can be found, with the printed names
to them, which at the same time will invite him to read,
and afford him matter of enquiry and knowledge. Reynard
the Fox is another book I think may be made use of to the
same purpose. And if those about him will talk to him often
about the stories he has read, and hear him tell them, it
will, besides other advantages, add encouragement and de-
light to his reading, when he finds there is some use and
pleasure in it. These baits seem wholly neglected in the
ordinary method; and 'tis usually long before learners find
any use or pleasure in reading, which may tempt them to it,
and so take books only for fashionable amusements, or im-
pertinent troubles, good for nothing.
§ 157. The Lord's Prayer, the Creeds, and Ten Com-
mandments, 'tis necessary he should learn perfectly by
heart: but, I think, not by reading them himself in his
primer, but by somebody's repeating them to him, even
before he can read. But learning by heart, and learning to
read, should not I think be mix'd, and so one made to
clog the other. But his learning to read should be made as
little trouble or business to him as might be.
What other books there are in English of the kind of
those above-mentioned, fit to engage the liking of children,
and tempt them to read, I do not know: but am apt to
142 JOHN LOCKE
think, that children being generally delivered over to the
method of schools, where the fear of the rod is to inforce,
and not any pleasure of the employment to invite them to
learn, this sort of useful books, amongst the number of
silly ones that are of all sorts, have yet had the fate to be
neglected; and nothing that I know has been considered
of this kind out of the ordinary road of the horn-book,
primer, psalter, Testament, and Bible.
§ 158. As for the Bible, which children are usually em-
ployed in to exercise and improve their talent in reading,
I think the promiscuous reading of it through by chapters
as they lie in order, is so far from being of any advantage
to children, either for the perfecting their reading, or prin-
cipling their religion, that perhaps a worse could not be
found. For what pleasure or encouragement can it be to a
child to exercise himself in reading those parts of a book
where he understands nothing? And how little are the
law of Moses, the song of Solomon, the prophecies in the
Old, and the Epistles and Apocalypse in the New Testa-
ment, suited to a child's capacity? And though the his-
tory of the Evangelists and the Acts have something easier,
yet, taken altogether, it is very disproportional to the under-
standing of childhood. I grant that the principles of re-
ligion are to be drawn from thence, and in the words of
the scripture; yet none should be proposed to a child, but
such as are suited to a child's capacity and notions. But
'tis far from this to read through the zvhole Bible, and
that for reading's sake. And what an odd jumble of
thoughts must a child have in his head, if he have any
at all, such as he should have concerning religion, who in
his tender age reads all the parts of the Bible indifferently
as the word of God without any other distinction ! I am
apt to think, that this in some men has been the very
reason why they never had clear and distinct thougths of
it all their lifetime.
§ 159. And now I am by chance fallen on this subject,
give me leave to say, that there are some parts of the Scrip-
ture which may be proper to be put into the hands of a
child to engage him to read; such as are the story of
Joseph and his brethren, of David and Goliath, of David and
READING 143
Jonathan, &c. and others that he should be made to read for
his instruction, as that, What you would have others do unto
you, do you the same unto them; and such other easy and plain
moral rules, which being fitly chosen, might often be made
use of, both for reading and instruction together; and so
often read till they are throughly fixed in the memory; and
then afterwards, as he grows ripe for them, may in their
turns on fit occasions be inculcated as the standing and
sacred rules of his life and actions. But the reading of the
whole Scripture indifferently, is what I think very incon-
venient for children, till after having been made acquainted
with the plainest fundamental parts of it, they have got some
kind of general view of what they ought principally to be-
lieve and practise; which yet, I think, they ought to receive
in the very words of the scripture, and not in such as men
prepossessed by systems and analogies are apt in this case
to make use of and force upon them. Dr. Worthington, to
avoid this, has made a catechism, which has all its answers
in the precise words of the Scripture; a thing of good exam-
ple, and such a sound form of words as no Christian can
except against as not fit for his child to learn. Of this, as
soon as he can say the Lord's Prayer, Creed, the Ten Com-
mandments, by heart, it may be fit for him to learn a ques-
tion every day, or every week, as his understanding is able
to receive and his memory to retain them. And when he
has this catechism perfectly by heart, so as readily and
roundly to answer to any question in the whole book, it may
be convenient to lodge in his mind the remaining moral rules
scattered up and down in the Bible, as the best exercise of
his memory, and that which may be always a rule to him,
ready at hand, in the whole conduct of his life.
§ 1 60. When he can read English well, it will be season-
able to enter him in writing: and here the first thing should
be taught him is to hold his pen right; and this he should
be perfect in before he should be suffered to put it to paper:
For not only children but any body else that would do any
thing well, should never be put upon too much of it at once,
or be set to perfect themselves in two parts of an action at
the same time, if they can possibly be separated. I think
the Italian )yay of holding the pen between the thumb and
144 JOHN LOCKE
the fore-finger alone, may be best; but in this you may con-
sult some good writing-master, or any other person who
writes well and quick. When he has learn'd to hold his p^en
right, in the next place he should learn how to lay his paper,
and place his arm and body to it. These practices being got
over, the way to teach him to write without much troiible,
is to get a plate graved with the characters of such a hand
as you like best: but you must remember to have them a
pretty deal bigger than he should ordinarily write ; for every
one naturally comes by degrees to write a less hand than
he at first was taught, but never a bigger. Such a plate
being graved, let several sheets of good writing-paper be
printed off with red ink, which he has nothing to do but go
over with a good pen fill'd with black ink, which will quickly
bring his hand to the formation of those characters, being
at first shewed where to begin, and how to form every letter.
And when he can do that well, he must then exercise on
fair paper; and so may easily be brought to write the hand
you desire.
§ i6i. When he can write well and quick, I think it may
be convenient not only to continue the exercise of his hand
in writing, but also to improve the use of it farther in
drawing; a thing very useful to a gentleman in several occa-
sions; but especially if he travel, as that which helps a man
often to express, in a few lines well put together, what a
whole sheet of paper in writing would not be able to repre-
sent and make intelligible. How many buildings may a man
see, how many machines and habits meet with, the ideas
whereof would be easily retain'd and communicated by a
little skill in drawing; which being committed to words, are
in danger to be lost, or at best but ill retained in the most
exact descriptions? I do not mean that I would have your
son a perfect painter; to be that to any tolerable degree, will
require more time than a young gentleman can spare from
his other improvements of greater moment. But so much
insight into perspective and skill in drawing, as will enable
him to represent tolerably on paper any thing he sees, except
faces, may, I think, be got in a little time, especially if he
have a genius to it; but where that is wanting, unless it be
in the things absolutely necessary, it is better to let him
LATIN 145
pass them by quietly, than to vex him about them to no pur-
pose: and therefore in this, as in all other things not abso-
lutely necessary, the rule holds, nil invita Minerva.
1 I. Short-hand, an art, as I have been told, known only
in England, may perhaps be thought worth the learning,
both for dispatch in what men write for their own memory,
and concealment of what they would not have lie open to
every eye. For he that has once learn'd any sort of char-
acter, may easily vary it to his own private use or fancy,
and with more contraction suit it to the business he would
employ it in. Mr. Rich's, the best contrived of any I have
seen, may, as I think, by one who knows and considers
grammar well, be made much easier and shorter. But for
the learning this compendious way of writing, there will
be no need hastily to look out a master; it will be early
enough when any convenient opportunity offers itself at
any time, after his hand is well settled in fair and quick
writing. For boys have but little use of short-hand, and
should by no means practise it till they write perfectly well,
and have throughly fixed the habit of doing so.
§ 162. As soon as he can speak English, 'tis time for him
to learn some other language. This no body doubts of,
when French is proposed. And the reason is, because people
are accustomed to the right way of teaching that language,
which is by talking it into children in constant conversa-
tion, and not by grammatical rules. The Latin tongue would
easily be taught the same way, if his tutor, being constantly
with him, would talk nothing else to him, and make him
answer still in the same language. But because French is a
living language, and to be used more in speaking, that
should be first learned, that the yet pliant organs of speech
might be accustomed to a due formation of those sounds, and
he get the habit of pronouncing French well, which is the
harder to be done the longer it is delayed.
§ 163. When he can speak and read French well, which
in this method is usually in a year or two, he should pro-
ceed to Latin, which 'tis a wonder parents, when they have
had the experiment in French, should not think ought to
be learned the same way, by talking and reading. Only care
is to be taken whilst he is learning these foreign languages,
146 JOHN LOCKE
by speaking and reading nothing else with his tutor, that he
do not forget to read English, which may be preserved by
his mother or some body else hearing him read some chosen
parts of the scripture or other English book every day.
§ 164. Latin I look upon as absolutely necessary to a
gentleman; and indeed custom, which prevails over every
thing, has made it so much a part of education, that even
those children are whipped to it, and made spend many
hours of their precious time uneasily in Latin, who after
they are once gone from school, are never to have more to
do with it as long as they live. Can there be any thing
more ridiculous, than that a father should waste his own
money and his son*s time in setting him to learn the Roman
language, when at the same time he designs him for a trade,
wherein he having no use of Latin, fails not to forget that
little which he brought from school, and which 'tis ten to
one he abhors for the ill usage it procured him? Could it be
believed, unless we had every where amongst us examples
of it, that a child should be forced to learn the rudiments
of a language which he is never to use in the course of
life that he is designed to, and neglect all the while the
writing a good hand and casting accounts, which are of
great advantage in all conditions of life, and to most trades
indispensably necessary? But though these qualifications,
requisite to trade and commerce and the business of the
world, are seldom or never to be had at grammar-schools,
yet thither not only gentlemen send their younger sons,
intended for trades, but even tradesmen and farmers fail
not to send their children, though they have neither in-
tention nor ability to make them scholars. If you ask them
why they do this, they think it as strange a question as if
you should ask them, why they go to church. Custom
serves for reason, and has, to those who take it for reason,
so consecrated this method, that it is almost religiously ob-
served by them, and they stick to it, as if their children had
scarce an orthodox education unless they learned Lilly's
grammar.
§ 165. But how necessary soever Latin be to some, and
is thought to be to others to whom it is of no manner
of use and service; yet the ordinary way of learning it in
LATIN 147
a grammar-school is that which having had thoughts about
I cannot be forward to encourage. The reasons against it
are so evident and cogent, that they have prevailed with
some intelligent persons to quit the ordinary road, not
without success, though the method made use of was not
exactly what I imagine the easiest, and in short is this.
To trouble the child with no grammar at all, but to have
Latin, as English has been, without the perplexity of rules,
talked into him ; for if you will consider it, Latin is no more
unknown to a child, when he comes into the world, than
English: and yet he learns English without master, rule,
or grammar; and so might he Latin too, as Tully did, if he
had some body always to talk to him in this language. And
when we so often see a French woman teach an English
girl to speak and read French perfectly in a year or two,
without any rule of grammar, or any thing else but prattling
to her, I cannot but wonder how gentlemen have overseen
this way for their sons, and thought them more dull or in-
capable than their daughters.
§ 1 66. If therefore a man could be got, who himself
speaking good Latin, would always be about your son, talk
constantly to him, and suffer him to speak or read nothing
else, this would be the true and genuine way, and that which
I would propose, not only as the easiest and best, wherein
a child might, without pains or chiding, get a language,
which others are wont to be whipt for at school six or
seven years together: but also as that, wherein at the
same time he might have his mind and manners formed,
and he be instructed to boot in several sciences, such as are
a good part of geography, astronomy, chronology, anatomy,
besides some parts of history, and all other parts of knowl-
edge of things that fall under the senses and require little
more than memory. For there, if we would take the true
way, our knowledge should begin, and in those things be
laid the foundation; and not in the abstract notions of
logick and metaphysicks, which are fitter to amuse than in-
form the understanding in its first setting out towards
knowledge. When young men have had their heads em-
ployed a while in those abstract speculations without finding
the success and improvement, or that use of them, which
148 JOHN LOCKE
they expected, they are apt to have mean thoughts either of
learning or themselves; they are tempted to quit their
studies, and throw away their books as containing nothing
but hard words and empty sounds; or else, to conclude, that
if there be any real knowledge in them, they themselves
have not understandings capable of it. That this is so, per-
haps I could assure you upon my own experience. Amongst
other things to be learned by a young gentleman in this
method, whilst others of his age are wholly taken up with
Latin and languages, I may also set down geometry for one ;
having known a young gentleman, bred something after
this way, able to demonstrate several propositions in Euclid
before he was thirteen.
§ 167. But if such a man cannot be got, who speaks good
Latin, and being able to instruct your son in all these parts
of knowledge, will undertake it by this method; the next
best is to have him taught as near this way as may be,
which is by taking some easy and pleasant book, such as
^sop's Fables, and writing the English translation (made as
literal as it can be) in one line, and the Latin words which
answer each of them, just over it in another. These let him
read every day over and over again, till he perfectly under-
stands the Latin; and then go on to another fable, till he
be also perfect in that, not omitting what he is already
perfect in, but sometimes reviewing that, to keep it in his
memory. And when he comes to write, let these be set
him for copies, which with the exercise of his hand will
also advance him to Latin, This being a more imperfect
way than by talking Latin unto him; the formation of the
verbs first, and afterwards the declensions of the nouns and
pronouns perfectly learned by heart, may facilitate his
acquaintance with the genius and manner of the Latin
tongue, which varies the signification of verbs and nouns,
not as the modern languages do by particles prefix'd, but
by changing the last syllables. More than this of grammar,
I think he need not have, till he can read himself Sanctii
Minerva, with Scioppius and Perizonius's notes.
In teaching of children, this too, I think, is to be ob-
served, that in most cases where they stick, they are not to
be farther puzzled by putting them upon finding it out
LATIN ■ 149
themselves; as by asking such questions as these, (vis.)
which is the nominative case, in the sentence they are to
construe; or demanding what aufero signifies, to lead them
to the knowledge what ahstlerc signifies, &c., when they
cannot readily tell. This wastes time only in disturbing
them; for whilst they are learning, and apply themselves
with attention, they are to be kept in good humour, and
every thing made easy to them, and as pleasant as possible.
Therefore, wherever they are at a stand, and are willing to
go forwards, help them presently over the difficulty, with-
out any rebuke or chiding, remembering, that where harsher
ways are taken, they are the effect only of pride and pee-
vishness in the teacher, who expects children should in-
stantly be masters of as much as he knows; whereas he
should rather consider, that his business is to settle in
them habits, not angrily to inculcate rules, which serve for
little in the conduct of our lives; at least are of no use to
children, who forget them as soon as given. In sciences
where their reason is to be exercised, I will not deny but
this method may sometimes be varied, and difliculties pro-
posed on purpose to excite industry, and accustom the mind
to employ its own strength and sagacity in reasoning. But
yet, I guess, this is not to be done to children, whilst very
young, nor at their entrance upon any sort of knowledge:
then every thing of itself is difficult, and the great use and
skill of a teacher is to make all as easy as he can: but
particularly in learning of languages there is least occasion
for posing of children. For languages being to be learned
by rote, custom and memory, are then spoken in greatest
perfection, when all rules of grammar are utterly for-
gotten. I grant the grammar of a language is sometimes
very carefully to be studied, but it is not to be studied but
by a grown man, when he applies himself to the under-
standing of any language critically, which is seldom the
business of any but professed scholars. This I think will
be agreed to, that if a gentleman be to study any language,
it ought to be that of his own country, that he may under-
stand the language which he has constant use of, with the
utmost accuracy.
There is yet a further reason, why masters and teachers
150 JOHN LOCKE
should raise no difficulties to their scholars; but on the con-
trary should smooth their way, and readily help them for-
wards, where they find them stop. Children's minds are
narrow and weak, and usually susceptible but of one thought
at once. Whatever is in a child's head, fills it for the time,
especially if set on with any passion. It should therefore
be the skill and art of the teacher to clear their heads of
all other thoughts whilst they are learning of any thing, the
better to make room for what he would instill into them,
that it may be received with attention and application,
without which it leaves no impression. The natural temper
of children disposes their minds to wander. Novelty alone
takes them; whatever that presents, they are presently
eager to have a taste of, and are as soon satiated with it.
They quickly grow weary of the same thing, and so have
almost their whole delight in change and variety. It is a
contradiction to the natural state of childhood for them to
fix their fleeting thoughts. Whether this be owing to the
temper of their brains, or the quickness or instability of
their animal spirits, over which the mind has not yet got a
full command; this is visible, that it is a pain to children to
keep their thoughts steady to any thing. A lasting con-
tinued attention is one of the hardest tasks can be imposed
on them; and therefore, he that requires their application,
should endeavour to make what he proposes as grateful
and agreeable as possible; at least he ought to take care
not to join any displeasing or frightful idea with it. If they
come not to their books with some kind of liking and relish,
'tis no wonder their thoughts should be perpetually shifting
from what disgusts them; and seek better entertainment in
more pleasing objects, after which they will unavoidably
be gadding.
*Tis, I know, the usual method of tutors, to endeavour to
procure attention in their scholars, and to fix their minds
to the business in hand, by rebukes and corrections, if they
find them ever so little wandering. But such treatment is
sure to produce the quite contrary effect. Passionate words
or blows from the tutor fill the child's mind with terror
and affrightment, which immediately takes it wholly up, and
leaves no room for other impressions. I believe there is no
LATIN 151
body that reads this, but may recollect what disorder hasty
or imperious words from his parents or teachers have
caused in his thoughts; how for the time it has turned his
brains, so that he scarce knew what was said by or to
him. He presently lost the sight of what he was upon, his
mind was filled with disorder and confusion, and in that
state was no longer capable of attention to any thing else.
Tis true, parents and governors ought to settle and es-
tablish their authority by an awe over the minds of those
under their tuition; and to rule them by that: but when
they have got an ascendant over them, they should use it
with great moderation, and not make themselves such scare-
crows that their scholars should always tremble in their
sight. Such an austerity may make their government easy
to themselves, but of very little use to their pupils. 'Tis
impossible children should learn any thing whilst their
thoughts are possessed and disturbed with any passion,
especially fear, which makes the strongest impression on
their yet tender and weak spirits. Keep the mind in an
easy calm temper, when you would have it receive your in-
structions or any increase of knowledge. 'Tis as impossible
to draw fair and regular characters on a trembling mind
as on a shaking paper.
The great skill of a teacher is to get and keep the atten-
tion of his scholar; whilst he has that, he is sure to advance
as fast as the learner's abilities will carry him; and without
that, all his bustle and pother will be to little or no purpose.
To attain this, he should make the child comprehend (as
much as may be) the usefulness of what he teaches him,
and let him see, by what he has learnt, that he can do some-
thing which he could not do before; something, which gives
him some power and real advantage above others who are
ignorant of it. To this he should add sweetness in all his
instructions, and by a certain tenderness in his whole car-
riage, make the child sensible that he loves him and designs
nothing but his good, the only way to beget love in the
child, which will make him hearken to his lessons, and relish
what he teaches him.
Nothing but obstinacy should meet with any imperious-
ness or rough usage. All other faults should be corrected
152 JOHN LOCKE
with a gentle hand; and kind engaging words will work
better and more effectually upon a willing mind, and even
prevent a good deal of that perverseness which rough and
imperious usage often produces in well disposed and gener-
ous minds. Tis true, obstinacy and wilful neglects must
be mastered, even though it cost blows to do it: but I am
apt to think perverseness in the pupils is often the effect of
frowardness in the tutor; and that most children would
seldom have deserved blows, if needless and misapplied
roughness had not taught them ill-nature, and given them
an aversion for their teacher and all that comes from
him.
Inadvertency, forgetfulness, unsteadiness, and wandering
of thought, are the natural faults of childhood; and there-
fore, where they are not observed to be wilful, are to be
mentioned softly, and gained upon by time. If every slip of
this kind produces anger and rating, the occasions of re-
buke and corrections will return so often, that the tutor
will be a constant terror and uneasiness to his pupils.
Which one thing is enough to hinder their profiting by his
lessons, and to defeat all his methods of instruction.
Let the awe he has got upon their minds be so tempered
with the constant marks of tenderness and good will, that
affection may spur them to their duty, and make them find
a pleasure in complying with his dictates. This will bring
them with satisfaction to their tutor; make them hearken
to him, as to one who is their friend, that cherishes them,
and takes pains for their good: this will keep their thoughts
easy and free whilst they are with him, the only temper
wherein the mind is capable of receiving new informations,
and of admitting into itself those impressions, which, if
not taken and retained, all that they and their teachers do
together is lost labour; there is much uneasiness and little
learning.
§ 1 68. When by this way of interlining Latin and English
one with another, he has got a moderate knowledge of the
Latin tongue, he may then be advanced a little farther to
the reading of some other easy Latin-hook, such as Justin or
Eutropius; and to make the reading and understanding of
it the less tedious and difficult to him, let him help himself
LATIN 153
if he pleases with the English translation. Nor let the ob-
jection that he will then know it only by rote, fright any
one. This, when well considered, is not of any moment
against, but plainly for this way of learning a language.
For languages are only to be learned by rote; and a man
who does not speak English or Latin perfectly by rote, so
that having thought of the thing he would speak of, his
tongue of course, without thought of rule or grammar, falls
into the proper expression and idiom of that language, does
not speak it well, nor is master of it. And I would fain
have any one name to me that tongue, that any one can
learn, or speak as he should do, by the rules of grammar.
Languages were made not by rules or art, but by acci-
dent, and the common use of the people. And he that will
speak them well, has no other rule but that; nor any thing
to trust to, but his memory, and the habit of speaking after
the fashion learned from those, that are allowed to speak
properly, which in other words is only to speak by rote.
It will possibly be asked here, is grammar then of no use ?
and have those who have taken so much pains in reducing
several languages to rules and observations; who have writ
so much about declensions and conjugations, about concords
and syntaxis, lost their labour, and been learned to no pur-
pose? I say not so; grammar has its place too. But this I
think I may say, there is more stir a great deal made with
it than there needs, and those are tormented about it, to
whom it does not at all belong; I mean children, at the age
wherein they are usually perplexed with it in grammar-
schools.
There is nothing more evident, than that languages learnt
by rote serve well enough for the common affairs of life
and ordinary commerce. Nay, persons of quality of the
softer sex, and such of them as have spent their time in
well-bred company, shew us, that this plain natural way,
without the least study or knowledge of grammar, can carry
them to a great degree of elegancy and politeness in their
language : and there are ladies who, without knowing what
tenses and participles, adverbs and prepositions are, speak as
properly and as correctly (they might take it for an ill com-
pliment if I said as any country school-master) as most gen-
154 JOHN LOCKE
tlemen who have been bred up in the ordinary methods
of grammar-schools. Grammar therefore we see may be
spared in some cases. The question then will be, to whom
should it be taught, and when ? To this I answer :
1. Men learn languages for the ordinary intercourse of
society and communication of thoughts in common life,
without any farther design in the use of them. And for
this purpose, the original way of learning a language by
conversation not only serves well enough, but is to be pre-
ferred as the most expedite, proper and natural. Therefore,
to this use of language one may answer, that grammar is
not necessary. This so many of my readers must be forced
to allow, as understand what I here say, and who con-
versing with others, understand them without having ever
been taught the grammar of the English tongue. Which
I suppose is the case of incomparably the greatest part of
English men, of whom I have never yet known any one
who learned his mother-tongue by rules.
2. Others there are, the greatest part of whose business
in this world is to be done with their tongues and with
their pens; and to these it is convenient, if not necessary,
that they should speak properly and correctly, whereby they
may let their thoughts into other men's minds the more
easily, and with the greater impression. Upon this account
it is, that any sort of speaking, so as will make him be
understood, is not thought enough for a gentleman. He
ought to study grammar amongst the other helps of speaking
well, but it must be the grammar of his own tongue, of the
language he uses, that he may understand his own country
speech nicely, and speak it properly, without shocking the
ears of those it is addressed to, with solecisms and offen-
sive irregularities. And to this purpose grammar is neces-
sary; but it is the grammar only of their own proper
tongues, and to those only who would take pains in culti-
vating their language, and in perfecting their stiles.
Whether all gentlemen should not do this, I leave to be
considered, since the want of propriety and grammatical
exactness is thought very misbecoming one of that rank,
and usually draws on one guilty of such faults the censure
of having had a lower breeding and worse company than
LATIN 155
suits with his quality. If this be so, (as I suppose it is) it
will be matter of wonder why young gentlemen are forced
to learn the grammars of foreign and dead languages, and
are never once told of the grammar of their own tongues:
they do not so much as know there is any such thing, much
less is it made their business to be instructed in it. Nor is
their own language ever proposed to them as worthy their
care and cultivating, though they have daily use of it, and are
not seldom, in the future course of their lives, judg'd of by
their handsome or awkward way of expressing themselves
in it. Whereas the languages whose grammars they have
been so much employed in, are such as probably they shall
scarce ever speak or write; or if, upon occasion, this should
happen, they should be excused for the mistakes and faults
they make in it. Would not a Chinese who took notice
of this way of breeding, be apt to imagine that all our
young gentlemen were designed to be teachers and pro-
fessors of the dead languages of foreign countries, and not
to be men of business in their own?
3. There is a third sort of men, who apply themselves
to two or three foreign, dead, and (which amongst us are
called the) learned languages, make them their study, and
pique themselves upon their skill in them. No doubt, those
who propose to themselves the learning of any language
with this view, and would be critically exact in it, ought
carefully to study the grammar of it. I would not be mis-
taken here, as if this were to undervalue Greek and Latin.
I grant these are languages of great use and excellency,
and a man can have no place among the learned in this part
of the world, who is a stranger to them. But the knowledge
a gentleman would ordinarily draw for his use out of the
Roman and Greek writers, I think he may attain without
studying the grammars of those tongues, and by bare read-
ing, may come to understand them sufficiently for all his
purposes. How much farther he shall at any time be con-
cerned to look into the grammar and critical niceties of
either of these tongues, he himself will be able to deter-
mine when he comes to propose to himself the study of any
thing that shall require it. Which brings me to the other
part of the enquiry, viz.
156 JOHN LOCKE
When Grammar should he taught?
To which, upon the premised grounds, the answer is
obvious, vis.
That if grammar ought to be taught at any time, it must
be to one that can speak the language already; how else
can he be taught the grammar of it? This at least is evi-
dent from the practice of the wise and learned nations
amongst the antients. They made it a part of education
to cultivate their own, not foreign tongues. The Greeks
counted all other nations barbarous, and had a contempt
for their languages. And tho' the Greek learning grew in
credit amongst the Romans, towards the end of their com-
monwealth, yet it was the Roman tongue that was made the
study of their youth: their own language they were to
make use of, and therefore it was their own language they
were instructed and exercised in.
But, more particularly to determine the proper season
for grammar, I do not see how it can reasonably be made
any one's study, but as an introduction to rhetorick; when
it is thought time to put any one upon the care of polish-
ing his tongue, and of speaking better than the illiterate,
then is the time for him to be instructed in the rules of
grammar, and not before. For grammar being to teach
men not to speak, but to speak correctly and according to
the exact rules of the tongue, which is one part of ele-
gancy, there is little use of the one to him that has no
need of the other; where rhetorick is not necessary, gram-
mar may be spared. I know not why any one should waste his
time, and beat his head about the Latin grammar, who does
not intend to be a critick, or make speeches and write dis-
patches in it. When any one finds in himself a necessity
or disposition to study any foreign language to the bottom,
and to be nicely exact in the knowledge of it, it will be time
enough to take a grammatical survey of it. If his use of it
be only to understand some books writ in it, without a
critical knowledge of the tongue itself, reading alone, as
I have said, will attain this end, without charging the
mind with the multiplied rules and intricacies of grammar.
§ 169. For the exercise of his writing, let him sometimes
THEMES 157
translate Latin into English: but the learning of Latin
being nothing but the learning of words, a very unpleasant
business both to young and old, join as much other real
knowledge with it as you can, beginning still with that
which lies most obvious to the senses; such as is the
knowledge of minerals, plants and animals, and particularly
timber and fruit-trees, their parts, and ways of propaga-
tion, wherein a great deal may be taught a child which
will not be useless to the man : but more especially geogra-
phy, astronomy, and anatomy. But whatever you are teach-
ing him, have a care still that you do not clog him with too
much at once; or make any thing his business but down-
right virtue, or reprove him for any thing but vice, or
some apparent tendency to it.
§ 170. But if after all his fate be to go to school to get
the Latin tongue, 'twill be in vain to talk to you concern-
ing the method I think best to be observed in schools; you
must submit to that you find there, not expect to have it
changed for your son; but yet by all means obtain, if you
can, that he be not employed in making Latin themes and
declamations, and least of all, verses of any kind. You
may insist on it, if it will do any good, that you have no
design to make him either a Latin orator or poet, but
barely would have him understand perfectly a Latin author ;
and that you observe, those who teach any of the modern
languages, and that with success, never amuse their scholars
to make speeches or verses either in French or Italian, their
business being language barely, and not invention.
§ 171. But to tell you a little more fully why I would not
have him exercised in making of themes and verses, i. As
to themes, they have, I confess, the pretence of something
useful, which is to teach people to speak handsomely and
well on any subject; which, if it could be attained this way,
I own would be a great advantage, there being nothing
more becoming a gentleman, nor more useful in all the
occurrences of life, than to be able, on any occasion, to
speak well and to the purpose. But this I say, that the
making of themes, as is usual at schools, helps not one
jot towards it: for do but consider what it is, in making
a theme, that a young lad is employed about; it is to make
158 JOHN LOCKE
a speech on some Latin saying; as Omnia vincif amor; or
Non licet in Bello his peccare, &c. And here the poor lad,
who wants knowledge of those things he is to speak of,
which is to be had only from time and observation, must
set his invention on the rack, to say something where he
knows nothing; which is a sort of Egyptian tyranny, to bid
them make bricks who have not yet any of the materials.
And therefore it is usual in such cases for the poor children
to go to those of higher forms with this petition. Pray give
me a little sense; which, whether it be more reasonable or
more ridiculous, it is not easy to determine. Before a man
can be in any capacity to speak on any subject, 'tis necessary
he be acquainted with it; or else it is as foolish to set him
to discourse of it, as to set a blind man to talk of colours,
or a deaf man of musick. And would you not think him a
little crack'd, who would require another to make an argu-
ment on a moot point, who understands nothing of our
laws? And what, I pray, do school-boys understand con-
cerning those matters which are used to be proposed to them
in their themes as subjects to discourse on, to whet and
exercise their fancies?
§ 172. In the next place, consider the language that
their themes are made in: 'tis Latin, a language foreign
in their country, and long since dead every where: a
language which your son, 'tis a thousand to one, shall never
have an occasion once to make a speech in as long as
he lives after he comes to be a man; and a language
wherein the manner of expressing one's self is so far differ-
ent from ours, that to be perfect in that would very little
improve the purity and facility of his English stile. Besides
that, there is now so little room or use for set speeches
in our own language in any part of our English business,
that I can see no pretence for this sort of exercise in our
schools, unless it can be supposed, that the making of set
Latin speeches should be the way to teach men to speak
well in English extempore. The way to that, I should think
rather to be this: that there should be propos'd to young
gentlemen rational and useful questions, suited to their age
and capacities, and on subjects not wholly unknown to
them nor out of their way: such as these, when they are
VERSES 159
ripe for exercises of this nature, they should extempore,
or after a little meditation upon the spot, speak to, without
penning of any thing: for I ask, if we will examine the
effects of this way of learning to speak well, who speak
best in any business, when occasion calls them to it upon
any debate, either those who have accustomed themselves to
compose and write down beforehand what they would say;
or those, who thinking only of the matter, to understand
that as well as they can, use themselves only to speak
extempore? And he that shall judge by this, will be little apt
to think, that the accustoming him to studied speeches and
set compositions, is the way to fit a young gentleman for
business.
§ 173. But perhaps we shall be told, 'tis to improve and
perfect them in the Latin tongue. 'Tis true, that is their
proper business at school ; but the making of themes is not
the way to it: that perplexes their brains about invention
of things to be said, not about the signification of words to
be learn'd; and when they are making a theme, 'tis thoughts
they search and sweat for, and not language. But the learn-
ing and mastery of a tongue being uneasy and unpleasant
enough in itself, should not be cumbred with any other
difficulties, as is done in this way of proceeding. In fine,
if boys' invention be to be quickened by such exercise, let
them make themes in English, where they have facility and
a command of words, and will better see what kind of
thoughts they have, when put into their own language. And
if the Latin tongue be to be learned, let it be done the
easiest way, without toiling and disgusting the mind by so
uneasy an employment as that of making speeches joined
to it.
§ 174. If these may be any reasons against children's
making Latin themes at school, I have much more to say,
and of more weight, against their making verses; verses
of any sort: for if he has no genius to poetry, 'tis the most
unreasonable thing in the world to torment a child and
waste his time about that which can never succeed; and
if he have a poetick vein, 'tis to me the strangest thing
in the world that the father should desire or suffer it
to be cherished or improved. Methinks the parents should
160 JOHN LOCKE
labour to have it stifled and suppressed as much as may
be ; and I know not what reason a father can have to wish his
son a poet, who does not desire to have him bid defiance
to all other callings and business; which is not yet the
worst of the case; for if he proves a successful rhymer,
and gets once the reputation of a wit, I desire it may be
considered what company and places he is like to spend
his time in, nay, and estate too: for it is very seldom
seen, that any one discovers mines of gold or silver in
Parnassus. 'Tis a pleasant air, but a barren soil; and
there are very few instances of those who have added to
their patrimony by any thing they have reaped from thence.
Poetry and gaming, which usually go together, are alike in
this too, that they seldom bring any advantage but to those
who have nothing else to live on. Men of estates almost
constantly go away losers; and 'tis well if they escape at a
cheaper rate than their whole estates, or the greatest part of
them. If therefore you would not have your son the fiddle
to every jovial company, without whom the sparks could
not relish their wine nor know how to pass an afternoon
idly; if you would not have him to waste his time and
estate to divert others, and contemn the dirty acres left him
by his ancestors, I do not think you will much care he
should be a poet, or that his school-master should enter
him in versifying. But yet, if any one will think poetry a
desirable quality in his son, and that the study of it would
raise his fancy and parts, he must needs yet confess, that to
that end reading the excellent Greek and Roman poets is of
more use than making bad verses of his own, in a lan-
guage that is not his own. And he whose design it is to ex-
cel in English poetry, would not, I guess, think the way to
it were to make his first essays in Latin verses.
§ 175. Another thing very ordinary in the vulgar method
of grammar-schools there is, of which I see no use at
all, unless it be to baulk young lads in the way to learn-
ing languages, which, in my opinion, should be made as
easy and pleasant as may be; and that which was painful
in it, as much as possible quite removed. That which I
mean, and here complain of, is, their being forced to learn
by heart, great parcels of the authors which are taught
MEMORITER 161
them; wherein I can discover no advantage at all, especially
to the business they are upon. Languages are to be learned
only by reading and talking, and not by scraps of au-
thors got by heart; which when a man's head is stuffed
with, he has got the just furniture of a pedant, and 'tis
the ready way to make him one; than which there is
nothing less becoming a gentleman. For what can be more
ridiculous, than to mix the rich and handsome thoughts
and sayings of others with a deal of poor stuff of his own;
which is thereby the more exposed, and has no other grace
in it, nor will otherwise recommend the speaker, than a
thread-bare russet coat would, that was set off with large
patches of scarlet and glittering brocade. Indeed, where a
passage comes in the way, whose matter is worth remem-
brance, and the expression of it very close and excellent, (as
there are many such in the antient authors) it may not be
amiss to lodge it in the mind of young scholars, and with
such admirable strokes of those great masters sometimes
exercise the memories of school-boys. But their learning of
their lessons by heart, as they happen to fall out in their
books, without choice or distinction, I know not what it
serves for, but to misspend their time and pains, and give
them a disgust and aversion to their books, wherein they
find nothing but useless trouble.
§ 176. I hear it is said, that children should be em-
ployed in getting things by heart, to exercise and improve
their memories. I could wish this were said with as much
authority of reason, as it is with forwardness of assurance,
and that this practice were established upon good observa-
tion more than old custom: for it is evident, that strength
of memory is owing to an happy constitution, and not to any
habitual improvement got by exercise. 'Tis true, what the
mind is intent upon, and, for fear of letting it slip, often im-
prints afresh on itself by frequent reflection, that it is apt to
retain, but still according to its own natural strength of reten-
tion. An impression made on bees-wax or lead, will not
last so long as on brass or steel. Indeed, if it be renewed
often, it may last the longer; but every new reflecting on it
is a new impression; and 'tis from thence one is to reckon,
if one would know how long the mind retains it. But the
(6) HC XXXVII
162 JOHN LOCKE
learning pages of Latin by heart, no more fits the memory
for retention of any thing else, than the graving of one
sentence in lead makes it the more capable of retaining
firmly any other characters. If such a sort of exercise of
the memory were able to give it strength, and improve our
parts, players of all other people must needs have the best
memories and be the best company. But whether the
scraps they have got into their heads this way, make them
remember other things the better; and whether their parts
be improved proportionably to the pains they have taken in
getting by heart others' sayings, experience will shew.
Memory is so necessary to all parts and conditions of life,
and so little is to be done without it, that we are not to fear
it should grow dull and useless for want of exercise, if ex-
ercise would make it grow stronger. But I fear this faculty
of the mind is not capable of much help and amendment
in general by any exercise or endeavour of ours, at least
not by that used upon this pretence in grammar-schools.
And if Xerxes was able to call every common soldier by
name in his army that consisted of no less than an hundred
thousand men, I think it may be guessed, he got not this
wonderful ability by learning his lessons by heart when he
was a boy. This method of exercising and improving the
memory by toilsome repetitions without book of what they
read, is, I think, little used in the education of princes,
which if it had that advantage is talked of, should be as
little neglected in them as in the meanest school-boys:
princes having as much need of good memories as any men
living, and have generally an equal share in this faculty
with other men; though it has never been taken care of this
way. What the mind is intent upon and careful of, that it
remembers best, and for the reason above-mentioned: to
which, if method and order be joined, all is done, I think,
that can be, for the help of a weak memory; and he that
will take any other way to do it, especially that of charging
it with a train of other peoples' words, which he that learns
cares not for, will, I guess, scarce find the profit answer half
the time and pains employed in it.
I do not mean hereby, that there should be no exercise
given to children's memories. I think their memories should
LATIN 163
be employed, but not in learning by rote whole pages out
of books, which, the lesson being once said, and that task
over, are delivered up again to oblivion and neglected for
ever. This mends neither the memory nor the mind. What
they should learn by heart out of authors, I have above
mentioned: and such wise and useful sentences being once
given in charge to their memories, they should never be
suffered to forget again, but be often called to account for
them: whereby, besides the use those sayings may be to
them in their future life, as so many good rules and ob-
servations, they will be taught to reflect often, and bethink
themselves what they have to remember, which is the only
way to make the memory quick and useful. The custom
of frequent reflection will keep their minds from run-
ning adrift, and call their thoughts home from useless un-
attentive roving: and therefore I think it may do well, to
give them something every day to remember, but some-
thing still, that is in itself worth the remembring, and what
you would never have out of mind, whenever you call, or
they themselves search for it. This will oblige them often
to turn their thoughts inwards, than which you cannot
wish them a better intellectual habit.
§ 177. But under whose care soever a child is put to
be taught during the tender and flexible years of his life,
this is certain, it should be one who thinks Latin and lan-
guage the least part of education; one who knowing how
much virtue and a well-temper'd soul is to be preferred to
any sort of learning or language, makes it his chief busi-
ness to form the mind of his scholars, and give that a right
disposition; which if once got, though all the rest should
be neglected, would in due time produce all the rest; and
which, if it be not got and settled so as to keep out ill
and vicious habits, languages and sciences and all the other
accomplishments of education, will be to no purpose but
to make the worse or more dangerous man. And indeed
whatever stir there is made about getting of Latin as the
great and difficult business, his mother may teach it him
herself, if she will but spend two or three hours in a day
with him, and make him read the Evangelists in Latin to
her: for she need but buy a Latin Testament, and having
164 JOHN LOCKE
got some body to mark the last syllable but one where it
is long in words above two syllables, (which is enough
to regulate her pronunciation, and accenting the words)
read daily in the Gospels, and then let her avoid under-
standing them in Latin if she can. And when she under-
stands the Evangelists in Latin, let her, in the same man-
ner, read ^sop's Fables, and so proceed on to Eutropius,
Justin, and other such books. I do not mention this, as
an imagination of what I fancy may do, but as of a thing
I have known done, and the Latin tongue with ease got
this way.
But, to return to what I was saying: he that takes on
him the charge of bringing up young men, especially young
gentlemen, should have something more in him than Latin,
more than even a knowledge in the liberal sciences: he
should be a person of eminent virtue and prudence, and
with good sense, have good humour, and the skill to carry
himself with gravity, ease and kindness, in a constant con-
versation with his pupils. But of this I have spoken
at large in another place.
§ 178. At the same time that he is learning French and
Latin, a child, as has been said, may also be entered in
Arithmetick, Geography, Chronology, History and Geom-
etry too. For if these be taught him in French or Latin,
when he begins once to understand either of these tongues,
he will get a knowledge in these sciences, and the lan-
guage to boot.
Geography I think should be begun with: for the learn-
ing of the figure of the globe, the situation and boundaries
of the four parts of the world, and that of particular
kingdoms and countries, being only an exercise of the eyes
and memory, a child with pleasure will learn and retain
them. And this is so certain, that I now live in the house
with a child whom his mother has so well instructed this
way in geography, that he knew the limits of the four
parts of the world, could readily point, being ask'd, to
any country upon the globe, or any county in the map of
England; knew all the great rivers, promontories, straits
and bays in the world, and could find the longitude and
latitude of any place, before he was six years old. These
CHRONOLOGY 165
things, that he will thus learn by sight, and have by rote
in his memory, are not all, I confess, that he is to learn
upon the globes. But yet it is a good step and prepara-
tion to it, and will make the remainder much easier, when
his judgment is grown ripe enough for it: besides that,
it gets so much time now; and by the pleasure of know-
ing things, leads him on insensibly to the gaining of lan-
guages.
§ 179. When he has the natural parts of the globe well
fix'd in his memory, it may then be time to begin arithmetick.
By the natural parts of the globe, I mean the several posi-
tions of the parts of the earth and sea, under different
names and distinctions of countries, not coming yet to
those artificial and imaginary lines which have been in-
vented, and are only supposed for the better improvement
of that science.
§ 180. Arithmetick is the easiest, and consequently the
first sort of abstract reasoning, which the mind commonly
bears or accustoms itself to: and is of so general use in
all parts of life and business, that scarce any thing is to
be done without it. This is certain, a man cannot have
too much of it, nor too perfectly: he should therefore
begin to be exercised in counting, as soon, and as far, as he
is capable of it; and do something in it every day, till he
is master of the art of numbers. When he understands
addition and subtraction, he then may be advanced farther
in geography, after he is acquainted with the poles, zones,
parallel circles, and meridians, be taught longitude and
latitude, and by them be made to understand the use of
maps, and by the numbers placed on their sides, to know
the respective situation of countries, and how to find them
out on the terrestrial globe. Which when he can readily
do, he may then be entered in the celestial; and there
going over all the circles again, with a more particular
observation of the Ecliptick, or Zodiack, to fix them all
very clearly and distinctly in his mind, he may be taught
the figure and position of the several constellations, which
may be shewed him first upon the globe, and then in the
heavens.
When that is done, and he knows pretty well the con-
166 JOHN LOCKE
stellations of this our hemisphere, it may be time to give
him some notions of this our planetary world; and to
that purpose, it may not be amiss to make him a draught
of the Copernican system, and therein explain to him the
situation of the planets, their respective distances from the
sun, the centre of their revolutions. This will prepare him
to understand the motion and theory of the planets, the
most easy and natural way. For since astronomers no longer
doubt of the motion of the planets about the sun, it is fit
he should proceed upon that hypothesis, which is not only
the simplest and least perplexed for a learner, but also
the likeliest to be true in itself. But in this, as in all
other parts of instruction, great care must be taken with
children, to begin with that which is plain and simple,
and to teach them as little as can be at once, and settle
that well in their heads before you proceed to the next,
or any thing new in that science. Give them first one
simple idea, and see that they take it right, and perfectly
comprehend it before you go any farther, and then add
some other simple idea which lies next in your way to what
you aim at ; and so proceeding by gentle and insensible steps,
children without confusion and amazement will have their
understandings opened and their thoughts extended farther
than could have been expected. And when any one has
learn'd any thing himself, there is no such way to fix
it in his memory, and to encourage him to go on, as to
set him to teach it others.
§ i8i. When he has once got such an acquaintance with
the globes, as is above mentioned, he may be fit to be tried
in a little geometry; wherein I think the six first books
of Euclid enough for him to be taught. For I am in some
doubt, whether more to a man of business be necessary
or useful. At least, if he have a genius and inclination
to it, being entered so far by his tutor, he will be able to
go on of himself without a teacher.
The globes therefore must be studied, and that dili-
gently; and I think may be begun betimes, ii the tutor
will be but careful to distinguish what the child is capable
of knowing, and what not; for which this may be a rule
that perhaps will go a pretty way, viz. that children may be
LAW 167
taught any thing that falls under their senses, especially
their sight, as far as their memories only are exercised:
and thus a child very young may learn, which is the
Equator, which the Meridian, &c. which Europe, and which
England, upon the globes, as soon almost as he knows
the rooms of the house he lives in, if care be taken not
to teach him too much at once, nor to set him upon a
new part, till that which he is upon be perfectly learned
and fixed in his memory.
§ 182. With geography, chronology ought to go hand
in hand. I mean the general part of it, so that he may
have in his mind a view of the whole current of time, and
the several considerable epochs that are made use of in
history. Without these two, history, which is the great
mistress of prudence and civil knowledge, and ought to
be the proper study of a gentleman, or man of business
in the world; without geography and chronology, I say,
history will be very ill retain'd, and very little useful;
but be only a jumble of matters of fact, confusedly heaped
together without order or instruction. 'Tis by these two
that the actions of mankind are ranked into their proper
places of time and countries, under which circumstances
they are not only much easier kept in the memory, but in
that natural order, are only capable to afford those observa-
tions which make a man the better and the abler for read-
ing them.
§ 183. When I speak of chronology as a science he
should be perfect in, I do not mean the little controversies
that are in it. These are endless, and most of them of so
little importance to a gentleman, as not to deserve to be
enquired into, were they capable of an easy decision. And
therefore all that learned noise and dust of the chronol-
ogist is wholly to be avoided. The most useful book I
have seen in that part of learning, is a small treatise of
Strauchius, which is printed in twelves, under the title of
Breviarium Chronologicum, out of which may be selected
all that is necessary to be taught a young gentleman con-
cerning chronology; for all that is in that treatise a learner
need not be cumbred with. He has in him the most re-
markable or useful epochs reduced all to that of the Julian
168 JOHN LOCKE
Period, which is the easiest and plainest and surest method
that can be made use of in chronology. To this treatise
of Strauchius, Helvicus's tables may be added, as a book
to be turned to on all occasions.
§ 184. As nothing teaches, so nothing delights more than
history. The first of these recommends it to the study
of grown men, the latter makes me think it the fittest for
a young lad, who as soon as he is instructed in chro-
nology, and acquainted with the several epochs in use in
this part of the world, and can reduce them to the Julian
Period, should then have some Latin history put into his
hand. The choice should be directed by the easiness of
the stile; for whereever he begins, chronology will keep
it from confusion; and the pleasantness of the subject
inviting him to read, the language will insensibly be got
without that terrible vexation and uneasiness which chil-
dren suffer where they are put into books beyond their
capacity; such as are the Roman orators and poets, only
to learn the Roman language. When he has by reading
mastered the easier, such perhaps as Justin, Eutropius, Quin-
tius CurtiiiS, S'C. the next degree to these will give him
no great trouble: and thus by a gradual progress from
the plainest and easiest historians, he may at last come
to read the most difficult and sublime of the Latin authors,
such as are Tully, Virgil, and Horace.
§ 185. The knowledge of virtue, all along from the be-
ginning, in all the instances he is capable of, being taught
him more by practice than rules; and the love of reputa-
tion, instead of satisfying his appetite, being made habitual
in him, I know not whether he should read any other dis-
courses of morality but what he finds in the Bible; or
have any system of ethicks put into his hand till he can
read Tully's Offices not as a school-boy to learn Latin,
but as one that would be informed in the principles and
precepts of virtue for the conduct of his life.
§ 186. When he has pretty well digested Tully* s Offices,
and added to it, Puffendorf de Officio Hominis & Civis,
it may be seasonable to set him upon Grotius de Jure Belli
& Pads, or, which perhaps is the better of the two, Puffen-
dorf de Jure naturali & Gentium; wherein he will be in-
LAW 169
stnicted in the natural rights of men, and the original and
foundations of society, and the duties resulting from thence.
This general part of civil-law and history, are studies
which a gentleman should not barely touch at, but con-
stantly dwell upon, and never have done with. A virtuous
and well-behaved young man, that is well-versed in the
general part of the civil-law (which concerns not the chicane
of private cases, but the affairs and intercourse of civilized
nations in general, grounded upon principles of reason)
understands Latin well, and can write a good hand, one may
turn loose into the world with great assurance that he
will find employment and esteem every where.
§ 187. It would be strange to suppose an English gen-
tleman should be ignorant of the law of his country. This,
whatever station he is in, is so requisite, that from a
Justice of the Peace to a Minister of State I know no
place he can well fill without it. I do not mean the chicane
or wrangling and captious part of the law: a gentleman,
whose business is to seek the true measures of right and
wrong, and not the arts how to avoid doing the one, and
secure himself in doing the other, ought to be as far from
such a study of the law, as he is concerned diligently to
apply himself to that wherein he may be serviceable to
his country. And to that purpose, I think the right way
for a gentleman to study our law, which he does not
design for his calling, is to take a view of our English
constitution and government in the antient books of the
common-law, and some more modern writers, who out
of them have given an account of this government. And
having got a true idea of that, then to read our his-
tory, and with it join in every king's reign the laws then
made. This will give an insight into the reason of our
statutes, and shew the true ground upon which they came
V) be made, and what weight they ought to have.
§ 188. Rhetorick and logick being the arts that in the
ordinary method usually follow immediately after gram-
mar, it may perhaps be wondered that I have said so
little of them. The reason is, because of the little ad-
vantage young people receive by them: for I have sel-
dom or never observed any one to get the skill of reason-
170 JOHN LOCKE
ing well, or speaking handsomely, by studying those rules
which pretend to reach it: and therefore I would have
a young gentleman take a view of them in the shortest
systems could be found, without dwelling long on the con-
templation and study of those formalities. Right rea-
soning is founded on something else than the predicaments
and predicables, and does not consist in talking in mode
and figure it self. But 'tis beside my present business to
enlarge upon this speculation. To come therefore to what
we have in hand; if you would have your son reason well,
let him read Chillingworth; and if you would have him
speak well, let him be conversant in Tully, to give him the
true idea of eloquence; and let him read those things that
are well writ in English, to perfect his style in the purity
of our language.
§ 189. If the use and end of right reasoning be to have
right notions and a right judgment of things, to distinguish
betwixt truth and falsehood, right and wrong, and to act
accordingly; be sure not to let your son be bred up in
the art and formality of disputing, either practising it
himself, or admiring it in others; unless instead of an
able man, you desire to have him an insignificant wrangler,
opiniator in discourse, and priding himself in contradicting
others; or, which is worse, questioning every thing, and
thinking there is no such thing as truth to be sought, but
only victory, in disputing. There cannot be any thing so
disingenuous, so misbecoming a gentleman or any one
who pretends to be a rational creature, as not to yield to
plain reason and the conviction of clear arguments. Is
there any thing more consistent with civil conversation,
and the end of all debate, than not to take an answer,
though never so full and satisfactory, but still to go on with
the dispute as long as equivocal sounds can furnish (a
medius terminus) a term to wrangle with on the one side,
or a distinction on the other ; whether pertinent or imper-
tinent, sense or nonsense, agreeing with or contrary to
what he had said before, it matters not. For this, in short,
is the way and perfection of logical disputes, that the
opponent never takes any answer, nor the respondent ever
yields to any argument. This neither of them must do,
STYLE 171
whatever becomes of truth or knowledge, unless he will
pass for a poor baffled wretch, and lie under the dis-
grace of not being able to maintain whatever he has once
affirm'd, which is the great aim and glory in disputing.
Truth is to be found and supported by a mature and due
consideration of things themselves, and not by artificial
terms and ways of arguing: these lead not men so much
into the discovery of truth, as into a captious and falla-
cious use of doubtful words, which is the most useless and
most offensive way of talking, and such as least suits a
gentleman or a lover of truth of any thing in the world.
There can scarce be a greater defect in a gentleman
than not to express himself well either in writing or speak-
ing. But yet I think I may ask my reader, whether he
doth not know a great many, who live upon their estates,
and so with the name should have the qualities of gentle-
men, who cannot so much as tell a story as they should,
much less speak clearly and persuasively in any business.
This I think not to be so much their fault, as the fault of
their education; for I must, without partiality, do my
countrymen this right, that where they apply themselves,
I see none of their neighbours outgo them. They have
been taught rhetorick, but yet never taught how to express
themselves handsomely with their tongues or pens in the
language they are always to use; as if the names of the
figures that embellished the discourses of those who under-
stood the art of speaking, were the very art and skill of
speaking well. This, as all other things of practice, is
to be learn'd not by a few or a great many rules given,
but by exercise and application according to good rules,
or rather patterns, till habits are got, and a facility of
doing it well.
Agreeable hereunto, perhaps it might not be amiss to
make children, as soon as they are capable of it, often
to tell a story of any thing they know; and to correct
at first the most remarkable fault they are guilty of in
their way of putting it together. When that fault is
cured, then to shew them the next, and so on, till one
after another, all, at least the gross ones, are mended.
When they can tell tales pretty well, then it may be the
172 JOHN LOCKE
time to make them write them. The Fables of ^sop, the
only book almost that I know fit for children, may afford
them matter for this exercise of writing English, as well as
for reading and translating, to enter them in the Latin
tongue. When they have got past the faults of grammar,
and can join in a continued coherent discourse the several
parts of a story, without bald and unhandsome forms of
transition (as is usual) often repeated, he that desires to
perfect them yet farther in this, which is the first step to
speaking well and needs no invention, may have recourse
to Tally, and by putting in practice those rules which that
master of eloquence gives in his first book de inventione,
§ 20, make them know wherein the skill and graces of an
handsome narrative, according to the several subjects and
designs of it, lie. Of each of which rules fit examples
may be found out, and therein they may be shewn how
others have practised them. The antient classick authors
afford plenty of such examples, which they should be made
not only to translate, but have set before them as patterns
for their daily imitation.
When they understand how to write English with due
connexion, propriety, and order, and are pretty well mas-
ters of a tolerable narrative style, they may be advanced
to writing of letters; wherein they should not be put upon
any strains of wit or compliment, but taught to express
their own plain easy sense, without any incoherence, con-
fusion or roughness. And when they are perfect in this,
they may, to raise their thoughts, have set before them the
examples of Voitures, for the entertainment of their friends
at a distance, with letters of compliment, mirth, raillery
or diversion ; and Tully's Epistles, as the best pattern whether
for business or conversation. The writing of letters has
so much to do in all the occurrences of human life, that
no gentleman can avoid shewing himself in this kind of
writing. Occasions will daily force him to make this use
of his pen, which, besides the consequences that, in his
affairs, his well or ill managing of it often draws after
it, always lays him open to a severer examination of his
breeding, sense, and abilities, than oral discourses; whose
transient faults dying for the most part with the sound
LETTERS 173
that gives them life, and so not subject to a strict review,
more easily escape observation and censure.
Had the methods of education been directed to their right
end, one would have thought this so necessary a part could
not have been neglected whilst themes and verses in Latin,
of no use at all, were so constantly every where pressed, to
the racking of children's inventions beyond their strength
and hindering their chearful progress in learning the tongues
by unnatural difficulties. But custom has so ordain'd it,
and who dares disobey? And would it not be very unrea-
sonable to require of a learned country school-master (who
has all the tropes and figures in Farnaby's Rhetorick at his
fingers* ends) to teach his scholar to express himself hand-
somely in English, when it appears to be so little his business
or thought, that the boy's mother (despised, 'tis like, as illit-
erate for not having read a system of logick and rhetorick)
outdoes him in it?
To write and speak correctly gives a grace and gains a
favourable attention to what one has to say : and since 'tis
English that an English gentleman will have constant use
of, that is the language he should chiefly cultivate, and
wherein most care should be taken to polish and perfect his
style. To speak or write better Latin than English, may
make a man be talk'd of, but he would find it more to his
purpose to express himself well in his own tongue, that he
uses every moment, than to have the vain commendation of
others for a very insignificant quality. This I find univer-
sally neglected, and no care taken any where to improve
young men in their own language, that they may thoroughly
understand and be masters of it. If any one among us have
a facility or purity more than ordinary in his mother tongue,
it is owing to chance, or his genius, or any thing rather
than to his education or any care of his teacher. To mind
what English his pupil speaks or writes, is below the dig-
nity of one bred up amongst Greek and Latin, though he
have but little of them himself. These are the learned
languages fit only for learned men to meddle with and teach ;
English is the language of the illiterate vulgar: tho' yet we
see the polity of some of our neighbours hath not thought
it beneath the publick care to promote and reward the im-
174 JOHN LOCKE
provement of their own language. Polishing and enriching
their tongue is no small business amongst them ; it hath col-
leges and stipends appointed it, and there is raised amongst
them a great ambition and emulation of writing correctly:
and we see what they are come to by it, and how far they
have spread one of the worst languages possibly in this part
of the world, if we look upon it as it was in some few reigns
backwards, whatever it be now. The great men among the
Romans were daily exercising themselves in their own lan-
guage; and we find yet upon record the names of orators,
who taught some of their emperors Latin, though it were
their mother tongue.
'Tis plain the Greeks were yet more nice in theirs. All
other speech was barbarous to them but their own, and no
foreign language appears to have been studied or valued
amongst that learned and acute people; tho' it be past doubt
that they borrowed their learning and philosophy from
abroad.
I am not here speaking against Greek and Latin; I think
they ought to be studied, and the Latin at least understood
well by every gentleman. But whatever foreign languages
a young man meddles with (and the more he knows the
better) that which he should critically study, and labour
to get a facility, clearness and elegancy to express himself
in, should be his own; and to this purpose he should daily
be exercised in it.
§ 190. Natural philosophy, as a speculative science, I
imagine we have none, and perhaps I may think I have rea-
son to say we never shall be able to make a science of it.
The works of nature are contrived by a wisdom, and operate
by ways too far surpassing our faculties to discover or
capacities to conceive, for us ever to be able to reduce them
into a science. Natural philosophy being the knowledge of
the principles, properties and operations of things as they are
in themselves, I imagine there are two parts of it, one com-
prehending spirits, with their nature and qualities, and the
other bodies. The first of these is usually referred to meta-
physicks: but under what title soever the consideration of
spirits comes, I think it ought to go before the study of mat-
ter and body, not as a science that can be methodized into
NATURAL PHILOSOPHY 175
a system, and treated of upon principles of knowledge; but
as an enlargement of our minds towards a truer and fuller
comprehension of the intellectual world to which we are led
both by reason and revelation. And since the clearest and
largest discoveries we have of other spirits, besides God and
our own souls, is imparted to us from heaven by revelation,
I think the information that at least young people should
have of them, should be taken from that revelation. To this
purpose, I conclude, it would be well, if there were made a
good history of the Bible, for young people to read; wherein
if every thing that is fit to be put into it, were laid down
in its due order of time, and several things omitted which
are suited only to riper age, that confusion which is usually
produced by promiscuous reading of the Scripture, as it lies
now bound up in our Bibles, would be avoided. And also
this other good obtained, that by reading of it constantly,
there would be instilled into the minds of children a notion
and belief of spirits, they having so much to do in all the
transactions of that history, which will be a good prepara-
tion to the study of bodies. For without the notion and al-
lowance of spirit, our philosophy will be lame and defective
in one main part of it, when it leaves out the contempla-
tion of the most excellent and powerful part of the creation.
§ 191. Of this History of the Bible, I think too it would
be well if there were a short and plain epitome made, con-
taining the chief and most material heads, for children to
be conversant in as soon as they can read. This, though
it will lead them early into some notion of spirits, yet it is
not contrary to what I said above, that I would not have
children troubled, whilst young, with notions of spirits;
whereby my meaning was, that I think it inconvenient that
their yet tender minds should receive early impressions of
goblins, spectres, and apparitions, wherewith their maids and
those about them are apt to fright them into a compliance
with their orders, which often proves a great inconvenience
to them all their lives after, by subjecting their minds to
frights, fearful apprehensions, weakness and superstition;
which when coming abroad into the world and conversation
they grow weary and ashamed of, it not seldom happens,
that to make, as they think, a thorough cure, and ease them-
176 JOHN LOCKE
selves of a load which has sat so heavy on them, they throw
away the thoughts of all spirits together, and so run into
the other, but worse, extream.
§ 192. The reason why I would have this premised to the
study of bodies, and the Doctrine of the Scriptures well im-
bibed before young men be entered in natural philosophy, is,
because matter, being a thing that all our senses are con-
stantly conversant with, it is so apt to possess the mind, and
exclude all other beings but matter, that prejudice, grounded
on such principles, often leaves no room for the admittance
of spirits, or the allowing any such things as immaterial
beings in rerum natura; when yet it is evident that by mere
matter and motion none of the great phaenomena of nature
can be resolved, to instance but in that common one of
gravity, which I think impossible to be explained by any
natural operation of matter, or any other law of motion,
but the positive will of a superior being so ordering it. And
therefore since the deluge cannot be well explained without
admitting something out of the ordinary course of nature, I
propose it to be considered whether God's altering the centre
of gravity in the earth for a time (a thing as intelligible as
gravity it self, which perhaps a little variation of causes un-
known to us would produce) will not more easily account for
Noah's flood than any hypothesis yet made use of to solve
it. I hear the great objection to this, is, that it would produce
but a partial deluge. But the alteration of the centre of
gravity once allowed, 'tis no hard matter to conceive that the
divine power might make the centre of gravity, plac'd at a
due distance from the centre of the earth, move round it in
a convenient space of time, whereby the flood would become
universal, and, as I think, answer all the phaenomena of the
deluge as delivered by Moses, at an easier rate than those
many hard vsuppositions that are made use of to explain it.
But this is not a place for that argument, which is here
only mentioned by the bye, to shew the necessity of having
recourse to something beyond bare matter and its motion
in the explication of nature; to which the notions of spirits
and their power, as delivered in the Bible, where so much is
attributed to their operation, may be a fit preparative, re-
serving to a fitter opportunity a fuller explication of this
\ NATURAL PHILOSOPHY 177
hypothesis, and the application of it to all the parts of the
deluge, and any difficulties can be supposed in the history
of the flood, as recorded in the scripture.
§ 193. But to return to the study of natural philosophy.
Tho' the world be full of systems of it, yet I cannot say, I
know any one which can be taught a young man as a science
wherein he may be sure to find truth and certainty, which
is what all sciences give an expectation of. I do not hence
conclude, that none of them are to be read. It is necessary
for a gentleman in this learned age to look into some of
them to fit himself for conversation: but whether that of
Des Cartes be put into his hands, as that which is most in
fashion, or it be thought fit to give him a short view of that
and several others also, I think the systems of natural phi-
losophy that have obtained in this part of the world, are to be
read more to know the hypotheses, and to understand the
terms and ways of talking of the several sects, than with
hopes to gain thereby a comprehensive, scientifical and satis-
factory knowledge of the works of nature. Only this may be
said, that the modern Corpuscularians talk in most things
more intelligibly than the Peripateticks, who possessed the
schools immediately before them. He that would look
further back, and acquaint himself with the several opinions
of the antients, may consult Dr. Cudworth's Intellectual Sys-
tem, wherein that very learned author hath with such ac-
curateness and judgment collected and explained the opin-
ions of the Greek philosophers, that what principles they
built on, and what were the chief hypotheses that divided
them, is better to be seen in him than any where else that I
know. But I would not deter any one from the study of
nature because all the knowledge we have or possibly can
have of it cannot be brought into a science. There are
very many things in it that are convenient and necessary to
be known to a gentleman ; and a great many other that will
abundantly reward the pains of the curious with delight and
advantage. But these, I think, are rather to be found
amongst such writers as have employed themselves in mak-
ing rational experiments and observations than in starting
barely speculative systems. Such writings therefore, as
many of Mr. Boyle's are, with others that have writ of hus-
178 JOHN LOCKE
bandry, planting, gardening, and the like, may be fit for a
gentleman, when he has a little acquainted himself with some
of the systems of the natural philosophy in fashion.
§ 194. Though the systems of phy sicks that I have met
with, afford little encouragement to look for certainty or
science in any treatise which shall pretend to giYO^ us a
body of natural philosophy from the first principles of
bodies in general, yet the incomparable Mr. Newton has
shewn, how far mathematicks applied to some parts of na-
ture may, upon principles that matter of fact justify, carry
us in the knowledge of some, as I may so call them, par-
ticular provinces of the incomprehensible universe. And
if others could give us so good and clear an account of
other parts of nature, as he has of this our planetary world,
and the most considerable phsenomena observable in it, in
his admirable book. Philosophic^ naturalis Principia Mathe-
matica, we might in time hope to be furnished with more
true and certain knowledge in several parts of this stupen-
dous machine, than hitherto we could have expected. And
though there are very few that have mathematicks enough
to understand his demonstrations, yet the most accurate
mathematicians who have examined them allowing them
to be such, his book will deserve to be read, and give no
small light and pleasure to those, who, willing to understand
the motions, properties, and operations of the great masses
of matter, in this our solar system, will but carefully mind
his conclusions, which may be depended on as propositions
well proved.
§ 195. This is, in short, what I have thought concerning
a young gentleman's studies ; wherein it will possibly be won-
dered that I should omit Greek, since amongst the Grecians is
to be found the original as it were, and foundation of all that
learning which we have in this part of the world. I grant
it so ; and will add, that no man can pass for a scholar that
is ignorant of the Greek tongue. But I am not here consid-
ering the education of a profess'd scholar, but of a gentle-
man, to whom Latin and French, as the world now goes, is
by every one acknowledged to be necessary. When he comes
to be a man, if he has a mind to carry his studies farther,
and look into the Greek learning, he will then easily get that
\ GREEK 179
tongue himself: and if he has not that inclination, his
learning of it under a tutor will be but lost labour, and much
of his time and pains spent in that which will be neglected
and thrown away as soon as he is at liberty. For how
many are there of an hundred, even amongst scholars them-
selves, who retain the Greek they carried from school; or
ever improve it to a familiar reading and perfect understand-
ing of Greek authors ?
To conclude this part, which concerns a young gentleman's
studies, his tutor should remember, that his business is not
so much to teach him all that is knowable, as to raise in
him a love and esteem of knowledge; and to put him in the
right way of knowing and improving himself when he has a
mind to it.
The thoughts of a judicious author on the subject of
languages, I shall here give the reader, as near as I can,
in his own way of expressing them: he says, "One can
scarce burden children too much with the knowledge of
languages. They are useful to men of all conditions, and
they equally open them the entrance, either to the most pro-
found, or the more easy and entertaining parts of learning.
If this irksome study be put off to a little more advanced
age, young men either have not resolution enough to apply
it out of choice or steadiness to carry it on. And if any
one has the gift of perseverance, it is not without the incon-
venience of spending that time upon languages, which is des-
tined to other uses : and he confines to the study of words
that age of his life that is above it, and requires things;
at least it is the losing the best and beautifullest season of
one's life. This large foundation of languages cannot be
well laid but when every thing makes an easy and deep im-
pression on the mind; when the memory is fresh, ready, and
tenacious; when the head and heart are as yet free from
cares, passions, and designs; and those on whom the child
depends have authority enough to keep him close to a long
continued application. I am persuaded that the small num-
ber of truly learned, and the multitude of superficial pre-
tenders, is owing to the neglect of this."
I think every body will agree with this observing gentle-
man, that languages are the proper study of our first years.
180 JOHN LOCKE
But 'tis to be consider'd by the parents and tutors, what
tongues 'tis fit the child should learn. For it must be con-
fessed, that it is fruitless pains and loss of time, to learn a
language which in the course of life that he is designed to,
he is never like to make use of, or which one may guess
by his temper he will wholly neglect and lose again, as soon
as an approach to manhood, setting him free from a gov-
ernor, shall put him into the hands of his own inclination,
which is not likely to allot any of his time to the cultivating
the learned tongues, or dispose him to mind any other lan-
guage but what daily use or some particular necessity shall
force upon him.
But yet for the sake of those who are designed to be
scholars, I will add what the same author subjoins to make
good his foregoing remark. It will deserve to be considered
by all who desire to be truly learned, and therefore may
be a fit rule for tutors to inculcate and leave with their
pupils to guide their future studies.
" The study, says he, of the original text can never be
sufficiently recommended. 'Tis the shortest, surest, and most
agreeable way to all sorts of learning. Draw from the
spring-head, and take not things at second hand. Let the
writings of the great masters be never laid aside, dwell upon
them, settle them in your mind, and cite them upon occasion ;
make it your business throughly to understand them in their
full extent and all their circumstances : acquaint yourself
fully with the principles of original authors ; bring them to
a consistency, and then do you yourself make your deduc-
tions. In this state were the first commentators, and do not
you rest till you bring yourself to the same. Content not
yourself with those borrowed lights, nor guide yourself by
their views but where your own fails you and leaves you in
the dark. Their explications are not your's, and will give
you the slip. On the contrary, your own observations are
the product of your own mind, where they will abide and
be ready at hand upon all occasions in converse, consulta-
tion, and dispute. Lose not the pleasure it is to see that
you are not stopp'd in your reading but by difficulties that
are invincible ; where the commentators and scholiasts them-
selves are at a stand and have nothing to say. Those copious
METHOD 181
expositors of other places, who with a vain and pompous
overflow of learning poured out on passages plain and easy
in themselves, are very free of their words and pains, where
there is no need. Convince yourself fully by this ordering
your studies, that 'tis nothing but men's laziness which hath
encouraged pedantry to cram rather than enrich libraries,
and to bury good authors under heaps of notes and com-
mentaries, and you will perceive that sloth herein hath acted
against itself and its own interest by multiplying reading
and enquiries, and encreasing the pains it endeavoured to
avoid/'
This, tho* it may seem to concern none but direct scholars,
is of so great moment for the right ordering of their educa-
tion and studies, that I hope I shall not be blamed for in-
serting of it here; especially if it be considered, that it may
be of use to gentlemen too, when at any time they have a
mind to go deeper than the surface, and get to themselves a
solid, satisfactory, and masterly insight in any part .of
learning.
Order and constancy are said to make the great difference
between one man and another: this I am sure, nothing so
much clears a learner's way, helps him so much on in it, and
makes him go so easy and so far in any enquiry, as a good
method. His governor should take pains to make him sensi-
ble of this, accustom him to order, and teach him method in
all the applications of his thoughts ; shew him wherein it lies,
and the advantages of it; acquaint him with the several
sorts of it, either from general to particulars, or from par-
ticulars to what is more general; exercise him in both of
them, and make him see in what cases each different method
is most proper, and to what ends it best serves.
In history the order of time should govern, in philosophi-
cal enquiries that of nature, which in all progression is to
go from the place one is then in, to that which joins and
lies next to it; and so it is in the mind, from the knowledge
it stands possessed of already, to that which lies next, and
is coherent to it, and so on to what it aims at, by the sim-
plest and most uncompounded parts it can divide the matter
into. To this purpose, it will be of great use to his pupil
to accustom him to distinguish well, that is, to have distinct
182 JOHN LOCKE
notions, whereever the mind can find any real difference;
but as carefully to avoid distinctions in terms, where he
has not distinct and different clear ideas.
§ 196. Besides what is to be had from study and books,
there are other accomplishments necessary for a gentleman,
to be got by exercise, and to which time is to be allowed, and
for which masters must be had.
Dancing being that which gives graceful motions all the
life, and above all things manliness, and a becoming confi-
dence to young children, I think it cannot be learned too
early, after they are once of an age and strength capable of
it. But you must be sure to have a good master, that knows,
and can teach, what is graceful and becoming, and what
gives a freedom and easiness to all the motions of the body.
One that teaches not this, is worse than none at all : natural
unfashionableness being much better than apish affected pos-
tures; and I think it much more passable, to put off the hat
and make a leg like an honest country gentleman than like
an ill- fashioned dancing-master. For as for the jigging part,
and the figures of dances, I count that little or nothing,
farther than as it tends to perfect graceful carriage,
§ 197. Musick is thought to have some affinity with dan-
cing, and a good hand upon some instruments is by many
people mightily valued. But it wastes so much of a young
man's time to gain but a moderate skill in it; and engages
often in such odd company, that many think it much better
spared: and I have amongst men of parts and business so
seldom heard any one commended or esteemed for having
an excellency in musick, that amongst all those things that
ever came into the list of accomplishments, I think I may
give it the last place. Our short lives will not serve us for
the attainment of all things; nor can our minds be always
intent on something to be learned. The weakness of our
constitutions both of mind and body, requires that we
should be often unbent: and he that will make a good use
of any part of his life, must allow a large portion of it to
recreation. At least, this must not be denied to young peo-
ple; unless whilst you with too much haste make them old,
you have the displeasure to set them in their graves or a
second childhood sooner than you could wish. And there-
FENCING 183
fore, I think, that the time and pains allotted to serious im-
provements, should be employed about things of most use
and consequence, and that too in the methods the most easy
and short that could be at any rate obtained: and perhaps,
as I have above said, it would be none of the least secrets
of education, to make the exercises of the body and the
mind the recreation one to another. I doubt not but that
something might be done in it, by a prudent man, that would
well consider the temper and inclination of his pupil. For
he that is wearied either with study or dancing does not
desire presently to go to sleep, but to do something else
which may divert and delight him. But this must be always
remembered, that nothing can come into the account of
recreation, that is not done with delight.
§ 198. Fencing and riding the great horse, are looked
upon so necessary parts of breeding, that it would be
thought a great omission to neglect them; the latter of
the two being for the most part to be learned only in
great towns, is one of the best exercises for health, which
is to be had in those places of ease and luxury: and
upon that account makes a fit part of a young gentleman's
employment during his abode there. And as far as it
conduces to give a man a firm and graceful seat on horse-
back, and to make him able to teach his horse to stop and
turn quick, and to rest on his hanches, is of use to a
gentleman both in peace and war. But whether it be of
moment enough to be made a business of, and deserve
to take up more of his time than should barely for his
health be employed at due intervals in some such vigorous
exercise, I shall leave to the discretion of parents and
tutors; who will do well to remember, in all the parts
of education, that most time and application is to be bestowed
on that which is like to be of greatest consequence and
frequentest use in the ordinary course and occurrences of
that life the young man is designed for.
§ 199. As for fencing, it seems to me a good exercise
for health, but dangerous to the life ; the confidence of their
skill being apt to engage in quarrels those that think they
have learned to use their swords. This presumption makes
them often more touchy than needs on point of honour and
184 JOHN LOCKE
slight or no provocations. Young men, in their warm blood,
are forward to think they have in vain learned to fence,
if they never shew their skill and courage in a duel; and
they seem to have reason. But how many sad tragedies
that reason has been the occasion of, the tears of many
a mother can witness. A man that cannot fence, will be
more careful to keep out of bullies' and gamesters' com-
pany, and will not be half so apt to stand upon punctilios,
nor to give affronts, or fiercely justify them when given,
which is that which usually makes the quarrel. And
when a man is in the field, a moderate skill in fencing rather
exposes him to the sword of his enemy than secures him
from it. And certainly a man of courage who cannot
fence at all and therefore will put all upon one thrust
and not stand parrying, has the odds against a moderate
fencer, especially if he has skill in wrestling. And therefore,
if any provision be to be made against such accidents, and
a man be to prepare his son for duels, I had much rather
mine should be a good wrestler than an ordinary fencer,
which is the most a gentleman can attain to in it, unless
he will be constantly in the fencing-school and every day
exercising. But since fencing and riding the great horse
are so generally looked upon as necessary qualifications
in the breeding of a gentleman, it will be hard wholly to
deny any one of that rank these marks of distinction. I
shall leave it therefore to the father to consider, how far
the temper of his son and the station he is like to be in,
will allow or encourage him to comply with fashions which,
having very little to do with civil life, were yet formerly
unknown to the most warlike nations, and seem to have added
little of force or courage to those who have received
them; unless we will think martial skill or prowess have
been improved by duelling, with which fencing came into,
and with which I presume it will go out of the world.
§ 200. These are my present thoughts concerning learn-
ing and accomplishments. The great business of all is virtue
and wisdom:
Nullum numen abest si sit Prudentia.
Teach him to get a mastery over his inclinations, and sub-
mit his appetite to reason. This being obtained, and by
TRAVEL 185
constant practice settled into habit, the hardest part of
the task is over. To bring a young man to this, I know
nothing which so much contributes as the love of praise
and commendation, which should therefore be instilled
into him by all arts imaginable. Make his mind as sensible
of credit and shame as may be ; and when you have done
that, you have put a principle into him, which will influence
his actions when you are not by, to which the fear of
a little smart of a rod is not comparable, and which will
be the proper stock whereon afterwards to graff the true
principles of morality and religion.
§ 201. I have one thing more to add, which as soon
as I mention I shall run the danger of being suspected to
have forgot what I am about, and what I have above written
concerning education all tending towards a gentleman's call-
ing, with which a trade seems wholly inconsistent. And
yet I cannot forbear to say, I would have him learn a
trade, a manual trade; nay two or three, but one more
particularly.
§ 202. The busy inclination of children being always
to be directed to something that may . be useful to them,
the advantages proposed from what they are set about
may be considered of two kinds: i. Where the skill itself
that is got by exercise is worth the having. Thus skill
not only in languages and learned sciences, but in painting,
turning, gardening, tempering and working in iron, and
all other useful arts is worth the having. 2. Where the
exercise itself, without any consideration, is necessary or
useful for health. Knowledge in some things is so neces-
sary to be got by children whilst they are young, that some
part of their time is to be allotted to their improvement
in them, though those employments contribute nothing
at all to their health. Such are reading and writing and
all other sedentary studies for the cultivating of the mind,
which unavoidably take up a great part of a gentleman's
time, quite from their cradles. Other manual arts, which
are both got and exercised by labour, do many of them
by that exercise not only increase our dexterity and skill,
but contribute to our health too, especially such as employ
us in the open air. In these, then, health and improve-
186 JOHN LOCKE
ment may be join'd together; and of these should some
fit ones be chosen, to be made the recreations of one
whose chief business is with books and study. In this
choice the age and inclination of the person is to be con-
sidered, and constraint always to be avoided in bringing
him to it. For command and force may often create,
but can never cure, an aversion : and whatever any one
is brought to by compulsion, he will leave as soon as he
can, and be little profited and less recreated by, whilst he
is at it.
§ 203. That which of all others would please me best,
would be a painter, were there not an argument or two
against it not easy to be answered. First, ill painting
is one of the worst things in the world; and to attain a toler-
able degree of skill in it, requires too much of a man's time.
If he has a natural inclination to it, it will endanger
the neglect of all other more useful studies to give way to
that; and if he have no inclination to it, all the time, pains
and money shall be employed in it, will be thrown away
to no purpose. Another reason why I am not for painting
in a gentleman, is, because it is a sedentary recreation,
which more employs the mind than the body. A gentleman's
more serious employment I look on to be study; and when
that demands relaxation and refreshment, it should be in
some exercise of the body, which unbends the thought, and
confirms the health and strength. For these two reasons I
am not for painting,
§ 204. In the next place, for a country gentleman I
should propose one, or rather both these, viz. Gardening or
husbandry in general, and working in wood, as a carpenter,
joiner, or turner, these being fit and healthy recreations for
a man of study or business. For since the mind endures
not to be constantly employed in the same thing or way,
and sedentary or studious men should have some exer-
cise, that at the same time might divert their minds and
employ their bodies, I know none that could do it better
for a country gentleman than these two; the one of them
affording him exercise when the weather or season keeps
him from the other. Besides that, by being skilled in
the one of them, he will be able to govern and teach his
RECREATION 187
gardener; by the other, contrive and make a great many
things both of delight and use: though these I propose not
as the chief end of his labour, but as temptations to it;
diversion from his other more serious thoughts and employ-
ments by useful and healthy manual exercise being what I
chiefly aim at in it.
§ 205. The great men among the ancients understood
very well how to reconcile manual labour with affairs of
state, and thought it no lessening to their dignity to make
the one the recreation to the other. That indeed which
seems most generally to have employed and diverted their
spare hours, was agriculture, Gideon among the Jews
was taken from threshing, as well as Cincinnatus amongst
the Romans from the plough, to command the armies of
their countries against their enemies; and 'tis plain their
dexterous handling of the flayl or the plough, and being
good workmen with these tools, did not hinder their skill
in arms, nor make them less able in the arts of war or
government. They were great captains and statesmen as
well as husbandmen. Cato Major, who had with great
reputation born all the great offices of the commonwealth,
has left us an evidence under his own hand, how much
he was versed in country affairs; and, as I remember,
Cyrus thought gardening so little beneath the dignity and
grandeur of a throne, that he shew'd Xenophon a large
field of fruit-trees all of his own planting. The records
of antiquity, both among Jews and Gentiles, are full of
instances of this kind, if it were necessary to recommend
useful recreations by examples.
§ 206. Nor let it be thought that I mistake, when I
call these or the like exercises of manual arts, diver-
sions or recreations : for recreation is not being idle (as
every one may observe) but easing the wearied part by
change of business: and he that thinks diversion may not
lie in hard and painful labour, forgets the early rising,
hard riding, heat, cold and hunger of huntsmen, which
is yet known to be the constant recreation of men of the
greatest condition. Delving, planting inoculating, or any the
like profitable employments, would be no less a diversion
than any of the idle sports in fashion, if men could but
188 JOHN LOCKE
be brought to delight in them, which custom and skill in a
trade will quickly bring any one to do. And I doubt
not but there are to be found those, who being frequently
called to cards or any other play by those they could not
refuse, have been more tired with these recreations than
with any the most serious employment of life, though
the play has been such as they have naturally had no
aversion to, and with which they could willingly some-
times divert themselves.
§ 207. Play, wherein persons of condition, especially
ladies, waste so much of their time, is a plain instance to
me that men cannot be perfectly idle; they must be doing
something; for how else could they sit so many hours
toiling at that which generally gives more vexation than
delight to people whilst they are actually engaged in it?
'Tis certain, gaming leaves no satisfaction behind it to
those who reflect when it is over, and it no way profits
either body or mind: as to their estates, if it strike so
deep as to concern them, it is a trade then, and not a
recreation, wherein few that have any thing else to live
on thrive: and at best, a thriving gamester has but a
poor trade on't, who fills his pockets at the price of his
reputation.
Recreation belongs not to people who are strangers to
business, and are not wasted and wearied with the em-
ployment of their calling. The skill should be, so to order
their time of recreation, that it may relax and refresh the
part that has been exercised and is tired, and yet do some-
thing which besides the present delight and ease, may
produce what will afterwards be profitable. It has been
nothing but the vanity and pride of greatness and riches,
that has brought unprofitable and dangerous pastimes (as
they are called) into fashion, and persuaded people into
a belief, that the learning or putting their hands to any
thing that was useful, could not be a diversion fit for a
gentleman. This has been that which has given cards,
dice and drinking so much credit in the world: and
a great many throw away their spare hours in them,
through the prevalency of custom, and want of some
better employment to fill up the vacancy of leisure, more
TRADE 189
than from any real delight is to be found in them. They
cannot bear the dead weight of unemployed time lying
upon their hands, nor the uneasiness it is to do nothing
at all: and having never learned any laudable manual art
wherewith to divert themselves, they have recourse to those
foolish or ill ways in use, to help off their time, which a
rational man, till corrupted by custom, could find very
little pleasure in.
§ 208. I say not this, that I would never have a young
gentleman accommodate himself to the innocent diversions
in fashion amongst those of his age and condition. I am
so far from having him austere and morose to that degree,
that I would persuade him to more than ordinary com-
plaisance for all the gaieties and diversions of those he
converses with, and be averse or testy in nothing they
should desire of him, that might become a gentleman and
an honest man. Though as to cards and dice, I think
the safest and best way is never to learn any play upon
them, and so to be incapacitated for those dangerous temp-
tations and incroaching wasters of useful time. But allow-
ance being made for idle and jovial conversation and all
fashionable becoming recreations; I say, a young man will
have time enough from his serious and main business, to
learn almost any trade, 'Tis want of application, and not of
leisure, that men are not skilful in more arts than one;
and an hour in a day, constantly employed in such a way
of diversion, will carry a man in a short time a great deal
farther than he can imagine : which, if it were of no other •
use but to drive the common, vicious, useless, and dangerous
pastimes out of fashion, and to shew there was no need of
them, would deserve to be encouraged. If men from their
youth were weaned from that sauntring humour wherein
some out of custom let a good part of their lives run use-
lessly away, without either business or recreation, they
would find time enough to acquire dexterity and skill in
hundreds of things, which, though remote from their proper
callings, would not at all interfere with them. And there-
fore, I think, for this, as well as other reasons before-
mentioned, a lazy, listless humour that idly dreams away
the days, is of all others the least to be indulged or permitted
190 JOHN LOCKE
in young people. It is the proper state of one sick and out
of order in his health, and is tolerable in no body else of what
age or condition soever.
§ 209. To the arts above-mentioned may be added per-
fuming, varnishing, graving, and several sorts of working
in iron, brass, and silver; and if, as it happens to most
young gentlemen, that a considerable part of his time be
spent in a great town, he may learn to cut, polish, and set
precious stones, or employ himself in grinding and polishing
optical glasses. Amongst the great variety there is of in-
genious manual arts, 'twill be impossible that no one should
be found to please and delight him, unless he be either idle
or debauched, which is not to be supposed in a right way
of education. And since he cannot be always employed in
study, reading, and conversation, there will be many an
hour, besides what his exercises will take up, which, if not
spent this way, will be spent worse. For I conclude, a
young man will seldom desire to sit perfectly still and idle;
or, if he does, 'tis a fault that ought to be mended.
§ 210. But if his mistaken parents, frighted with the dis-
graceful names of mechanick and trade, shall have an aver-
sion to any thing of this kind in their children; yet there is
one thing relating to trade, which, when they consider, they
will think absolutely necessary for their sons to learn.
Merchants' accompts, tho' a science not likely to help a
gentleman to get an estate, yet possibly there is not any
thing of more use and efficacy, to make him preserve the
estate he has. 'Tis seldom observed, that he keeps an
accompt of his income and expences, and thereby has con-
stantly under view the course of his domestick affairs, lets
them run to ruin: and I doubt not but many a man gets
behind-hand before he is aware, or runs farther on when he
is once in, for want of this care, or the skill to do it. I would
therefore advise all gentlemen to learn perfectly merchants'
accompts, and not to think it is a skill that belongs not to
them, because it has received its name from, and has been
chiefly practised by men of traffick.
§ 21 1. When my young master has once got the skill
of keeping accounts (which is a business of reason more
than arithmetick) perhaps it will not be amiss that his
TRAVEL 191
father from thenceforth require him to do it in all his
concernments. Not that I would have him set down every
pint of wine or play that costs him money; the general
name of expences will serve for such things well enough:
nor would I have his father look so narrowly into these
accompts, as to take occasion from thence to criticise on
his expences; he must remember that he himself was once
a young man, and not forget the thoughts he had then,
nor the right his son has to have the same, and to have
allowance made for them. If therefore I would have the
young gentleman obliged to keep an account, it is not at
all to have that way a check upon his expences (for what
the father allows him, he ought to let him be fully master
of) but only, that he might be brought early into the custom
of doing it, and that it might be made familiar and habitual
to him betimes, which will be so useful and necessary to be
constantly practised the whole course of his life. A noble
Venetian, whose son wallowed in the plenty of his father's
riches, finding his son's expences grow very high and
extravagant, ordered his cashier to let him have for the
future no more money than what he should count when he
received it. This one would think no great restraint to
a young gentleman's expences; who could freely have as
much money as he would tell. But yet this, to one that was
used to nothing but the pursuit of his pleasures, prov'd a
very great trouble, which at last ended in this sober and
advantageous reflection: if it be so much pains to me
barely to count the money I would spend, what labour
and pains did it cost my ancestors, not only to count, but
get it? This rational thought, suggested by this little
pains imposed upon him, wrought so effectually upon his
mind, that it made him take up, and from that time for-
wards prove a good husband. This, at least, every body
must allow, that nothing is likelier to keep a man within
compass than the having constantly before his eyes the
state of his affairs in a regular course of accompt.
§ 212. The last part usually in education is travel, which
is commonly thought to finish the work, and complete the
gentleman. I confess travel into foreign countries has great
advantages, but the time usually chosen to send young men
192 JOHN I.OCKE
abroad, is, I think, of all other, that which renders their
least capable of reaping those advantages. Those which
are proposed, as to the main of them, may be reduced to
these two: first, language, secondly, an improvement in
wisdom and prudence, by seeing men, and conversing with
people of tempers, customs and ways of living, different from
one another, and especially from those of his parish and
neighbourhood. But from sixteen to one and twenty, which
is the ordinary time of travel, men are, of all their lives,
the least suited to these improvements. The first season
to get foreign languages, and form the tongue to their true
accents, I should think, should be from seven to fourteen
or sixteen, and then too a tutor with them is useful and
necessary, who may with those languages teach them other
things. But to put them out of their parents' view at a great
distance under a governor, when they think themselves to be
too much men to be governed by others, and yet have not
prudence and experience enough to govern themselves,
what is it, but to expose them to all the greatest dangers
of their whole life, when they have the least fence and
guard against them? 'Till that boiling boisterous part of
life comes in, it may be hoped the tutor may have some
authority: neither the stubbornness of age, nor the temp-
tation or examples of others, can take him from his tutor's
conduct till fifteen or sixteen: but then, when he begins to
comfort himself with men, and thinks himself one; when
he comes to relish and pride himself in manly vices, and
thinks it a shame to be any longer under the controul and
conduct of another, what can be hoped from even the most
careful and discreet governor, when neither he has power
to compel, nor his pupil a disposition to be persuaded;
but on the contrary, has the advice of warm blood and
prevailing fashion, to hearken to the temptations of his
companions, just as wise as himself, rather than to the
persuasions of his tutor, who is now looked on as an
enemy to his freedom? And when is a man so like to
miscarry, as when at the same time he is both raw and
unruly? This is the season of all his life that most re-
quires the eye and authority of his parents and friends to
govern it. The flexibleness of the former part of a man's
TRAVEL 193
age, not yet grown up to be headstrong, makes it more
governable and safe; and in the after-part, reason and
foresight begin a little to take place, and mind a man of
his safety and improvement. The time therefore I should
think the fittest for a young gentleman to be sent abroad,
would be, either when he is younger, under a tutor, whom
he might be the better for; or when he is some years older,
without a governor; when he is of age to govern himself,
and make observations of what he finds in other countries
worthy his notice, and that might be of use to him after
his return; and when too, being throughly acquainted
with the laws and fashions, the natural and moral advan-
tages and defects of his own country, he has something to
exchange with those abroad, from whose conversation he
hoped to reap any knowledge.
§ 213. [Wanting].
§ 214. The ordering of travel otherwise, is that, I im-
agine, which makes so many young gentlemen come back
so little improved by it. And if they do bring home with
them any knowledge of the places and people they have
seen, it is often an admiration of the worst and vainest
practices they met with abroad; retaining a relish and
memory of those things wherein their liberty took its first
swing, rather than of what should make them better and
wiser after their return. And indeed how can it be other-
wise, going abroad at the age they do under the care of an-
other, who is to provide their necessaries, and make their ob-
servations for them? Thus under the shelter and pretence of
a governor, thinking themselves excused from standing upon
their own legs or being accountable for their own conduct,
they very seldom trouble themselves with enquiries or mak-
ing useful observations of their own. Their thoughts run
after play and pleasure, wherein they take it as a lessening
to be controlled; but seldom trouble themselves to examine
the designs, observe the address, and consider the arts,
tempers, and inclinations of men they meet with; that so they
may know how to comport themselves towards them. Here
he that travels with them is to screen them; get them out
when they have run themselves into the briars; and in all
their miscarriages be answerable for them.
(7) HC xxxvii
194 JOHN LOCKE
§ 215. I confess, the knowledge of men is so great a
skill, that it is not to be expected a young man should
presently be perfect in it. But yet his going abroad is to
little purpose, if travel does not sometimes open his eyes,
make him cautious and wary, and accustom him to look
beyond the outside, and, under the inoffensive guard of a
civil and obliging carriage, keep himself free and safe in his
conversation with strangers and all sorts of people with-
out forfeiting their good opinion. He that is sent out
to travel at the age, and with the thoughts of a man
designing to improve himself, may get into the conversa-
tion and acquaintance of persons of condition where he
comes; which, tho' a thing of most advantage to a gen-
tleman that travels, yet I ask, amongst our young men
that go abroad under tutors, what one is there of an hun-
dred, that ever visits any person of quality? Much less
makes an acquaintance with such, from whose conversation
he may learn what is good breeding in that country, and
what is worth observation in it; tho' from such persons it
is, one may learn more in one day, than in a year's ram-
bling from one inn to another. Nor indeed, is it to be
wondered; for men of worth and parts will not easily admit
the familiarity of boys who yet need the care of a tutor;
tho' a young gentleman and stranger, appearing like a
man, and shewing a desire to inform himself in the cus-
toms, manners, laws, and government of the country he is
in, will find welcome assistance and entertainment amongst
the best and most knowing persons every where, who will
be ready to receive, encourage and countenance, an ingenu-
ous and inquisitive foreigner.
§ 216. This, how true soever it be, will not I fear
alter the custom, which has cast the time of travel upon
the worst part of a man's life; but for reasons not taken
from their improvement. The young lad must not be ven-
tured abroad at eight or ten, for fear of what may happen
to the tender child, tho' he then runs ten times less risque
than at sixteen or eighteen. Nor must he stay at home
till that dangerous, heady age be over, because he must be
back again by one and twenty, to marry and propagate.
The father cannot stay any longer for the portion, nor the
CONCLUSION 195
mother for a new set of babies to play with; and so my
young master, whatever comes on it, must have a wife
look'd out for him by that time he is of age; tho' it would
be no prejudice to his strength, his parts, or his issue, if it
were respited for some time, and he had leave to get,
in years and knowledge, the start a little of his children,
who are often found to tread too near upon the heels of
their fathers, to the no great satisfaction either of son
or father. But the young gentleman being got within
view of matrimony, 'tis time to leave him to his mistress.
§ 217. Tho' I am now come to a conclusion of what
obvious remarks have suggested to me concerning education,
I would not have it thought that I look on it as a just treatise
on this subject. There are a thousand other things that may
need consideration; especially if one should take in the
various tempers, different inclinations, and particular de-
faults, that are to be found in children, and prescribe
proper remedies. The variety is so great that it would
require a volume; nor would that reach it. Each man's
m_ind has some peculiarity, as well as his face, that dis-
tinguishes him from all others ; and there are possibly scarce
two children who can be conducted by exactly the same
method. Besides that, I think a prince, a nobleman, and
an ordinary gentleman's son, should have different ways of
breeding. But having had here only some general views in
reference to the main end and aims in education, and those
designed for a gentleman's son, whom, being then very little,
I considered only as white paper, or wax, to be moulded
and fashioned as one pleases ; I have touched little more
than those heads which I judged necessary for the breeding
of a young gentleman of his condition in general; and
have now published these my occasional thoughts with
this hope, that tho' this be far from being a complete
treatise on this subject, or such as that every one may find
what will just fit his child in it, yet it may give some small
light to those, whose concern for their dear little ones makes
them so irregularly bold, that they dare venture to consult
their own reason in the education of their children, rather
than wholly to rely upon old custom.
THREE DIALOGUES BETWEEN
HYLAS AND PHILONOUS, ETC.
BY
GEORGE BERKELEY
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, was horn in the County
of Kilkenny, Ireland, March 12, 1685. He was educated at
Trinity College, Dublin, where he became acquainted with the
writings of Locke, and grew enthusiastically interested in the
" new philosophy'' as it was called, in contrast to the scholas-
ticism which Trinity College had not yet officially discarded.
When he was only twenty-four he published his *' Essay Towards
a New Theory of Vision," and in the next year his " Treatise
Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge" ; but being
disappointed in the comparative neglect of his new ideas by the
philosophers of the day, he proceeded to discuss both objections
and answers in the "Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous,"
published in 1713, and here reprinted.
Meantime, Berkeley had been appointed to various college
offices; and in 17 13 he crossed to England and gained access to
the circles of Addison and Pope. Through Swift's influence he
went to Italy as chaplain to Lord Peterborough; and after sev-
eral years, spent partly in London and partly on the Continent,
he returned to Ireland in 1721 as chaplain to the Lord Lieutenant,
became Dean of Derry, and inherited property.
Berkeley had now become possessed with the idea of a great
future for Christianity in America, planned a college in Bermuda,
and, while the grants of money which he hoped for were in sus-
pense, he crossed the Atlantic and spent the years 1728-31 in
Rhode Island. Becoming hopeless of ever getting the required
endowment for his college, he returned to England, published
" Alciphron," which he had written on his American farm, and
retired to the Bishopric of Cloyne, where he lived almost to the
end of his life, practising benevolence in his diocese and publish-
ing the virtues of tar -water, a panacea in which he believed with
characteristic enthusiasm. He died at Oxford, January 14, 1753.
The following Dialogues are the best defense of Berkeley's
main doctrines, and are regarded by Leslie Stephen as " the finest
specimen in our language of the conduct of argument by dia-
logue." His chief editor, Eraser, calls them " the gem of British
metaphysical literature."
198
THREE DIALOGUES
BETWEEN
HYLAS AND PHILONOUS
THE DESIGN OF WHICH IS PLAINLY TO DEMONSTRATE
THE REALITY AND PERFECTION OF
HUMAN KNOWLEDGE
THE INCORPOREAL NATURE OF THE
SOUL
AND THE IMMEDIATE PROVIDENCE OF A
DEITY
IN OPPOSITION TO
SCEPTICS AND ATHEISTS
ALSO TO OPEN A METHOD FOR RENDERING THE SCIENCES MORE
EASY, USEFUL, AND COMPENDIOUS
First published in 17I/J
THREE DIALOGUES
BETWEEN
HYLAS AND PHILONOUS, IN OPPOSITION
TO SCEPTICS AND ATHEISTS
THE FIRST DIALOGUE
PHILONOUS. Good morrow, Hylas : I did not expect
to find you abroad so early.
Hylas. It is indeed something unusual ; but my
thoughts were so taken up with a subject I was discoursing
of last night, that finding I could not sleep, I resolved to rise
and take a turn in the garden.
Phil. It happened well, to let you see what innocent
and agreeable pleasures you lose every morning. Can there
be a pleasanter time of the day, or a more delightful season
of the year? That purple sky, those wild but sweet notes
of birds, the fragrant bloom upon the trees and flowers,
the gentle influence of the rising sun, these and a thousand
nameless beauties of nature inspire the soul with secret
transports; its faculties too being at this time fresh and
lively, are fit for those meditations, which the solitude
of a garden and tranquillity of the morning naturally dis-
pose us to. But I am afraid I interrupt your thoughts: for
you seemed very intent on something.
Hyl. It is true, I was, and shall be obliged to you if
you will permit me to go on in the same vein; not that
I would by any means deprive myself of your company,
for my thoughts always flow more easily in conversation
with a friend, than when I am alone: but my request is,
that you would suffer me to impart my reflexions to you.
Phil. With all my heart, it is what I should have request-
ed myself if you had not prevented me.
201
202 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. I was considering the odd fate of those men who
have in all ages, through an affectation of being distin-
guished from the vulgar, or some unaccountable turn of
thought, pretended either to believe nothing at all, or to
believe the most extravagant things in the world. This
however might be borne, if their paradoxes and scepticism
did not draw after them some consequences of general
disadvantage to mankind. But the mischief lieth here; that
when men of less leisure see them who are supposed to have
spent their whole time in the pursuits of knowledge pro-
fessing an entire ignorance of all things, or advancing
such notions as are repugnant to plain and commonly re-
ceived principles, they will be tempted to entertain sus-
picions concerning the most important truths, which they
had hitherto held sacred and unquestionable.
Phil. I entirely agree with you, as to the ill tendency
of the affected doubts of some philosophers, and fantastical
conceits of others. I am even so far gone of late in this
way of thinking, that I have quitted several of the sublime
notions I had got in their schools for vulgar opinions.
And I give it you on my word; since this revolt from meta-
physical notions to the plain dictates of nature and common
sense, I find my understanding strangely enlightened, so that
I can now easily comprehend a great many things which
before were all mystery and riddle.
Hyl. I am glad to find there was nothing in the accounts
I heard of you.
Phil. Pray, what were those?
Hyl. You were represented, in last night's conversation,
as one who maintained the most extravagant opinion that
ever entered into the mind of man, to wit, that there is
no such thing as material substance in the world.
Phil. That there is no such thing as what philosophers
call material substance, I am seriously persuaded: but, if
I were made to see anything absurd or sceptical in this, I
should then have the same reason to renounce this that
I imagine I have now to reject the contrary opinion.
Hyl. What! can anything be more fantastical, more re-
pugnant to Common Sense, or a more manifest piece of
Scepticism, than to believe there is no such thing as matterT
FIRST DIALOGUE 203
Phil. Softly, good Hylas. What if it should prove that
you, who hold there is, are, by virtue of that opinion, a
greater sceptic, and maintain more paradoxes and repug-
nances to Common Sense, than I who believe no such
thing ?
Hyl. You may as soon persuade me, the part is greater
than the whole, as that, in order to avoid absurdity and
Scepticism, I should ever be obliged to give up my opinion
in this point.
Phil. Well then, are you content to admit that opinion
for true, which upon examination shall appear most agree-
able to Common Sense, and remote from Scepticism?
Hyl. With all my heart. Since you are for raising
disputes about the plainest things in nature, I am content
for once to hear what you have to say.
Phil. Pray, Hylas, what do you mean by a sceptic f
Hyl. I mean what all men mean — one that doubts of
everything.
Phil. He then who entertains no doubts- concerning some
particular point, with regard to that point cannot be thought
a sceptic.
Hyl. I agree with you.
Phil. Whether doth doubting consist in embracing the
affirmative or negative side of a question?
Hyl. In neither; for whoever understands English can-
not but know that doubting signifies a suspense between
both.
Phil. He then that denies any point, can no more be
said to doubt of it, than he who affirmeth it with the same
degree of assurance.
Hyl. True.
Phil. And, consequently, for such his denial is no more
to be esteemed a sceptic than the other.
Hyl. I acknowledge it.
Phil. How cometh it to pass then, Hylas, that you
pronounce me a sceptic, because I deny what you affirm, to
wit, the existence of Matter? Since, for aught you can
tell, I am as peremptory in my denial, as you in your
affirmation.
Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I have been a little out in my
204 GEORGE BERKELEY
definition; but every false step a man makes in discourse
is not to be insisted on. I said indeed that a sceptic was
one who doubted of everything; but I should have added,
or who denies the reality and truth of things.
Phil. What things? Do you mean the principles and
theorems of sciences? But these you know are universal
intellectual notions, and consequently independent of Matter.
The denial therefore of this doth not imply the denying them.
Hyl. I grant it. But are there no other things? What
think you of distrusting the senses, of denying the real
existence of sensible things, or pretending to know nothing
of them. Is not this sufficient to denominate a man a
sceptic f
Phil. Shall we therefore examine which of us it is that
denies the reality of sensible things, or professes the great-
est Ignorance of them; since, if I take you rightly, he
IS to be esteemed the greatest sceptic t
Hyl. That is what I desire.
Phil. What mean you by Sensible Things?
Hyl. Those things which are perceived by the senses.
Can you imagine that I mean anything else?
Phil. Pardon me, Hylas, if I am desirous clearly to
apprehend your notions, since this may much shorten our
inquiry. Suffer me then to ask you this farther question.
Are those things only perceived by the senses which are
perceived immediately? Or, may those things properly be
said to be sensible which are perceived mediately, or not
without the intervention of others?
Hyl. I do not sufficiently understand you.
Phil. In reading a book, what I immediately perceive
are the letters; but mediately, or by means of these, are
suggested to my mind the notions of God, virtue, truth,
&c. Now, that the letters are truly sensible things, or
perceived by sense, there is no doubt* but I would know
whether you take the things suggested by them to be so too.
Hyl. No, certainly: it were absurd to think God or virtue
sensible things; though they may be signified and suggested
to the mind by sensible marks, with which they have an
arbitrary connexion.
FIRST DIALOGUE 205
Phil. It seems then, that by sensible things you mean
those only which can be perceived immediately by sense?
Hyl. Right.
Phil. Doth it not follow from this, that though I see one
part of the sky red, and another blue, and that my reason
doth thence evidently conclude there must be some cause of
that diversity of colours, yet that cause cannot be said to be
a sensible thing, or perceived by the sense of seeing?
Hyl. It doth.
Phil. In like manner, though I hear variety of sounds,
yet I cannot be said to hear the causes of those sounds?
Hyl. You cannot.
Phil. And when by my touch I perceive a thing to be
hot and heavy, I cannot say, with any truth or propriety,
that I feel the cause of its heat or weight?
Hyl. To prevent any more questions of this kind, I tell
you once for all, that by sensible things I mean those only
which are perceived by sense; and that in truth the senses
perceive nothing which they do not perceive immediately :
for they make no inferences. The deducing therefore of
causes or occasions from effects and appearances, which
alone are perceived by sense, entirely relates to reason.
Phil. This point then is agreed between us — That sen-
sible things are those only which are immediately perceived
by sense. You will farther inform me, whether we im-
mediately perceive by sight anything beside light, and
colours, and figures ; or by hearing, anything but sounds ;
by the palate, anything beside tastes; by the smell, beside
odours ; or by the touch, more than tangible qualities.
Hyl. We do not.
Phil. It seems, therefore, that if you take away all sen-
sible qualities, there remains nothing sensible?
Hyl. I grant it.
Phil. Sensible things therefore are nothing else but so
many sensible qualities, or combinations of sensible quali-
ties?
Hyl. Nothing else.
Phil. Heat then is a sensible thing?
Hyl. Certainly.
Phil. Doth the reality of sensible things consist in be-
206 GEORGE BERKELEY
ing perceived? or, is it something distinct from their being
perceived, and that bears no relation to the mind?
Hyl. To exist is one thing, and to be perceived is an-
other.
Phil. I speak with regard to sensible things only. And
of these I ask, whether by their real existence you mean a
subsistence exterior to the mind, and distinct from their
being perceived?
Hyl. I mean a real absolute being, distinct from, and
without any relation to, their being perceived.
Phil. Heat therefore, if it be allowed a real being, must
exist without the mind?
Hyl. It must.
Phil. Tell me, Hylas, is this real existence equally com-
patible to all degrees of heat, which we perceive; or is
there any reason why we should attribute it to some, and
deny it to others? And if there be, pray let me know that
reason.
Hyl. Whatever degree of heat we perceive by sense, we
may be sure the same exists in the object that occasions it.
Phil. What! the greatest as well as the least?
Hyl. I tell you, the reason is plainly the same in respect
of both. They are both perceived by sense ; nay, the
greater degree of heat is more sensibly perceived; and con-
sequently, if there is any difference, we are more certain of its
real existence than we can be of the reality of a lesser degree.
Phil. But is not the most vehement and intense degree
of heat a very great pain?
Hyl. No one can deny it.
Phil. And is any unperceiving thing capable of pain or
pleasure ?
Hyl. No, certainly.
Phil. Is your material substance a senseless being, or a
being endowed with sense and perception?
Hyl. It is senseless without doubt.
Phil. It cannot therefore be the subject of pain?
Hyl. By no means.
Phil. Nor consequently of the greatest heat perceived
by sense, since you acknowledge this to be no small pain?
Hyl. I grant it.
FIRST DIALOGUE 207
Phil. What shall we say then of your external object; is
it a material Substance, or no?
Hyl. It is a material substance with the sensible quali-
ties inhering in it.
Phil. How then can a great heat exist in it, since you
own it cannot in a material substance? I desire you would
clear this point.
Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I fear I was out in yielding intense
heat to be a pain. It should seem rather, that pain is some-
thing distinct from heat, and the consequence or effect
of it.
Phil. Upon putting your hand near the fire, do you
perceive one simple uniform sensation, or two distinct
sensations ?
Hyl. But one simple sensation.
Phil. Is not the heat immediately perceived?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. And the pain?
Hyl. True.
Phil. Seeing therefore they are both immediately per-
ceived at the same time, and the fire affects you only with
one simple or uncompounded idea, it follows that this same
simple idea is both the intense heat immediately perceived, and
the pain; and, consequently, that the intense heat imme-
diately perceived is nothing distinct from a particular sort
of pain.
Hyl. It seems so.
Phil. Again, try in your thoughts, Hylas, if you can con-
ceive a vehement sensation to be without pain or pleasure.
Hyl. I cannot.
Phil. Or can you frame to yourself an idea of sensible
pain or pleasure in general, abstracted from every particu-
lar idea of heat, cold, tastes, smells? &c.
Hyl. — I do not find that I can.
Phil. Doth it not therefore follow, that sensible pain is
nothing distinct from those sensations or ideas, in an in-
tense degree?
Hyl. It is undeniable; and, to speak the truth, I begin
to suspect a very great heat cannot exist but in a mind
perceiving it.
208 GEORGE BERKELEY
Phil. What ! are you then in that sceptical state of sus-
pense, between affirming and denying?
Hyl. I think I may be positive in the point. A very
violent and painful heat cannot exist without the mind.
Phil. It hath not therefore, according to you, smy real
being ?
Hyl. I own it.
Phil. Is it therefore certain, that there is no body in
nature really hot?
Hyl. I have not denied there is any real heat in bodies.
I only say, there is no such thing as an intense real heat.
Phil. But, did you not say before that all degrees of
heat were equally real; or, if there was any difference, that
the greater were more undoubtedly real than the lesser?
Hyl. True: but it was because I did not then consider
the ground there is for distinguishing between them, which
I now plainly see. And it is this: because intense heat is
nothing else but a particular kind of painful sensation; and
pain cannot exist but in a perceiving being; it follows that
no intense heat can really exist in an unperceiving cor-
poreal substance. But this is no reason why we should
deny heat in an inferior degree to exist in such a substance.
Phil. But how shall we be able to discern those degrees
of heat which exist only in the mind from those which
exist without it?
Hyl. That is no difficult matter. You know the least
pain cannot exist unperceived; whatever, therefore, degree
of heat is a pain exists only in the mind. But, as for all
other degrees of heat, nothing obliges us to think the same
of them.
Phil. I think you granted before that no unperceiving
being was capable of pleasure, any more than of pain.
Hyl. I did.
Phil. And is not warmth, or a more gentle degree of
heat than what causes uneasiness, a pleasure ?
Hyl. What then?
Phil. Consequently, it cannot exist without the mind in
an unperceiving substance, or body.
Hyl. So it seems.
Phil. Since, therefore, as well those degrees of heat that
FIRST DIALOGUE 209
are not painful, as those that are, can exist only in a
thinking substance ; may we not conclude that external
bodies are absolutely incapable of any degree of heat what-
soever?
Hyl. On second thoughts, I do not think it so evident
that warmth is a pleasure as that a great degree of heat is
a pain.
Phil. I do not pretend that warmth is as great a pleasure
as heat is a pain. But, if you grant it to be even a small
pleasure, it serves to make good my conclusion.
Hyl. I could rather call it an indolence. It seems to be
nothing more than a privation of both pain and pleasure.
And that such a quality or state as this may agree to an
unthinking substance, I hope you will not deny.
Phil. If you are resolved to maintain that warmth, or
a gentle degree of heat, is no pleasure, I know not how to
convince you otherwise than by appealing to your own
sense. But what think you of cold?
Hyl. The same that I do of heat. An intense degree of
cold is a pain; for to feel a very great cold, is to perceive
a great uneasiness: it cannot therefore exist without the
mind; but a lesser degree of cold may, as well as a lesser
degree of heat.
Phil. Those bodies, therefore, upon whose application
to our own, we perceive a moderate degree of heat, must
be concluded to have a moderate degree of heat or warmth
in them; and those, upon whose application we feel a like
degree of cold, must be thought to have cold in them.
Hyl. They must.
Phil. Can any doctrine be true that necessarily leads
a man into an absurdity?
Hyl. Without doubt it cannot.
Phil. Is it not an absurdity to think that the same thing
should be at the same time both cold and warm ?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. Suppose now one of your hands hot, and the other
cold, and that they are both at once put into the same
vessel of water, in an intermediate state; will not the water
seem cold to one hand, and warm to the other?
Hyl. It will.
210 GEORGE BERKELEY
Phil. Ought we not therefore, by your principles, to
conclude it is really both cold and warm at the same time,
that is, according to your own concession, to believe an
absurdity ? !
Hyl. I confess it seems so.
Phil. Consequently, the principles themselves are false,
since you have granted that no true principle leads to an
absurdity.
Hyl. But, after all, can anything be more absurd than to
say, there is no heat in the firef
Phil. To make the point still clearer; tell me whether,
in two cases exactly alike, we ought not to make the same
judgment?
Hyl. We ought.
Phil. When a pin pricks your finger, doth it not rend
and divide the fibres of your flesh?
Hyl. It doth.
Phil. And when a coal burns your finger, doth it any
more?
Hyl. It doth not
Phil, Since, therefore, you neither judge the sensation
itself occasioned by the pin, nor anything like it to be in
the pin; you should not, conformably to what you have
now granted, judge the sensation occasioned by the fire, or
anything like it, to be in the fire.
Hyl. Well, since it must be so, I am content to yield
this point, and acknowledge that heat and cold are
only sensations existing in our minds. But there still
remain qualities enough to secure the reality of external
things.
Phil. But what will you say, Hylas, if it shall appear
that the case is the same with regard to all other sensible
qualities, and that they can no more be supposed to exist
without the mind, than heat and cold?
Hyl. Then indeed you will have done something to the
purpose; but that is what I despair of seeing proved.
Phil. Let us examine them in order. What think you
of tastes — do they exist without the mind, or no ?
Hyl. Can any man in his senses doubt whether sugar is
sweet, or wormwood bitter?
FIRST DIALOGUE 211
Phil. Inform me, Hylas. Is a sweet taste a particular
kind of pleasure or pleasant sensation, or is it not?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. And is not bitterness some kind of uneasiness or
pain?
Hyl. I grant it.
Phil. If therefore sugar and wormwood are unthinking
corporeal substances existing without the mind, how can
sweetness and bitterness, that is, pleasure and pain, agree
to them?
Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I now see what it was deluded me
all this time. You asked whether heat and cold, sweet-
ness and bitterness, were not particular sorts of pleasure
and pain ; to which I answered simply, that they were.
Whereas I should have thus distinguished: — those qualities,
as perceived by us, are pleasures or pains; but not as
existing in the external objects. We must not therefore
conclude absolutely, that there is no heat in the fire, or
sweetness in the sugar, but only that heat or sweetness, as
perceived by us, are not in the fire or sugar. What say
you to this?
Phil. I say it is nothing to the purpose. Our discourse
proceeded altogether concerning sensible things, which you
defined to be, the things we immediately perceive by our
senses. Whatever other qualities, therefore, you speak of
as distinct from these, I know nothing of them, neither do
they at all belong to the point in dispute. You may,
indeed, pretend to have discovered certain qualities which
you do not perceive, and assert those insensible qualities
exist in fire and sugar. But what use can be made of this
to your present purpose, I am at a loss to conceive. Tell
me then once more, do you acknowledge that heat and
cold, sweetness and bitterness (meaning those qualities
which are perceived by the senses), do not exist without
the mind?
Hyl. I see it is to no purpose to hold out, so I give up
the cause as to those mentioned qualities. Though I pro-
fess it sounds oddly, to say that sugar is not sweet.
Phil. But, for your farther satisfaction, take this along
with you: that which at other times seems sweet, shall, to
212 GEORGE BERKELEY
a distempered palate, appear bitter. And, nothing can be
plainer than that divers persons perceive different tastes
in the same food; since that which one man delights in,
another abhors. And how could this be, if the taste was
something really inherent in the food?
Hyl. I acknowledge I know not how.
Phil. In the next place, odours are to be considered.
And, with regard to these, I would fain know whether what
hath been said of tastes doth not exactly agree to them?
Are they not so many pleasing or displeasing sensations?
Hyl. They are.
Phil. Can you then conceive it possible that they should
exist in an unperceiving thing?
Hyl. I cannot.
Phil. Or, can you imagine that filth and ordure affect
those brute animals that feed on them out of choice, with
the same smells which we perceive in them ?
Hyl. By no means.
Phil. May we not therefore conclude of smells, as of the
other forementioned qualities, that they cannot exist in any
but a perceiving substance or mind?
Hyl. I think so.
Phil. Then as to sounds, what must we think of them:
are they accidents really inherent in external bodies, or
not?
Hyl. That they inhere not in the sonorous bodies is plain
from hence : because a bell struck in the exhausted receiver
of an air-pump sends forth no sound. The air, therefore,
must be thought the subject of sound.
Phil. What reason is there for that, Hylas?
Hyl. Because, when any motion is raised in the air, we
perceive a sound greater or lesser, according to the air's
motion; but without some motion in the air, we never hear
any sound at all.
Phil. And granting that we never hear a sound but when
some motion is produced in the air, yet I do not see how
you can infer from thence, that the sound itself is in the air.
Hyl. It is this very motion in the external air that pro-
duces in the mind the sensation of sound. For, striking
on the drum of the ear, it causeth a vibration, which by
FIRST DIALOGUE 213
the auditory nerves being communicated to the brain, the
soul is thereupon affected with the sensation called sound.
Phil. What ! is sound then a sensation ?
Hyl. I tell you, as perceived by us, it is a particular
sensation in the mind.
Phil. And can any sensation exist without the mind?
Hyl. No, certainly.
Phil. How then can sound, being a sensation, exist in
the air, if by the air you mean a senseless substance exist-
ing without the mind ?
Hyl. You must distinguish, Philonous, between sound as
it is perceived by us, and as it is in itself; or (which is the
same thing) between the sound we immediately perceive,
and that which exists without us. The former, indeed, is
a particular kind of sensation, but the latter is merely a
vibrative or undulatory motion in the air.
Phil. I thought I had already obviated that distinction,
by the answer I gave when you were applying it in a like
case before. But, to say no more of that, are you sure
then that sound is really nothing but motion?
Hyl. I am.
Phil. Whatever therefore agrees to real sound, may with
truth be attributed to motion?
Hyl. It may.
Phil. It is then good sense to speak of motion as of
a thing that is loud, sweet , acute, or grave.
Hyl. I see you are resolved not to understand me. Is
it not evident those accidents or modes belong only to
sensible sound, or sound in the common acceptation of the
word, but not to sound in the real and philosophic sense;
which, as I just now told you, is nothing but a certain
motion of the air ?
Phil. It seems then there are two sorts of sound — the
one vulgar, or that which is heard, the other philosophical
and real ?
Hyl. Even so.
Phil. And the latter consists in motion?
Hyl. I told you so before.
Phil. Tell me, Hylas, to which of the senses, think you,
the idea of motion belongs? to the hearing?
214 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. No, certainly ; but to the sight and touch.
Phil. It should follow then, that, according to you, real
sounds may possibly be seen or felt, but never heard,
Hyl. Look you, Philonous, you may, if you please, make
a jest of my opinion, but that will not alter the truth
of things. I own, indeed, the inferences you draw me
into sound something oddly; but common language, you
know, is framed by, and for the use of the vulgar: we
must not therefore wonder if expressions adapted to
exact philosophic notions seem uncouth and out of the
way.
Phil. Is it come to that? I assure you, I imagine myself
to have gained no small point, since you make so light of
departing from common phrases and opinions; it being
a main part of our inquiry, to examine whose notions are
widest of the common road, and most repugnant to the
general sense of the world. But, can you think it no more
than a philosophical paradox, to say that real sounds are
never heard, and that the idea of them is obtained by some
other sense? And is there nothing in this contrary to
nature and the truth of things?
Hyl. To deal ingenuously, I do not like it. And, after
the concessions already made, I had as well grant that
sounds too have no real being without the mind.
Phil. And I hope you will make no difficulty to acknowl-
edge the same of colours,
Hyl. Pardon me: the case of colours is very different.
Can anything be plainer than that we see them on the
objects?
Phil. The objects you speak of are, I suppose, corporeal
Substances existing without the mind?
Hyl. They are.
Phil. And have true and real colours inhering in them?
Hyl. Each visible object hath that colour which we see
in it.
Phil. How! is there anything visible but what we per-
ceive by sight?
Hyl. There is not.
Phil. And, do we perceive anything by sense which we
do not perceive immediately?
FIRST DIALOGUE 215
Hyl. How often must I be obliged to repeat the same
thing ? I tell you, we do not.
Phil. Have patience, good Hylas; and tell me onc^
more, whether there is anything immediately perceived by
the senses, except sensible qualities. I know you asserted
there was not; but I would now be informed, whether you
still persist in the same opinion.
Hyl. I do.
Phil. Pray, is your corporeal substance either a sensible
quality, or made up of sensible qualities?
Hyl. What a question that is ! who ever thought it was ?
Phil. My reason for asking was, because in saying, each
visible object hath that colour which we see in it, you make
visible objects to be corporeal substances; which implies
either that corporeal substances are sensible qualities, or
else that there is something besides sensible qualities per-
ceived by sight: but, as this point was formerly agreed
between us, and is still maintained by you, it is a clear
consequence, that your corporeal substance is nothing dis-
tinct from sensible qualities.
Hyl. You may draw as many absurd consequences as
you please, and endeavour to perplex the plainest things;
but you shall never persuade me out of my senses. I clearly
understand my own meaning.
Phil. I wish you would make me understand it too. But,
since you are unwilling to have your notion of corporeal
substance examined, I shall urge that point no farther. Only
be pleased to let me know, whether the same colours which
we see exist in external bodies, or some other.
Hyl. The very same.
Phil. What! are then the beautiful red and purple we
see on yonder clouds really in them? Or do you imagine
they have in themselves any other form than that of a dark
mist or vapour?
Hyl. I must own, Philonous, those colours are not really
in the clouds as they seem to be at this distance. They are
only apparent colours.
Phil. Apparent call you them? how shall we distinguish
these apparent colours from real?
Hyl. Very easily. Those are to be thought apparent
216 GEORGE BERKELEY
which, appearing only at a distance, vanish upon a nearer
approach.
Phil. And those, I suppose, are to be thought real which
are discovered by the most near and exact survey.
Hyl. Right.
Phil. Is the nearest and exactest survey made by the help
of a microscope, or by the naked eye?
Hyl. By a microscope, doubtless.
Phil. But a microscope often discovers colours in an
object different from those perceived by the unassisted sight.
And, in case we had microscopes magnifying to any assigned
degree, it is certain that no object whatsoever, viewed
through them, would appear in the same colour which it
exhibits to the naked eye.
Hyl. And what will you conclude from all this? You
cannot argue that there are really and naturally no colours
on objects: because by artificial managements they may be
altered, or made to vanish.
Phil. I think it may evidently be concluded from your
own concessions, that all the colours we see with our naked
eyes are only apparent as those on the clouds, since they
vanish upon a more close and accurate inspection which is
afforded us by a microscope. Then, as to what you say by
way of prevention: I ask you whether the real and natural
state of an object is better discovered by a very sharp and
piercing sight, or by one which is less sharp?
Hyl. By the former without doubt.
Phil. Is it not plain from Dioptrics that microscopes
make the sight more penetrating, and represent objects as
they would appear to the eye in case it were naturally en-
dowed with a most exquisite sharpness?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. Consequently the microscopical representation is to
be thought that which best sets forth the real nature of the
thing, or what it is in itself. The colours, therefore, by it
perceived are more genuine and real than those perceived
otherwise.
Hyl. I confess there is something in what you say.
Phil. Besides, it is not only possible but manifest, that
there actually are animals whose eyes are by nature framed
FIRST DIALOGUE 217
to perceive those things which by reason of their minuteness
escape our sight. What think you of those inconceivably
small animals perceived by glasses? must we suppose they
are all stark blind? Or, in case they see, can it be imagined
their sight hath not the same use in preserving their bodies
from injuries, which appears in that of all other animals?
And if it hath, is it not evident they must see particles less
than their own bodies; which will present them with a far
different view in each object from that which strikes our
senses? Even our own eyes do not always represent objects
to us after the same manner. In the jaundice every one
knows that all things seem yellow. Is it not therefore highly
probable those animals in whose eyes we discern a very
different texture from that of ours, and whose bodies abound
with different humours, do not see the same colours in every
object that we do? From all which, should it not seem to
follow that all colours are equally apparent, and that none
of those which we perceive are really inherent in any out-
ward object?
Hyl. It should.
Phil. The point will be past all doubt, if you consider
that, in case colours were real properties or affections in-
herent in external bodies, they could admit of no alteration
without some change wrought in the very bodies themselves :
but, is it not evident from what hath been said that, upon
the use of microscopes, upon a change happening in the
humours of the eye, or a variation of distance, without any
manner of real alteration in the thing itself, the colours of
any object are either changed, or totally disappear? Nay,
all other circumstances remaining the same, change but the
situation of some objects, and they shall present different
colours to the eye. The same thing happens upon viewing
an object in various degrees of light. And what is more
known than that the same bodies appear differently coloured
by candle-light from what they do in the open day? Add
to these the experiment of a prism which, separating the
heterogeneous rays of light, alters the colour of any object,
and will cause the whitest to appear of a deep blue or red
to the naked eye. And now tell me whether you are still of
opinion that every body hath its true real colour inhering
218 GEORGE BERKELEY
in it; and, if you think it hath, I would fain know farther
from you, what certain distance and position of the object,
what peculiar texture and formation of the eye, what degree
or kind of light is necessary for ascertaining that true colour,
and distinguishing it from apparent ones.
Hyl. I own myself entirely satisfied, that they are all
equally apparent, and that there is no such thing as colour
really inhering in external bodies, but that it is altogether
in the light. And what confirms me in this opinion is, that
in proportion to the light colours are still more or less
vivid; and if there be no light, then are there no colours
perceived. Besides, allowing there are colours on external
objects, yet, how is it possible for us to perceive them?
For no external body affects the mind, unless it acts first
on our organs of sense. But the only action of bodies is
motion; and motion cannot be communicated otherwise than
by impulse. A distant object therefore cannot act on the
eye; nor consequently make itself or its properties per-
ceivable to the soul. Whence it plainly follows that it is
immediately some contiguous substance, which, operating on
the eye, occasions a perception of colours: and such is light.
Phil. How! is light then a substance?
Hyl. I tell you, Philonous, external light is nothing but
a thin fluid substance, whose minute particles being agitated
with a brisk motion, and in various manners reflected from
the different surfaces of outward objects to the eyes, com-
municate different motions to the optic nerves; which, being
propagated to the brain, cause therein various impressions;
and these are attended with the sensations of red, blue,
yellow, &c.
Phil. It seems then the light doth no more than shake
the optic nerves.
Hyl. Nothing else.
Phil. And consequent to each particular motion of the
nerves, the mind is affected with a sensation, which is some
particular colour.
Hyl. Right.
Phil. And these sensations have no existence without the
mind.
Hyl. They have not.
FIRST DIALOGUE 219
Phil. How then do you affirm that colours are in the
light; since by light you understand a corporeal substance
external to the mind?
Hyl. Light and colours, as immediately perceived by us,
I grant cannot exist without the mind. But in themselves
they are only the motions and configurations of certain
insensible particles of matter.
Phil. Colours then, in the vulgar sense, or taken for the
immediate objects of sight, cannot agree to any but a per-
ceiving substance.
Hyl. That is what I say.
Phil. Well then, since you give up the point as to those
sensible qualities which are alone thought colours by all
mankind beside, you may hold what you please with regard
to those invisible ones of the philosophers. It is not my
business to dispute about them; only I would advise you to
bethink yourself, whether, considering the inquiry we are
upon, it be prudent for you to affirm — the red and blue
which we see are not real colours, hut certain unknown
motions and figures which no man ever did or can see are
truly so. Are not these shocking notions, and are not they
subject to as many ridiculous inferences, as those you were
obliged to renounce before in the case of sounds?
Hyl. I frankly own, Philonous, that it is in vain to stand
out any longer. Colours, sounds, tastes, in a word all
those termed secondary qualities, have certainly no existence
without the mind. But by this acknowledgment I must not
be supposed to derogate anything from the reality of Mat-
ter, or external objects; seeing it is no more than several
philosophers maintain, who nevertheless are the farthest
imaginable from denying Matter. For the clearer under-
standing of this, you must know sensible qualities are by
philosophers divided into Primary and Secondary. The
former are Extension, Figure, Solidity, Gravity, Motion,
and Rest; and these they hold exist really in bodies. The
latter are those above enumerated; or, briefly, all sensible
qualities beside the Primary;' which they assert are only so
many sensations or ideas existing nowhere but in the mind.
But all this, I doubt not, you are apprised of. For my part.
220 GEORGE BERKELEY
I have been a long time sensible there was such an opinion
current among philosophers, but was never thoroughly con-
vinced of its truth until now.
Phil. You are still then of opinion that extension and
figures are inherent in external unthinking substances?
Hyl. I am.
Phil. But what if the same arguments which are brought
against Secondary Qualities will hold good against these
also ?
Hyl. Why then I shall be obliged to think, they too
exist only in the mind.
Phil. Is it your opinion the very figure and extension
which you perceive by sense exist in the outward object
or material substance?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. Have all other animals as good grounds to think
the same of the figure and extension which they see and
feel?
Hyl. Without doubt, if they have any thought at all.
Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Think you the senses were
bestowed upon all animals for their preservation and well-
being in life? or were they given to men alone for this
end?
Hyl. I make no question but they have the same use in
all other animals.
Phil. If so, is it not necessary they should be enabled by
them to perceive their own limbs, and those bodies which
are capable of harming them?
Hyl. Certainly.
Phil. A mite therefore must be supposed to see his own
foot, and things equal or even less than it, as bodies of
some considerable dimension; though at the same time they
appear to you scarce discernible, or at best as so many
visible points?
Hyl. I cannot deny it.
Phil. And to creatures less than the mite they will seem
yet larger?
Hyl. They will.
Phil. Insomuch that what you can hardly discern will
FIRST DIALOGUE 221
to another extremely minute animal appear as some huge
mountain ?
Hyl All this I grant.
Phil. Can one and the same thing be at the same time
in itself of different dimensions?
Hyl. That were absurd to imagine.
Phil. But, from what you have laid down it follows that
both the extension by you perceived, and that perceived
by the mite itself, as likewise all those perceived by lesser
animals, are each of them the true extension of the mite's
foot; that is to say, by your own principles you are led
into an absurdity.
Hyl. There seems to be some difficulty in the point.
Phil. Again, have you not acknowledged that no real
inherent property of any object can be changed without
some change in the thing itself?
Hyl. I have.
Phil. But, as we approach to or recede from an object,
the visible extension varies, being at one distance ten or
a hundred times greater than another. Doth it not there-
fore follow from hence likewise that it is not really inherent
in the object?
Hyl. I own I am at a loss what to think.
Phil Your judgment will soon be determined, if you
will venture to think as freely concerning this quality as
you have done concerning the rest. Was it not admitted
as a good argument, that neither heat nor cold was in the
water, because it seemed warm to one hand and cold to
the other?
Hyl. It was.
Phil. Is it not the very same reasoning to conclude, there
is no extension or figure in an object, because to one eye
it shall seem little, smooth, and round, when at the same
time it appears to the other, great, uneven, and regular?
Hyl. The very same. But does this latter fact ever
happen ?
Phil. You may at any time make the experiment, by
looking with one eye bare, and with the other through
a microscope.
Hyl. I know not how to maintain it; and yet I am loath
222 GEORGE BERKELEY
to give up extension, I see so many odd consequences fol-
lowing upon such a concession.
Phil. Odd, say you? After the concessions already made,
I hope you will stick at nothing for its oddness. [^But,
on the other hand, should it not seem very odd, if the
general reasoning which includes all other sensible qualities
did not also include extension? If it be allowed that no
idea, nor anything like an idea, can exist in an unperceiving
substance, then surely it follows that no figure, or mode
of extension, which we can either perceive, or imagine,
or have any idea of, can be really inherent in Matter; not
to mention the peculiar difficulty there must be in conceiv-
ing* a material substance, prior to and distinct from ex-
tension to be the substratum of extension. Be the sen-
sible quality what it will — figure, or sound, or colour, it
seems alike impossible it should subsist in that which doth
not perceive it.]
Hyl. I give up the point for the present, reserving still
a right to retract my opinion, in case I shall hereafter
discover any false step in my progress to it.
Phil. That is a right you cannot be denied. Figures
and extension being despatched, we proceed next to motion.
Can a real motion in any external body be at the same time
very swift and very slow?
Hyl. It cannot.
Phil. Is not the motion of a body swift in a reciprocal
proportion to the time it takes up in describing any given
space? Thus a body that describes a mile in an hour
moves three times faster than it would in case it described
only a mile in three hours.
Hyl. I agree with you.
Phil. And is not time measured by the succession of
ideas in our minds?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. And is it not possible ideas should succeed one
another twice as fast in your mind as they do in mine, or
in that of some spirit of another kind?
Hyl. I own it.
1 What follows, within brackets, is not contained in the first and second
editions.
FIRST DIALOGUE 223
Phil. Consequently the same body may to another seem
to perform its motion over any space in half the time that
it doth to you. And the same reasoning will hold as to
any other proportion: that is to say, according to your
principles (since the motions perceived are both really in
the object) it is possible one and the same body shall be
really moved the same way at once, both very swift and
very slow. How is this consistent either with common
sense, or with what you just now granted?
Hyl. I have nothing to say to it.
Phil. Then as for solidity; either you do not mean any
sensible quality by that word, and so it is beside our
inquiry: or if you do, it must be either hardness or re-
sistance. But both the one and the other are plainly rela-
tive to our senses: it being evident that what seems hard
to one animal may appear soft to another, who hath greater
force and firmness of limbs. Nor is it less plain that the
resistance I feel is not in the body.
Hyl. I own the very sensation of resistance, which is all
you immediately perceive, is not in the body; but the cause
of that sensation is.
Phil. But the causes of our sensations are not things
immediately perceived, and therefore are not sensible. This
point I thought had been already determined.
Hyl. I own it was; but you will pardon me if I seem
a little embarrassed : I know not how to quit my old notions.
Phil. To help you out, do but consider that if extension
be once acknowledged to have no existence without the
mind, the same must necessarily be granted of motion,
solidity, and gravity; since they all evidently suppose ex-
tension. It is therefore superfluous to inquire particularly
concerning each of them. In denying extension, you have
denied them all to have any real existence.
Hyl. I wonder, Philonous, if what you say be true, why
those philosophers who deny the Secondary Qualities any
real existence should yet attribute it to the Primary. If
there is no difference between them, how can this be ac-
counted for?
Phil. It is not my business to account for every opinion
of the philosophers. But, among other reasons which may
224 GEORGE BERKELEY
be assigned for this, it seems probable that pleasure and
pain being rather annexed to the former than the latter
may be one. Heat and cold, tastes and smells, have some-
thing more vividly pleasing or disagreeable than the ideas
of extension, figure, and motion affect us with. And, it
being too visibly absurd to hold that pain or pleasure can
be in an unperceiving substance, men are more easily weaned
from believing the external existence of the Secondary
than the Primary Qualities. You will be satisfied there
is something in this, if you recollect the difference you
made between an intense and more moderate degree of
heat; allowing the one a real existence, while you de-
nied it to the other. But, after all, there is no rational
ground for that distinction; for, surely an indifferent sen-
sation is as truly a sensation as one more pleasing or pain-
ful; and consequently should not any more than they be
supposed to exist in an unthinking subject.
Hyl. It is just come into my head, Philonous, that I have
somewhere heard of a distinction between absolute and
sensible extension. Now, though it be acknowledged that
great and small, consisting merely in the relation which
other extended beings have to the parts of our own bodies,
do not really inhere in the substances themselves; yet
nothing obliges us to hold the same with regard to absolute
extension, which is something abstracted from great and
small, from this or that particular magnitude or figure. So
likewise as to motion; sTvift and slow are altogether rela-
tive to the succession of ideas in our own minds. But, it
doth not follow, because those modifications of motion exist
not without the mind, that therefore absolute motion ab-
stracted from them doth not.
Phil. Pray what is it that distinguishes one motion, or
one part of extension, from another? Is it not something
sensible, as some degree of swiftness or slowness, some
certain magnitude or figure peculiar to each?
Hyl. I think so.
Phil. These qualities, therefore, stripped of all sensible
properties, are without all specific and numerical differences,
as the schools call them.
Hyl. They arc.
FIRST DIALOGUE 225
Phil. That is to say, they are extension in general, and
motion in general.
Hyl. Let it be so.
Phil. But it is a universally received maxim that Every-
thing which exists is particular. How then can motion
in general, or extension in general, exist in any corporeal
substance ?
Hyl. I will take time to solve your difficulty.
Phil. But I think the point may be speedily decided.
Without doubt you can tell whether you are able to frame
this or that idea. Now I am content to put our dispute on
this issue. If you can frame in your thoughts a distinct
abstract idea of motion or extension, divested of all those
sensible modes, as swift and slow, great and small, round
and square, and the like, which are acknowledged to exist
only in the mind, I will then yield the point you contend
for. But if you cannot, it will be unreasonable on your
side to insist any longer upon what you have no notion of.
Hyl. To confess ingenuously, I cannot.
Phil. Can you even separate the ideas of extension and
motion from the ideas of all those, qualities which they
who make the distinction term secondary?
Hyl. What ! is it not an easy matter to consider exten-
sion and motion by themselves, abstracted from all other
sensible qualities? Pray how do the mathematicians treat
of them?
Phil. I acknowledge, Hylas, it is not difficult to form
general propositions and reasonings about those qualities,
without mentioning any other; and, in this sense, to con-
sider or treat of them abstractedly. But, how doth it
follow that, because I can pronounce the word motion by
itself, I can form the idea of it in my mind exclusive
of body? or, because theorems may be made of extension
and figures, without any mention of great or small, or any
other sensible mode or quality, that therefore it is possible
such an abstract idea of extension, without any particular
size or figure, or sensible quality^, should be distinctly
formed, and apprehended by the mind? Mathematicians
" ' Size or figure, or sensible quality ' — * size, colour, &c.,* in the first
and second editions.
(8) HC XXXVII
226 GEORGE BERKELEY
treat of quantity, without regarding what other sensible
qualities it is attended with, as being altogether indifferent
to their demonstrations. But, when laying aside the words,
they contemplate the bare ideas, I believe you will find,
they are not the pure abstracted ideas of extension.
Hyl. But what say you to pure intellect? May not
abstracted ideas be framed by that faculty?
Phil. Since I cannot frame abstract ideas at all, it is
plain I cannot frame them by the help of pure intellect;
whatsoever faculty you understand by those words. Be-
sides, not to inquire into the nature of pure intellect and
its spiritual objects, as virtue, reason, God, or the like,
thus much seems manifest — that sensible things are only
to be perceived by sense, or represented by the imagina-
tion. Figures, therefore, and extension, being originally
perceived by sense, do not belong to pure intellect: but,
for your farther satisfaction, try if you can frame the idea
of any figure, abstracted from all particularities of size, or
even from other sensible qualities.
Hyl. Let me think a little — I do not find that I can.
Phil. And can you think it possible that should really
exist in nature which implies a repugnancy in its con-
ception ?
Hyl. By no means.
Phil. Since therefore it is impossible even for the mind
to disunite the ideas of extension and motion from all other
sensible qualities, doth it not follow, that where the one
exist there necessarily the other exist likewise?
Hyl. It should seem so.
Phil. Consequently, the very same arguments which you
admitted as conclusive against the Secondary Qualities
are, without any farther application of force, against the
Primary too. Besides, if you will trust your senses, is it
not plain all sensible qualities coexist, or to them appear
as being in the same place? Do they ever represent a
motion, or figure, as being divested of all other visible and
tangible qualities?
Hyl. You need say no more on this head. I am free to
own, if there be no secret error or oversight in our pro-
ceedings hitherto, that all sensible qualities are alike to be
FIRST DIALOGUE 227
denied existence without the mind. But, my fear is that
I have been too liberal in my former concessions, or over-
looked some fallacy or other. In short, I did not take time
to think.
Phil. For that matter, Hylas, you may take what time
you please in reviewing the progress of our inquiry. You
are at liberty to recover any slips you might have made, or
offer whatever you have omitted which makes for your first
opinion.
Hyl. One great oversight I take to be this — that I did not
sufficiently distinguish the object from the sensation. Now,
though this latter may not exist without the mind, yet it
will not thence follow that the former cannot.
Phil. What object do you mean? the object of the
senses ?
Hyl. The same.
Phil. It is then immediately perceived?
Hyl. Right.
Phil. Make me to understand the difference between
what is immediately perceived and a sensation.
Hyl. The sensation I take to be an act of the mind per-
ceiving; besides which, there is something perceived; and
this I call the object. For example, there is red and yellow
on that tulip. But then the act of perceiving those colours
is in me only, and not in the tulip.
PliiL. What tulip do you speak of? Is it that which you
see?
Hyl. The same.
Phil. And what do you see beside colour, figure, and
extension ?
Hyl. Nothing.
Phil. What you would say then is that the red and yellow
are coexistent with the extension; is it not?
Hyl. That is not all; I would say they have a real exist-
ence without the mind, in some unthinking substance.
Phil. That the colours are really in the tulip which I see
is manifest. Neither can it be denied that this tulip may
exist independent of your mind or mine; but, that any im-
mediate object of the senses — that is, any idea, or combina-
tion of ideas — should exist in an unthinking substance, or
228 GEORGE BERKELEY
exterior to all minds, is in itself an evident contradiction.
Nor can I imagine how this follows from what you said
just now, to wit, that the red and yellow were on the tulip
you saw, since you do not pretend to see that unthinking
substance.
Hyl. You have an artful way, Philonous, of diverting our
inquiry from the subject.
Phil. I see you have no mind to be pressed that way.
To return then to your distinction between sensation and
object; if I take you right, you distinguish in every percep-
tion two things, the one an action of the mind, the other not.
Hyl. True.
Phil. And this action cannot exist in, or belong to, any
unthinking thing ; but, whatever beside is implied in a per-
ception may?
Hyl. That is my meaning.
Phil. So that if there was a perception without any act
of the mind, it were possible such a perception should
exist in an unthinking substance?
Hyl. I grant it. But it is impossible there should be
such a perception.
Phil. When is the mind said to be active?
Hyl. When it produces, puts an end to, or changes, any-
thing.
Phil. Can the mind produce, discontinue, or change any-
thing, but by an act of the will?
Hyl. It cannot.
Phil. The mind therefore is to be accounted active in its
perceptions so far forth as volition is included in them?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. In plucking this flower I am active; because I do
it by the motion of my hand, which was consequent upon
my volition ; so likewise in applying it to my nose. But
is either of these smelling?
Hyl. No.
Phil. I act too in drawing the air through my nose; be-
cause my breathing so rather than otherwise is the effect of
my volition. But neither can this be called smelling: for, if
it were, I should smell every time I breathed in that manner ?
Hyl. True.
FIRST DIALOGUE 229
Phil. Smelling then is somewhat consequent to all this?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. But I do not find my will concerned any farther.
Whatever more there is — as that I perceive such a particular
smell, or any smell at all — this is independent of my will,
and therein I am altogether passive. Do you find it other-
wise with you, Hylas?
Hyl. No, the very same.
Phil. Then, as to seeing, is it not in your power to open
your eyes, or keep them shut ; to turn them this or that way ?
Hyl. Without doubt.
Phil. But, doth it in like manner depend on your will
that in looking on this flower you perceive white rather
than any other colour? Or, directing your open eyes
towards yonder part of the heaven, can you avoid seeing
the sun? Or is light or darkness the effect of your volition?
Hyl. No, certainly.
Phil. You are then in these respects altogether passive?
Hyl. I am.
Phil. Tell me now, whether seeing consists in perceiving
light and colours, or in opening and turning the eyes?
Hyl. Without doubt, in the former.
Phil. Since therefore you are in the very perception of
light and colours altogether passive, what is become of
that action you were speaking of as an ingredient in every
sensation? And, doth it not follow from your own con-
cessions, that the perception of light and colours, including
no action in it, may exist in an unperceiving substance?
And is not this a plain contradiction?
Hyl. I know not what to think of it.
Phil. Besides, since you distinguish the active and passive
in every perception, you must do it in that of pain. But
how is it possible that pain, be it as little active as you
please, should exist in an unperceiving substance? In
short, do but consider the point, and then confess ingenu-
ously, whether light and colours, tastes, sounds, &c. are
not all equally passions or sensations in the soul. You
may indeed call them external objects, and give them in
words what subsistence you please. But, examine your
own thoughts, and then tell me whether it be not as I say?
230 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. I acknowledge, Philonous, that, upon a fair observa-
tion of what passes in my mind, I can discover nothing
else but that I am a thinking being, affected with variety
of sensations; neither is it possible to conceive how a sen-
sation should exist in an unperceiving substance. — But then,
on the other hand, when I look on sensible things in a
different view, considering them as so many modes and
qualities, I find it necessary to suppose a material sub-
stratum, without which they cannot be conceived to exist.
Phil. Material substratum call you it? Pray, by which
of your senses came you acquainted with that being?
Hyl. It is not itself sensible; its modes and qualities
only being perceived by the senses.
Phil. I presume then it was by reflexion and reason you
obtained the idea of it?
Hyl. I do not pretend to any proper positive idea of it.
However, I conclude it exists, because qualities cannot be
conceived to exist without a support.
Phil. It seems then you have only a relative notion of it,
or that you conceive it not otherwise than by conceiving
the relation it bears to sensible qualities?
Hyl. Right.
Phil. Be pleased therefore to let me know wherein that
relation consists.
Hyl. Is it not sufficiently expressed in the term sub-
stratum, or substance f
Phil. If so, the word substratum should import that it is
spread under the sensible qualities or accidents?
Hyl True.
Phil. And consequently under extension?
Hyl. I own it.
Phil. It is therefore somewhat in its own nature entirely
distinct from extension?
Hyl. I tell you, extension is only a mode, and Matter is
something that supports modes. And is it not evident the
thing supported is different from the thing supporting?
Phil. So that something distinct from, and exclusive of,
extension is supposed to be the substratum of extension?
Hyl. Just so.
FIRST DIALOGUE 231
Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Can a thing be spread without
extension? or is not the idea of extension necessarily in-
cluded in spreading f
Hyl. It is.
Phil. Whatsoever therefore you suppose spread under
anything must have in itself an extension distinct from the
extension of that thing under which it is spread?
Hyl. It must.
Phil. Consequently, every corporeal substance, being the
substratum of extension, must have in itself another ex-
tension, by which it is qualified to be a substratum: and so
on to infinity. And I ask whether this be not absurd in
itself, and repugnant to what you granted just now, to
wit, that the substratum was something distinct from and
exclusive of extension?
Hyl. Aye but, Philonous, you take me wrong. I do not
mean that Matter is spread in a gross literal sense under
extension. The word substratum is used only to express in
general the same thing with substance.
Phil. Well then, let us examine the relation implied in
the term substance. Is it not that it stands under accidents?
Hyl. The very same.
Phil. But, that one thing may stand under or support
another, must it not be extended?
Hyl. It must.
Phil. Is not therefore this supposition liable to the same
absurdity with the former?
Hyl. You still take things in a strict literal sense. That
IS not fair, Philonous.
Phil. I am not for imposing any sense on your
words: you are at liberty to explain them as you
please. Only, I beseech you, make me understand
something by them. You tell me Matter supports or
stands under accidents. How! is it as your legs support
your body?
Hyl. No; that is the literal sense.
Phil Pray let me know any sense, literal or not literal,
that you understand it in. — How long must I wait for an
answer, Hylas?
Hyl. I declare I know not what to say. I once thought
232 GEORGE BERKELEY
I understood well enough what was meant by Matter's
supporting accidents. But now, the more I think on it
the less can I comprehend it: in short I find that I know
nothing of it.
Phil. It seems then you have no idea at all, neither
relative nor positive, of Matter; you know neither what it
is in itself, nor what relation it bears to accidents?
Hyl. I acknowledge it.
Phil. And yet you asserted that you could not conceive
how qualities or accidents should really exist, without con-
ceiving at the same time a material support of them?
Hyl. I did.
Phil. That is to say, when you conceive the real existence
of qualities, you do withal conceive Something which you
cannot conceive ?
Hyl. It was wrong, I own. But still I fear there is some
fallacy or other. Pray what think you of this? It is just
come into my head that the ground of all our mistake lies
in your treating of each quality by itself. Now, I grant
that each quality cannot singly subsist without the mind.
Colour cannot without extension, neither can figure with-
out some other sensible quality. But, as the several quali-
ties united or blended together form entire sensible things,
nothing hinders why such things may not be supposed to
exist without the mind.
Phil. Either, Hylas, you are jesting, or have a very bad
memory. Though indeed we went through all the qualities
by name one after another, yet my arguments or rather
your concessions, nowhere tended to prove that the Sec-
ondary Qualities did not subsist each alone by itself; but,
that they were not at all without the mind. Indeed, in
treating of figure and motion we concluded they could
not exist without the mind, because it was impossible even
in thought to separate them from all secondary qualities,
so as to conceive them existing by themselves. But then
this was not the only argument made use of upon that
occasion. But (to pass by all that hath been hitherto
said, and reckon it for nothing, if you will have it so)
I am content to put the whole upon this issue. If you
can conceive it possible for any mixture or combination
FIRST DIALOGUE 233
of qualities, or any sensible object whatever, to exist
without the mind, then I will grant it actually to be so.
Hyl. If it comes to that the point will soon be decided.
What more easy than to conceive a tree or house existing
by itself, independent of, and unperceived by, any mind
whatsoever? I do at this present time conceive them
existing after that manner.
Phil. How say you, Hylas, can you see a thing which is
at the same time unseen?
Hyl. No, that were a contradiction.
Phil. Is it not as great a contradiction to talk of con^
ceiving a thing which is unconceivedf
Hyl. It is.
Phil. The tree or house therefore which you think of is
conceived by you?
Hyl. How should it be otherwise?
Phil. And what is conceived is surely in the mind?
Hyl. Without question, that which is conceived is in the
mind.
Phil. How then came you to say, you conceived a house
or tree existing independent and out of all minds what-
soever ?
Hyl. That was I own an oversight; but stay, let me
consider what led me into it. — It is a pleasant mistake
enough. As I was thinking of a tree in a solitary place,
where no one was present to see it, methought that was
to conceive a tree as existing unperceived or unthought
of; not considering that I myself conceived it all the
while. But now I plainly see that all I can do is to frame
ideas in my own mind. I may indeed conceive in my
own thoughts the idea of a tree, or a house, or a moun-
tain, but that is all. And this is far from proving that
I can conceive them existing out of the minds of all
Spirits.
Phil. You acknowledge then that you cannot possibly
conceive how any one corporeal sensible thing should exist
otherwise than in the mind?
Hyl. I do.
Phil. And yet you will earnestly contend for the truth
of that which you cannot so much as conceive?
234 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. I profess I know not what to think; but still there
are some scruples remain with me. Is it not certain I see
things at a distance f Do we not perceive the stars and
moon, for example, to be a great way off? Is not this,
I say, manifest to the senses?
Phil. Do you not in a dream too perceive those or the
like objects?
Hyl. I do.
Phil. And have they not then the same appearance of
being distant?
Hyl. They have.
Phil. But you do not thence conclude the apparitions in
a dream to be without the mind?
Hyl. By no means.
Phil. You ought not therefore to conclude that sensible
objects are without the mind, from their appearance, or
manner wherein they are perceived.
Hyl. I acknowledge it. But doth not my sense deceive
me in those cases?
Phil. By no means. The idea or thing which you im-
mediately perceive, neither sense nor reason informs you
that it actually exists without the mind. By sense you
only know that you are affected with such certain sen-
sations of light and colours, &c. And these you will not
say are without the mind.
Hyl. True: but, beside all that, do you not think the
sight suggests something of outness or distance?
Phil. Upon approaching a distant object, do the visible
3ize and figure change perpetually, or do they appear the
same at all distances?
Hyl. They are in a continual change.
Phil. Sight therefore doth not suggest, or any way in-
form you, that the visible object you immediately perceive
exists at a distance, or will be perceived when you ad-
vance farther onward; there being a continued series of
visible objects succeeding each other during the whole time
of your approach.
Hyl. It doth not; but still I know, upon seeing an
object, what object I shall perceive after having passed
over a certain distance: no matter whether it be exactly
I
FIRST DIALOGUE 235
the same or no : there is still something of distance suggested
in the case.
Phil. Good Hylas, do but reflect a little on the point,
and then tell me whether there be any more in it than
this : from the ideas you actually perceive by sight, you
have by experience learned to collect what other ideas
you will (according to the standing order of nature) be
affected with, after such a certain succession of time and
motion.
Hyl. Upon the whole, I take it to be nothing else.
Phil. Now, is it not plain that if we suppose a man born
blind was on a sudden made to see, he could at first have
no experience of what may be suggested by sight?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. He would not then, according to you, have any
notion of distance annexed to the things he saw; but
would take them for a new set of sensations, existing only
in his mind?
Hyl. It is undeniable.
Phil. But, to make it still more plain: is not distance
a line turned endwise to the eye?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. And can a line so situated be perceived by sight?
Hyl. It cannot.
Phil. Doth it not therefore follow that distance is not
properly and immediately perceived by sight?
Hyl. It should seem so.
Phil. Again, is it your opinion that colours are at a
distance ?
Hyl. It must be acknowledged they are only in the mind.
Phil. But do not colours appear to the eye as coexisting
in the same place with extension and figures?
Hyl. They do.
Phil. How can you then conclude from sight that figures
exist without, when you acknowledge colours do not; the
sensible appearance being the very same with regard to
both?
Hyl. I know not what to answer.
Phil. 'But, allowing that distance was truly and im-
mediately perceived by the mind, yet it would not thence
236 GEORGE BERKELEY
follow it existed out of the mind. For, whatever is im-
mediately perceived is an idea: and can any idea exist
out of the mind?
Hyl. To suppose that were absurd: but, inform me,
Philonous, can we perceive or know nothing beside our
ideas ?
Phil. As for the rational deducing of causes from effects,
that is beside our inquiry. And, by the senses you can
best tell whether you perceive anything which is not im-
mediately perceived. And I ask you, whether the things
immediately perceived are other than your own sensa-
tions or ideas? You have indeed more than once, in
the course of this conversation, declared yourself on those
points; but you seem, by this last question, to have de-
parted from what you then thought.
Hyl. To speak the truth, Philonous, I think there are
two kinds of objects: — the one perceived immediately, which
are likewise called ideas; the other are real things or ex-
ternal objects, perceived by the mediation of ideas, which
are their images and representations. Now, I own ideas
do not exist without the mind; but the latter sort of ob-
jects do. I am sorry I did not think of this distinction
sooner; it would probably have cut short your discourse.
Phil. Are those external objects perceived by sense or
by some other faculty?
Hyl. They are perceived by sense.
Phil. How! Is there any thing perceived by sense
which IS not immediately perceived?
Hyl. Yes, Philonous, in some sort there is. For example,
when I look on a picture or statue of Julius Caesar, I may
be said after a manner to perceive him (though not im-
mediately) by my senses.
Phil. It seems then you will have our ideas, which
alone are immediately perceived, to be pictures of external
things: and that these also are perceived by sense, inas-
much as they have a conformity or resemblance to our ideas ?
Hyl. That is my meaning.
Phil. And, in the same way that Julius Caesar, in him-
self invisible, is nevertheless perceived by sight; real things,
in themselves imperceptible, are perceived by sense.
FIRST DIALOGUE 237
Hyl* In the very same*
Phil. Tell me, Hylas, when you behold the picture of
Julius Caesar, do you see with your eyes any more than
some colours and figures, with a certain symmetry and
composition of the whole?
Hyl. Nothing else.
Phil. And would not a man who had never known any-
thing of Julius Caesar see as much?
Hyl. He would.
Phil. Consequently he hath his sight, and the use of it,
in as perfect a degree as you?
Hyl. I agree with you.
Phil. Whence comes it then that your thoughts are
directed to the Roman emperor, and his are not? This
cannot proceed from the sensations or ideas of sense by
you then perceived; since you acknowledge you have no
advantage over him in that respect. It should seem there-
fore to proceed from reason and memory: should it not?
Hyl. It should.
Phil. Consequently, it will not follow from that instance
that anything is perceived by sense which is not immediately
perceived. Though I grant we may, in one acceptation, be
said to perceive sensible things mediately by sense: that
is, when, from a frequently perceived connexion, the im-
mediate perception of ideas by one sense suggests to the
mind others, perhaps belonging to another sense, which
are wont to be connected with them. For instance, when
I hear a coach drive along the streets, immediately I per-
ceive only the sound; but, from the experience I have had
that such a sound is connected with a coach, I am said to
hear the coach. It is nevertheless evident that, in truth
and strictness, nothing can be heard but sound; and the
coach is not then properly perceived by sense, but sug-
gested from experience. So likewise when we are said
to see a red-hot bar of iron; the solidity and heat of the
iron are not the objects of sight, but suggested to the imagi-
nation by the colour and figure which are properly per-
ceived by that sense. In short, those things alone are
actually and strictly perceived by any sense, which would
have been perceived in case that same sense had then been
238 GEORGE BERKELEY
first conferred on us. As for other things, it is plain they
are only suggested to the mind by experience, grounded on
former perceptions. But, to return to your comparison of
Caesar's picture, it is plain, if you keep to that, you nlust
hold the real things, or archetypes of our ideas, are not per-
ceived by sense, but by some internal faculty of the soul,
as reason or memory. I would therefore fain know what
arguments you can draw from reason for the existence of
what you call real things or material objects. Or, whether
you remember to have seen them formerly as they are in
themselves; or, if you have heard or read of any one that
did.
Hyl. I see, Philonous, you are disposed to raillery; but
that will never convince me.
Phil. My aim is only to learn from you the way to come
at the knowledge of material beings. Whatever we per-
ceive is perceived immediately or mediately : by sense, or
by reason and reflexion. But, as you have excluded sense,
pray shew me what reason you have to believe their exist-
ence; or what medium you can possibly make use of to
prove it, either to mine or your own understanding.
Hyl. To deal ingenuously, Philonous, now I consider
the point, I do not find I can give you any good reason
for it. But, thus much seems pretty plain, that it is at
least possible such things may really exist. And, as long
as there is no absurdity in supposing them, I am resolved
to believe as I did, till you bring good reasons to the
contrary.
Phil. What! Is it come to this, that you only believe
the existence of material objects, and that your belief is
founded barely on the possibility of its being true? Then
you will have me bring reasons against it: though another
would think it reasonable the proof should lie on him who
holds the affirmative. And, after all, this very point which
you are now resolved to maintain, without any reason, is
in effect what you have more than once during this dis-
course seen good reason to give up. But, to pass over all
this; if I understand you rightly, you say our ideas do not
exist without the mind, but that they are copies, images,
or representations, of certain originals that do?
FIRST DIALOGUE 239
Hyl. You take me right.
Phil. They are then like external things?
Hyl. They are.
Fhil. Have those things a stable and permanent nature,
independent of our senses; or are they in a perpetual
change, upon our producing any motions in our bodies —
suspending, exerting, or altering, our faculties or organs
of sense?
Hyl. Real things, it is plain, have a fixed and real nature,
which remains the same notwithstanding any change in our
senses, or in the posture and motion of our bodies; which
indeed may affect the ideas in our minds, but it were absurd
to think they had the same effect on things existing without
the mind.
Phil. How then is it possible that things perpetually
fleeting and variable as our ideas should be copies or
images of anything fixed and constant? Or, in other words,
since all sensible qualities, as size, figure, colour, &c., that
is, our ideas, are continually changing, upon every altera-
tion in the distance, medium, or instruments of sensation;
how can any determinate material objects be properly rep-
resented or painted forth by several distinct things, each
of which is so different from and unlike the rest? Or,
if you say it resembles some one only of our ideas, how
shall we be able to distinguish the true copy from all the
false ones?
Hyl. I profess, Philonous, I am at a loss. I know not
what to say to this.
Phil. But neither is this all. Which are material objects
in themselves — perceptible or imperceptible?
Hyl. Properly and immediately nothing can be per-
ceived but ideas. All material things, therefore, are in
themselves insensible, and to be perceived only by our
ideas.
Phil. Ideas then are sensible, and their archetypes or
originals insensible?
Hyl. Right.
Phil. But how can that which is sensible be like that
which is insensible? Can a real thing, in itself invisible^
be like a colour; or a real thing, which is not audible, be
240 GEORGE BERKELEY
like a sound f In a word, can anything be like a sensatian
or idea, but another sensation or idea? /
Hyl. I must own, I think not. /
Phil. Is it possible there should be any doubt on/the
point? Do you not perfectly know your own ideas? /
Hyl. I know them perfectly; since what I do not per-
ceive or know can be no part of my idea.
Phil. Consider, therefore, and examine them, and then
tell me if there be anything in them which can exist ^i^ithout
the mind: or if you can conceive anything like them exist-
ing without the mind.
Hyl. Upon inquiry, I find it is impossible for me to
conceive or understand how anything but an idea can be
like an idea. And it is most evident that no idea can exist
without the mind,
Phil. You are therefore, by your principles, forced to
deny the reality of sensible things; since you made it to
consist in an absolute existence exterior to the mind. That
is to say, you are a downright sceptic. So I have gained
my point, which was to shew your principles led to
Scepticism.
Hyl. For the present I am, if not entirely convinced, at
least silenced.
Phil. I would fain know what more you would require
in order to a perfect conviction. Have you not had the
liberty of explaining yourself all manner of ways? Were
any little slips in discourse laid hold and insisted on? Or
were you not allowed to retract or reinforce anything you
had offered, as best served your purpose? Hath not
everything you could say been heard and examined with
all the fairness imaginable? In a word, have you not in
every point been convinced out of your own mouth? And,
if you can at present discover any flaw in any of your
former concessions, or think of any remaining subterfuge,
any new distinction, colour, or comment whatsoever, why
do you not produce it?
Hyl. a little patience, Philonous. I am at present so
amazed to see myself ensnared, and as it were imprisoned
in the labyrinths you have drawn me into, that on the
sudden it cannot be expected I should find my way out.
FIRST DIALOGUE 241
Yen must give me time to look about me and recollect
myself.
Phil. Hark; is not this the college bell?
Hyl. It rings for prayers.
Phil. We will go in then, if you please, and meet here
again to-morrow morning. In the meantime, you may em-
ploy your thoughts on this morning's discourse, and try
if you can find any fallacy in it, or invent any new means
to extricate yourself.
Hyl. Agreed.
THE SECOND DIALOGUE
HYLAS. I beg your pardon, Philonous, for not meeting
you sooner. All this morning my head was so filled
with our late conversation that I had not leisure to
think of the time of the day, or indeed of anything else.
Philonous. I am glad you were so intent upon it, in
hopes if there were any mistakes in your concessions, or
fallacies in my reasonings from them, you will now dis-
cover them to me.
Hyl. I assure you I have done nothing ever since I saw
you but search after mistakes and fallacies, and, with that
view, have minutely examined the whole series of yester-
day's discourse: but all in vain, for the notions it led me
into, upon review, appear still more clear and evident;
and, the more I consider them, the more irresistibly do
they force my assent.
Phil. And is not this, think you, a sign that they are
genuine, that they proceed from nature, and are conform-
able to right reason? Truth and beauty are in this alike,
that the strictest survey sets them both off to advantage;
while the false lustre of error and disguise cannot endure
being reviewed, or too nearly inspected.
Hyl. I own there is a great deal in what you say. Nor
can any one be more entirely satisfied of the truth of those
odd consequences, so long as I have in view the reasonings
that lead to them. But, when these are out of my thoughts,
there seems, on the other hand, something so satisfactory,
so natural and intelligible, in the modern way of explaining
things that, I profess, I know not how to reject it.
Phil. I know not what way you mean.
Hyl. I mean the way of accounting for our sensations or
ideas.
242
SECOND DIALOGUE 243
Phil. How is that?
Hyl. It is supposed the soul makes her residence in
some part of the brain, from which the nerves take their
rise, and are thence extended to all parts of the body; and
that outward objects, by the different impressions they
make on the organs of sense, communicate certain vibrative
motions to the nerves ; and these being filled with spirits
propagate them to the brain or seat of the soul, which,
according to the various impressions or traces thereby
made in the brain, is variously affected with ideas.
Phil. And call you this an explication of the manner
whereby we are affected with ideas?
Hyl. Why not, Philonous? Have you anything to ob-
ject against it?
Phil. I would first know whether I rightly understand
your hypothesis. You make certain traces in the brain to
be the causes or occasions of our ideas. Pray tell me
whether by the brain^ you mean any sensible thing.
Hyl. What else think you I could mean ?
Phil. Sensible things are all immediately perceivable;
and those things which are immediately perceivable are
ideas; and these exist only in the mind. Thus much you
have, if I mistake not, long since agreed to.
Hyl. I do not deny it.
Phil. The brain therefore you speak of, being a sensible
thing, exists only in the mind. Now, I would fain know
whether you think it reasonable to suppose that one idea
or thing existing in the mind occasions all other ideas.
And, if you think so, pray how do you account for the
origin of that primary idea or brain itself?
Hyl. I do not explain the origin of our ideas by that
brain which is perceivable to sense — this being itself only
a combination of sensible ideas — but by another which
I imagine.
Phil. But are not things imagined as truly in the mind
as things perceived?
Hyl. I must confess they are.
Phil. It comes, therefore, to the same thing; and you
have been all this while accounting for ideas by certain
motions or impressions of the brain; that is, by some
244 GEORGE BERKELEY /
alterations in an idea, whether sensible or imaginable It
matters not. /
Hyl. I begin to suspect my hypothesis. /
Phil. Besides spirits, all that we laiow or conceive are
our own ideas. When, therefore, you say all ideas are
occasioned by impressions in the brain, do you conceive
this brain or no? If you do, then you talk of ideas im-
printed in an idea causing that same idea, which is absurd.
If you do not conceive it, you talk unintelligibly, instead of
forming a reasonable hypothesis.
Hyl. I now clearly see it was a mere dream. There is
nothing in it.
Phil. You need not be much concerned at it; for after
all, this way of explaining things, as you called it, could
never have satisfied any reasonable man. What con-
nexion is there between a motion in the nerves, and the
sensations of sound or colour in the mind? Or how is
it possible these should be the effect of that?
Hyl. But I could never think it had so little in it as now
it seems to have.
Phil. Well then, are you at length satisfied that no sen-
sible things have a real existence; and that you are in
truth an arrant sceptic?
Hyl. It is too plain to be denied.
Phil. Look! are not the fields covered with a delightful
verdure? Is there not something in the woods and groves,
in the rivers and clear springs, that soothes, that delights,
that transports the soul? At the prospect of the wide and
deep ocean, or some huge mountain whose top is lost in the
clouds, or of an old gloomy forest, are not our minds filled
with a pleasing horror? Even in rocks and deserts is
there not an agreeable wildness? How sincere a pleasure
is it to behold the natural beauties of the earth ! To pre-
serve and renew our relish for them, is not the veil of night
alternately drawn over her face, and doth she not change
her dress with the seasons? How aptly are the elements
disposed ! What variety and use [^ in the meanest pro-
ductions of nature] ! What delicacy, what beauty, what
* * In stones and minerals ' — in first and second editions.
SECOND DIALOGUE 245
contrivance, in animal and vegetable bodies ! How ex-
quisitely are all things suited, as v^ell to their particular
ends, as to constitute opposite parts of the whole! And,
while they mutually aid and support, do they not also set
off and illustrate each other? Raise now your thoughts
from this ball of earth to all those glorious luminaries that
adorn the high arch of heaven. The motion and situation
of the planets, are they not admirable for use and order?
Were those (miscalled erratic) globes once known to stray,
in their repeated journeys through the pathless void? Do
they not measure areas round the sun ever proportioned
to the times? So fixed, so immutable are the laws by
which the unseen Author of nature actuates the universe.
How vivid and radiant is the lustre of the fixed stars!
How magnificent and rich that negligent profusion with
which they appear to be scattered throughout the whole
azure vault ! Yet, if you take the telescope, it brings into
your sight a new host of stars that escape the naked eye.
Here they seem contiguous and minute, but to a nearer
view immense orbs of light at various distances, far sunk
in the abyss of space. Now you must call imagination to
your aid. The feeble narrow sense cannot descry innu-
merable worlds revolving round the central fires; and in
those worlds the energy of an all-perfect Mind displayed
in endless forms. But, neither sense nor imagination are
big enough to comprehend the boundless extent, with all
its glittering furniture. Though the labouring mind exert
and strain each power to its utmost reach, there still stands
out ungrasped a surplusage immeasurable. Yet all the
vast bodies that compose this mighty frame, how distant
and remote soever, are by some secret mechanism, some
Divine art and force, linked in a mutual dependence and
intercourse with each other; even with this earth, which
was almost slipt from my thoughts and lost in the crowd
of worlds. Is not the whole system immense, beautiful,
glorious beyond expression and beyond thought! What
treatment, then, do those philosophers deserve, who would
deprive these noble and delightful scenes of all reality f
How should those Principles be entertained that lead us to
think all the visible beauty of the creation a false imaginary
248 GEORGE BERKELEY
glare? To be plain, can you expect this Scepticism of
yours will not be thought extravagantly absurd by all men
of sense?
Hyl. Other men may think as they please; but for your
part you have nothing to reproach me with. My comfort
is, you are as much a sceptic as I am.
Phil. There, Hylas, I must beg leave to differ from you.
Hyl» What ! Have you all along agreed to the premises,
and do you now deny the conclusion, and leave me to
maintain those paradoxes by myself which you led me
into? This surely is not fair.
Phil. I deny that I agreed with you in those notions
that led to Scepticism. You indeed said the reality of
sensible things consisted in an absolute existence out of the
minds of spirits^ or distinct from their being perceived.
And pursuant to this notion of reality, you are obliged to
deny sensible things ariy real existence: that is, according
to your own definition, you profess yourself a sceptic.
But I neither said nor thought the reality of sensible
things was to be defined after that manner. To me it is
evident for the reasons you allow of, that sensible things
cannot exist otherwise than in a mind or spirit. Whence
I conclude, not that they have no real existence, but that,
seeing they depend not on my thought, and have an
existence distinct from being perceived by me, there must
he some other Mind wherein they exist. As sure, therefore,
as the sensible world really exists, so sure is there an
infinite omnipresent Spirit who contains and supports it.
Hyl. What! This is no more than I and all Christians
hold; nay, and all others too who believe there is a God,
and that He knows and comprehends all things.
Phil. Aye, but here lies the difference. Men commonly
believe that all things are known or perceived by God,
because they believe the being of a God; whereas I, on
the other side, immediately and necessarily conclude the
being of a God, because all sensible things must be per-
ceived by Him.
Hyl. But, so long as we all believe the same thing, what
matter is it how we come by that belief?
Phil. But neither do we agree in the same opinion. For
SECOND DIALOGUE 247
philosophers, though they acknowledge all corporeal beings
to be perceived by God, yet they attribute to them an
absolute subsistence distinct from their being perceived by
any mind whatever; which I do not. Besides, is there no
difference between saying, There is a God, therefore He
perceives all things; and saying, Sensible things do really
exist; and, if they really exist, they are necessarily per-
ceived by an infinite Mind: therefore there is an infinite
Mind or Godf This furnishes you with a direct and im-
mediate demonstration, from a most evident principle, of
the being of a God. Divines and philosophers had proved
beyond all controversy, from the beauty and usefulness of
the several parts of the creation, that it was the workman-
ship of God. But that — setting aside all help of astronomy
and natural philosophy, all contemplation of the contri-
vance, order, and adjustment of things — an infinite Mind
should be necessarily inferred from the bare existence of
the sensible world, is an advantage to them only who have
made this easy reflexion: that the sensible world is that
which we perceive by our several senses; and that nothing
is perceived by the senses beside ideas; and that no idea
or archetype of an idea can exist otherwise than in a mind.
You may now, without any laborious search into the
sciences, without any subtlety of reason, or tedious length
of discourse, oppose and baffle the most strenuous advocate
for Atheism. Those miserable refuges, whether in an
eternal succession of unthinking causes and effects, or in
a fortuitous concourse of atoms; those wild imaginations
of Vanini, Hobbes, and Spinoza: in a word, the whole
system of Atheism, is it not entirely overthrown, by this
single reflexion on the repugnancy included in supposing
the whole, or any part, even the most rude and shapeless,
of the visible world, to exist without a mind? Let any
one of those abettors of impiety but look into his own
thoughts, and there try if he can conceive how so much as
a rock, a desert, a chaos, or confused jumble of atoms; how
anything at all, either sensible or imaginable, can exist
independent of a Mind, and he need go no farther to be
convinced of his folly. Can anything be fairer than to put
a dispute on such an issue, and leave it to a man himself
248 GEORGE BERKELEY
to see if he can conceive, even in thought, what he holds
to be true in fact, and from a notional to allow it a real
existence?
Hyl: It cannot be denied there is something highly
serviceable to religion in what you advance. But do you
not think it looks very like a notion entertained by some
eminent moderns, of seeing all things in God?
Phil. I would gladly know that opinion: pray explain
it to me.
Hyl. They conceive that the soul, being immaterial, is
incapable of being united with material things, so as to
perceive them in themselves; but that she perceives
them by her union with the substance of God, which,
being spiritual, is therefore purely intelligible, or capable
of being the immediate object of a spirits thought.
Besides the Divine essence contains in it perfections
correspondent to each created being; and which are, for
that reason, proper to exhibit or represent them to the mind.
Phil. I do not understand how our ideas, which are
things altogether passive and inert, can be the essence, or
any part (or like any part) of the essence or substance of
God, who is an impassive, indivisible, pure, active being.
Many more difficulties and objections there are which
occur at first view against this hypothesis; but I shall only
add that it is liable to all the absurdities of the common
hypothesis, in making a created world exist otherwise than
in the mind of a Spirit. Besides all which it hath this
peculiar to itself; that it makes that material world serve
to no purpose. And, if it pass for a good argument against
other hypotheses in the sciences, that they suppose Nature,
or the Divine wisdom, to make something in vain, or do
that by tedious roundabout methods which might have
been performed in a much more easy and compendious
way, what shall we think of that hypothesis which supposes
the whole world made in vain?
Hyl. But what say you? Are not you too of opinion
that we see all things in God? If I mistake not, what you
advance comes near it.
Phil. [^ Few men think; yet all have opinions. Hence
*The passage within brackets first appeared in the third edition.
SECOND DIALOGUE 249
men's opinions are superficial and confused. It is nothing
strange that tenets which in themselves are ever so differ-
ent, should nevertheless be confounded with each other,
by those who do not consider them attentively. I shall
not therefore be surprised if some men imagine that I run
into the enthusiasm of Malebranche; though in truth I am
very remote from it. He builds on the most abstract
general ideas, which I entirely disclaim. He asserts an
absolute external world, which I deny. He maintains that
we are deceived by our senses, and know not the real
natures or the true forms and figures of extended beings;
of all which I hold the direct contrary. So that upon the
whole there are no Principles more fundamentally opposite
than his and mine. It must be owned that] I entirely agree
with what the holy Scripture saith, * That in God we live
and move and have our being.' But that we see things
in His essence, after the manner above set forth, I am far
from believing. Take here in brief my meaning: — It is
evident that the things I perceive are my own ideas, and
that no idea can exist unless it be in a mind: nor is it
less plain that these ideas or things by me perceived,
either themselves or their archetypes, exist independently of
my mind, since I know myself not to be their author, it
being out of my power to determine at pleasure what
particular ideas I shall be affected with upon opening my
eyes or ears: they must therefore exist in some other
Mind, whose Will it is they should be exhibited to me.
The things, I say, immediately perceived are ideas or
sensations, call them which you will. But how can any
idea or sensation exist in, or be produced by, anything but
a mind or spirit? This indeed is inconceivable. And to
assert that which is inconceivable is to talk nonsense: is
it not?
Hyl. Without doubt.
Phil. But, on the other hand, it is very conceivable that
they should exist in and be produced by a spirit; since
this is no more than I daily experience in myself, inasmuch
as I perceive numberless ideas; and, by an act of my will,
can form a great variety of them, and raise them up in my
imagination: though, it must be confessed, these creatures
250 GEORGE BERKELEY
of the fancy are not altogether so distinct, so strong, vivid,
and permanent, as those perceived by my senses — which
latter are called real things. From all which I conclude,
there is a Mind which affects me every moment with all the
sensible impressions I perceive. And, from the variety,
order, and manner of these, I conclude the Author of them
to he wise, powerful, and good, beyond comprehension, Mark
it well; I do not say, I see things by perceiving that which
represents them in the intelligible Substance of God. This
I do not understand; but I say, the things by me perceived
are known by the understanding, and produced by the will
of an infinite Spirit. And is not all this most plain and
evident? Is there any more in it than what a little
observation in our own minds, and that which passeth in
them, not only enables us to conceive, but also obliges us
to acknowledge.
Hyl. I think I understand you very clearly; and own
the proof you give of a Deity seems no less evident than
it is surprising. But, allowing that God is the supreme
and universal Cause of all things, yet, may there not be
still a Third Nature besides Spirits and Ideas? May we
not admit a subordinate and limited cause of our ideas?
In a word, may there not for all that be Matter?
Phil. How often must I inculcate the same thing? You
allow the things immediately perceived by sense to exist
nowhere without the mind; but there is nothing perceived
by sense which is not perceived immediately: therefore
there is nothing sensible that exists without the mind.
The Matter, therefore, which you still insist on is some-
thing intelligible, I suppose; something that may be dis-
covered by reason, and not by sense.
Hyl. You are in the right.
Phil. Pray let me know what reasoning your belief of
Matter is grounded on; and what this Matter is, in your
present sense of it.
Hyl. I find myself affected with various ideas, whereof
I know I am not the cause; neither are they the cause of
themselves, or of one another, or capable of subsisting by
themselves, as being altogether inactive, fleeting, dependent
beings. They have therefore some cause distinct from me
SECOND DIALOGUE 251
and them: of which I pretend to know no more than that
it is the cause of my ideas. And this thing, whatever it
be, I call Matter.
Phil. Tell me, Hylas, hath every one a liberty to change
the current proper signification attached to a common
name in any language? For example, suppose a traveller
should tell you that in a certain country men pass unhurt
through the fire; and, upon explaining himself, you found
he meant by the word fire that which others call water.
Or, if he should assert that there are trees that walk upon
two legs, meaning men by the term trees. Would you
think this reasonable?
Hyl. No; I should think it very absurd. Common cus-
tom is the standard of propriety in language. And for
any man to affect speaking improperly is to pervert the
use of speech, and can never serve to a better purpose
than to protract and multiply disputes where there is no
difference in opinion.
Phil. And doth not Matter, in the common current ac-
ceptation of the word, signify an extended, solid, moveable,
unthinking, inactive Substance?
Hyl. It doth.
Phil. And, hath it not been made evident that no such
substance can possibly exist? And, though it should be
allowed to exist, yet how can that which is inactive be
a cause; or that which is unthinking be a cause of thought f
You may, indeed, if you please, annex to the word Matter
a contrary meaning to what is vulgarly received; and tell
me you understand by it, an unextended, thinking, active
being, which is the cause of our ideas. But what else
is this than to play with words, and run into that very
fault you just now condemned with so much reason?
I do by no means find fault with your reasoning, in that
you collect a cause from the phenomena: but I deny that
the cause deducible by reason can properly be termed
Matter.
Hyl. There is indeed something in what you say. But
I am afraid you do not thoroughly comprehend my mean-
ing. I would by no means be thought to deny that God,
or an infinite Spirit, is the Supreme Cause of all things.
252 GEORGE BERKELEY
All I contend for is, that, subordinate to the Supreme
Agent, there is a cause of a limited and inferior nature,
which concurs in the production of our ideas, not by any
act of will, or spiritual efficiency, but by that kind of action
which belongs to Matter, viz. motion.
Phil. I find you are at every turn relapsing into your
old exploded conceit, of a moveable, and consequently an
extended, substance, existing without the mind. What !
Have you already forgotten you were convinced; or are
you willing I should repeat what has been said on that
head? In truth this is not fair dealing in you, still to
suppose the being of that which you have so often acknowl-
edged to have no being. But, not to insist farther on
what has been so largely handled, I ask whether all your
ideas are not perfectly passive and inert, including nothing
of action in them.
Hyl. They are.
Phil. And are sensible qualities anything else but ideas?
Hyl. How often have I acknowledged that they are not,
Phil. But is not motion a sensible quality?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. Consequently it is no action?
Hyl. I agree with you. And indeed it is very plain that
when I stir my finger, it remains passive; but my will
which produced the motion is active.
Phil. Now, I desire to know, in the first place, whether,
motion being allowed to be no action, you can conceive
any action besides volition: and, in the second place,
whether to say something and conceive nothing be not
to talk nonsense: and, lastly, whether, having considered
the premises, you do not perceive that to suppose any
efficient or active Cause of our ideas, other than Spirit,
is highly absurd and unreasonable?
Hyl. I give up the point entirely. But, though Matter
may not be a cause, yet what hinders its being an instru-
ment, subservient to the supreme Agent in the production
of our ideas?
Phil. An instrument say you; pray what may be
the figure, springs, wheels, and motions, of that instru-
ment?
SECOND DIALOGUE 253
Hyl. Those I pretend to determine nothing of, both the
substance and its qualities being entirely unknown to me.
Phil. What? You are then of opinion it is made up
of unknown parts, that it hath unknown motions, and an
unknown shape?
Hyl. I do not believe that it hath any figure or motion
at all, being already convinced, that no sensible qualities
can exist in an unperceiving substance.
Phil. But what notion is it possible to frame of an
instrument void of all sensible qualities, even extension
itself?
Hyl. I do not pretend to have any notion of it.
Phil. And what reason have you to think this unknown,
this inconceivable Somewhat doth exist? Is it that you
imagine God cannot act as well without it; or that you
find by experience the use of some such thing, when
you form ideas in your own mind ?
Hyl. You are always teasing me for reasons of my
belief. Pray what reasons have you not to believe it?
Phil. It is to me a sufficient reason not to believe the
existence of anything, if I see no reason for believing it.
But, not to insist on reasons for believing, you will not
so much as let me know what it is you would have me
believe ; since you say you have no manner of notion
of it. After all, let me entreat you to consider whether
it be like a philosopher, or even like a man of common
sense, to pretend to believe you know not what, and you
know not why.
Hyl. Hold, Philonous. When I tell you Matter is an
instrument, I do not mean altogether nothing. It is true
I know not the particular kind of instrument; but, how-
ever, I have some notion of instrument in general, which I
apply to it.
Phil. But what if it should prove that there is some-
thing, even in the most general notion of instrument, as
taken in a distinct sense from cause, which makes the use
of it inconsistent with the Divine attributes?
Hyl. Make that appear and I shall give up the point.
Phil. What mean you by the general nature or notion
of instrument f
254 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. That which is common to all particular instruments
composeth the general notion.
Phil. Is it not common to all instruments, that they are
applied to the doing those things only which cannot be
performed by the mere act of our wills?' Thus, for
instance, I never use an instrument to move my finger,
because it is done by a volition. But I should use one
if I were to remove part of a rock, or tear up a tree by
the roots. Are you of the same mind? Or, can you
shew any example where an instrument is made use of
in producing an effect immediately depending on the will
of the agent?
Hyl. I own I cannot.
Phil. How therefore can you suppose that an All-perfect
Spirit, on whose Will all things have an absolute and
immediate dependence, should need an instrument in his
operations, or, not needing it, make use of it? Thus it
seems to me that you are obliged to own the use of a life-
less inactive instrument to be incompatible with the infinite
perfection of God; that is, by your own confession, to
give up the. point.
Hyl. It doth not readily occur what I can answer you.
Phil. But, methinks you should be ready to own the
truth, when it has been fairly proved to you. We indeed,
who are beings of finite powers, are forced to make use
of instruments. And the use of an instrument sheweth
the agent to be limited by rules of another's prescription,
and that he cannot obtain his end but in such a way, and
by such conditions. Whence it seems a clear consequence,
that the supreme unlimited Agent useth no tool or instru-
ment at all The will of an Omnipotent Spirit is no
sooner exerted than executed, without the application of
means; which, if they are employed by inferior agents^ it
is not upon account of any real efficacy that is in them,
or necessary aptitude to produce any effect, but merely in
compliance with the laws of nature, or those conditions
prescribed to them by the First Cause, who is Himself
above all limitation or prescription whatsoever.
Hyl. I will no longer maintain that Matter is an instru-
ment. However, I would not be understood to give up its
SECOND DIALOGUE 255
existence neither; since, notwithstanding what hath been
said, it may still be an occasion,
Phil. How many shapes is your Matter to take? Or,
how often must it be proved not to exist, before you are
content to part with it? But, to say no more of this
(though by all the laws of disputation I may justly blame
you for so frequently changing the signification of the
principal term) — I would fain know what you mean by
affirming that matter is an occasion, having already denied
it to be a cause. And, when you have shewn in what
sense you understand occasion, pray, in the next place,
be pleased to shew me what reason induceth you to believe
there is such an occasion of our ideas?
Hyl. As to the first point : by occasion 1 mean an inactive
unthinking being, at the presence whereof God excites
ideas in our minds.
Phil. And what may be the nature of that inactive un-
thinking being?
Hyl. I know nothing of its nature.
Phil. Proceed then to the second point, and assign some
reason why we should allow an existence to this inactive,
unthinking, unknown thing.
Hyl. When we see ideas produced in our minds, after
an orderly and constant manner, it is natural to think they
have some fixed and regular occasions, at the presence of
which they are excited.
Phil. You acknowledge then God alone to be the cause
of our ideas, and that He causes them at the presence
of those occasions.
Hyl. That is my opinion.
Phil. Those things which you say are present to God,
without doubt He perceives.
Hyl. Certainly; otherwise they could not be to Him an
occasion of acting.
Phil. Not to insist now on your making sense of this
hypothesis, or answering all the puzzling questions and
difficulties it is liable to: I only ask whether the order
and regularity observable in the series of our ideas, or
the course of nature, be not sufficiently accounted for by
the wisdom and power of God; and whether it doth not
256 GEORGE BERKELEY
derogate from those attributes, to suppose He is in-
fluenced, directed, or put in mind, when and what He is
to act, by an unthinking substance? And, lastly, whether,
in case I granted all you contend for, it would make
anything to your purpose; it not being easy to conceive
how the external or absolute existence of an unthinking
substance, distinct from its being perceived, can be in-
ferred from my allowing that there are certain things
perceived by the mind of God, which are to Him the occa-
sion of producing ideas in us?
Hyl. I am perfectly at a loss what to think, this notion of
occasion seeming now altogether as groundless as the rest.
Phil. Do you not at length perceive that in all these
different acceptations of Matter, you have been only sup-
posing you know not what, for no manner of reason, and
to no kind of use?
Hyl. I freely own myself less fond of my notions since
they have been so accurately examined. But still, me-
thinks, I have some confused perception that there is such
a thing as Matter.
Phil. Either you perceive the being of Matter immedi-
ately or mediately. H immediately, pray inform me by
which of the senses you perceive it. If mediately, let me
know by what reasoning it is inferred from those things
which you perceive immediately. So much for the percep-
tion. Then for the Matter itself, I ask whether it is object,
substratum, cause, instrument, or occasion? You have
already pleaded for each of these, shifting your notions,
and making Matter to appear sometimes in one shape,
then in another. And what you have offered hath been
disapproved and rejected by yourself. If you have any-
thing new to advance I would gladly bear it.
Hyl. I think I have already offered all I had to say on
those heads. I am at a loss what more to urge.
Phil. And yet you are loath to part with your old prej-
udice. But, to make you quit it more easily, I desire
that, beside what has been hitherto suggested, you will
farther consider whether, upon supposition that Matter
exists, you can possibly conceive how you should be af-
fected by it. Or, supposing it did not exist, whether it
SECOND DIALOGUE 257
be not evident you might for all that be affected with the
same ideas you now are, and consequently have the very
same reasons to believe its existence that you now can
have.
Hyl. I acknowledge it is possible we might perceive all
things just as we do now, though there was no Matter in the
world; neither can I conceive, if there be Matter, how it
should produce any idea in our minds. And, I do farther
grant you have entirely satisfied me that it is impossible
there should be such a thing as Matter in any of the fore-
going acceptations. But still I cannot help supposing that
there is Matter in some sense or other. What that is I do
not indeed pretend to determine.
Phil. I do not expect you should define exactly the na-
ture of that unknown being. Only be pleased to tell me
whether it is a Substance; and if so, whether you car*
suppose a Substance without accidents; or, in case you
suppose it to have accidents or qualities, I desire you will
let me know what those qualities are, at least what is meant
by Matter's supporting them?
Hyl. We have already argued on those points. I have
no more to say to them. But, to prevent any farther
questions, let me tell you I at present understand by Matter
neither substance nor accident, thinking nor extended be-
ing, neither cause, instrument, nor occasion, but Something
entirely unknown, distinct from all these.
Phil. It seems then you include in your present no-
tion of Matter nothing but the general abstract idea of
entity.
Hyl. Nothing else: save only that I superadd to this
general idea the negation of all those particular things,
qualities, or ideas, that 1 perceive, imagine, or in anywise
apprehend.
Phil. Pray where do you suppose this unknown Matter
to exist?
Hyl. Oh Philonous ! now you think you have entangled
me; for, if I say it exists in place, then you will infer
that it exists in the mind, since it is agreed that place
or extension exists only in the mind. /But I am not
ashamed to own my ignorance. I know not where it exists;
(9) HC XXXVII
258 GEORGE BERKELEY
only I am sure it exists not in place. There is a negative
answer for you. And you must expect no other to all the
questions you put for the future about Matter.
Phil. Since you will not tell me where it exists, be pleased
to inform me after what manner you suppose it to exist, or
what you mean by its existence?
Hyl. It neither thinks nor acts, neither perceives nor is
perceived.
Phil. But what is there positive in your abstracted notion
of its existence?
Hyl. Upon a nice observation, I do not find I have any
positive notion or meaning at all. I tell you again, I am
not ashamed to own my ignorance. I know not what is
meant by its existence, or how it exists.
Phil. Continue, good Hylas, to act the same ingenuous
part, and tell me sincerely whether you can frame a distinct
idea of Entity in general, prescinded from and exclusive of
all thinking and corporeal beings, all particular things
whatsoever.
Hyl. Hold, let me think a little 1 profess, Philonous,
I do not find that I can. At first glance, methought I had
some dilute and airy notion of Pure Entity in abstract;
but, upon closer attention, it hath quite vanished out of
sight. The more I think on it, the more am I confirmed
in my prudent resolution of giving none but negative an-
swers, and not pretending to the least degree of any posi-
tive knowledge or conception of Matter, its where, its how,
its entity, or anything belonging to it.
Phil. When, therefore, you speak of the existence of
Matter, you have not any notion in your mind ?
Hyl. None at all.
Phil. Pray tell me if the case stands not thus : — At first,
from a belief of material substance, you would have it that
the immediate objects existed without the mind; then that
they are archetypes ; then causes ; next instruments ; then
occasions: lastly something in general, which being inter-
preted proves nothing. So Matter comes to nothing. What
think you, Hylas, is not this a fair summary of your whole
proceeding?
Hyl. Be that as it will, yet I still insist upon it, that our
SECOND DIALOGUE 259
not being able to conceive a thing is no argument against
its existence.
Phil. That from a cause, effect, operation, sign, or other
circumstance, there may reasonably be inferred the exist-
ence of a thing not immediately perceived; and that it
were absurd for any man to argue against the existence of
that thing, from his having no direct and positive notion of
it, I freely own. But, where there is nothing of all this;
where neither reason nor revelation induces us to believe
the existence of a thing; where we have not even a rela-
tive notion of it; where an abstraction is made from per-
ceiving and being perceived, from Spirit and idea: lastly,
where there is not so much as the most inadequate or faint
idea pretended to— I will not indeed thence conclude
against the reality of any notion, or existence of anything;
but my inference shall be, that you mean nothing at all;
that you employ words to no manner of purpose, without
any design or signification whatsoever. And I leave it to
you to consider how mere jargon should be treated.
Hyl. To deal frankly with you, Philonous, your argu-
ments seem in themselves unanswerable; but they have
not so great an effect on me as to produce that entire con-
viction, that hearty acquiescence, which attends demonstra-
tion. I find myself relapsing into an obscure surmise of I
know not what, matter,
Phil. But, are you not sensible, Hylas, that two things
must concur to take away all scruple, and work a plenary
assent in the mind? Let a visible object be set in never
so clear a light, yet, if there is any imperfection in the
sight, or if the eye is not directed towards it, it will not be
distinctly seen. And though a demonstration be never so
well grounded and fairly proposed, yet, if there is withal
a stain of prejudice, or a wrong bias on the understanding,
can it be expected on a sudden to perceive clearly, and
adhere firmly to the truth? No; there is need of time
and pains : the attention must be awakened and detained
by a frequent repetition of the same thing placed oft in the
same, oft in different lights. I have said it already, and
find I must still repeat and inculcate, that it is an un-
accountable licence you take, in pretending to maintain
260 GEORGE BERKELEY
you know not what, for you know not what reason, to you
know not what purpose. Can this be paralleled in any art
or science, any sect or profession of men? Or is there
anything so barefacedly groundless and unreasonable to
be met with even in the lowest of common conversation?
But, perhaps you will still say. Matter may exist; though
at the same time you neither know what is meant by Matter,
or by its existence. This indeed is surprising, and the more
so because it is altogether voluntary ['and of your own
head], you not being led to it by any one reason; for I
challenge you to shew me that thing in nature which needs
Matter to explain or account for it.
Hyl. The reality of things cannot be maintained without
supposing the existence of Matter. And is not this, think
you, a good reason why I should be earnest in its defence?
Phil. The reality of things! What things? sensible or
intelligible?
Hyl. Sensible things.
Phil. My glove for example?
Hyl. That, or any other thing perceived by the senses.
Phil. But to fix on some particular thing. Is it not
a sufficient evidence to me of the existence of this glove,
that I see it, and feel it, and wear it? Or, if this will not
do, how is it possible I should be assured of the reality of
this thing, which I actually see in this place, by supposing
that some unknown thing, which I never did or can see,
exists after an unknown manner, in an unknown place, or
in no place at all? How can the supposed reality of that
which is intangible be a proof that anything tangible really
exists? Or, of that which is invisible, that any visible
thing, or, in general of anything which is imperceptible,
that a perceptible exists? Do but explain this and I shall
think nothing too hard for you.
Hyl. Upon the whole, I am content to own the existence
of matter is highly improbable; but the direct and absolute
impossibility of it does not appear to me.
Phil. But granting Matter to be possible, yet, upon that
account merely, it can have no more claim to existence than
a golden mountain, or a centaur.
3 Omitted in last edition.
SECOND DIALOGUE 261
Hyl. I acknowledge it; but still you do not deny it is
possible; and that which is possible, for aught you know,
may actually exist.
Phil. I deny it to be possible; and have, if I mistake not,
evidently proved, from your own concessions, that it is not.
In the common sense of the word Matter, is there any more
implied than an extended, solid, figured, moveable substance,
existing without the mind? And have not you acknowl-
edged, over and over, that you have seen evident reason for
denying the possibility of such a substance?
Hyl. True, but that is only one sense of the term Matter.
Phil. But is it not the only proper genuine received
sense? And, if Matter, in such a sense, be proved impos-
sible, may it not be thought with good grounds absolutely
impossible? Else how could anything be proved impos-
sible? Or, indeed, how could there be any proof at all
one way or other, to a man who takes the liberty to un-
settle and change the common signification, of words?
Hyl. I thought philosophers might be allowed to speak
more accurately than the vulgar, and were not always con-
fined to the common acceptation of a term.
Phil. But this now mentioned is the common received
sense among philosophers themselves. But, not to insist
on that, have you not been allowed to take Matter in what
sense you pleased? And have you not used this privilege
in the utmost extent; sometimes entirely changing, at others
leaving out, or putting into the definition of it whatever,
for the present, best served your design, contrary to all
the known rules of reason and logic? And hath not this
shifting, unfair method of yours spun out our dispute to an
unnecessary length; Matter having been particularly ex-
amined, and by your own confession refuted in each of
those senses? And can any more be required to prove the
absolute impossibility of a thing, than the proving it im-
possible in every particular sense that either you or any
one else understands it in?
Hyl. But I am not so thoroughly satisfied that you have
proved the impossibility of Matter, in the last most obscure
abstracted and indefinite sense.
Phil. When is a thing shewn to be impossible?
262 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. When a repugnancy is demonstrated between the
ideas comprehended in its definition.
Phil. But where there are no ideas, there no repugnancy
can be demonstrated between ideas?
Hyl. I agree with you.
Phil. Now, in that which you call the obscure indefinite
sense of the word Matter, it is plain, by your own con-
fession, there was included no idea at all, no sense except
an unknown sense; which is the same thing as none. You
are not, therefore, to expect I should prove a repugnancy
between ideas, where there are no ideas; or the impossi-
bility of Matter taken in an unknown sense, that is, no
sense at all. My business was only to shew you meant
nothing; and this you were brought to own. So that, in
all your various senses, you have been shewed either to
mean nothing at all, or, if anything, an absurdity. And if
this be not sufficient to prove the impossibility of a thing,
I desire you will let me know what is.
Hyl. I acknowledge you have proved that Matter is im-
possible; nor do I see what more can be said in defence of
it. But, at the same time that I give up this, I suspect all
my other notions. For surely none could be more seem-
ingly evident than this once was: and yet it now seems as
false and absurd as ever it did true before. But I think
we have discussed the point sufficiently for the present.
The remaining part of the day I would willingly spend in
running over in my thoughts the several heads of this
morning's conversation, and to-morrow shall be glad to
meet you here again about the same time.
Phil. I will not fail to attend you.
THE THIRD DIALOGUE
PHILONOUS. 'Tell me, Hylas, what are the fruits of
yesterday's meditation? Has it confirmed you in the
same mind you were in at parting? or have you since
seen cause to change your opinion?
Hylas. Truly my opinion is that all our opinions are
alike vain and uncertain. What we approve to-day, we
condemn to-morrow. We keep a stir about knowledge,
and spend our lives in the pursuit of it, when, alas ! we
know nothing all the while: nor do I think it possible for
us ever to know anything in this life. Our faculties are
too narrow and too few. Nature certainly never intended
us for speculation.
Phil. What! Say you we can know nothing, Hylas?
Hyl. There is not that single thing in the world whereof
we can know the real nature, or what it is in itself.
Phil. Will you tell me I do not really know what fire or
water is?
Hyl. You may indeed know that fire appears hot, and
water fluid; but this is no more than knowing what sensa-
tions are produced in your own mind, upon the application
of fire and water to your organs of sense. Their internal
constitution, their true and real nature, you are utterly
in the dark as to that,
Phil. Do I not know this to be a real stone that I stand
on, and that which I see before my eyes to be a real tree ?
Hyl. Know? No, it is impossible you or any man alive
should know it. All you know is, that you have such a
certain idea or appearance in your own mind. But what
is this to the real tree or stone? I tell you that colour,
figure, and hardness, which you perceive, are not the real
natures of those things, or in the least like them. The
* * Tell me, Hylas,* — * So Hylas ' — in first and second editions,
263
264 GEORGE BERKELEY
same may be said of all other real things, or corporeal
substances, which compose the world. They have none
of them anything of themselves, like those sensible qualities
by us perceived. We should not therefore pretend to af-
firm or know anything of them, as they are in their own
nature.
Phil. But surely, Hylas, I can distinguish gold, for ex-
ample, from iron: and how could this be, if I knew not
what either truly was?
Hyl. Believe me, Philonous, you can only distinguish
between your own ideas. That yellowness, that weight,
and other sensible qualities, think you they are really in
the gold? They are only relative to the senses, and have
no absolute existence in nature. And in pretending to
distinguish the species of real things, by the appearances
in your mind, you may perhaps act as wisely as he that
should conclude two men were of a different species, be-
cause their clothes were not of the same colour.
Phil. It seems, then, we are altogether put off with the
appearances of things, and those false ones too. The
very meat I eat, and the cloth I wear, have nothing in them
like what I see and feel.
Hyl. Even so.
Phil. But is it not strange the whole world should be
thus imposed on, and so foolish as to believe their senses?
And yet I know not how it is, but men eat, and drink, and
sleep, and perform all the offices of life, as comfortably
and conveniently as if they really knew the things they
are conversant about.
Hyl. They do so: but you know ordinary practice does
not require a nicety of speculative knowledge. Hence the
vulgar retain their mistakes, and for all that make a shift
to bustle through the affairs of life. But philosophers
know better things.
Phil. You mean, they know that they know nothing.
Hyl. That is the very top and perfection of human
knowledge.
Phil. But are you all this while in earnest, Hylas; and
are you seriously persuaded that you know nothing real in
the world? Suppose you are going to write, would you
THIRD DIALOGUE 265
not call for pen, ink, and paper, like another man; and
do you not know what it is you call for?
Hyl. How often must I tell you, that I know not the
real nature of any one thing in the universe? I may in-
deed upon occasion make use of pen, ink, and paper. But
what any one of them is in its own true nature, I declare
positively I know not. And the same is true with regard
to every other corporeal thing. And, what is more, we are
not only ignorant of the true and real nature of things,
but even of their existence. It cannot be denied that we
perceive such certain appearances or ideas ; but it cannot
be concluded from thence that bodies really exist. Nay,
now I think on it, I must, agreeably to my former con-
cessions, farther declare that it is impossible any real cor-
poreal thing should exist in nature.
Phil. You amaze me. Was ever anything more wild
and extravagant than the notions you now maintain: and
is it not evident you are led into all these extravagances
by the belief of material substance? This makes you
dream of those unknown natures in everything. It is
this occasions your distinguishing between the reality and
sensible appearances of things. It is to this you are
indebted for being ignorant of what everybody else knows
perfectly well. Nor is this all : you are not only ignorant
of the true nature of everything, but you know not whether
anything really exists, or whether there are any true
natures at all; forasmuch as you attribute to your material
beings an absolute or external existence, wherein you sup-
pose their reality consists. And, as you are forced in the
end to acknowledge such an existence means either a direct
repugnancy, or nothing at all, it follows that you are
obliged to pull down your own hypothesis of material Sub-
stance, and positively to deny the real existence of any
part of the universe. And so you are plunged into the
deepest and most deplorable scepticism that ever man was.
Tell me, Hylas, is it not as I say?
Hyl. I agree with you. Material substance was no more
than an hypothesis; and a false and groundless one too.
I will no longer spend my breath in defence of it. But
whatever hypothesis you advance, or whatsoever scheme
266 GEORGE BERKELEY
of things you introduce in its stead, I doubt not it will
appear every whit as false: let me but be allowed to ques-
tion you upon it. That is, suffer me to serve you in your
own kind, and I warrant it shall conduct you through as
many perplexities and contradictions, to the very same
state of scepticism that I myself am in at present.
Phil. I assure you, Hylas, I do not pretend to frame any
hypothesis at all. I am of a vulgar cast, simple enough
to believe my senses, and leave things as I find them. To
be plain, it is my opinion that the real things are those very
things I see, and feel, and perceive by my senses. These
I know; and, finding they answer all the necessities and
purposes of life, have no reason to be solicitous about any
other unknown beings. A piece of sensible bread, for in-
stance, would stay my stomach better than ten thousand
times as much of that insensible, unintelligible, real bread
you speak of. It is likewise my opinion that colours and
other sensible qualities are on the objects. I cannot for
my life help thinking that snow is white, and fire hot.
You indeed, who by snow and fire mean certain external,
unperceived, unperceiving substances, are in the right to
deny white/iess or heat to be affections inherent in them.
But I, who understand by those words the things I see and
feel, am obliged to think like other folks. And, as I am
no sceptic with regard to the nature of things, so neither
am I as to their existence. That a thing should be really
perceived by my senses, and at the same time not really
exist, is to me a plain contradiction ; since I cannot prescind
or abstract, even in thought, the existence of a sensible
thing from its being perceived. Wood, stones, fire, water,
flesh, iron, and the like things, which I name and discourse
of, are things that I know. And I should not have known
them but that I perceived them by my senses; and things
perceived by the senses are immediately perceived; and
things immediately perceived are ideas; and ideas cannot
exist without the mind; their existence therefore consists
in being perceived; when, therefore, they are actually per-
ceived there can be no doubt of their existence. Away
then with all that scepticism, all those ridiculous philo-
sophical doubts. What a jest is it for a philosopher to
THIRD DIALOGUE 267
question the existence of sensible things, till he hath it
proved to him from the veracity of God; or to pretend
our knowledge in this point falls short of intuition
or demonstration ! I might as v^ell doubt of my own
being, as of the being of those things I actually see and
feel
Hyl. Not so fast, Philonous: you say you cannot con-
ceive how sensible things should exist without the mind.
Do you not?
Phil. I do.
Hyl. Supposing you were annihilated, cannot you con-
ceive it possible that things perceivable by sense may still
exist ?
Phil. I can ; but then it must be in another mind. When
I deny sensible things an existence out of the mind, I do
not mean my mind in particular, but all minds. Now, it is
plain they have an existence exterior to my mind; since
I find them by experience to be independent of it. There
is therefore some other Mind wherein they exist, during
the intervals between the times of my perceiving them: as
likewise they did before my birth, and would do after my
supposed annihilation. And, as the same is true with re-
gard to all other finite created spirits, it necessarily fol-
lows there is an omnipresent eternal Mind, which knows
and comprehends all things, and exhibits them to our view
in such a manner, and according to such rules, as He Him-
self hath ordained, and are by us termed the laws of
nature,
Hyl. Answer me, Philonous. Are all our ideas perfectly
inert beings? Or have they any agency included in them?
Phil. They are altogether passive and inert.
Hyl. And is not God an agent, a being purely active?
Phil. I acknowledge it.
Hyl. No idea therefore can be like unto, or represent
the nature of God?
Phil. It cannot.
Hyl. Since therefore you have no idea of the mind of
God, how can you conceive it possible that things should
exist in His mind? Or, if you can conceive the mind of
God, without having an idea of it, why may not I be allowed
268 GEORGE BERKELEY
to conceive the existence of Matter, notwithstanding 1 have
no idea of it?
Phil. As to your first question: I own I have properly
no idea, either of ,God or any other spirit; for these being
active, cannot be represented by things perfectly inert, as
our ideas are. I do nevertheless know that I, who am
a spirit or thinking substance, exist as certainly as I know
my ideas exist. Farther, I know what L mean by the terms /
and myself; and I know this immediately or intuitively, though
I do not perceive it as I perceive a triangle, a colour, or a
sound. The Mind, Spirit, or Soul is that indivisible unex-
tended thing which thinks, acts, and perceives. I say indi-
visible, because unextended; and unextended, because ex-
tended, figured, moveable things are ideas; and that which
perceives ideas, which thinks and wills, is plainly itself no
idea, nor like an idea. Ideas are things inactive, and per-
ceived. And Spirits a sort of beings altogether different
from them. I do not therefore say my soul is an idea, or
like an idea. However, taking the word idea in a large
sense, my soul may be said to furnish me with an idea, that
is, an image or likeness of God — though indeed extremely
inadequate. For, all the notion I have of God is obtained
by reflecting on my own soul, heightening its powers, and
removing its imperfections. I have, therefore, though not
an inactive idea, yet in myself some sort of an active think-
ing image of the Deity. And, though I perceive Him not
by sense, yet I have a notion of Him, or know Him by
reflexion and reasoning. My own mind and my own ideas
I have an immediate knowledge of; and, by the help of
these, do mediately apprehend the possibility of the ex-
istence of other spirits and ideas. Farther, from my own
being, and from the dependency I find in myself and my
ideas, I do, by an act of reason, necessarily infer the ex-
istence of a God, and of all created things in the mind of
God. So much for your first question. For the second:
I suppose by this time you can answer it yourself. For
you neither perceive Matter objectively, as you do an in-
active being or idea; nor know it, as you do yourself,
by a reflex act, neither do you mediately apprehend it by
similitude of the one or the other; nor yet collect it by
THIRD DIALOGUE 269
reasoning from that which you know immediately. All
which makes the case of Matter widely different from that
of the Deity.
[*Hyl. You say your own soul supplies you with some
sort of an idea or image of God. But, at the same time,
you acknowledge you have, properly speaking, no idea of
your own soul. You even affirm that spirits are a sort of
beings altogether different from ideas. Consequently that
no idea can be like a spirit. We have therefore no idea of
any spirit. You admit nevertheless that there is spiritual
Substance, although you have no idea of it; while you
deny there can be such a thing as material Substance, be-
cause you have no notion or idea of it. Is this fair deal-
ing? To act consistently, you must either admit Matter
or reject Spirit. What say you to this?
Phil. I say, in the first place, that I do not deny the
existence of material substance, merely because I have no
notion of it, but because the notion of it is inconsistent;
or, in other words, because it is repugnant that there should
be a notion of it. Many things, for aught I know, may
exist, whereof neither I nor any other man hath or can
have any idea or notion whatsoever. But then those things
must be possible, that is, nothing inconsistent must be in-
cluded in their definition. I say, secondly, that, although
we believe things to exist which we do not perceive, yet
we may not believe that any particular thing exists, with-
out some reason for such belief : but I have no reason for
believing the existence of Matter. I have no immediate
intuition thereof: neither can I immediately from my sen-
sations, ideas, notions, actions, or passions, infer an un-
thinking, unperceiving, inactive Substance — either by proba-
ble deduction, or necessary consequence. Whereas the
being of my Self, that is, my own soul, mind, or thinking
principle, I evidently know by reflexion. You will forgive
me if I repeat the same things in answer to the same ob-
2 This important passage, printed within brackets, is not found in the
first and second editions of the Dialogues. It is, by anticipation, Berkeley's
answer to Hume's application of the objections to the reality of abstract
01 unperceived Matter, to the reality of the Ego or Self, of which we are
aware through memory, as identical amid the changes of its successive
states. — A. C. F.
270 GEORGE BERKELEY
jections. In the very notion or definition of material Sub-
stance, there is included a manifest repugnance and incon-
sistency. But this cannot be said of the notion of Spirit.
That ideas should exist in what doth not perceive, or be
produced by what doth not act, is repugnant. But, it is no
repugnancy to say that a perceiving thing should be the
subject of ideas, or an active thing the cause of them. It
is granted we have neither an immediate evidence nor a
demonstrative knowledge of the existence of other finite
spirits; but it will not thence follow that such spirits are
on a foot with material substances: if to suppose the one
be inconsistent, and it be not inconsistent to suppose the
other; if the one can be inferred by no argument, and
there is a probability for the other; if we see signs and
effects indicating distinct finite agents like ourselves, and
see no sign or symptom whatever that leads to a rational
belief of Matter. I say, lastly, that I have a notion of
Spirit, though I have not, strictly speaking, an idea of it.
I do not perceive it as an idea, or by means of an idea, but
know it by reflexion.
Hyl. Notwithstanding all you have said, to me it seems
that, according to your own way of thinking, and in con-
sequence of your own principles, it should follow that you
are only a system of floating ideas, without any substance
to support them. Words are not to be used without a
meaning. And, as there is no more meaning in spiritual
Substance than in material Substance, the one is to be
exploded as well as the other.
Phil. How often must I repeat, that I know or am con-
scious of my own being; and that / myself am not my
ideas, but somewhat else, a thinking, active principle that
perceives, knows, wills, and operates about ideas. I know
that I, one and the same self, perceive both colours and
sounds: that a colour cannot perceive a sound, nor a
sound a colour: that I am therefore one individual princi-
ple, distinct from colour and sound; and, for the same
reason, from all other sensible things and inert ideas.
But, I am not in like manner conscious either of the ex-
istence or essence of Matter. On the contrary, I know
that nothing inconsistent can exist, and that the existence
THIRD DIALOGUE 271
of Matter implies an inconsistency. Farther, I know what
I mean when I affirm that there is a spiritual substance or
support of ideas, that is, that a spirit knows and perceives
ideas. But, I do not know what is meant when it is said
that an unperceiving substance hath inherent in it and
supports either ideas or the archetypes of ideas. There is
therefore upon the whole no parity of case between Spirit
and Matter.]
Hyl. I own myself satisfied in this point. But, do you
in earnest think the real existence of sensible things con-
sists in their being actually perceived? If so; how comes
it that all mankind distinguish between them? Ask the
first man you meet, and he shall tell you, to be perceived is
one thing, and to exist is another.
Phil. I am content, Hylas, to appeal to the common
sense of the world for the tn^th of my notion. Ask the
gardener why he thinks yonder cherry-tree exists in the
garden, and he shall tell you, because he sees and feels it;
in a word, because he perceives it by his senses. Ask
him why he thinks an orange-tree not to be there, and he
shall tell you, because he does not perceive it. What he
perceives by sense, that he terms a real being, and saith it
is or exists] but, that which is not perceivable, the same,
he saith, hath no being.
Hyl. Yes, Philonous, I grant the existence of a sensible
thing consists in being perceivable, but not in being actually
perceived.
Phil. And what is perceivable but an idea? And can
an idea exist without being actually perceived? These
are points long since agreed between us.
Hyl. But, be your opinion never so true, yet surely you
will not deny it is shocking, and contrary to the common
sense of men. Ask the fellow whether yonder tree hath
an existence out of his mind: what answer think you he
would make?
Phil. The same that I should myself, to wit, that it doth
exist out of his mind. But then to a Christian it cannot
surely be shocking to say, the real tree, existing without
his mind, is truly known and comprehended by (that is
272 GEORGE BERKELEY
exists in) the infinite mind of God. Probably he may not
at first glance be aware of the direct and immediate proof
there is of this; inasmuch as the very being of a tree, or
any other sensible thing, implies a mind wherein it is.
But the point itself he cannot deny. The question between
the Materialists and me is not, whether things have a real
existence out of the mind of this or that person, but
whether they have an absolute existence, distinct from
being perceived by God, and exterior to all minds. This
indeed some heathens and philosophers have affirmed, but
whoever entertains notions of the Deity suitable to the
Holy Scriptures will be of another opinion.
Hyl. But, according to your notions, what difference is
there between real things, and chimeras formed by the
imagination, or the visions of a dream — since they are all
equally in the mind?
Phil. The ideas formed by the imagination are faint and
indistinct; they have, besides, an entire dependence on
the will. But the ideas perceived by sense, that is, real
things, are more vivid and clear ; and, being imprinted on
the mind by a spirit distinct from us, have not the like
dependence on our will. There is therefore no danger of
confounding these with the foregoing: and there is as
little of confounding them with the visions of a dream,
which are dim, irregular, and confused. And, though they
should happen to be never so lively and natural, yet, by
their not being connected, and of a piece with the preceding
and subsequent transactions of our lives, they might easily
be distinguished from realities. In short, by whatever
method you distinguish things from chimeras on your scheme,
the same, it is evident, will hold also upon mine. For,
it must be, I presume, by some perceived difference; and I
am not for depriving you of any one thing that you perceive.
Hyl. But still, Philonous, you hold, there is nothing in
the world but spirits and ideas. And this, you must needs
acknowledge, sounds very oddly.
Phil. I own the word idea, not being commonly used for
thing, sounds Something out of the way. My reason for
using it was, because a necessary relation to the mind is
understood to be implied by that term; and it is now
THIRD DIALOGUE 273
commonly used by philosophers to denote the immediate
objects of the understanding. But, however oddly the
proposition may sound in words, yet it includes nothing
so very strange or shocking in its sense ; which in effect
amounts to no more than this, to wit, that there are only
things perceiving, and things perceived; or that every un-
thinking being is necessarily, and from the very nature
of its existence, perceived by some mind; if not by a
finite created mind, yet certainly by the infinite mind
of God, in whom *we live, and move, and have our being/
Is this as strange as to say, the sensible qualities are not
on the objects: or that we cannot be sure of the existence
of things, or know any thing of their real natures — though
we both see and feel them, and perceive them by all our
senses?
Hyl. And, in consequence of this, must we not think
there are no such things as physical or corporeal causes;
but that a Spirit is the immediate cause of all the phe-
nomena in nature? Can there be anything more extrava-
gant than this?
Phil. Yes, it is infinitely more extravagant to say — a
thing which is inert operates on the mind, and which is
unperceiving is the cause of our perceptions, [^ without any
regard either to consistency, or the old known axiom, Noth-
ing can give to another that which it hath not itself^.
Besides, that which to you, I know not for what reason,
seems so extravagant is no more than the Holy Scriptures
assert in a hundred places. In them God is represented as
the sole and immediate Author of all those effects which
some heathens and philosophers are wont to ascribe to
Nature, Matter, Fate, or the like unthinking principle. This
is so much the constant language of Scripture that it were
needless to confirm it by citations.
Hyl. You are not aware, Philonous, that in making God
the immediate Author of all the motions in nature, you make
Him the Author of murder, sacrilege, adultery, and the
like heinous sins.
Phil. In answer to that, I observe, first, that the imputa-
tion of guilt is the same, whether a person commits an
*The words within brackets are omitted in the third edition.
274 GEORGE BERKELEY
action with or without an instrument. In case therefore you
suppose God to act by the mediation of an instrument or
occasion, called Matter, you as truly make Him the author
of sin as I, who think Him the immediate agent in all those
operations vulgarly ascribed to Nature. I farther observe
that sin or moral turpitude doth not consist in the outward
physical action or motion, but in the internal deviation of
the will from the laws of reason and religion. This is plain,
in that the killing an enemy in a battle, or putting a criminal
legally to death, is not thought sinful; though the outward
act be the very same with that in the case of murder. Since,
therefore, sin doth not consist in the physical action, the
making God an immediate cause of all such actions is not
making Him the Author of sin. Lastly, I have nowhere said
that God is the only agent who produces all the motions in
bodies. It is true I have denied there are any other agents
besides spirits ; but this is very consistent with allowing to
thinking rational beings, in the production of motions, the
use of limited powers, ultimately indeed derived from God,
but immediately under the direction of theif own wills,
which is sufficient to entitle them to aP the guilt of their
actions.
Hyl. But the denying Matter, Philonous, or corporeal
Substance; there is the point. You can never persuade
me that this is not repugnant to the universal sense of
mankind. Were our dispute to be determined by most voices,
I am confident you would give up the point, without gather-
ing the votes.
Phil. I wish both our opinions were fairly stated and
submitted to the judgment of men who had plain common
sense, without the prejudices of a learned education. Let
me be represented as one who trusts his senses, who thinks
he knows the things he sees and feels, and entertains no
doubts of their existence; and you fairly set forth with all
your doubts, your paradoxes, and your scepticism about
you, and I shall willingly acquiesce in the determination
of any indifferent person. That there is no substance where-
in ideas can exist beside spirit is to me evident. And that
the objects immediately perceived are ideas, is on all hands
agreed. And that sensible qualities are objects immediately
THIRD DIALOGUE 275
perceived no one can deny. It is therefore evident there
can be no substratum of those qualities but spirit; in which
they exist, not by way of mode or property, but as a thing
perceived in that which perceives it. I deny therefore that
there is any unthinking substratum of the objects of sense,
and in that acceptation that there is any material substance.
But if by material substance is meant only sensible body —
that which is seen and felt (and the unphilosophical part
of the world, I dare say, mean no more) — then I am more
certain of matter's existence than you or any other philoso-
pher pretend to be. If there be anything which makes the
generality of mankind averse from the notions I espouse:
it is a misapprehension that I deny the reality of sensible
things. But, as it is you who are guilty of that, and not
I, it follows that in truth their aversion is against your
notions and not mine. I do therefore assert that I am as
certain as of my own being, that there are bodies or cor-
poreal substances (meaning the things I perceive by my
senses) ; and that, granting this, the bulk of mankind will
take no thought about, nor think themselves at all concerned
in the fate of those unknown natures, and philosophical
quiddities, which some men are so fond of.
Hyl. What say you to this? Since, according to you,
men judge of the reality of things by their senses, how can
a man be mistaken in thinking the moon a plain lucid sur-
face, about a foot in diameter; or a square tower, seen
at a distance, round; or an oar, with one end in the water,
crooked ?
Phil. He is not mistaken with regard to the ideas he
actually perceives, but in the inference he makes from his
present perceptions. Thus, in the case of the oar, what he
immediately perceives by sight is certainly crooked; and
so far he is in the right. But if he thence conclude that
upon taking the oar out of the water he shall perceive
the same crookedness; or that it would affect his touch as
crooked things are wont to do : in that he is mistaken. In
like manner, if he shall conclude from what he perceives
in one station, that, in case he advances towards the moon
or tower, he should still be affected with the like ideas,
he is mistaken. But his mistake lies not in what he per-
276 GEORGE BERKELEY
ceives immediately, and at present, (it being a manifest
contradiction to suppose he should err in respect of that)
but in the wrong judgment he makes concerning the ideas
he apprehends to be connected with those immediately per-
ceived : or, concerning the ideas that, from what he perceives
at present, he imagines would be perceived in other cir-
cumstances. The case is the same with regard to the Co-
pernican system. We do not here perceive any motion of
the earth: but it were erroneous thence to conclude, that, in
case we were placed at as great a distance from that as
we are now from the other planets, we should not then
perceive its motion.
Hyl. I understand you; and must needs own you say
things plausible enough. But, give me leave to put you in
mind of one thing. Pray, Philonous, were you not formerly
as positive that Matter existed, as you are now that it does
not?
Phil. I was. But here lies the difference. Before, my
positiveness was founded, without examination, upon prej-
udice; but now, after inquiry, upon evidence.
Hyl. After all, it seems our dispute is rather about words
than things. We agree in the thing, but differ in the
name That we are affected with ideas from without is
evident; and it is no less evident that there must be (I
will not say archetypes, but) Powers without the mind, cor-
responding to those ideas. And, as these Powers cannot
subsist by themselves, there is some subject of them neces-
sarily to be admitted; which I call Matter, and you call
Spirit. This is all the difference.
Phil. Pray, Hylas, is that powerful Being, or subject of
powers, extended?
Hyl. It hath not extension; but it hath the power to
raise in you the idea of extension.
Phil. It is therefore itself unextended?
Hyl. I grant it.
Phil. Is it not also active?
Hyl. Without doubt. Otherwise, how could we attribute
powers to it?
Phil. Now let me ask you two questions: First, Whether
It be agreeable to the usage either of philosophers or others
THIRD DIALOGUE 277
to give the name Matter to an unextended active being?
And, Secondly, Whether it be not ridiculously absurd to
misapply names contrary to the common use of language?
Hyl. Well then, let it not be called Matter, since you
will have it so, but some Third Nature distinct from Matter
and Spirit. For what reason is there why you should call
it Spirit? Does not the notion of spirit imply that it is
thinking, as well as active and unextended ?
Phil. My reason is this: because I have a mind to have
some notion of meaning in what I say: but I have no notion
of any action distinct from volition, neither can I conceive
volition to be anywhere but in a spirit: therefore, when
I speak of an active being, I am obliged to mean a Spirit.
Beside, what can be plainer than that a thing which hath
no ideas in itself cannot impart them to me; and, if it hath
ideas, surely it must be a Spirit. To make you comprehend
the point still more clearly if it be possible, I assert as well
as you that, since we are affected from without, we must
allow Powers to be without, in a Being distinct from our-
selves. So far we are agreed. But then we differ as to
the kind of this powerful Being. I will have it to be Spirit,
you Matter, or I know not what (I may add too, you know
not what) Third Nature. Thus, I prove it to be Spirit.
From the effects I see produced, I conclude there are actions ;
and, because actions, volitions; and, because there are voli-
tions, there must be a zvilL Again, the things I perceive
must have an existence, they or their archetypes, out of
my mind: but, being ideas, neither they nor their archetypes
can exist otherwise than in an understanding ; there is there-
fore an understanding. But will and understanding con-
stitute in the strictest sense a mind or spirit. The powerful
cause, therefore, of my ideas is in strict propriety of speech
a Spirit.
Hyl. And now I warrant you think you have made the
point very clear, little suspecting that what you advance
leads directly to a contradiction. Is it not an absurdity
to imagine any imperfection in God?
Phil. Without a doubt.
Hyl. To suffer pain is an imperfection?
Phil. It is.
278 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. Are we not sometimes affected with pain and un-
easiness by some other Being?
Phil. We are.
Hyl. And have you not said that Being is a Spirit, and
is not that Spirit God?
Phil. I grant it.
Hyl. But you have asserted that whatever ideas we per-
ceive from without are in the mind which affects us. The
ideas, therefore, of pain and uneasiness are in God; or,
in other words, God suffers pain: that is to say, there is an
imperfection in the Divine nature: which, you acknowl-
edged, was absurd. So you are caught in a plain con-
tradiction.
Phil. That God knows or understands all things, and
that He knows, among other things, what pain is, even
every sort of painful sensation, and what it is for His
creatures to suffer pain, I make no question. But, that God,
though He knows and sometimes causes painful sensations
in us, can Himself suffer pain, I positively deny. We, who
are limited and dependent spirits, are liable to impressions
of sense, the effects of an external Agent, which, being
produced against our wills, are sometimes painful and un-
easy. But God, whom no external being can affect, who
perceives nothing by sense as we do; whose will is absolute
and independent, causing all things, and liable to be thwarted
or resisted by nothing: it is evident, such a Being as this
can suffer nothing, nor be affected with any painful sen-
sation, or indeed any sensation at all. We are chained to
a body: that is to say, our perceptions are connected with
corporeal motions. By the law of our nature, we are af-
fected upon every alteration in the nervous parts of our
sensible body; which sensible body, rightly considered, is
nothing but a complexion of such qualities or ideas as have
no existence distinct from being perceived by a mind. So
that this connexion of sensations with corporeal motions
means no more than a correspondence in the order of nature,
between two sets of ideas, or things immediately perceivable.
But God is a Pure Spirit, disengaged- from all such sympathy,
or natural ties. No corporeal motions are attended with
the sensations of pain or pleasure in His mind. To know
THIRD DIALOGUE 279
everything knowable, is certainly a perfection ; but to endure,
or suffer, or feel anything by sense, is an imperfection. The
former, I say, agrees to God, but not the latter. God knows,
or hath ideas; but His ideas are not conveyed to Him by
sense, as ours are. Your not distinguishing, where there is
so manifest a difference, makes you fancy you see an ab-
surdity where there is none.
Hyl. But, all this while you have not considered that
the quantity of Matter has been demonstrated to be pro-
portioned to the gravity of bodies. And what can with-
stand demonstration?
Phil. Let me see how you demonstrate that point.
Hyl. I lay it down for a principle, that the moments or
quantities of motion in bodies are in a direct compounded
reason of the velocities and quantities of Matter contained
in them. Hence, where the velocities are equal, it follows
the moments are directly as the quantity of Matter in each.
But it is found by experience that all bodies (bating the
small inequalities, arising from the resistance of the air)
descend with an equal velocity; the motion therefore of
descending bodies, and consequently their gravity, which
is the cause or principle of that motion, is proportional
to the quantity of Matter ; which was to be demonstrated.
Phil. You lay it down as a self-evident principle that
the quantity of motion in any body is proportional to the
velocity and Matter taken together; and this is made
use of to prove a proposition from whence the exist-
ence of Matter is inferred. Pray is not this arguing in
a circle?
Hyl. In the premise I only mean that the motion is pro-
portional to the velocity, jointly with the extension and
solidity.
Phil. But, allowing this to be true, yet it will not thence
follow that gravity is proportional to Matter, in your phil-
osophic sense of the word; except you take it for granted
that unknown substratum, or whatever else you call it, is
proportional to those sensible qualities; which to suppose is
plainly begging the question. That there is magnitude and
solidity, or resistance, perceived by sense, I readily grant ; as
likewise, that gravity may be proportional to those qualities
280 GEORGE BERKELEY
I will not dispute. But that either these qualities as per-
ceived by us, or the powers producing them, do exist in a
material substratum; this is what I deny, and you indeed
affirm, but, notwithstanding your demonstration, have not
yet proved.
Hyl. I shall insist no longer on that point. Do you
think, however, you shall persuade me the natural philoso-
phers have been dreaming all this while ? Pray what be-
comes of all their hypotheses and explications of the phe-
nomena, which suppose the existence of Matter?
Phil. What mean you, Hylas, by the phenomena f
Hyl. I mean the appearances which I perceive by my
senses.
Phil. And the appearances perceived by sense, are they
not ideas?
Hyl. I have told you so a hundred times.
Phil. Therefore, to explain the phenomena, is, to shew
how we come to be affected with ideas, in that manner
and order wherein they are imprinted on our senses. Is
it not?
Hyl. It is.
Phil. Now, if you can prove that any philosopher has
explained the production of any one idea in our minds by
the help of Matter, I shall for ever acquiesce, and look on
all that hath been said against it as nothing; but, if you
cannot, it is vain to urge the explication of phenomena.
That a Being endowed with knowledge and w^ill should pro-
duce or exhibit ideas is easily understood. But that a Being
which is utterly destitute of these faculties should be able
to produce ideas, or in any sort to affect an intelligence, this
I can never understand. This I say, though we had some
positive conception of Matter, though we knew its qualities,
and could comprehend its existence, would yet be so far from
explaining things, that it is itself the most inexplicable
thing in the world. And yet, for all this, it will not follow
that philosophers have been doing nothing ; for, by observing
and reasoning upon the connexion of ideas, they discover
the laws and methods of nature, which is a part of knowl-
edge both useful and entertaining.
Hyl. After all, can it be supposed God would deceive
THIRD DIALOGUE 281
all mankind? Do you imagine He would have induced
the whole world to believe the being of Matter, if there
was no such thing?
Pkil. That every epidemical opinion, arising from prej-
udice, or passion, or thoughtlessness, may be imputed to
God, as the Author of it, I believe you will not affirm.
Whatsoever opinion we father on Him, it must be either be-
cause He has discovered it to us by supernatural reve-
lation; or because it is so evident to our natural faculties,
which were framed and given us by God, that it is impos-
sible we should withhold our assent from it. But where is
the revelation? or where is the evidence that extorts the
belief of Matter? Nay, how does it appear, that Matter,
taken for something distinct from what we perceive by our
senses, is thought to exist by all mankind; or indeed, by
any except a few philosophers, who do not know what
they would be at? Your question supposes these points
are clear; and, when you have cleared them, I shall think
myself obliged to give you another answer. In the mean-
time, let it suffice that I tell you, I do not suppose God
has deceived mankind at all.
Hyl. But the novelty, Philonous, the novelty ! There
lies the danger. New notions should always be discoun-
tenanced; they unsettle men's minds, and nobody knows
where they will end.
Phil. Why the rejecting a notion that has no foundation,
either in sense, or in reason, or in Divine authority, should
be thought to unsettle the belief of such opinions as are
grounded on all or any of these, I cannot imagine. That
innovations in government and religion are dangerous, and
ought to be discountenanced, I freely own. But is there
the like reason why they should be discouraged in philosophy ?
The making anything known which was unknown before is
an innovation in knowledge: and, if all such innovations had
been forbidden, men would have made a notable progress
in the arts and sciences. But it is none of my business to
plead for novelties and paradoxes. That the qualities we
perceive are not on the objects: that we must not believe
our senses: that we know nothing of the real nature of
things, and can never be assured even of their existence:
282 GEORGE BERKELEY
that real colours and sounds are nothing but certain un-
known figures and motions: that motions are in themselves
neither swift nor slow : that there are in bodies absolute ex-
tensions, without any particular magnitude or figure : that
a thing stupid, thoughtless, and inactive, operates on a spirit :
that the least particle of a body contains innumerable ex-
tended parts: — these are the novelties, these are the strange
notions which shock the genuine uncorrupted judgment of
all mankind; and being once admitted, embarrass the mind
with endless doubts and difficulties. And it is against these
and the like innovations I endeavour to vindicate Common
Sense. It is true, in doing this, I may perhaps be obliged
to use some ambages, and ways of speech not common. But,
if my notions are once thoroughly understood, that which
is most singular in them will, in effect, be found to amount
to no more than this: — that it is absolutely impossible, and
a plain contradiction, to suppose any unthinking Being should
exist without being perceived by a Mind. And, if this notion
be singular, it is a shame it should be so,, at this time of
day, and in a Christian country.
Hyl. As for the difficulties other opinions may be liable
to, those are out of the question. It is your business to
defend your own opinion. Can anything be plainer than
that you are for changing all things into ideas? You,
I say, who are not ashamed to charge me with scepticism.
This is so plain, there is no denying it.
Phil. You mistake me. I am not for changing things
into ideas, but rather ideas into things; since those im-
mediate objects of perception, which, according to you,
are only appearances of things, I take to be the real things
themselves.
Hyl. Things ! You may pretend what you please ; but
it is certain you leave us nothing but the empty forms of
things, the outside only which strikes the senses.
Phil. What you call the empty forms and outside of
things seem to me the very things themselves. Nor are
they empty or incomplete, otherwise than upon your sup-
position — that Matter is an essential part of all corporeal
things. We both, therefore, agree in this, that we perceive
only sensible forms: but herein we differ — ^you will have
THIRD DIALOGUE 283
them to be empty appearances, I real beings. In short,
you do not trust your senses, I do.
Hyl. You say you believe your senses; and seem to
applaud yourself that in this you agree with the vulgar.
According to you, therefore, the true nature of a thing is
discovered by the senses. If so, whence comes that dis-
agreement? Why is not the same figure, and other sensible
qualities, perceived all manner of ways? and why should
we use a microscope the better to discover the true nature
of a body, if it were discoverable to the naked eye?
Phil. Strictly speaking, Hylas, we do not see the same
object that we feel; neither is the same object perceived
by the microscope which was by the naked eye. But, in
case every variation was thought sufficient to constitute
a new kind of individual, the endless number of confusion
of names would render language impracticable. There-
fore, to avoid this, as well as other inconveniences which
are obvious upon a little thought, men combine together
several ideas, apprehended by divers senses, or by the
same sense at different times, or in different circumstances,
but observed, however, to have some connexion in nature,
either with respect to co-existence or succession; all which
they refer to one name, and consider as one thing. Hence
it follows that when I examine, by my other senses, a
thing I have seen, it is not in order to understand better
the same object which I had perceived by sight, the object
of one sense not being perceived by the other senses. And,
when I look through a microscope, it is not that I may
perceive more clearly what I perceived already with my
bare eyes; the object perceived by the glass being quite
different from the former. But, in both cases, my aim is
only to know what ideas are connected together; and the
more a man knows of the connexion of ideas, the more he
is said to know of the nature of things. What, therefore,
if our ideas are variable; what if our senses are not in all
circumstances affected with the same appearances. It will
not thence follow they are not to be trusted; or that
they are inconsistent either with themselves or anything
else: except it be with your preconceived notion of (I know
not what) one single, unchanged, unperceivable, real Na-
284 GEORGE BERKELEY
ture, marked by each name. Which prejudice seems to have
taken its rise from not rightly understanding the com-
mon language of men, speaking of several distinct ideas
as united into one thing by the mind. And, indeed, there
is cause to suspect several erroneous conceits of the philoso-
phers are owing to the same original: while they began
to build their schemes not so much on notions as on words,
which were framed by the vulgar, merely for conveniency
and dispatch in the common actions of life, without any
regard to speculation.
Hyl. . Methinks I apprehend your meaning.
Phil. It is your opinion the ideas we perceive by our
senses are not real things, but images or copies of them.
Our knowledge, therefore, is no farther real than as our
ideas are the true representations of those originals. But,
as these supposed originals are in themselves unknown, it
is impossible to know how far our ideas resemble them;
or whether they resemble them at all We cannot, there-
fore, be sure we have any real knowledge. Farther, as
our ideas are perpetually varied, without any change in the
supposed real things, it necessarily follows they cannot all
be true copies of them: or, if some are and others are not,
it is impossible to distinguish the former from the latter.
And this plunges us yet deeper in uncertainty. Again, when
we consider the point, we cannot conceive how any idea, or
anything like an idea, should have an absolute existence out
of a mind: nor consequently, according to you, how there
should be any real thing in nature. The result of all which
is that we are thrown into the most hopeless and abandoned
scepticism. Now, give me leave to ask you. First, Whether
your referring ideas to certain absolutely existing unper-
ceived substances, as their originals, be not the source of all
this scepticism? Secondly, whether you are'informed, either
by sense or reason, of the existence of those unknown origi-
nals? And, in case you are not, whether it be not absurd
to suppose them? Thirdly, Whether, upon inquiry, you find
there is anything distinctly conceived or meant by the abso-
lute or external existence of unperceiving substances? Lastly,
Whether, the premises considered, it be not the wisest way
to follow nature, trust your senses, and, laying aside all
THIRD DIALOGUE ^5
anxious thought about unknown natures or substances, ad-
mit with the vulgar those for real things which are per-
ceived by the senses?
Hyl. For the present, I have no inclination to the an-
swering part. I would much rather see how you can get
over what follows. Pray are not the objects perceived by
the senses of one, likewise perceivable to others present?
If there were a hundred more here, they would all see the
garden, the trees, and flowers, as I see them. But they are
not in the same manner affected with the ideas I frame in
my imagination. Does not this make a difference between
the former sort of objects and the latter?
Phil. I grant it does. Nor have I ever denied a differ-
ence between the objects of sense and those of imagination.
But what would you infer from thence? You cannot say
that sensible objects exist unperceived, because they are
perceived by many.
Hyl. I own I can make nothing of that objection: but
it hath led me into another. Is it not your opinion that
by our senses we perceive only the ideas existing in our
minds?
Phil. It is.
Hyl. But the same idea which is in my mind cannot be
in yours, or in any other mind. Doth it not therefore
follow, from your principles, that no two can see the same
thing? And is not this highly absurd?
Phil. If the term same be taken in the vulgar accepta-
tion, it is certain (and not at all repugnant to the principles
I maintain) that different persons may perceive the same
thing; or the same thing or idea exist in different minds.
Words are of arbitrary imposition; and, since men are used
to apply the word same where no distinction or variety is
perceived, and I do not pretend to alter their perceptions, it
follows that, as men have said before, several saw the same
thing, so they may, upon like occasions, still continue to use
the same phrase, without any deviation either from pro-
priety of language, or the truth of things. But, if the term
same be used in the acceptation of philosophers, who pre-
tend to an abstracted notion of identity, then, according to
286 GEORGE BERKELEY
their sundry definitions of this notion (for it is not yet
agreed wherein that philosophic identity consists), it may
or may not be possible for divers persons to perceive the
same thing. But whether philosophers shall think fit to
call a thing the same or no, is, I conceive, of small im-
portance. Let us suppose several men together, all endued
with the same faculties, and consequently affected in like
sort by their senses, and who had yet never known the use
of language; they would, without question, agree in their
perceptions. Though perhaps, when they came to the use
of speech, some regarding the uniformness of what was per-
ceived, might call it the same thing: others, especially re-
garding the diversity of persons who perceived, might
choose the denomination of different things. But who sees
not that all the dispute is about a word? to wit, whether
what is perceived by different persons may yet have the
term same applied to it? Or, suppose a house, whose walls
or outward shell remaining unaltered, the chambers are all
pulled down, and new ones built in their place ; and that you
should call this the same, and I should say it was not the
same house: — would we not, for all this, perfectly agree in
our thoughts of the house, considered in itself? And would
not all the difference consist in a sound? If you should
say, We differed in our notions; for that you superadded
to your idea of the house the simple abstracted idea of iden-
tity, whereas I did not; I would tell you, I know not what
you mean by the abstracted idea of identity; and should
desire you to look into your own thoughts, and be sure you
understood yourself. Why so silent, Hylas? Are you
not yet satisfied men may dispute about identity and diver-
sity, without any real difference in their thoughts and
opinions, abstracted from names? Take this farther re-
flexion with you— that whether Matter be allowed to exist
or no, the case is exactly the same as to the point in hand.
For the Materialists themselves acknowledge what we im-
mediately perceive by our senses to be our own ideas. Your
difficulty, therefore, that no two see the same thing, makes
equally against the Materialists and me.
Hyl. [*Ay, Philonous,] But they suppose an external
* Omitted in author's last edition.
THIRD DIALOGUE 287
archetype, to which referring their several ideas they may
truly be said to perceive the same thing.
Phil. And (not to mention your having discarded those
archetypes) so may you suppose an external archetype
on my principles; — external, I mean, to your own mind:
though indeed it must be supposed to exist in that Mind
which comprehends all things; but then, this serves all
the ends of identity, as well as if it existed out of a mind.
And I am sure you yourself will not say it is less intelligible.
Hyl. You have indeed clearly satisfied me — either that
there is no difficulty at bottom in this point; or, if there be,
that it makes equally against both opinions.
Phil. But that which makes equally against two contra-
dictory opinions can be a proof against neither.
Hyl. I acknowledge it.
But, after all, Philonous, when I consider the substance
of what you advance against Scepticism, it amounts to no
more than this : — We are sure that we really see, hear, feel ;
in a word, that we are affected with sensible impressions.
Phil. And how are we concerned any farther? I see
this cherry, I feel it, I taste it : and I am sure nothing can-
not be seen, or felt, or tasted: it is therefore real. Take
away the sensations of softness, moisture, redness, tartness,
and you take away the cherry, since it is not a being distinct
from sensations. A cherry, I say, is nothing but a con-
geries of sensible impressions, or ideas perceived by various
senses: which ideas are united into one thing (or have one
name given them) by the mind, because they are observed
to attend each other. Thus, when the palate is affected
with such a particular taste, the sight is affected with a
red colour, the touch with roundness, softness, &c. Hence,
when I see, and feel, and taste, in such sundry .certain man-
ners, I am sure the cherry exists, or is real ; its reality being
in my opinion nothing abstracted from those sensations.
But if by the word cherry you mean an unknown nature,
distinct from all those sensible qualities, and by its exist-
ence something distinct from its being perceived; then, in-
deed, I own, neither you nor I, nor any one else, can be
sure it exists.
288 GEORGE BERKELEY
Hyl. But, what would you say, Philonous, if I should
bring the very same reasons against the existence of sen-
sible things in a mind, which you have offered against their
existing in a material substratum f
Phil. When I see your reasons, you shall hear what I
have to say to them.
Hyl. Is the mind extended or unextended?
Phil. Unextended, without doubt.
Hyl. Do you say the things you perceive are in your
mind?
Phil. They are.
Hyl. Again, have I not heard you speak of sensible im-
pressions ?
Phil. I believe you may.
Hyl. Explain to me now, O Philonous ! how it is possible
there should be room for all those trees and houses to exist
in your mind. Can extended things be contained in that
which is unextended? Or, are we to imagine impressions
made on a thing void of all solidity? You cannot say
objects are in your mind, as books in your study: or that
things are imprinted on it, as the figure of a seal upon
wax. In what sense, therefore, are we to understand those
expressions? Explain me this if you can: and I shall then
be able to answer all those queries you formerly put to me
about my substratum.
Phil. Look you, Hylas, when I speak of objects as exist-
ing in the mind, or imprinted on the senses, I would not be
understood in the gross literal sense; as when bodies are
said to exist in a place, or a seal to make an impression
upon wax. My meaning is only that the mind comprehends
or perceives them; and that it is affected from without, or
by some being distinct from itself. This is my explication
of your difficulty; and how it can serve to make your tenet
of an unperceiving material substratum intelligible, I would
fain know.
Hyl. Nay, if that be all, I confess I do not see what use
can be made of it. But are you not guilty of some abuse of
language in this?
Phil. None at all. It is no more than common custom,
which you know is the rule of language, hath authorised:
L
THIRD DIALOGUE 28S
nothing being more usual, than for philosophers to speak
of the immediate objects of the understanding as things
existing in the mind. Nor is there anything in this but
what is conformable to the general analogy of language;
most part of the mental operations being signified by words
borrowed from sensible things; as is plain in the terms
comprehend, reflect, discourse, &c., which, being applied
to the mind, must not be taken in their gross, original sense.
Hyl. You have, I own, satisfied me in this point. But
there still remains one great difficulty, which I know not
how you will get over. And, indeed, it is of such impor-
tance that if you could solve all others, without being able
to find a solution for this, you must never expect to make
me a proselyte to your principles.
Phil. Let me know this mighty difficulty.
Hyl. The Scripture account of the creation is what ap-
pears to me utterly irreconcilable with your notions. Moses
tells us of a creation: a creation of what? of ideas? No,
certainly, but of things, of real things, solid corporeal sub-
stances. Bring your principles to agree with this, and I
shall perhaps agree with you.
Phil. Moses mentions the sun, moon, and stars, earth
and sea, plants and animals. That all these do really exist,
and were in the beginning created by God, I make no
question. If by ideas you mean fictions and fancies of the
mind, then these are no ideas. If by ideas you mean im-
mediate objects of the understanding, or sensible things,
which cannot exist unperceived, or out of a mind, then
these things are ideas. But whether you do or do not call
them ideas, it matters little. The difference is only about
a name. And, whether that name be retained or rejected,
the sense, the truth, and reality of things continues the
same. In common talk, the objects of our senses are not
termed ideas, but things. Call them so still : provided you
do not attribute to them any absolute external existence,
and I shall never quarrel with you for a word. The crea-
tion, therefore, I allow to have been a creation of things,
of real things. Neither is this in the least inconsistent with
my principles, as is evident from what I have now said;
(lo) HC xxxvii
290 GEORGE BERKELEY
and would have been evident to you without this, if you
had not forgotten what had been so often said before. But
as for solid corporeal substances, I desire you to show where
Moses makes any mention of them; and, if they should be
mentioned by him, or any other inspired writer, it would
still be incumbent on you to shew those words were not
taken in the vulgar acceptation, for things falling under our
senses, but in the philosophic acceptation, for Matter, or
an unknown quiddity, with an absolute existence. When
you have proved these points, then (and not till then) may
you bring the authority of Moses into our dispute.
Hyl. It is in vain to dispute about a point so clear. I
am content to refer it to your own conscience. Are you
not satisfied there is some peculiar repugnancy between the
Mosaic account of the creation and your notions?
Phil. If all possible sense which can be put on the first
chapter of Genesis may be conceived as consistently with
my principles as any other, then it has no peculiar repug-
nancy with them. But there is no sense you may not as
well conceive, believing as I do. Since, besides spirits,
all you conceive are ideas; and the existence of these I do
not deny. Neither do you pretend they exist without the
mind.
Hyl. Pray let me see any sense you can understand
it in. ^
Phil. Why, I imagine that if I had been present at the
creation, I should have seen things produced into being—-
that is become perceptible — in the order prescribed by the
sacred historian. I never before believed the Mosaic account
of the creation, and now find no alteration in my manner
of believing it. When things are said to begin or end their
existence, we do not mean this with regard to God, but
His creatures. All objects are eternally known by God,
or, which is the same thing, have an eternal existence in
His mind: but when things, before imperceptible to
creatures, are, by a decree of God, perceptible to them, then
are they said to begin a relative existence, with respect
to created minds. Upon reading therefore the Mosaic
account of the creation, I understand that the several parts
of the world became gradually perceivable to finite spirits,.
THIRD DIALOGUE 291
endowed with proper faculties; so that, whoever such were
present, they were in truth perceived by them. This is
the Hteral obvious sense suggested to me by the words of the
Holy Scripture: in which is included no mention, or no
thought, either of substratum, instrument, occasion, or ab-
solute existence. And, upon inquiry, I doubt not it will be
found that most plain honest men, who believe the creation,
never think of those things any more than I. What meta-
physical sense you may understand it in, you only can tell.
Hyl. But, Philonous, you do not seem to be aware that
you allow created things, in the beginning, only a relative,
and consequently hypothetical being: that is to say, upon
supposition there were men to perceive them ; without which
they have no actuality of absolute existence, wherein crea-
tion might terminate. Is it not, therefore, according to
you, plainly impossible the creation of any inanimate
creatures should precede that of man? And is not this
directly contrary to the Mosaic account?
Phil. In answer to that, I say, first, created beings might
begin to exist in the mind of other created intelligences,
beside men. You will not therefore be able to prove any
contradiction between Moses and my notions, unless you
first shew there was no other order of finite created spirits
in being, before man. I say farther, in case we conceive
the creation, as we should at this time, a parcel of plants
or vegetables of all sorts produced, by an invisible Power,
in a desert where nobody was present — that this way of
explaining or conceiving it is consistent with my principles,
since they deprive you of nothing, either sensible or im-
aginable ; that it exactly suits with the common, natural,
and undebauched notions of mankind; that it manifests
the dependence of all things on God; and consequently
hath all the good effect or influence, which it is possible that
important article of our faith should have in making men
humbie, thankful, and resigned to their p great] Creator.
I say, moreover, that, in this naked conception of things,
divested of words, there will not be found any notion of
what you call the actuality of absolute existence. You may
indeed raise a dust with those terms, and so lengthen our
^In the first and second editions only.
292 GEORGE BERKELEY
dispute to no purpose. But I entreat you calmly to look into
your own thoughts, and then tell me if they are not a useless
and unintelligible jargon.
Hyl. I own I have no very clear notion annexed to
them. But what say you to this? Do you not make the
existence of sensible things consist in their being in a mind?
And were not all things eternally in the mind of God?
Did they not therefore exist from all eternity, according
to you? And how could that which was eternal be created
in time? Can anything be clearer or better connected than
this?
Phil. And are not you too of opinion, that God knew all
things from eternity?
Hyl. I am.
Phil. Consequently they always had a being in the
Divine intellect.
Hyl. This I acknowledge.
Phil. By your own confession, therefore, nothing is new,
or begins to be, in respect of the mind of God. So we are
agreed in that point.
Hyl. What shall we make then of the creation?
Phil. May we not understand it to have been entirely
in respect of finite spirits; so that things, with regard to
us, may properly be said to begin their existence, or be
created, when God decreed they should become perceptible
to intelligent creatures, in that order and manner which
He then established, and we now call the laws of nature?
You may call this a relative, or hypothetical existence if you
please. But, so long as it supplies us with the most natural,
obvious, and literal sense of the Mosaic history of the crea-
tion; so long as it answers all the religious ends of that
great article; in a word, so long as you can assign no other
sense or meaning in its stead; why should we reject this?
Is it to comply with a ridiculous sceptical humour of making
everything nonsense and unintelligible? I am sure you
cannot say it is for the glory of God. For, allowing it
to be a thing possible and conceivable that the corporeal
world should have an absolute existence extrinsical to
the mind of God, as well as to the minds of all created
spirits; yet how could this set forth either the immensity
THIRD DIALOGUE 293
or omniscience of the Deity, or the necessary and im-
mediate dependence of all things on Him? Nay, would
it not rather seem to derogate from those attributes?
Hyl. Well, but as to this decree of God's, for making
things perceptible, what say you, Philonous? Is it not
plain, God did either execute that decree from all eternity,
or at some certain time began to will what He had not
actually willed before, but only designed to will? If the
former, then there could be no creation, or beginning of
existence, in finite things. If the latter, then we must
acknowledge something new to befall the Deity; which
implies a sort of change: and all change argues imperfec-
tion.
Phil. Pray consider what you are doing. Is it not evi-
dent this objection concludes equally against a creation in
any sense; nay, against every other act of the Deity, dis-
coverable by the light of nature? None of which can we
conceive, otherwise than as performed in time, and having
a beginning. God is a Being of transcendent and un-
limited perfections: His nature, therefore, is incomprehen-
sible to finite spirits. It is not, therefore, to be expected,
that any man, whether Materialist or Immaterialist, should
have exactly just notions of the Deity, His attributes, and
ways of operation. If then you would infer anything against
me, your difficulty must not be drawn from the inadequate-
ness of our conceptions of the Divine nature, which is un-
avoidable on any scheme; but from the denial of Matter,
of which there is not one word^ directly or indirectly, in
what you have now objected.
Hyl. I must acknowledge the difficulties you are con-
cerned to clear are such only as arise from the non-existence
of Matter, and are peculiar to that notion. So far you are
in the right. But I cannot by any means bring myself to
think there is no such peculiar repugnancy between the
creation and your opinion; though indeed where to fix it,
I do not distinctly know.
Phil. What would you have? Do I not acknowledge
a twofold state of things — ^the one ectypal or natural, the
other archetypal and eternal? The former was created in
time; the latter existed from everlasting in the mind of
294 GEORGE BERKELEY
God. Is not this agreeable to the common notions of
divines? or, is any more than this necessary in order to
conceive the creation? But you suspect some pecuHar
repugnancy, though you know not where it lies. To take
away all possibility of scruple in the case, do but consider
this one point. Either you are not able to conceive the
creation on any hypothesis whatsoever; and, if so, there is
no ground for dislike or complaint against any particular
opinion on that score: or you are able to conceive it; and,
if so, why not on my Principles, since thereby nothing con-
ceivable is taken away? You have all along been allowed
the full scope of sense, imagination, and reason. What-
ever, therefore, you could before apprehend, either im-
mediately or mediately by your senses, or by ratiocination
from your senses; whatever you could perceive, imagine,
or understand, remains still with you. If, therefore, the
notion you have of the creation by other Principles be
intelligible, you have it still upon mine; if it be not in-
telligible, I conceive it to be no notion at all; and so there
is no loss of it. And indeed it seems to me very plain that
the supposition of Matter, that is a thing perfectly unknown
and inconceivable, cannot serve to make us conceive any-
thing. And, I hope it need not be proved to you that
if the existence of Matter doth not make the creation con-
ceivable, the creation's being without it inconceivable can
be no objection against its non-existence.
Hyl, I confess, Philonous, you have almost satisfied me
in this point of the creation.
PhiLc I would fain know why you are not quite satisfied.
You tell me indeed of a repugnancy between the Mosaic
history and Immaterialism : but you know not where it
lies. Is this reasonable, Hylas? Can you expect I should
solve a difficulty without knowing what it is? But, to
pass by all that, would not a man think you were assured
there is no repugnancy between the received notions of
Materialists and the inspired writings?
Hyl. And so I am.
Phil. Ought the historical part of Scripture to be under
stood in a plain obvious sense, or in a sense which is meta-
pirysical and out of the way?
THIRD DIALOGUE 295
Hyl. In the plain sense, doubtless.
Phil. When Moses speaks of herbs, earth, water, &c.
as having been created by God; think you not the sensible
things commonly signified by those words are suggested to
every unphilosophical reader?
Hyl. I cannot help thinking so.
Phil. And are not all ideas, or things perceived by sense,
to be denied a real existence by the doctrine of the
Materialist?
Hyl. This I have already acknowledged.
Phil. The creation, therefore, according to them, was not
the creation of things sensible, which have only a relative
being, but of certain unknown natures, which have an ab-
solute being, wherein creation might terminate?
Hyl. True.
Phil. Is it not therefore evident the assertors of Matter
destroy the plain obvious sense of Moses, with which their
notions are utterly inconsistent; and instead of it obtrude on
us I know not what; something equally unintelligible to
themselves and me?
Hyl. I cannot contradict you.
Phil. Moses tells us of a creation. A creation of what?
of unknown quiddities, of occasions, or substratum f No,
certainly; but of things obvious to the senses. You must
first reconcile this with your notions, if you expect I should
be reconciled to them.
Hyl. I see you can assault me with my own weapons.
Phil. Then as to absolute existence; was there ever
known a more jejune notion than that? Something it is
so abstracted and unintelligible that you have frankly
owned you could not conceive it, much less explain any-
thing by it. But allowing Matter to exist, and the notion
of absolute existence to be clear as light; yet, was this
ever known to make the creation more credible? Nay,
hath it not furnished the atheists and infidels of all ages
with the most plausible arguments against a creation?!
That a corporeal substance, which hath an absolute exist-
ence without the minds of spirits, should be produced out
of nothing, by the mere will of a Spirit, hath been looked
upon as a thing so contrary to all reason, so impossible
296 QEORGE BERKELEY
and absurd, that not only the most celebrated among the
ancients, but even divers modern and Christian philoso-
phers have thought Matter co-eternal v^ith the Deity. Lay
these things together, and then judge you whether Material-
ism disposes men to believe the creation of things.
Hyl. I own, Philonous, I think it does not. This of the
creation is the last objection I can think of; and I must
needs own it hath been sufficiently answered as well as the
rest. Nothing now remains to be overcome but a sort of
unaccountable backwardness that I find in myself towards
your notions.
Phil. When a man is swayed, he knows not why, to one
side of the question, can this, think you, be anything else
but the effect of prejudice, which never fails to attend old
and rooted notions? And indeed in this respect I cannot
deny the belief of Matter to have very much the advantage
over the contrary opinion, with men of a learned education.
Hyl. I confess it seems to be as you say.
Phil. As a balance, therefore, to this weight of prejudice,
let us throw into the scale the great advantages that arise
from the belief of Immaterialism, both in regard to religion
and human learning. The being of a God, and incorrupti-
bility of the soul, those great articles of religion, are they
not proved with the clearest and most immediate evidence?
When I say the being of a God, I do not mean an obscure
general Cause of things, whereof we have no conception,
but God, in the strict and proper sense of the word. A
Being whose spirituality, omnipresence, providence, omnis-
cience, infinite power and goodness, are as conspicuous
as the existence of sensible things, of which (notwith-
standing the fallacious pretences and affected scruples of
Sceptics) there is no more reason to doubt than of our own
being. — Then, with relation to human sciences. Tn Natural
Philosophy, what intricacies, what obscurities, what con-
tradictions hath the belief of Matter led men into ! To say
nothing of the numberless disputes about its extent, con-
tinuity, homogeneity, gravity, divisibility, &c.— do they not
pretend to explain all things by bodies operating on bodies,
according to the laws of motion? and yet, are they able to
comprehend how one body should move another? Nay,
THIRD DIALOGUE 297
admitting there was no difficulty in reconciling the notion
of an inert being with a cause, or in conceiving how an
accident might pass from one body to another ; yet, by all
their strained thoughts and extravagant suppositions, have
they been able to reach the mechanical production of any
one animal or vegetable body? Can they account, by the
laws of motion, for sounds, tastes, smells, or colours ; or
for the regular course of things? Have they accounted,
by physical principles, for the aptitude and contrivance
even of the most inconsiderable parts of the universe?
But, laying aside Matter and corporeal causes, and admitting
only the efficiency of an All-perfect Mind, are not all the
effects of nature easy and intelligible? If the phenomena
are nothing else but ideas; God is a spirit, but Matter an
unintelligent, unperceiving being. If they demonstrate an
unlimited power in their cause; God is active and omnip-
otent, but Matter an inert mass. If the order, regularity,
and usefulness of them can never be sufficiently admired;
God is infinitely wise and provident, but Matter destitute
of ail contrivance and design. These surely are great ad-
vantages in Physics. Not to mention that the apprehen-
sion of a distant Deity naturally disposes men to a negli-
gence in their moral actions ; which they would be more
cautious of, in case they thought Him immediately present,
and acting on their minds, without the interposition of
Matter, or unthinking second causes. — Then in Metaphysics:
what difficulties concerning entity in abstract, substantial
forms, hylarchic principles, plastic natures, substance and
accident, principle of individuation, possibility of Matter's
thinking, origin of ideas, the manner how two independent
substances so widely different as Spirit and Matter, should
mutually operate on each other? what difficulties, I say, and
endless disquisitions, concerning these and innumerable
other the like points, do we escape, by supposing only Spirits
and ideas? — Even the Mathematics themselves, if we take
away the absolute existence of extended things, become
much more clear and easy; the most shocking paradoxes
and intricate speculations in those sciences depending on the
infinite divisibility of finite extension; which depends on
that supposition --But what need is there to insist on the
298 GEORGE BERKELEY
particular sciences? Is not that opposition to all science
whatsoever, that frenzy of the ancient and modern Sceptics,
built on the same foundation ? Or can you produce so much
as one argument against the reality of corporeal things, or
in behalf of that avowed utter ignorance of their natures,
which doth not suppose their reality to consist in an external
absolute existence? Upon this supposition, indeed, the
objections from the change of colours in a pigeon's neck, or
the appearance of the broken oar in the water, must be
allowed to have weight. But these and the like objections
vanish, if we do not maintain the being of absolute exter-
nal originals, but place the reality of things in ideas, fleet-
ing indeed, and changeable; — however, not changed at ran-
dom, but according to the fixed order of nature. For, herein
consists that constancy and truth of things which secures all
the concerns of life, and distinguishes that which is real
from the irregular visions of the fancy.
Hyl. I agree to all you have now said, and must own
that nothing can incline me to embrace your opinion more
than the advantages I see it is attended with. I am by
nature lazy; and this would be a mighty abridgment in
knowledge. What doubts, what hypotheses, what labyrinths
of amusement, what fields of disputation, what an ocean of
false learning, may be avoided by that single notion of
Immaterialism !
Phil. After all, is there anything farther remaining to
be done? You may remember you promised to embrace
that opinion which upon examination should appear most
agreeable to Common Sense and remote from Scepticism.
This, by your own confession, is that which denies Matter,
or the absolute existence of corporeal things. Nor is this
all; the same notion has been proved several ways, viewed
in different lights, pursued in its consequences, and all ob-
jections against it cleared. Can there be a greater evidence
of its truth? or is it possible it should have all the marks
of a true opinion and yet be false?
Hyl. I own myself entirely satisfied for the present in
all respects. But, what security can I have that I shall
still continue the same full assent to your opinion, and that
THIRD DIALOGUE 299
no unthought-of objection or difficulty will occur hereafter?
Phil. Pray, Hylas, do you in other cases, when a point
is once evidently proved, withhold your consent on account
of objections or difficulties it may be liable to? Are the
difficulties that attend the doctrine of incommensurabk
quantities, of the angle of contact, of the asymptotes to
curves, or the like, sufficient to make you hold out against
mathematical demonstration? Or will you disbelieve the
Providence of God, because there may be some particular
things which you know not how to reconcile with it? If
there are difficulties attending Immaterialisniy there are at
the same time direct and evident proofs of it. But for the
existence of Matter there is not one proof, and far more
numerous and insurmountable objections lie against it. But
where are those mighty difficulties you insist on ? Alas !
you knovv^ not where or what they are ; something which may
possibly occur hereafter. If this be a sufficient pretence for
withholding your full assent, you should never yield it to
any proposition, how free soever from exceptions, how
clearly and solidly soever demonstrated.
Hyl. You have satisfied me, Philonous.
Phil. But, to arm you against all future objections, do
but consider: That which bears equally hard on two con-
tradictory opinions can be proof against neither. When-
ever, therefore, any difficulty occurs, try if you can find a
solution for it on the hypothesis of the Materialists. Be
not deceived by words ; but sound your own thoughts. And
in case you cannot conceive it easier by the help of
Materialism, it is plain it can be no objection against Im-
materialism. Had you proceeded all along by this rule, you
would probably have spared yourself abundance of trouble
in objecting; since of all your difficulties I challenge you
to shew one that is explained by Matter: nay, which is not
more unintelligible with than without that supposition; and
consequently makes rather against than for it. You should
consider, in each particular, whether the difficulty arises from
the non-existe7fi:e of Matter. If it doth not, you might as well
argue from the infinite divisibility of extension against the
Divine prescience, as from such a difficulty against /m-
materialism. And yet, upon recollection, I believe you will
300 GEORGE BERKELEY
find this to have been often, if not always, the case. You
should likewise take heed not to argue on a petitio principii.
One is apt to say — The unknown substances ought to be
esteemed real things, rather than the ideas in our minds:
and who can tell but the unthinking external substance may
concur, as a cause or instrument, in the productions of our
ideas? But is not this proceeding on a supposition that
there are such external substances? And to suppose this,
is it not begging the question? But, above all things, you
should beware of imposing on yourself by that vulgar
sophism which is called ignoratio elenchL You talked often
as if you thought I maintained the non-existence of Sen-
sible Things. Whereas in truth no one can be more
thoroughly assured of their existence than I am. And it is
you who doubt; I should have said, positively deny it.
Everything that is seen, felt, heard, or any way perceived by
the senses, is, on the principles I embrace, a real being;
but not on yours. Remember, the Matter you contend
for is an Unknown Somewhat (if indeed it may be termed
somewhat) , which is quite stripped of all sensible qualities,
and can neither be perceived by sense, nor apprehended
by the mind. Remember I say, that it is not any object
which is hard or soft, hot or cold, blue or white, round or
square, &c. For all these things I affirm do exist. Though
indeed I deny they have an existence distinct from being
perceived; or that they exist out of all minds whatsoever.
Think on these points; let them be attentively considered
and still kept in view. Otherwise you will not comprehend
the state of the question; without which your objections will
always be wide of the mark, and, instead of mine, may
possibly be directed (as more than once they have been)
against your own notions.
Hyl. I must needs own, Philonous, nothing seems to have
kept me from agreeing with you more than this same
mistaking the question. In denying Matter, at first glimpse
I am tempted to imagine you deny the things we see and
feel: but, upon reflexion, find there is no ground for it.
What think you, therefore, of retaining the name Matter,
and applying it to sensible things? This may be done with-
out any change in your sentiments : and, believe me, it would
THIRD DIALOGUE 301
be a means of reconciling them to some persons who may be
more shocked at an innovation in words than in opinion.
Phil. With all my heart: retain the word Matter, and
apply it to the objects of sense, if you please; provided you
do not attribute to them any subsistence distinct from
their being perceived. I shall never quarrel with you for
an expression. Matter, or material substance, are terms
introduced by philosophers; and, as used by them, imply a
sort of independency, or a subsistence distinct from being
perceived by a mind : but are never used by common people ;
or, if ever, it is to signify the immediate objects of sense.
One would think, therefore, so long as the names of all
particular things, with the terms sensible, substance, body,
stuff, and the like, are retained, the word Matter should be
never missed in common talk. And in philosophical dis-
courses it seems the best way to leave it quite out: since
there is not, perhaps, any one thing that hath more
favoured and strengthened the depraved bent of the mind
towards Atheism than the use of that general confused term.
Hyl. Well but, Philonous, since I am content to give up
the notion of an unthinking substance exterior to the mind,
I think you ought not to deny me the privilege of using,
the word Matter as I please, and annexing it to a collection
of sensible qualities subsisting only in the mind. I freely
own there is no other substance, in a strict sense, than
Spirit. But I have been so long accustomed to the term
Matter that I know not how to part with it: to say, there
is no Matter in the world, is still shocking to me. Where-
as to say — There is no Matter, if by that term be meant an
unthinking substance existing without the mind; but if by
Matter is meant some sensible thing, whose existence con-
sists in being perceived, then there is Matter: — this distinc-
tion gives it quite another turn ; and men will come into your
notions with small difficulty, when they are proposed in
that manner. For, after all, the controversy about Matter
in the strict acceptation of it, lies altogether between you
and the philosophers : whose principles, I acknowledge, are
not near so natural, or so agreeable to the common sense of
mankind, and Holy Scripture, as yours. There is nothing
we either desire or shun but as it makes, or is apprehended
302 THIRD DIALOGUE
to make, some part of our happiness or misery. But what
hath happiness or misery, joy or grief, pleasure or pain,
to do with Absolute Existence; or with unknown entities,
abstracted from all relation to us? It is evident, things
regard us only as they are pleasing or displeasing : and they
can please or displease only so far forth as they are per-
ceived. Farther, therefore, we are not concerned; and thus
far you leave things as you found them. Yet still there is
som_ething new in this doctrine. It is plain, I do not now think
with the Philosophers; nor yet altogether with the vulgar.
I would know how the case stands in that respect; precisely,
what you have added to, or altered in my former notions.
Phil. I do not pretend to be a setter-up of new notions.
My endeavours tend only to unite, and place in a clearer
light, that truth which was before shared between the vulgar
and the philosophers: — the former being of opinion, that
those things they immediately perceive are the real things;
and the latter, that the things immediately perceived are
ideas, which exist only in the mind. Which two notions put to-
gether, do, in effect, constitute the substance of what I advance.
Hyl. I have been a long time distrusting my senses: me-
thought I saw things by a dim light and through false
glasses. Now the glasses are removed and a new light
breaks in upon my understanding. I am clearly convinced
that I see things in their native forms, and am no longer
in pain about their unknown natures or absolute existence.
This is the state I find myself in at present; though, indeed,
the course that brought me to it I do not yet thoroughly
comprehend. You set out upon the same principles that
Academics, Cartesians, and the like sects usually do ; and
for a long time it looked as if you were advancing their
philosophical Scepticism: but, in the end, your conclusions
are directly opposite to theirs.
Phil. You see, Hylas, the water of yonder fountain, how
it is forced upwards, in a round column, to a certain height ;
at which it breaks, and falls back into the basin from whence
it rose : its ascent, as well as descent, proceeding from the
same uniform law or principle of gravitation. Just so, the
same Principles which, at first view, lead to Scepticism, pur-
sued to a certain point, bring men back to Common Sense.
AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING
HUMAN UNDERSTANDING
BY
DAVID HUME
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
The main facts of the life of David Hume zvill be found in
the introductory note to his ''Standard of Taste'' in the volume
of " English Essays *' in the Harvard Classics.
Hume's most elaborate philosophical work was his " Treatise
of Human Nature," published in three volumes in 1739-40. This
work had been written between the ages of twenty-one and
twenty-five ; and in the ''Advertisement" prefixed to the edition
of his "Collected Essays," published the year after his death, he
spoke slightingly of the "Treatise" as a juvenile work, marred
by negligences both in reasoning and expression; and desired
that the "Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding" and the
"Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals" should "alone
be regarded as containing his philosophical sentiments and
principles"
While it is possible to take this depreciation of the " Treatise "
too seriously, since it contains much of great philosophic im-
portance which does not appear in the "Enquiries," yet the later
works do represent his more mature thinking, and have the
advantage of a much better style, at once more precise and more
easily intelligible. To understand fully Hume's place in the his-
tory of European philosophy, it is still necessary to study the
"Treatise"; but from the "Enquiry Concerning Human Under-
standing " one can gather much of his general attitude and
method of thinking; while in such sections as that on "Miracles "
we have an explanation of the bitter animosity that he roused
in orthodox circles.
304
AN ENQUIRY
CONCERNING HUMAN
UNDERSTANDING
SECTION I
OF THE DIFFERENT SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY.
MORAL philosophy, or the science of human nature,
may be treated after two different manners; each
of which has its pecuHar merit, and may contribute
to the entertainment, instruction, and reformation of man-
kind. The one considers man chiefly as born for action;
and as influenced in his measures by taste and sentiment;
pursuing one object, and avoiding another, according to
the value which these objects seem to possess, and accord-
ing to the light in which they present themselves. As vir-
tue, of all objects, is allowed to be the most valuable, this
species of philosophers paint her in the most amiable
colours; borrowing all helps from poetry and eloquence, and
treating their subject in an easy and obvious manner, and
such as is best fitted to please the imagination, and engage
the affections. They select the most striking observations
and instances from common life; place opposite characters
in a proper contrast; and alluring us into the paths of virtue
by the views of glory and happiness, direct our steps in
these paths by the soundest precepts and most illustrious
examples. They make us feel the difference between vice
and virtue; they excite and regulate our sentiments; and
so they can but bend our hearts to the love of probity and
true honour, they think, that they have fully attained the
end of all their labours.
The other species of philosophers consider man in the
305
306 DAVID HUME
light of a reasonable rather than an active being, and
endeavour to form his understanding more than cultivate
his manners. They regard human nature as a subject of
speculation ; and with a narrow scrutiny examine it, in
order to find those principles, which regulate our under-
standing, excite our sentiments, and make us approve or
blame any particular object, action, or behaviour. They
think it a reproach to all literature, that philosophy should
not yet have fixed, beyond controversy, the foundation of
morals, reasoning, and criticism; and should for ever talk
of truth and falsehood, vice and virtue, beauty and de-
formity, without being able to determine the source of
these distinctions. While they attempt this arduous task,
they are deterred by no difficulties; but proceeding from
particular instances to general principles, they still push on
their enquiries to principles more general, and rest not
satisfied till they arrive at those original principles, by
which, in every science, all human curiosity must be
bounded. Though their speculations seem abstract, and
even unintelligible to common readers, they aim at the
approbation of the learned and the wise; and think them-
selves sufficiently compensated for the labour of their whole
lives, if they can discover some hidden truths, which may
contribute to the instruction of posterity.
It is certain that the easy and obvious philosophy will
always, with the generality of mankind, have the preference
above the accurate and abstruse; and by many will be
recommended, not only as more agreeable, but more useful
than the other. It enters more into common life; moulds
the heart and affections; and, by touching those principles
which actuate men, reforms their conduct, and brings them
nearer to that model of perfection which it describes. On
the contrary, the abstruse philosophy, being founded on a
turn of mind, which cannot enter into business and action,
vanishes when the philosopher leaves the shade, and comes
into open day; nor can its principles easily retain any in-
fluence over our conduct and behaviour. The feelings of
our heart, the agitation of our passions, the vehemence of
our affections, dissipate all its conclusions, and reduce the
profound philosopher to a mere plebeian.
SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 307
This also must be confessed, that the most durable,
as well as justest fame, has been acquired by the easy
philosophy, and that abstract reasoners seem hitherto to
have enjoyed only a momentary reputation, from the caprice
or ignorance of their own age, but have not been able
to support their renown with more equitable posterity. It
is easy for a profound philosopher to commit a mistake
in his subtile reasonings; and one mistake is the necessary
parent of another, while he pushes on his consequences,
and is not deterred from embracing any conclusion, by
its unusual appearance, or its contradiction to popular
opinion. But a philosopher, who purposes only to represent
the common sense of mankind in more beautiful and more
engaging colours, if by accident he falls into error, goes no
farther; but renewing his appeal to common sense, and the
natural sentiments of the mind, returns into the right path,
and secures himself from any dangerous illusions. The
fame of Cicero flourishes at present; but that of Aristotle
is utterly decayed. La Bruyere passes the seas, and still
maintains his reputation: but the glory of Malebranche
is confined to his own nation, and to his own age. And
Addison, perhaps, will be read with pleasure, when Locke
shall be entirely forgotten.
The mere philosopher is a character, which is commonly
but little acceptable in the world, as being supposed to
contribute nothing either to the advantage or pleasure
of society; while he lives remote from communication with
mankind, and is wrapped up in principles and notions equally
remote from their comprehension. On the other hand,
the mere ignorant is still more despised; nor is any thing
deemed a surer sign of an illiberal genius in an age and
nation where the sciences flourish, than to be entirely
destitute of all relish for those noble entertainments. The
most perfect character is supposed to lie between those
extremes; retaining an equal ability and taste for books,
company, and business; preserving in conversation that
discernment and delicacy which arise from polite letters;
and in business, that probity and accuracy which are
the natural result of a just philosophy. In order to diffuse
and cultivate so accomplished a character, nothing can be
308 DAVID HUME
more useful than compositions of the easy style and manner,
which draw not too much from life, require no deep appli-
cation or retreat to be comprehended, and send back the
student among mankind full of noble sentiments and wise
precepts, applicable to every exigence of human life. By
means of such compositions, virtue becomes amiable,
science agreeable, company instructive, and retirement en-
tertaining.
Man is a reasonable being; and as such, receives from
science his proper food and nourishment: But so narrow
are the bounds of human understanding, that little satisfac-
tion can be hoped for in this particular, either from the
extent of security or his acquisitions. Man is a sociable, no
less than a reasonable being: but neither can he always
enjoy company agreeable and amusing, or preserve the
proper relish for them. Man is also an active being; and
from that disposition, as well as from the various necessities
of human life, must submit to business and occupation:
but the mind requires some relaxation, and cannot always
support its bent to care and industry. It seems, then, that
nature has pointed out a mixed kind of life as most suitable
to the human race, and secretly admonished them to allow
none of these biases to drazv too much, so as to incapacitate
them for other occupations and entertainments. Indulge
your passion for science, says she, but let your science be
human, and such as may have a direct reference to action
and society. Abstruse thought and profound researches I
prohibit, and will severely punish, by the pensive melancholy
which they introduce, by the endless uncertainty in which
they involve you, and by the cold reception which your
pretended discoveries shall meet with, when communicated.
Be a philosopher; but, amidst all your philosophy, be still
a man.
Were the generality of mankind contented to prefer the
easy philosophy to the abstract and profound, without
throwing any blame or contempt on the latter, it might
not be improper, perhaps, to comply with this general
opinion, and allow every man to enjoy, without opposition,
his own taste and sentiment. But as the matter is often
carried farther, even to the absolute rejecting of all pro-
SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 309
found reasonings, or what is commonly called metaphysics,
we shall now proceed to consider what can reasonably be
pleaded in their behalf.
We may begin with observing, that one considerable
advantage, which results from the accurate and abstract
philosophy, is, its subserviency to the easy and humane;
w^hich, without the former, can never attain a sufficient
degree of exactness in its sentiments, precepts, or reasonings.
All polite letters are nothing but pictures of human life
in various attitudes and situations; and inspire us with
different sentiments, of praise or blame, admiration or ridi-
cule, according to the qualities of the object, which they set
before us. An artist must be better qualified to succeed in
this undertaking, who, besides a delicate taste and a quick
apprehension, possesses an accurate knowledge of the in-
ternal fabric, the operations of the understanding, the
workings of the passions, and the various species of senti-
ment which discriminate vice and virtue. How painful
soever this inward search or enquiry may appear, it becomes,
in some measure, requisite to those, who would describe
with success the obvious and outward appearances of life
and manners. The anatomist presents to the eye the most
hideous and disagreeable objects; but his science is useful
to the painter in delineating even a Venus or an Helen.
While the latter employs all the richest colours of his art,
and gives his figures the most graceful and engaging airs;
he must still carry his attention to the inward structure
of the human body, the position of the muscles, the fabric
of the bones, and the use and figure of every part or organ.
Accuracy is, in every case, advantageous to beauty, and just
reasoning to delicate sentiment. In vain would we exalt
the one by depreciating the other.
Besides, we may observe, in every art or profession, even
those which most concern life or action, that a spirit of
accuracy, however acquired, carries all of them nearer their
perfection, and renders them more subservient to the
interests of society. And though a philosopher may live
remote from business, the genius of philosophy, if carefully
cultivated by several, must gradually diffuse itself through-
out the whole society, and bestow a similar correctness on
310 DAVID HUME
every art and calling. The politician will acquire greatef
foresight and subtility, in the subdividing and balancing
of power; the lawyer more method and finer principles
in his reasonings; and the general more regularity in his
discipline, and more caution in his plans and operations.
The stability of modern governments above the ancient,
and the accuracy of modern philosophy, have improved, and
probably will still improve, by similar gradations.
Were there no advantage to be reaped from these studies,
beyond the gratification of an innocent curiosity, yet ought
not even this to be despised; as being one accession to
those few safe and harmless pleasures, which are bestowed
on the human race. The sweetest and most inoffensive path
of hfe leads through the avenues of science and learning; and
whoever can either remove any obstructions in this way,
or open up any new prospect, ought so far to be esteemed
a benefactor to mankind. And though these researches
may appear painful and fatiguing, it is with some minds
as with some bodies, which being endowed with vigorous
and florid health, require severe exercise, and reap a pleasure
from what, to the generality of mankind, may seem burden-
some and laborious. Obscurity, indeed, is painful to the
mind as well as to the eye; but to bring light from
obscurity, by whatever labour, must needs be delightful and
rejoicing.
But this obscurity in the profound and abstract philos-
ophy, is objected to, not only as painful and fatiguing, but
as the inevitable source of uncertainty and error. Here in-
deed lies the justest and most plausible objection against
a considerable part of metaphysics, that they are not properly
a science; but arise either from the fruitless efforts of
human vanity, which would penetrate into subjects utterly
inaccessible to the understanding, or from the craft of pop-
ular superstitions, which, being unable to defend themselves
on fair ground, raise these intangling brambles to cover and
protect their weakness. Chaced from the open country, these
robbers fly into the forest, and lie in wait to break in upon
every unguarded avenue of the mind, and overwhelm it
with religious fears and prejudices. The stoutest antagonist,
if he remit his watch a moment, is oppressed. And many,
SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 311
through cowardice and folly, open the gates to the enemies,
and willingly receive them with reverence and submission,
as their legal sovereigns.
But is this a sufficient reason, why philosophers should
desist from such researches, and leave superstition still
in possession of her retreat? Is it not proper to draw an
opposite conclusion, and perceive the necessity of carrying
the war into the most secret recesses of the enemy? In
vain do we hope, that men, from frequent disappointment,
will at last abandon such airy sciences, and discover the
proper province of human reason. For, besides, that many
persons find too sensible an interest in perpetually recalling
such topics; besides this, I say, the motive of blind despair
can never reasonably have place in the sciences ; since, how-
ever unsuccessful former attempts may have proved, there
is" still room to hope, that the industry, good fortune, or
improved sagacity of succeeding generations may reach
discoveries unknown to former ages. Each adventurous
genius will still leap at the arduous prize, and find himself
stimulated, rather than discouraged, by the failures of his
predecessors ; while he hopes that the glory of achieving
so hard an adventure is reserved for him alone. The only
method of freeing learning, at once, from these abstruse
questions, is to enquire seriously into the nature of human
understanding, and show, from an exact analysis of its
powers and capacity, that it is by no means fitted for
such remote and abstruse subjects. We must submit to
this fatigue in order to live at ease ever after: and must
cultivate true metaphysics with some care, in order to
destroy the false and adulterate. Indolence, which, to some
persons, affords a safeguard against this deceitful philos-
ophy, is, with others, overbalanced by curiosity; and de-
spair, which, at some moments, prevails, may give place after-
wards to sanguine hopes and expectations. Accurate and
just reasoning is the only catholic remedy, fitted for all
persons and all dispositions ; and is alone able to subvert
that abstruse philosophy and metaphysical jargon, which
being mixed up with popular superstition, renders it in
a manner impenetrable to careless reasoners, and gives it
the air of science and wisdom.
312 DAVID HUME
Besides this advantage of rejecting, after deliberate en-
quiry, the most uncertain and disagreeable part of learning,
there are many positive advantages, which result from an
accurate scrutiny into the powers and faculties of human
nature. It is remarkable concerning the operations of the
mind, that, though most intimately present to us, yet,
whenever they become the object of reflexion, they seem
involved in obscurity; nor can the eye readily find those
lines and boundaries, which discriminate and distinguish
them. The objects are too fine to remain long in the same
aspect or situation ; and must be apprehended in an in-
stant, by a superior penetration, derived from nature, and
improved by habit and reflexion. It becomes, therefore,
no inconsiderable part of science barely to know the different
operations of the mind, to separate them from each other, to
class them under their proper heads, and to correct all that
seeming disorder, in which they lie involved, when made
the object of reflexion and enquiry. This talk of ordering
and distinguishing, which has no merit, when performed
w^ith regard to external bodies, the objects of our senses,
rises in its value, when directed towards the operations
of the mind, in proportion to the difficulty and labour,
which we meet with in performing it. And if we can go no
farther than this mental geography, or delineation of the
distinct parts and powers of the mind, it is at least a satis-
faction to go so far ; and the more obvious this science
may appear (and it is by no means obvious) the more con-
temptible still must the ignorance of it be esteemed, in all
pretenders to learning and philosophy.
Nor can there remain any suspicion, that this science
is uncertain and chimerical; unless we should entertain
such a scepticism as is entirely subversive of all speculation,
and even action. It cannot be doubted, that the mind
is endowed with several powers and faculties, that these
powers are distinct from each other, that what is really
distinct to the immediate perception may be distinguished
by reflexion; and consequently, that there is a truth and
falsehood in all propositions on this subject, and a truth
and falsehood, which lie not beyond the compass of human
understanding. There are many obvious distinctions of
SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 313
this kind, such as those .between the will and understanding,
the imagination and passions, which fall within the com-
prehension of every human creature; and the finer and
more philosophical distinctions are no less real and certain,
though more difficult to be comprehended. Some instances,
especially late ones, of success in these enquiries, may give
us a juster notion of the certainty and solidity of this branch
of learning. And shall we esteem it worthy the labour of
a philosopher to give us a true system of the planets, and
adjust the position and order of those remote bodies;
while we affect to overlook those, who, with so much
success, delineate the parts of the mind, in which we are so
intimately concerned?
But may we not hope, that philosophy, cultivated with
care, and encouraged by the attention of the public, may
carry its researches still farther, and discover, at least in
some degree, the secret springs and principles, by which the
human mind is actuated in its operations? Astronomers
had long contented themselves with proving, from the
phaenomena, the true motions, order, and magnitude of
the heavenly bodies: till a philosopher, at last, arose,
who seems, from the happiest reasoning, to have also deter-
mined the laws and forces, by which the revolutions of the
planets are governed and directed. The like has been
performed with regard to other parts of nature. And there
is no reason to despair of equal success in our enquiries
concerning the mental powers and economy, if prosecuted
with equal capacity and caution. It is probable, that one
operation and principle of the mind depends on another;
which, again, may be resolved into one more general and
universal : and how far these researches may possibly
be carried, it will be difficult for us, before, or even after,
a careful trial, exactly to determine. This is certain, that
attempts of this kind are every day made even by those
who philosophize the most negligently: and nothing can
be more requisite than to enter upon the enterprize with
thorough care and attention; that, if it lie within the
compass of human understanding, it may at last be happily
achieved; if not, it may, however, be rejected with some
confidence and security. This last conclusion, surely, is nut
314 DAVID HUME
desirable; nor ought it to be embraced too rashly. For how
much must we diminish from the beauty and value of this
species of philosophy, upon such a supposition? Moralists
have hitherto been accustomed, when they considered the
vast multitude and diversity of those actions that excite
our approbation or dislike, to search for some common
principle, on which this variety of sentiments might depend.
And though they have sometimes carried the matter too far,
by their passion for some one general principle; it must,
however, be confessed, that they are excusable in expecting
to find some general principles, into which all the vices
and virtues were justly to be resolved. The like has been
the endeavour of critics, logicians, and even politicians:
nor have their attempts been wholly unsuccessful; though
perhaps longer time, greater accuracy, and more ardent
application may bring these sciences still nearer their per-
fection. To throw up at once all pretensions of this kind
may justly be deemed more rash, precipitate, and dogmatical,
than even the boldest and most affirmative philosophy, that
has ever attempted to impose its crude dictates and prin-
ciples on mankind.
What though these reasonings concerning human nature
seem abstract, and of difficult comprehension? This affords
no presumption of their falsehood. On the contrary, it
seems impossible, that what has hitherto escaped so many
wise and profound philosophers can be very obvious and
easy. And whatever pains these researches may cost us, we
may think ourselves sufficiently rewarded, not only in point
of profit but of pleasure, if, by that means, we can make
any addition to our stock of knowledge, in subjects of
such unspeakable importance.
But as, after all, the abstractedness of these speculations
is no recommendation, but rather a disadvantage to them,
and as this difficulty may perhaps be surmounted by care
and art, and the avoiding of all unnecessary detail, we have,
in the following enquiry, attempted to throw some light
upon subjects, from which uncertainty has hitherto deterred
the wise, and obscurity the ignorant. Happy, if we can
unite the boundaries of the different species of philosophy,
by reconciling profound enquiry with clearness, and truth
SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 315
with novelty ! And still more happy, if, reasoning in this
easy manner, we can undermine the foundations of an
abstruse philosophy, which seems to have hitherto served
only as a shelter to superstition, and a cover to absurdity
and error!
SECTION II
OF THE ORIGIN OF IDEAS
EVERY one will readily allow, that there is a consider-
able difference between the perceptions of the mind,
when a man feels the pain of excessive heat, or the
pleasure of moderate warmth, and when he afterwards re-
calls to his memory this sensation, or anticipates it by his
imagination. These faculties may mimic or copy the percep-
tions of the senses; but they never can entirely reach the
force and vivacity of the original sentiment. The utmost we
say of them, even when they operate with greatest vigour, is,
that they represent their object in so lively a manner, that we
could almost say we feel or see it : But, except the mind be
disordered by disease or madness, they never can arrive
at such a pitch of vivacity, as to render these perceptions
altogether undistinguishable. All the colours of poetry,
however splendid, can never paint natural objects in such
a manner as to make the description be taken for a real
landskip. The most lively thought is still inferior to the
dullest sensation.
We may observe a like distinction to run through all the
other perceptions of the mind. A man in a fit of anger, is
actuated in a very different manner from one who only
thinks of that emotion. If you tell me, that any person
is in love, I easily understand your meaning, and from
a just conception of his situation; but never can mistake
that conception for the real disorders and agitations of the
passion. When we reflect on our past sentiments and
affections, our thought is a faithful mirror, and copies its
objects truly; but the colours which it employs are faint
and dull, in comparison of those in which our original per-
ceptions were clothed. It requires no nice discernment or
metaphysical head to mark the distinction between them.
316
ORIGIN OP IDEAS 317
Here therefore we may divide all the perceptions of the
mind into two classes or species, which are distinguished
by their different degrees of force and vivacity. The less
forcible and lively are commonly denominated Thoughts or
Ideas, The other species want a name in our language,
and in most others; I suppose, because it was not requisite
for any, but philosophical purposes, to rank them under
a general term or appellation. Let us, therefore, use a little
freedom, and call them Impressions; employing that word
in a sense somewhat different from the usual. By the term
impression, then, I mean all our more lively perceptions,
when we hear, or see, or feel, or love, or hate, or desire,
or will. And impressions are distinguished from ideas,
which are the less lively perceptions, of which we are
conscious, when we reflect on any of those sensations or
movements above mentioned.
Nothing, at first view, may seem more unbounded than
the thought of man, which not only escapes all human
power and authority, but is not even restrained within the
limits of nature and reality. To form monsters, and join
incongruous shapes and appearances, costs the imagination
no more trouble than to conceive the most natural and
familiar objects. And while the body is confined to one
planet, along which it creeps with pain and difficulty; the
thought can in an instant transport us into the most dis-
tant regions of the universe; or even beyond the universe,
into the unbounded chaos, where nature is supposed to
lie in total confusion. What never was seen, or heard
of, may yet be conceived; nor is any thing beyond
the power of thought, except what implies an absolute
contradiction.
But though our thought seems to possess this unbounded
liberty, we shall find, upon a nearer examination, that it is
really confined within very narrow limits, and that all this
creative power of the mind amounts to no more than
the faculty of compounding, transposing, augmenting, or
diminishing the materials afforded us by the senses and
experience. When we think of a golden mountain, we
only join two consistent ideas, gold, and mountain, with
which we were formerly acquainted. A virtuous horse we
318 DAVID HUME
can conceive; because, from our own feeling, we can
conceive virtue; and this we may unite to the figure and
shape of a horse, which is an animal familiar to us. In
short, all the materials of thinking are derived either from
our outward or inward sentiment: the mixture and com-
position of these belongs alone to the mind and will. Or,
to express myself in philosophical language, all our ideas or
more feeble perceptions are copies of our impressions or
more lively ones.
To prove this, the two following arguments will, I hope,
be sufficient. First, when we analyze our thoughts or ideas,
however compounded or sublime, we always find that they
resolve themselves into such simple ideas as were copied
from a precedent feeling or sentiment. Even those ideas,
which, at first view, seem the most wide of this origin, are
found, upon a nearer scrutiny, to be derived from it. The
idea of God, as meaning an infinitely intelligent, wise, and
good Being, arises from reflecting on the operations of our
own mind, and augmenting, without limit, those qualities
of goodness and wisdom. We may prosecute this enquiry
to what length we please; where we shall always find, that
every idea which we examine is copied from a similar
impression. Those who would assert that this position is
not universally true nor without exception, have only one,
and that an easy method of refuting it; by producing that
idea, which, in their opinion, is not derived from this source.
It will then be incumbent on us, if we would maintain our
doctrine, to produce the impression, or lively perception,
which corresponds to it.
Secondly, If it happen, from a defect of the organ,
that a man is not susceptible of any species of sensation,
we always find that he is as little susceptible of the cor-
respondent ideas. A blind man can form no notion of
colours; a deaf man of sounds. Restore either of them
that sense in which he is deficient; by opening this new
inlet for his sensations, you also open an inlet for the ideas ;
and he finds no difficulty in conceiving these objects. The
case is the same, if the object, proper for exciting any
sensation, has never been applied to the organ. A Lap-
lander or Negro has no notion of the relish of wine*
ORIGIN OF IDEAS 319
And though there are few or no instances of a like
deficency in the mind, where a person has never felt or
is wholly incapable of a sentiment or passion that belongs
to his species; yet we find the same observation to take
place in a less degree. A man of mild manners can form
no idea of inveterate revenge or cruelty; nor can a selfish
heart easily conceive the heights of friendship and gener-
osity. It is readily allowed, that other beings may possess
many senses of which we can have no conception; because
the ideas of them have never been introduced to us in the
only manner by which an idea can have access to the mind,
to wit, by the actual feeling and sensation.
There is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which
may prove that it is not absolutely impossible for ideas
to arise, independent of their correspondent impressions.
I believe it will readily be allowed, that the several distinct
ideas of colour, which enter by the eye, or those of sound,
which are conveyed by the ear, are really different from
each other; though, at the same time, resembling. Now
if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of
the different shades of the same colour; and each shade
produces a distinct idea, independent of the rest. For if
this should be denied, it is possible, by the continual grada-
tion of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most
remote from it; and if you will not allow any of the means
to be different, you cannot, without absurdity, deny the
extremes to be the same. Suppose, therefore, a person
to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have
become perfectly acquainted with colours of all kinds
except one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it
never has been his fortune to meet with. Let all the
different shades of that colour, except that single one, be
placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest
to the lightest; it is plain that he will perceive a blank,
where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible that there
is a greater distance in that place between the contiguous
colour than in any other. Now I ask, whether it be
possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this
deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular
shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his
320 DAVID HUME
senses? I believe there are few but will be of opinion
that he can : and this may serve as a proof that the simple
ideas are not always, in every instance, derived from the
correspondent impressions; ' though this instance is so
singular, that it is scarcely worth our observing, and does
not merit that for it alone we should alter our general
maxim.
Here, therefore, is a proposition, which not only seems,
in itself, simple and intelligible; but, if a proper use were
made of it, might render every dispute equally intelligible,
and banish all that jargon, which has so long taken
possession of metaphysical reasonings, and drawn disgrace
upon them. All ideas, especially abstract ones, are naturally
faint and obscure : the mind has but a slender hold of them :
they are apt to be confounded with other resembling ideas;
and when we have often employed any term, though with-
out a distinct meaning, we are apt to imagine it has a deter-
minate idea annexed to it. On the contrary, all impressions,
that is, all sensations, either outward or inward, are strong
and vivid: the limits between them are more exactly deter-
mined: nor is it easy to fall into any error or mistake with
regard to them. When we entertain, therefore, any suspicion
that a philosophical term is employed without any meaning
or idea (as is but too frequent), we need but enquire, from
what impression is that supposed idea derived? And if it
be impossible to assign any, this will serve to confirm our
suspicion. By bringing ideas into so clear a light we may
reasonably hope to remove all dispute, which may arise,
concerning their nature and reality.^
* It is probable that no more was meant by those, who denied innate
ideas, than that all ideas were copies of our impressions; though it must
be confessed, that the terms, which they employed, were not chosen with
such caution, nor so exactly defined, as to prevent all mistakes about their
doctrine. For what is meant by innate? If innate be equivalent to natural,
then all the perceptions and ideas of the mind must be allowed to be innate
or natural, in whatever sense we take the latter word, whether in opposi-
tion to what is uncommon, artificial, or miraculous. If by innate be meant,
contemporary to our birth, the dispute seems to be frivolous; nor is it
worth while to enquire at what time thinking begins, whether before, at,
or after our birth. Again, the word idea, seems to be commonly taken in
a very loose sense, by Locke and others; as standing for any of our per-
ceptions, our sensations and passions, as well as thoughts. Now in this
sense, I should desire to know, what can be meant by asserting, that self-
love, or resentment of injuries, or the passion between the sexes is not innate?
But admitting these terms, impressions and ideas, in the sense above
explained, and understanding by innate, what is original or copied from
ORIGIN OF IDEAS 321
no precedent perception, then may we assert that all our impressions are
Innate, and our ideas not innate.
To be ingenuous, I must own it to be my opinion, that Locke was
betrayed into this question by the schoolmen, who, making use of unde-
fined terras, draw out their disputes to a tedious length, without ever touching
the point in question. A like ambiguity and circumlocution seem to run
through that philosopher's reasonings on this as well as most other subjects.
(it) HC XXXVII
SECTION III
OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS
IT IS evident that there is a- principle of connexion be-
tween the different thoughts or ideas of the mind, and
that in their appearance to the memory or imagination,
they introduce each other with a certain degree of method
and regularity. In our more serious thinking or discourse
this is so observable that any particular thought, which
breaks in upon the regular tract or chain of ideas, is
immediately remarked and rejected. And even in our
wildest and most wandering reveries, nay in our very
dreams, we shall find, if we reflect, that the imagination
ran not altogether at adventures, but that there was still
a connexion upheld among the different ideas, which suc-
ceeded each other. Were the loosest and freest conversa-
tion to be transcribed, there would immediately be observed
something which connected it in all its transitions. Or
where this is wanting, the person who broke the thread of
discourse might still inform you, that there had secretly
revolved in his mind a succession of thought, which had
gradually led him from the subject of conversation. Among
different languages, even where we cannot suspect the least
connexion or communication, it is found, that the words,
expressive of ideas, the most compounded, do yet nearly
correspond to each other: a certain proof that the simple
ideas, comprehended in the compound ones, were bound
together by some universal principle, which had an equal
influence on all mankind.
Though it be too obvious to escape observation, that
different ideas are connected together; I do not find that
any philosopher has attempted to enumerate or class all
the principles of association; a subject, however, that seems
worthy of curiosity. To me, there appear to be only three
322
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS 323
principles of connexion among ideas, namely, Resemblance,
Contiguity in time or place, and Cause or Effect,
That these principles serve to connect ideas will not, I
believe, be much doubted. A picture naturally leads our
thoughts to the original:^ the mention of one apartment
in a building naturally introduces an enquiry or discourse
concerning the others :^ and if we think of a wound, we
can scarcely forbear reflecting on the pain which follows it.'
But that this enumeration is complete, and that there are
no other principles of association except these, may be
difficult to prove to the satisfaction of the reader, or even
to a man's own satisfaction. All we can do, in such cases,
is to run over several instances, and examine carefully the
principle which binds the different thoughts to each other,
never stopping till we render the principle as general as
possible.* The more instances we examine, and the more
care we employ, the more assurance shall we acquire, that
the enumeration, which we form from the whole, is com-
plete and entire.
1 Resemblance. 2 Contiguity. ^ Cause and effect.
* For instance, Contrast or Contrariety is also a connexion among Ideas;
but it may, perhaps, be considered as a mixture of Causation and Resem-
blance. Where two objects are contrary, the one destroys the other; that
is, the cause of its annihilation, and the idea of the annihilation of an
objectp implies the idea of its former existence.
SECTION IV
SCEPTICAL DOUBTS CONCERNING THE OPERATIONS OF
THE UNDERSTANDING
Part I
ALL the objects of human reason or enquiry may
naturally be divided into two kinds, to wit, Rela-
' tions of Ideas, and Matters of Fact. Of the first
kind are the sciences of .Geometry, Algebra, and Arithmetic ;
and in short, every affirmation which is either intuitively or
demonstratively certain. That the square of the hypothenuse
is equal to the square of the two sides, is a proposition
which expresses a relation between these figures. That
three times five is equal to the half of thirty, expresses a
relation between these numbers. Propositions of this kind
are discoverable by the mere operation of thought, without
dependence on what is anywhere existent in the universe.
Though there never were a circle or triangle in nature, the
truths demonstrated by Euclid would for ever retain their
certainty and evidence.
Matters of fact, which are the second objects of human
reason, are not ascertained in the same manner; nor is our
evidence of their truth, however great, of a like nature with
the foregoing. The contrary of every matter of fact is still
possible; because it can never imply a contradiction, and
is conceived by the mind with the same facility and dis-
tinctness, as if ever so conformable to reality. That the
sun zvill not rise to-morrozv is no less intelligible a propo-
sition, and implies no more contradiction than the affirma-
tion, that it will rise. We should in vain, therefore, attempt
to demonstrate its falsehood. Were it demonstratively false,
it would imply a contradiction, and could never he dis-
tinctly conceived by the mind.
It may, therefore, be a subject worthy of curiosity, to
enquire what is the nature of that evidence which assures
324
SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 325
us of any real existence and matter of fact, beyond the
present testimony of our senses, or the records of our
memory. This part of philosophy, it is observable, has been
little cultivated, either by the ancients or moderns; and
therefore our doubts and errors, in the prosecution of so
important an enquiry, may be the more excusable; while
we march through such difficult paths without any guide
or direction. They may even prove useful, by exciting
curiosity, and destroying that implicit faith and security,
which is the bane of all reasoning and free enquiry. The
discovery of defects in the common philosophy, if any such
there be, will not, I presume, be a discouragement, but
rather an incitement, as is usual, to attempt something
more full and satisfactory than has yet been proposed to
the public.
All reasonings concerning matter of fact seem to be
founded on the relation of Cause and Effect. By means of
that relation alone we can go beyond the evidence of our
memory and senses. If you were to ask a man, why he
believes any matter of fact, which is absent; for instance,
that his friend is in the country, or in France; he would
give you a reason; and this reason would be some other
fact; as a letter received from him, or the knowledge of his
former resolutions and promises. A man finding a watch
or any other machine in a desert island, would conclude
that there had once been men in that island. All our rea-
sonings concerning fact are of the same nature. And here
it is constantly supposed that there is a connexion between
the present fact and that which is inferred from it. Were
there nothing to bind them together, the inference would
be entirely precarious. The hearing of an articulate voice
and rational discourse in the dark assures us of the pres-
ence of some person: Why? because these are the effects
of the human make and fabric, and closely connected with
it. If we anatomize all the other reasonings of this nature,
we shall find that they are founded on the relation of cause
and effect, and that this relation is either near or remote,
direct or collateral. Heat and light are collateral effects
of fire, and the one effect may justly be inferred from the
other.
326 DAVID HUME
If we would satisfy ourselves, therefore, concerning the
nature of that evidence, which assures us of matters of fact,
we must enquire how we arrive at the knowledge of cause
and effect.
I shall venture to affirm, as a general proposition, which
admits of no exception, that the knowledge of this relation
is not, in any instance, attained by reasonings a priori; but
arises entirely from experience, when we find that any
particular objects are constantly conjoined with each other.
Let an object be presented to a man of ever so strong natural
reason and abilities; if that object be entirely new to him,
he wiH not be able, by the most accurate examination of
its sensible qualities, to discover any of its causes or effects.
Adam, though his rational faculties be supposed, at the
very first, entirely perfect, could not have inferred from
the fluidity and transparency of water that it would suffo-
cate him, or from the light and warmth of fire that it would
consume him. No object ever discovers, by the qualities
which appear to the senses, either the causes which pro-
duced it, or the effects which will arise from it; nor can
our reason, unassisted by experience, ever draw any in-
ference concerning real existence and matter of fact.
This proposition, that causes and effects are discoverable,
not by reason but by experience, will readily be admitted
with regard to such objects, as we remember to have once
been altogether unknown to us; since we must be conscious
of the utter inability, which we then lay under, of foretelling
what would arise from them. Present two smooth pieces of
marble to a man who has no tincture of natural philosophy;
he will never discover that they will adhere together in such
a manner as to require great force to separate them in a
direct line, while they make so small a resistance to a
lateral pressure. Such events, as bear little analogy to
the common course of nature, are also readily confessed to
be known only by experience; nor does any man imagine
that the explosion of gunpowder, or the attraction of a load-
stone, could ever be discovered by arguments a priori. In
like manner, when an effect is supposed to depend upon an
intricate machinery or secret structure of parts, we make no
difficulty in attributing all our knowledge of it to experience.
SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 327
Who will assert that he can give the ultimate reason, why
milk or bread is proper nourishment for a man, not for
a lion or a tiger?
But the same truth may not appear, at first sight, to have
the same evidence with regard to events, which have become
familiar to us from our first appearance in the world, which
bear a close analogy to the whole course of nature, and
which are supposed to depend on the simple qualities of
objects, without any secret structure of parts. We are apt
to imagine that we could discover these effects by the mere
operation of our reason, without experience. We fancy,
that were we brought on a sudden into this world, we
could at first have inferred that one Billiard-ball would
communicate motion to another upon impulse; and that we
needed not to have waited for the event, in order to pro-
nounce with certainty concerning it. Such is the influence of
custom, that, where it is strongest, it not only covers our
natural ignorance, but even conceals itself, and seems not to
take place, merely because it is found in the highest degree.
But to convince us that all the laws of nature, and all
the operations of bodies without exception, are known only
by experience, the following reflections may, perhaps, suf-
fice. Were any object presented to us, and were we
required to pronounce concerning the effect, which will
result from it, without consulting past observation; after
what manner, I beseech you, must the mind proceed in this
operation? It must invent or imagine some event, which
it ascribes to the object as its effect; and it is plain that
this invention must be entirely arbitrary. The mind can
never possibly find the effect in the supposed cause, by the
most accurate scrutiny and examination. Fonsthe effect is
totally different from the cause, and consequently can never
be discovered in it. Motion in the second Billiard-ball is a
quite distinct event from motion in the first; nor is there
anything in the one to suggest the smallest hint of the
other. A stone or piece of metal raised into the air, and
left without any support, immediately falls: but to consider
the matter a priori, is there anything we discover in this
situation which can beget the idea of a downward, rather
than an upward, or any other motion, in the stone or metal?
328 DAVID HUME
And as the first imagination or invention of a particular
effect, in all natural operations, is arbitrary, where we con-
sult not experience ; so must we also esteem the supposed
tie or connexion between the cause and effect, which binds
them together, and renders it impossible that any other
effect could result from the operation of that cause. When
I see, for instance, a Billiard-ball moving in a straight line
towards another; even suppose motion in the second ball
should by accident be suggested to me, as the result of their
contact or impulse; may I not conceive, that a hundred dif-
ferent events might as well follow from that cause? May
not both these balls remain at absolute rest? May not the
first ball return in a straight line, or leap off from the second
in any line or direction? All these suppositions are con-
sistent and conceivable. Why then should we give the
preference to one, which is no more consistent or conceivable
than the rest? All our reasonings a priori will never be
able to show us any foundation for this preference.
In a word, then, every effect is a distinct event from its
cause. It could not, therefore, be discovered in the cause,
and the first invention or conception of it, a priori, must be
entirely arbitrary. And even after it is suggested, the con-
junction of it with the cause must appear equally arbitrary;
since there are always many other effects, which, to reason,
must seem fully as consistent and natural. In vain, there-
fore, should we pretend to determine any single event, or
infer any cause or effect, without the assistance of observa-
tion and experience.
Hence we may discover the reason why no philosopher,
who is rational and modest, has ever pretended to assign
the ultimate cause of any natural operation, or to show
distinctly the action of that power, which produces any
single effect in the universe. It is confessed, that the
utmost effort of human reason is to reduce the principles,
productive of natural phenomena, to a greater simplicity,
and to resolve the many particular effects into a few gen-
eral causes, by means of reasonings from analogy, experi-
ence, and observation. But as to the causes of these general
causes, we should in vain attempt their discovery; nor shall
we ever be able to satisfy ourselves, by any particular ex-
SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 329
plication of them. These ultimate springs and principles
are totally shut up from human curiosity and enquiry. Elas-
ticity, gravity, cohesion of parts, communication of motion
by impulse; these are probably the ultimate causes and prin-
ciples which we shall ever discover in nature; and we may
esteem ourselves sufficiently happy, if, by accurate enquiry
and reasoning, we can trace up the particular phenomena
to, or near to, these general principles. The most perfect
philosophy of the natural kind only staves off our ignorance
a little longer: as perhaps the most perfect philosophy of
the moral or metaphysical kind serves only to discover larger
portions of it. Thus the observation of human blindness
and weakness is the result of all philosophy, and meets us at
every turn, in spite of our endeavours to elude or avoid it.
Nor is geometry, when taken into the assistance of natural
philosophy, ever able to remedy this defect, or lead us into
the knowledge of ultimate causes, by all that accuracy of
reasoning for which it is so justly celebrated. Every part
of mixed mathematics proceeds upon the supposition that
certain laws are established by nature in her operations;
and abstract reasonings are employed, either to assist ex-
perience in the discovery of these laws, or to determine
their influence in particular instances, where it depends
upon any precise degree of distance and quantity. Thus, it
is a law of motion, discovered by experience, that the mo-
ment or force of any body in motion is in the compound
ratio or proportion of its solid contents and its velocity;
and consequently, that a small force may remove the greatest
obstacle or raise the greatest weight, if, by any contrivance
or machinery, we can increase the velocity of that force,
so as to make it an overmatch for its antagonist. Geometry
assists us in the application of this law, by giving us the
just dimensions of all the parts and figures which can enter
into any species of machine; but still the discovery of the
law itself is owing merely to experience, and all the abstract
reasonings in the world could never lead us one step towards
the knowledge of it. When we reason a priori, and consider
merely any object or cause, as it appears to the mind, inde-
pendent of all observation, it never could suggest to us the
notion of any distinct object, such as its effect; much less,
330 DAVID HUME
show us the inseparable and inviolable connexion between
them. A man must be very sagacious who could discover
by reasoning that crystal is the effect of heat, and ice of
cold, without being previously acquainted with the operation
of these qualities.
Part II
But we have not yet attained any tolerable satisfac-
tion with regard to the question first proposed. Each
solution still gives rise to a new question as difficult as
the foregoing, and leads us on to farther enquiries. When
it is asked, What is the nature of all oicr reasonings
concerning matter of fact 2 the proper answer seems to be,
that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect.
When again it is asked, What is the foundation of all our
reasonings and conclusions concerning that relation? it may
be replied in one word. Experience. But if we still carry on
our sifting humour, and ask. What is the foundation of all
conclusions from experience? this implies a new question,
which may be of more difficult solution and explication.
Philosophers, that give themselves airs of superior wisdom
and sufficiency, have a hard task when they encounter per-
sons of inquisitive dispositions, who push them from every
corner to which they retreat, and who are sure at last to
bring them to some dangerous dilemma. The best expedient
to prevent this confusion, is to be modest in our preten-
sions; and even to discover the difficulty ourselves before
it is objected to us. By this means, we may make a kind of
merit of our very ignorance.
I shall content myself, in this section, with an easy task,
and shall pretend only to give a negative answer to the
question here proposed. I say then, that, even after we
have experience of the operations of cause and effect, our
conclusions from that experience are not founded on reason-
ing, or any process of the understanding. This answer we
must endeavour both to explain and to defend.
It must certainly be allowed, that nature has kept us
at a great distance from all her secrets, and has afforded
us only the knowledge of a few superficial qualities of ob-
jects; while she conceals from us those powers and prin-
SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 331
ciples on which the influence of those objects entirely de-
pends. Our senses inform us of the colour, weight, and
consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever
inform us of those qualities which fit it for the nourish-
ment and support of a human body. Sight or feeling con-
veys an idea of the actual motion of bodies; but as to that
wonderful force or power, which would carry on a moving
body for ever in a continued change of place, and which
bodies never lose but by communicating it to others; of
this we cannot form the most distant conception. But not-
withstanding this ignorance of natural powers* and princi-
ples, we always presume, when we see like sensible quali-
ties, that they have like secret powers, and expect that
efifects, similar to those which we have experienced, will
follow from them. If a body of like colour and consistence
with that bread, which we have 'formerly eat, be pre-
sented to us, we make no scruple of repeating the experi-
ment, and foresee, with certainty, like nourishment and
support. Now this is a process of the mind or thought,
of which I would willingly know the foundation. It is
allowed on all hands that there is no known connexion
between the sensible qualities and the secret powers; and
consequently, that the mind is not led to form such a con-
clusion concerning their constant and regular conjunction,
by anything which it knows of their nature. As to past
Experience, it can be allowed to give direct and certain
information of those precise objects only, and that precise
period of time, which fell under its cognizance: but why
this experience should be extended to future times, and to
other objects, which for aught we know, may be only in
appearance similar; this is the main question on which
I would insist. The bread, which I formerly eat, nourished
me; that is, a body of such sensible qualities was, at that
time, endued with such secret powers: but does it follow,
that other bread must also nourish me at another time, and
that like sensible qualities must always be attended with
like secret powers? The consequence seems nowise neces-
sary. At least, it must be acknowledged that there is here
1 The word, Power, is here used in a loose and popular sense. The more
accurate explication of it would give additional evidence to this argument.
See Sect. 7.
332 DAVID HUME
a consequence drawn by the mind; that there is a certain
step taken; a process of thought, and an inference, which
wants to be explained. These two propositions are far
from being the same. / have found that such an object has
always been attended with such an effect, and / foresee, that
other objects, which are, in appearance, similar, will be
attended with similar effects, I shall allow, if you please,
that the one proposition may justly be inferred from the
other: I know, in fact, that it always is inferred. But if you
insist that the inference is made by a chain of reasoning,
I desire you to produce that reasoning. The connexion
between these propositions is not intuitive. There is re-
quired a medium, which may enable the mind to draw such
an inference, if indeed it be drawn by reasoning and argu-
ment. What that medium is, I must confess, passes my
comprehension; and it is incumbent on those to produce it,
who asert that it really exists, and is the origin of all our
conclusions concerning matter of fact.
This negative argument must certainly, in process of
time, become altogether convincing, if many penetrating
and able philosophers shall turn their enquiries this way
and no one be ever able to discover any connecting propo-
sition or intermediate step, which supports the understand-
ing in this conclusion. But as the question is yet new,
every reader may not trust so far to his own penetration,
as to conclude, because an argument escapes his enquiry,
that therefore it does not really exist. For this reason it
may be requisite to venture upon a more difficult task; and
enumerating all the branches of human knowledge, en-
deavour to show that none of them can afford such an
argument.
All reasonings may be divided into two kinds, namely,
demonstrative reasoning, or that concerning relations of
ideas, and moral reasoning, or that concerning matter of
fact and existence. That there are no demonstrative argu-
ments in the case seems evident; since it implies no con-
tradiction that the course of nature may change, and that
an object, seemingly like those which we have experi-
enced, may be attended with different or contrary effects.
May I not clearly and distinctly conceive that a body,
SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 333
falling from the clouds, and which, in all other respects,
resembles snow, has yet the taste of salt or feelmg of
fire? Is there any more intelligible proposition than to
affirm, that all the trees will flourish in December and
January, and decay in May and June? Now whatever
is intelligible, and can be distinctly conceived, implies no
contradiction, and can never be proved false by any demon-
strative argument or abstract reasoning a priori.
If we be, therefore, engaged by arguments to put trust
in past experience, and make it the standard of our future
judgment, these arguments must be probable only, or such
as regard matter of fact and real existence according to the
division above mentioned. But that there is no argument
of this kind, must appear, if our explication of that species
of reasoning be admitted as solid and satisfactory. We
have said that all arguments concerning existence are
founded on the relation of cause and effect; that our
knowledge of that relation is derived entirely from experi-
ence; and that all our experimental conclusions proceed
upon the supposition that the future will be conformable
to the past. To endeavour, therefore, the proof of this last
supposition by probable arguments, or arguments regarding
existence, must be evidently going in a circle, and taking
that for granted, which is the very point in question.
In reality, all arguments from experience are founded on
the similarity which we discover among natural objects,
and by which we are induced to expect effects similar to
those which v/e have found to follow from such objects.
And though none but a fool or madman will ever pretend
to dispute the authority of experience, or to reject that
great guide of human life, it may surely be allowed a philoso-
pher to have so much curiosity at least as to examine the
principle of human nature, which gives this mighty authority
to experience, and makes us draw advantage from that
similarity which nature has placed among different objects.
From causes which appear similar we expect similar effects.
This is the sum of all our experimental conclusions. Now
it seems evident that, if this conclusion were formed by
reason, it would be as perfect at first, and upon one in-
stance, as after ever so long a course of experience. But
334 DAVID HUME
the case is far otherwise. Nothing so like as eggs; yet no
one, on account of this appearing similarity, expects the
same taste and relish in all of them. It is only after a long
course of uniform experiments in any kind, that we attain
a firm reliance and security with regard to a particular
event. Now where is that process of reasoning which,
from one instance, draws a conclusion, so different from
that which it infers from a hundred instances that are
nowise different from that single one? This question I
propose as much for the sake of information, as with an
intention of raising difficulties. I cannot find, I cannot
imagine any such reasoning. But I keep my mind still
open to instruction, if any one will vouchsafe to bestow
it on me.
Should it be said that, from a number of uniform experi-
ments, we infer ^ connexion between the sensible qualities
and the secret powers ; this, I must confess, seems the
same difficulty, couched in different terms. The question
still recurs, on what process of argument this inference is
founded? Where is the medium, the interposing ideas,
which join propositions so very wide of each other? It is
confessed that the colour, consistence, and other sensible
qualities of bread appear not, of themselves, to have any
connexion with the secret powers of nourishment and sup-
port. For otherwise we could infer these secret powers
from the first appearance of these sensible qualities, without
the aid of experience; contrary to the sentiment of all
philosophers, and contrary to plain matter of fact. Here,
then, is our natural state of ignorance with regard to the
powers and influence of all objects. How is this remedied
by experience? It only shows us a number of uniform
effects, resulting from certain objects, and teaches us that
those particular objects, at that particular time, were en-
dowed with such powers and forces. When a new object,
endowed with similar sensible qualities, is produced, we
expect similar powers and forces, and look for a like effect.
From a body of like colour and consistence with bread we
expect like nourishment and support. But this surely is
a step or progress of the mind, which wants to be explained.
When a man says, / have found, in all past instances, such
SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 335
'sensible qualities conjoined with such secret powers: And
when he says, Similar sensible qualities will always be con-
joined with similar secret powers, he is not guilty of a tau-
tology, nor are these propositions in any respect the same.
You say that the one proposition is an inference from the
other. But you must confess that the inference is not
intuitive; neither is it demonstrative: Of what nature is it,
then? To say it is experimental, is begging the question.
For all inferences from experience suppose, as their founda-
tion, that the future will resemble the past, and that similar
powers will be conjoined with similar sensible qualities.
If there be any suspicion that the course of nature may
change, and that the past may be no rule for the future, all
experience becomes useless, and can give rise to no in-
ference or conclusion. It is impossible, therefore, that any
arguments from experience can prove this resemblance of
the past to the future; since all these arguments are
founded on the supposition of that resemblance. Let the
course of things be allowed hitherto ever so regular; that
alone, without some new argument or inference, proves
not that, for the future, it will continue so. In vain do
you pretend to have learned the nature of bodies from your
past experience. Their secret nature, and consequently
all their effects and influence, may change, without any
change in their sensible qualities. This happens some-
times, and with regard to some objects: Why may it not
happen always, and with regard to all objects? What logic,
what process or argument secures you against this supposi-
tion? . My practice, you say, refutes my doubts. But you
mistake the purport of my question. As an agent, I am
quite satisfied in the point; but as a philosopher, who has
some share of curiosity, I will not say scepticism, I want to
learn the foundation of this inference. No reading, no
enquiry has yet been able to remove my difficulty, or give
me satisfaction in a matter of such importance. Can I do
better than propose the difficulty to the public, even though,
perhaps, I have small hopes of obtaining a solution? We
shall at least, by this means, be sensible of our ignorance,
if we do not augment our knowledge.
I must confess that a man is guilty of unpardonable
336 DAVID HUME
arrogatiQe who concludes, because an argument has es-
caped his own investigation, that therefore it does not really ■
exist. I must also confess that, though all the learned, foi*
several ages, should have employed themselves in fruit-
less search upon any subject, it may still, perhaps, be rash
to conclude positively that the subject must, therefore,
pass all human comprehension. Even though we examine
all the sources of our knowledge, and conclude them un-
fit for such a subject, there may still remain a suspicion,
that the enumeration is not complete, or the examination
not accurate. But with regard to the present subject, there
are some considerations which seem to remove all this
accusation of arrogance or suspicion of mistake.
It is certain that the most ignorant and stupid peasants —
nay infants, nay even brute beasts — improve by experience,
and learn the qualities of natural objects, by observing the
effects which result from them. When a child has felt the
sensation of pain from touching the flame of a candle, he
will be careful not to put his hand near any candle; but
will expect a similar effect from a cause which is similar in
its sensible qualities and appearance. If you assert, there-
fore, that the understanding of the child is led into this
conclusion by any process of argument or ratiocination,
I may justly require you to produce that argument; nor
have you any pretence to refuse so equitable a demand.
You cannot say that the argument is abstruse, and may
possibly escape your enquiry; since you confess that it is
obvious to the capacity of a mere infant. If you hesitate,
therefore, a moment, or if, after reflection, you produce any
intricate or profound argument, you, in a manner, give up
the question, and confess that it is not reasoning which
engages us to suppose the past resembling the future, and
to expect similar effects from causes which are, to appear-
ance, similar. This is the proposition which I intended to
enforce in the present section. If I be right, I pretend not
to have made any mighty discovery. And if I be wrong,
I must acknowledge myself to be indeed a very backward
scholar; since I cannot now discover an argument which,
it seems, was perfectly familiar to me long before I was
out of my cradle.
SECTION V
SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF THESE DOUBTS
Part I
THE passion for philosophy, like that for religion,
seems liable to this inconvenience, that, though it
aims at the correction of our manners, and extirpation
of our vices, it may only serve, by imprudent management,
to foster a predominant inclination, and push the mind,
with more determined resolution, towards that side which
already draws too much, by the bias and propensity of the
natural temper. It is certain that, while we aspire to the
magnanimous firmness of the philosophic sage, and en-
deavour to confine our pleasures altogether within our own
minds, we may, at last, render our philosophy like that of
Epictetus, and other Stoics, only a more refined system of
selfishness, and reason ourselves out of all virtue as well
as social enjoyment. While we study with attention the
vanity of human life, and turn all our thoughts towards
the empty and transitory nature of riches and honours, we
are, perhaps, all the while flattering our natural indolence,
which, hating the bustle of the world, and drudgery of
business, seeks a pretence of reason to give itself a full
and uncontrolled indulgence. There is, however, one
species of philosophy which seems little liable to this in-
convenience, and that because it strikes in with no dis-
orderly passion of the human mind, nor can mingle it-
self with any natural affection or propensity; and that is
the Academic or Sceptical philosophy. The academics al-
ways talk of doubt and suspense of judgment, of danger
in hasty determinations, of confining to very narrow bounds
the enquiries, of the understanding, and of renouncing all
speculations which lie not within the limits of common life
and practice. Nothing, therefore, can be more contrary
337
338 DAVID HUME
than such a philosophy to the supine indolence of the
mind, its rash arrogance, its lofty pretensions, and its super-/
stitious credulity. Every passion is mortified by it, except
the love of truth; and that passion never is, nor can be,
carried to too high a degree. It is surprising, therefore,
that this philosophy, which, in almost every instance, must
be harmless and innocent, should be the subject of so
much groundless reproach and obloquy. But, perhaps,
the very circumstance v^hich renders it so innocent is
what chiefly exposes it to the public hatred and resentment.
By flattering no irregular passion, it gains few partizans:
By opposing so many vices and follies, it raises to itself
abundance of enemies, who stigmatize it as libertine, pro-
fane, and irreligious.
Nor need we fear that this philosophy, while it endeavours
to limit our enquiries to common life, should ever undermine
the reasonings of common life, and carry its doubts so far
as to destroy all action, as well as speculation. Nature
will always maintain her rights, and prevail in the end over
any abstract reasoning whatsoever. Though we should
conclude, for instance, as in the foregoing section, that, in
all reasonings from experience, there is a step taken by the
mind which is not supported by any argument or process
of the understanding; there is no danger that these rea-
sonings, on which almost all knowledge depends, will ever
be affected by such a discovery. If the mind be not en-
gaged by argument to make this step, it must be induced
by some other principle of equal weight and authority; and
that principle will preserve its influence as long as human
nature remains the same. What that principle is may well
be worth the pains of enquiry.
Suppose a person, though endowed with the strongest
faculties of reason and reflection, to be brought on a sudden
into this world; he would, indeed, immediately observe
a continual succession of objects, and one event following
another; but he would not be able to discover anything
farther. He would not, at first, by any reasoning, be able
to reach the idea of cause and effect; since the particular
powers, by which all natural operations are performed,
never appear to the senses; nor is it reasonable to conclude,
SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 339
merely because one event, in one instance, precedes another,
that therefore the one is the cause, the other the effect.
Their conjunction may be arbitrary and casual. There
may be no reason to infer the existence of one from the
appearance of the other. And in a word, such a person,
without more experience, could never employ his conjecture
or reasoning concerning any matter of fact, or be assured
of anything beyond what was immediately present to his
memory and senses.
Suppose, again, that he has acquired more experience,
and has lived so long in the world as to have observed
familiar objects or events to be constantly conjoined to-
gether; what is the consequence of this experience? He
immediately infers the existence of one object from the
appearance of the other. Yet he has not, by all his ex-
perience, acquired any idea or knowledge of the secret
power by which the one object produces the other; nor
is it by any process of reasoning, he is engaged to draw
this inference. But still he finds himself determined to
draw it: and though he should be convinced that his
understanding has no part in the operation, he would
nevertheless continue in the same course of thinking. There
is some other principle which determines him to form such
a conclusion.
This principle is Custom or Habit. For wherever the
repetition of any particular act or operation produces a
propensity to renew the same act or operation, without
being impelled by any reasoning or process of the under-
standing, we always say, that this propensity is the effect
of Custom. By employing that word, we pretend not to
have given the ultimate reason of such a propensity. We
only point out a principle of human nature, which is
universally acknowledged, and which is well known by its
effects. Perhaps we can push our enquiries no farther, or
pretend to give the cause of this cause; but must rest
contented with it as the ultimate principle, which we can
assign, of all our conclusions from experience. It is suf-
ficient satisfaction, that we can go so far, without repining
at the narrowness of our faculties because they will carry
us no farther. And it is certain we here advance a very
340 DAVID HUME
intelligible proposition at least, if not a true one, when
we assert that, after the constant conjunction of two ob-
jects — heat and flame, for instance, weight and solidity —
we are determined by custom alone to expect the one from
the appearance of the other. This hypothesis seems even
the only one which explains the difficulty, why we draw,
from a thousand instances, an inference which we are not
able to draw from one instance, that is, in no respect,
different from them. Reason is incapable of any such
variation. The conclusions which it draws from consider-
ing one circle are the same which it would form upon
surveying all the circles in the universe. But no man,
having seen only one body move after being impelled by
another, could infer that every other body will move after
a like impulse. All inferences from experience, therefore,
are effects of custom, not of reasoning\
^ Nothing is more useful than for writers, even, on moral, political, or
physical subjects, to distinguish between reason and experience, and to sup-
pose, that these species of argumentation are entirely different from each
other. The former are taken for the mere result of our intellectual facul-
ties, which, by considering d priori the nature of things, and examining the
effects, that must follow from their operation, establish particular i)rin-
ciples of science and philosophy. The latter are supposed to be derived
entirely from sense and observation, by which we learn what has actually
resulted from the operation of particular objects, and are thence able to
infer, what will, for the future, result from them. Thus, for instance, the
limitations and restraints of civil government, and a legal constitution, may
be defended, either from reason, which reflecting on the great frailty and
corruption of human nature, teaches, that no man can safely be trusted
with unlimited authority; or from experience and history, which inform us
of the enormous abuses, that ambition, in every age and country, has been
found to make of so imprudent a confidence.
The same distinction between reason and experience is maintained in all
our deliberations concerning the conduct of life; while the experienced states-
man, general, physician, or merchant is trusted and followed; and the unprac-
tised novice, with whatever natural talents endowed, neglected and despised.
Though it be allowed, that reason may form very plausible conjectures with
regard to the consequences of such a particular conduct in such particular
circumstances; it is still supposed imperfect, without the assistance of experi-
ence, which is alone able to give stability and certainty to the maxims,
derived from study and reflection.
But notwithstanding that this distinction be thus universally received,
both in the active and speculative scenes of life, I shall not scruple to pro-
nounce, that it is, at bottom, erroneous, at least, superficial.
If we examine those arguments, which, in any of the sciences above
mentioned, are supposed to be the mere effects of reasoning and reflection,
they will be found to terminate, at last, in some general principle or con-
clusion, for which we can assign no reason but observation and experience.
The only difference between them and those maxims, which are vulgarly
esteemed the result of pure experience, is, that the former cannot be estab-
lished without some process of thought, and some reflection on what we
have observed, in order to distinguish its circumstances, and trace its con-
sequences: Whereas in the latter, the experienced event is exactly and fully
familiar to that which we infer as the result of any particular situation.
SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 341
Custom, then, is the great guide of human life. It is
that principle alone which renders our experience useful
to us, and makes us expect, for the future, a similar train
of events with those which have appeared in the past.
Without the influence of custom, we should be entirely
ignorant of every matter of fact beyond what is immediately
present to the memory and senses. We should never know
how to adjust means to ends, or to employ our natural
powers in the production of any effect. There would
be an end at once of all action, as well as of the chief
part of speculation.
But here it may be proper to remark, that though our
conclusions from experience carry us beyond our memory
and senses, and assure us of matters of fact which hap-
pened in the most distant places and most remote ages,
yet some fact must always be present to the senses or
memory, from which we may first proceed in drawing these
conclusions. A man, who should find in a desert country
the remains of pompous buildings, would conclude that
the country had, in ancient times, been cultivated by civil-
ized inhabitants; but did nothing of this nature occur
to him, he could never form such an inference. We learn
the events of former ages from history ; but then we must
peruse the volumes in which this instruction is contained,
and thence carry up our inferences from one testimony to
The history of a Tiberius or a Nero makes us dread a like tyranny, were
our monarchs freed from the restraints of laws and senates: But the observa-
tion of any fraud or cruelty in private life is sufficient, with the aid of a
little thought, to give us the same apprehension; while it serves as an
instance of the general corruption of human nature, and shows us the
danger which we must incur by reposing an entire confidence in mankind.
In both cases, it is experience which is ultimately the foundation of our
inference and conclusion.
There is no man so young and unexperienced, as not to have formed,
from observation, many general and just maxims concerning human affairs
and the conduct of life; but it must be confessed, that, when a man comes
to put these in practice, he will be extremely liable to error, till time and
farther experience both enlarge these maxims, and teach him their proper
use and application. In every situation or incident, there are many par-
ticular and seemingly minute circumstances, which the man of greatest
talent is, at first, apt to overlook, though on them the justness of his con-
clusions, and consequently the prudence of his conduct, entirely depend.
Not to mention, that, to a young beginner, the general observations and
maxims occur not always on the proper occasions, nor can be immediately
applied with due calmness and distinction. The truth is, an unexperienced
reasoner could be no reasoner at all, were he absolutely unexperienced; and
when we assign that character to any one, we mean it only in a compara-
tive sense, and suppose him possessed of experience, in a smaller and more
imperfect degree.
342 DAVID HUME
another, till we arrive at the eyewitnesses and spectators of
these distant events. In a word, if we proceed not upon
some fact, present to the memory or senses, our reasonings
would be merely hypothetical; and however the particular
links might be connected with each other, the whole chain
of inferences would have nothing to support it, nor could
we ever, by its means, arrive at the knowledge of any real
existence. If I ask why you believe any particular matter
of fact, which you relate, you must tell me some reason;
and this reason will be some other fact, connected with it.
But as you cannot proceed after this manner, in infinitum,
you must at last terminate in some fact, which is present to
your memory or senses; or must allow that your belief is
entirely without foundation.
What, then, is the conclusion of the whole matter? A
simple one; though, it must be confessed, pretty remote
from the common theories of philosophy. All belief of
matter of fact or real existence is derived merely from some
object, present to the memory or senses, and a customary
conjunction between that and some other object. Or in
other words; having found, in many instances, that any
two kinds of objects — flame and heat, snow and cold — have
always been conjoined together; if flame or snow be pre-
sented anew to the senses, the mind is carried by custom
to expect heat or cold, and to believe that such a quality
does exist, and will discover itself upon a nearer approach.
This belief is the necessary result of placing the mind in
such circumstances. It is an operation of the soul, when
we are so situated, as unavoidable as to feel the passion of
love, when we receive benefits; or hatred, when we meet
with injuries. All these operations are a species of natural
instincts, which no reasoning or process of the thought and
understanding is able either to produce or to prevent.
At this point, it would be very allowable for us to stop
our philosophical researches. In most questions we can
never make a single step farther; and in all questions we
must terminate here at last, after our most restless and
curious enquiries. But still our curiosity will be pardonable,
perhaps commendable, if it carry us on to still farther
researches, and make us examine more accurately the na-
SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 343
ture of this belief, and of the customary conjunction, whence
it is derived. By this means we may meet with some ex-
plications and analogies that will give satisfaction; at least
to such as love the abstract sciences, and can be enter-
tained with speculations, which, however accurate, may
still retain a degree of doubt and uncertainty. As to
readers of a different taste; the remaining part of this
section is not calculated for them, and the following en-
quiries may well be understood, though it be neglected.
Part II
Nothing is more free than the imagination of man; and
though it cannot exceed that original stock of ideas fur-
nished by the internal and external senses, it has unlimited
power of mixing, compounding, separating, and dividing
these ideas, in all the varieties of fiction and vision. It
can feign a train of events, with all the appearance of
reality, ascribe to them a particular time and place, conceive
them as existent, and paint them out to itself with every
circumstance, that belongs to any historical fact, which it
believes with the greatest certainty. Wherein, therefore,
consists the difference between such a fiction and belief?
It lies not merely in any peculiar idea, which is annexed to
such a conception as commands our assent, and which is
wanting to every known fiction. For as the mind has
authority over all its ideas, it could voluntarily annex this
particular idea to any fiction, and consequently be able to
believe whatever it pleases ; contrary to what we find by
daily experience. We can, in our conception, join the head
of a man to the body of a horse; but it is not in our
power to believe that such an animal has ever really
existed.
It follows, therefore, that the difference between fiction
and belief lies in some sentiment or feeling, which is
annexed to the latter, not to the former, and which depends
not on the will, nor can be commanded at pleasure. It
must be excited by nature, like all other sentiments; and
must arise from the particular situation, in which the mind
is placed at any particular juncture. Whenever any object
344 DAVID HUME
IS presented to the memory or senses, it immediately, by the
force of custom, carries the imagination to conceive that
object, which is usually conjoined to it; and this conception
is attended with a feeling or sentiment, different from the
loose reveries of the fancy. In this consists the whole
nature of belief. For as there is no matter of fact which
we believe so firmly that we cannot conceive the contrary,
there would be no difference between the conception as-
sented to and that which is rejected, were it not for some
sentiment which distinguishes the one from the other. If
I see a billiard-ball moving toward another, on a smooth
table, I can easily conceive it to stop upon contact. This
conception implies no contradiction ; but still it feels very
differently from that conception by which I represent to
myself the impulse and the communication of motion from
one ball to another.
Were we to attempt a definition of this ^^entiment, we
should, perhaps, find it a very difficult, if not an impossible
task; in the same manner as if we should endeavour to
define the feeling of cold or passion of anger, to a creature
who never had any experience of these sentiments. Belief
is the true and proper name of this feehng; and no one is
ever at a loss to know the meaning of that term; because
every man is every moment conscious of the sentiment
represented by it. It may not, however, be improper to
attempt a description of this sentiment; in hopes we may,
by that means, arrive at some analogies, which may afford
a more perfect explication of it. I say, then, that belief is
nothing but a more vivid, lively, forcible, firm, steady con-
ception of an object, than what the imagination alone is
ever able to attain. This variety of terms, which may
seem so unphilosophical, is intended only to express that
act of the mind, which renders realities, or what is taken for
such, more present to us than fictions, causes them to
weigh more in the thought, and gives them a superior
influence on the passions and imagination. Provided we
agree about the thing, it is needless to dispute about the
terms. The imagination has the command over all its
ideas, and can join and mix and vary them, in all the
ways possible. It may conceive fictitious objects with all
SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 345
the circumstances of place and time. It may set them, in
a manner, before our eyes, in their true colours, just as
they might have existed. But as it is impossible that this
faculty of imagination can ever, of itself, reach belief, it is
evident that belief consists not in the peculiar nature or
order of ideas, but in the manner of their conception, and in
their feeling to the mind. I confess, that it is impossible
perfectly to explain this feeling or manner of conception.
We may make use of words which express something near
it. But its true and proper name, as we observed before, is
belief; which is a term that every one sufficiently under-
stands in common life. And in philosophy, we can go no
farther than assert, that belief is something felt by the mind,
which distinguishes the ideas of the judgement from the
fictions of the imagination. It gives them more weight and
influence; makes them appear of greater importance; en-
forces them in the mind; and renders them the governing
principle of our actions. I hear at present, for instance, a
person's voice, with whom I am acquainted; and the sound
comes as from the next room. This impressidn of my
senses immediately conveys my thought to the person, to-
gether with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out
to myself as existing at present, with the same qualities and
relations, of which I formerly knew them possessed. These
ideas take faster hold of my mind than ideas of an en-
chanted castle. They are very different to the feeling, and
have a much greater influence of every kind, either to give
pleasure or pain, joy or sorrow.
Let us, then, take in the whole compass of this doctrine,
and allow, that the sentiment of belief is nothing but a
conception more intense and steady than what attends the
mere fictions of the imagination, and that this manner of
conception arises from a customary conjunction of the
object with something present to the memory or senses:
I believe that it will not be difficult, upon these supposi-
tions, to find other operations of the mind analogous to it,
and to trace up these phenomena to principles still more
general.
We have already observed that nature has established
connexions among particular ideas, and that no sooner
346 DAVID HUME
one idea occurs to our thoughts than it introduces its cor-
relative, and carries our attention towards it, by a gentle
and insensible movement. These principles of connexion
or association we have reduced to three, namely, Resem-
blance, Contiguity and Causation; which are the only bonds
that unite our thoughts together, and beget that regular
train of reflection or discourse, which, in a greater or less
degree, takes place among all mankind. Now here arises
a question, on which the solution of the present difficulty
will depend. Does it happen, in all these relations, that,
when one of the objects is presented to the senses or
memory, the mind is not only carried to the conception
of the correlative, but reaches a steadier and stronger
conception of it than what otherwise it would have been
able to attain? This seems to be the case with that
belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect.
And if the case be the same with the other relations
or principles of associations, this may be established as
a general law, which takes place in all the operations of
the mind.
We may, therefore, observe, as the first experiment
to our present purpose, that, upon the appearance of the
picture of an absent friend, our idea of him is evidently
enlivened by the resemblance, and that every passion, which
that idea occasions, whether of joy or sorrow, acquires
new force and vigour. In producing this effect, there
concur both a relation and a present impression. Where
the picture bears him no resemblance, at least was not
intended for him, it never so much as conveys our thought
to him: and where it is absent, as well as the person,
though the mind may pass from the thought of the one to
that of the other, it feels its idea to be rather weakened
than enlivened by that transition. We take a pleasure in
viewing the picture of a friend, when it is set before us;
but when it is removed, rather choose to consider him
directly than by reflection in an image, which is equally
distant and obscure.
The ceremonies of the Roman Catholic religion may
be considered as instances of the same nature. The dev-
otees of that superstition usually plead in excuse for the
SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 347
mummeries, with which they are upbraided, that they
feel the good effect of those external motions, and pos-
tures, and actions, in enlivening their devotion and quick-
ening their fervour, which otherwise would decay, if
directed entirely to distant and immaterial objects. We
shadow out the objects of our faith, say they, in sensible
types and images, and render them more present to us
by the immediate presence of these types, than it is pos-
sible for us to do merely by an intellectual view and
contemplation. Sensible objects have always a greater in-
fluence on the fancy than any other; and this influence
they readily convey to those ideas to which they are
related, and which they resemble. I shall only infer from
these practices, and this reasoning, that the effect of resem-
blance in enlivening the ideas is very common; and as in
every case a resemblance and a present impression must
concur, we are abundantly supplied with experiments to
prove the reality of the foregoing principle.
We may add force to these experiments by others of
a different kind, in considering the effects of contiguity as
well as of rese'mhlance. It is certain that distance dimin-
ishes the force of every idea, and that, upon our approach
to any object; though it does not discover itself to our
senses; it operates upon the mind with an influence, which
imitates an immediate impression. The thinking on any
object readily transports the mind to what is contiguous;
but it is only the actual presence of an object, that trans-
ports it with a superior vivacity. When I am a few miles
from home, whatever relates to it touches me more nearly
than when I am two hundred leagues distant; though even
at that distance the reflecting on any thing in the neigh-
bourhood of my friends or family naturally produces an
idea of them. But as in this latter case, both the objects
of the mind are ideas; notwithstanding there is an easy
transition between them; that transition alone is not able to
give a superior vivacity to any of the ideas, for want of
some immediate impression.^
^'Naturane nobis, inquit, datum dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum ea
loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acccperimus multum esse
versatos, magis moveamur, quam siquando eorum ipsorum aut facta audiamus
aut scriptum aliquod legamus? Velut ego nunc moveor. Venit enim mihi
348 DAVID HUME
No one can doubt but causation has the same influence
as the other two relations of resemblance and contiguity.
Superstitious people are fond of the reliques of saints and
holy men, for the same reason, that they seek after types
or images, in order to enliven their devotion, and give them
a more intimate and strong conception of those exemplary
lives, which they desire to imitate. Now it is evident, that
one of the best reliques, which a devotee could procure,
would be the handywork of a saint; and if his cloaths and
furniture are ever to be considered in this light, it is be-
cause they were once at his disposal, and were moved and
affected by him; in which respect they are to be considered
as imperfect effects, and as connected with him by a shorter
chain of consequences than any of those, by which we learn
the reality of his existence.
Suppose, that the son of a friend, who had been long
dead or absent, were presented to us; it is evident, that
this object would instantly revive its correlative idea, and
recall to our thoughts all past intimacies and familiarities,
in more lively colours than they would otherwise have ap-
peared to us. This is another phaenomenon, which seems
to prove the principle above mentioned.
We may observe, that, in these phaenomena, the belief
of the correlative object is always presupposed; without
which the relation could have no effect. The influence of
the picture supposes, that we believe our friend to have
once existed. Contiguity to home can never excite our
ideas of home, unless we believe that it really exists. Now
I assert, that this belief, where it reaches beyond the
memory or senses, is of a similar nature, and arises from
similar causes, with the transition of thought and vivacity of
conception here explained. When I throw a piece of dry
wood into a fire, my mind is immediately carried to con-
ceive, that it augments, not extinguishes the flame. This
Plato in mentem, quern accepimus primum hie disputare solitum: cuius
etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam solum mihi afferunt, sed ipsum
videntur in conspectu meo hie ponere. Hie Speusippus, hie Xenoerates, hie
eius auditor Polemo; euius ipsa ilia sessio fuit, quam videmus. Equidem
etiam curiam nostram, Hostiliam dico, non hane novam, quae mihi minor
esse videtur postquam est maior, solebam intuens, Scipionem, Catonem,
Laelium, nostrum vero in primis avum cogitare. Tanta vis admonitionis
est in locis; ut non sine causa ex his memoriae deducta sit disciplina.'—
Cicero de Finibus. Lib. v.
SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 349
transition of thought from the cause to the effect proceeds
not from reason. It derives its origin altogether from
custom and experience. And as it first begins from an
object, present to the senses, it renders the idea or con-
ception of flame more strong and lively than any loose,
floating reverie of the imagination. That idea arises im-
mediately. The thought moves instantly towards it, and
conveys to it all that force of conception, which is derived
from the impression present to the senses. When a sword
is levelled at my breast, does not the idea of wound and
pain strike me more strongly, than when a glass of wine
is presented to me, even though by accident this idea
should occur after the appearance of the latter object?
But what is there in this whole matter to cause such a strong
conception, except only a present object and a customary
transition of the idea of another object, which we have
been accustomed to conjoin with the former? This is the
whole operation of the mind, in all our conclusions con-
cerning matter of fact and existence; and it is a satisfaction
to find some analogies, by which it may be explained.
The transition from a present object does in all cases give
strength and solidity to the related idea.
Here, then, is a kind of pre-established harmony between
the course of nature and the succession of our ideas; and
though the powers and forces, by which the former is gov-
erned, be wholly unknown to us; yet our thoughts and
conceptions have still, we find, gone on in the same train
with the other works of nature. Custom is that principle,
by which this correspondence has been effected; so neces-
sary to the subsistence of our species, and the regulation of
our conduct, in every circumstance and occurrence of hu-
man life. Had not the presence of an object, instantly
excited the idea of those objects, commonly conjoined with
it, all our knowledge must have been limited to the narrow
sphere of our memory and senses; and we should never
have been able to adjust means to ends, or employ our
natural powers, either to the producing of good, or avoiding
of evil. Those, who delight in the discovery and contem-
plation of final causes, have here ample subject to employ
their wonder and admiration.
350 DAVID HUME
I shall add, for a further confirmation of the foregoing
theory, that, as this operation of the mind, by which we
infer like effects from like causes, and vice versa, is so
essential to the subsistence of all human creatures, it is
not probable, that it could be trusted to the fallacious de-
ductions of our reason, which is slow in its operations;
appears not, in any degree, during the first years of infancy ;
and at best is, in every age and period of human life, ex-
tremely liable to error and mistake. It is more conformable
to the ordinary wisdom of nature to secure so necessary an
act of the mind, by some instinct or mechanical tendency,
which may be infallible in its operations, may discover
itself at the first appearance of life and thought, and may
be independent of all the laboured deductions of the under-
standing. As nature has taught us the use of our limbs,
without giving us the knowledge of the muscles and nerves,
by which they are actuated; so has she implanted in us
an instinct, which carries forward the thought in a corre-
spondent course to that which she has established among
external objects; though we are ignorant of those powers
and forces, on which this regular course and succession
of objects totally depends.
SECTION VI
OF PROBABILITY*
THOUGH there be no such thing as Chance in the
world; our ignorance of the real cause of any event
has the same influence on the understanding, and be-
gets a like species of belief or opinion.
There is certainly a probability, which arises from a
superiority of chances on any side; and according as this
superiority increases, and surpasses the opposite chances,
the probability receives a proportionable increase, and be-
gets still a higher degree of belief or assent to that side,
in which we discover the superiority. If a dye were marked
with one figure or number of spots on four sides, and with
another figure or number of spots on the two remaining
sides, it would be more probable, that the former would
turn up than the latter; though, if it had a thousand sides
marked in the same manner, and only one side different,
the probability would be much higher, and our belief or
expectation of the event more steady and secure. This pro-
cess of the thought or reasoning may seem trivial and
obvious; but to those who consider it more narrowly, it
may, perhaps, afford matter for curious speculation.
It seems evident, that, when the mind looks forward to
discover the event, which may result from the throw of
such a dye, it considers the turning up of each particular
side as alike probable; and this is the very nature of chance,
to render all the particular events, comprehended in it, en-
tirely equal. But finding a greater number of sides concur
in the one event than in the other, the mind is carried more
frequently to that event, and meets it oftener, in revolving
^ Mr. Locke divides all arguments into demonstrative and probable. In
this view, we must say, that it is only probable all men must die, or that
the sun will rise to-morrow. But to conform our language more to common
use, we ought to divide arguments into demonstrations, proofs, and proba-
bilities. By proofs meaning such arguments from experience as leave no
room for doubt or opposition.
351
352 DAVID HUME
the various possibilities or chances, on which the ultimate
result depends. This concurrence of several views in one
particular event begets immediately, by an inexplicable con-
trivance of nature, the sentiment of belief, and gives that
event the advantage over its antagonist, which is supported
by a smaller number of views, and recurs less frequently to
the mind. If we allow, that belief is nothing but a firmer
and stronger conception of an object than what attends the
mere fictions of the imagination, this operation may, perhaps,
in some measure, be accounted for. The concurrence of
these several views or glimpses imprints the idea more
strongly on the imagination; gives it superior force and
vigour; renders its influence on the passions and affections
more sensible ; and in a word, begets that reliance or security,
which constitutes the nature of belief and opinion.
The case is the same with the probability of causes, as
with that of chance. There are some causes, which are
entirely uniform and constant in producing a particular
effect; and no instance has ever yet been found of any
failure or irregularity in their operation. Fire has always
burned, and water suffocated every human creature: the
production of motion by impulse and gravity is an universal
law, which has hitherto admitted of no exception. But there
are other causes, which have been found more irregular and
uncertain; nor has rhubarb always proved a purge, or
opium a soporific to every one, who has taken these medi-
cines. It is true, when any cause fails of producing its
usual effect, philosophers ascribe not this to any irregularity
in nature; but suppose, that some secret causes, in the
particular structure of parts, have prevented the operation.
Our reasonings, however, and conclusions concerning the
event are the same as if this principle had no place. Being
determined by custom to transfer the past to the future, in
all our inferences ; where the past has been entirely regular
and uniform, we expect the event with the greatest assur-
ance, and leave no room for any contrary supposition. But
where different effects have been found to follow from
causes, which are to appearance exactly similar, all these
various effects must occur to the mind in transferring the
past to the future, and enter into our consideration, when we
PROBABILITY 353
determine the probability of the event. Though we give the
preference to that which has been found most usual, and be-
lieve that this efYect will exist, we must not overlook the
other effects, but must assign to each of them a particular
weight and authority, in proportion as we have found it to
be more or less frequent. It is more probable, in almost
every country of Europe, that there will be frost sometime
in January, than that the weather will continue open through-
out that whole month ; though this probability varies accord-
ing to the different climates, and approaches to a certainty
in the more northern kingdoms. Here then it seems evident,
that, when we transfer the past to the future, in order to
determine the effect, which will result from any cause, we
transfer all the different events, in the same proportion as
they have appeared in the past, and conceive one to have
existed a hundred times, for instance, another ten times, and
another once. As a great number of views do here concur
in one event, they fortify and confirm it to the imagination,
beget that sentiment which we call belief, and give its object
the preference above the contrary event, which is not sup-
ported by an equal number of experiments, and recurs not so
frequently to the thought in transferring the past to the
future. Let any one try to account for this operation of the
mind upon any of the received systems of philosophy, and
he will be sensible of the difficulty. For my part, I shall
think it sufficient, if the present hints excite the curiosity of
philosophers, and make them sensible how defective all com-
mon theories are in treating of such curious and such
sublime subjects.
(T2) hjcxxxvii
SECTION VII
or THE IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION
Part I
THE great advantage of the mathematical sciences
above the moral consists in this, that the ideas of the
former, being sensible, are always clear and determin-
ate, the smallest distinction between them is immediately per-
ceptible, and the same terms are still expressive of the same
ideas, without ambiguity or variation. An oval is never mis-
taken for a circle, nor an hyperbola for an ellipsis. The isos-
celes and scalenum are distinguished by boundaries more ex-
act than vice and virtue, right and wrong. If any term be
defined in geometry, the mind readily, of itself, substitutes, on
all occasions, the definition for the term defined : or even when
no definition is employed, the object itself may be presented
to the senses, and by that means be steadily and clearly
apprehended. But the finer sentiments of the mind, the
operations of the understanding, the various agitations of
the passions, though really in themselves distinct, easily
escape us, when surveyed by reflection ; nor is it in our
power to recall the original object, as often as we have oc-
casion to contemplate it. Ambiguity, by this means, is
gradually introduced into our reasonings: similar objects are
readily taken to be the same : and the conclusion becomes at
last very wide of the premises.
One may safely, however, affirm, that, if we consider these
sciences in a proper light, their advantages and disadvan-
tages nearly compensate each other, and reduce both of them
to a state of equality. If the mind, with greater facility, re-
tains the ideas of geometry clear and determinate, it must
carry on a much longer and more intricate chain of reason-
ing, and compare ideas much wider of each other, in order to
reach the abstruser truths of that science. And if moral
ideas are apt, without extreme care, to fall into obscurity and
354
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 355
confusion, the inferences are always much shorter in these
disquisitions, and the intermediate steps, which lead to the
conclusion, much fewer than in the sciences which treat of
quantity and number. In reality, there is scarcely a proposi-
tion in Euclid so simple, as not to consist of more parts, than
are to be found in any moral reasoning which runs not into
chimera and conceit. Where we trace the principles of the
human mind through a few steps, we may be very well satis-
fied with our progress; considering how soon nature throws
a bar to all our enquiries concerning causes, and reduces
us to an acknowledgment of our ignorance. The chief ob-
stacle, therefore, to our improvement in the moral or meta-
physical sciences is the obscurity of the ideas, and ambiguity
of the terms. The principal difficulty in the mathematics is
the length of inferences and compass of thought, requisite
to the forming of any conclusion. And, perhaps, our prog-
ress in natural philosophy is chiefly retarded by the want of
proper experiments and phaenomena, which are often dis-
covered by chance, and cannot always be found, when
requisite, even by the most diligent and prudent enquiry.
As moral philosophy seems hitherto to have received less im-
provement than either geometry or physics, we may con-
clude, that, if there be any difference in this respect among
these sciences, the difficulties, which obstruct the progress of
the former, require superior care and capacity to be sur-
mounted.
There are no ideas, which occur in metaphysics, more
obscure and uncertain, than those of power, force, energy or
necessary connexion, of which it is every moment necessary
for us to treat in all our disquisitions. We shall, therefore,
endeavour, in this section, to fix, if possible, the precise
meaning of these terms, and thereby remove some part of
that obscurity, which is so much complained of in this
species of philosophy.
It seems a proposition, which will not admit of much dis-
pute, that all our ideas are nothing but copies of our im-
pressions, or, in other words, that it is impossible for us to
think of anything, which we have not antecedently felt, either
by our external or internal senses. I have endeavoured^ to
1 Section II.
356 DAVID HUME
explain and prove this proposition, and have expressed my
hopes, that, by a proper application of it, men may reach
a greater clearness and precision in philosophical reasonings,
than v^hat they have hitherto been able to attain. Complex
ideas, may, perhaps, be well known by definition, which is
nothing but an enumeration of those parts or simple ideas,
that compose them. But when we have pushed up defini-
tions to the most simple ideas, and find still more ambiguity
and obscurity; what resource are we then possessed of? By
what invention can we throw light upon these ideas, and
render them altogether precise and determinate to our intel-
lectual view? Produce the impressions or original senti-
ments, from which the ideas are copied. These impressions
are all strong and sensible. They admit not of ambiguity.
They are not only placed in a full light themselves, but may
throw light on their correspondent ideas, which lie in ob-
scurity. And by this means, we may, perhaps, attain a new
microscope or species of optics, by which, in the moral
sciences, the most minute, and most simple ideas may be so
enlarged as to fall readily under our apprehension, and be
equally known with the grossest and most sensible ideas, that
can be the object of our enquiry.
To be fully acquainted, therefore, with the idea of power
or necessary connexion, let us examine its impression; and
in order to find the impression with greater certainty, let us
search for it in all the sources, from which it may possibly
be derived.
When we look about us towards external objects, and
consider the operation of causes, we are never able, in
a single instance, to discover any power or necessary con-
nexion; any quality, which binds the effect to the cause,
and renders the one an infallible consequence of the other.
We only find, that the one does actually, in fact, follow the
other. The impulse of one billiard-ball is attended with
motion in the second. This is the whole that appears to
the outward senses. The mind feels no sentiment or inward
impression from this succession of objects: consequently,
there is not, in any single, particular instance of cause and
effect, any thing which can suggest the idea of power or
necessary connexion.
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 357
From the first appearance of an object, we never can
conjecture what effect will result from it. But were the
power or energy of any cause discoverable by the mind, we
could foresee the effect, even without experience ; and might,
at first, pronounce with certainty concerning it, by mere dint
of thought and reasoning.
In reality, there is no part of matter, that does ever, by
its sensible qualities, discover any power or energy, or give
us ground to imagine, that it could produce any thing, or
be followed by any other object, which we could denominate
its effect. Solidity, extension, motion; these qualities are
all complete in themselves, and never point out any other
event which may result from them. The scenes of the uni-
verse are continually shifting, and one object follows another
in an uninterrupted succession; but the power of force,
which actuates the whole machine, is entirely concealed
from us, and never discovers itself in any of the sensible
qualities of body. We know that, in fact, heat is a constant
attendant of flame; but what is the connexion between them,
we have no room so much as to conjecture or imagine.
It is impossible, therefore, that the idea of power can be
derived from the contemplation of bodies, in single instances
of their operation; because no bodies ever discover any
power, which can be the original of this idea.^
Since, therefore, external objects as they appear to the
senses, give us no idea of power or necessary connexion, by
their operation in particular instances, let us see, whether
this idea be derived from reflection on the operations of our
own minds, and be copied from any internal impression.
It may be said, that we are every moment conscious of
internal power; while we feel, that, by the simple command
of our will, we can move the organs of our body, or direct
the faculties of our mind. An act of volition produces
motion in our limbs, or raises a new idea in our imagination.
This influence of the will we know by consciousness. Hence
we acquire the idea of power or energy; and are certain,
' Mr. Locke, in his chapter of power, says that, finding from experience,
that there are several new productions in matter, and concluding that there
must somewhere be a power capable of producing them, we arrive at last
by this reasoning at the idea of power. But no reasoning can ever give us
a new, original, simple idea; as^ this philosopher himself confesses. This,
therefore, can never be the origin of that idea.
358 DAVID HUME
that we ourselves and all other intelligent beings are pos-
sessed of power. This idea, then, is an idea of reflection,
since it arises from reflecting on the operations of our own
mind, and on the command which is exercised by will, both
over the organs of the body and faculties of the soul.
We shall proceed to examine this pretension; and first
with regard to the influence of volition over the organs of
the body. This influence, we may observe, is a fact, which,
like all other natural events, can be known only by experi-
ence, and can never be foreseen from any apparent energy
or power ki the cause, which connects it with the effect, and
renders the one an infallible consequence of the other.
The motion of our body follows upon the command of our
will. Of this we are every moment conscious. But the
means, by which this is effected; the energy, by which the
will performs so extraordinary an operation; of this we are
so far from being immediately conscious, that it must for
ever escape our most diligent enquiry.
For first: Is there any principle in all nature more
mysterious than the union of soul with body; by which a
supposed spiritual substance acquires such an influence over
a material one, that the most refined thought is able to
actuate the grossest matter? Were we empowered, by a
secret wish, to remove mountains, or control the planets in
their orbit; this extensive authority would not be more
extraordinary, nor more beyond our comprehension. But
if by consciousness we perceived any power or energy in the
will, we must know this power ; we must know its connexion
with the effect ; we must know the secret union of soul and
body, and the nature of both these substances; by which
the one is able to operate, in so many instances, upon the
other.
Secondly, We are not able to move all the organs of the
body with a like authority; though we cannot assign any
reason besides experience, for so remarkable a difference
between one and the other. Why has the will an influence
over the tongue and fingers, not over the heart or liver?
This question would never embarrass us, were we conscious
of a power in the former case, not in the latter. We should
then perceive, independent of experience, why the authority
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 359
of will over the organs of the body is circumscribed within
such particular limits. Being in that case fully acquainted
with the power or force, by which it operates, we should also
know, why its influence reaches precisely to such boundaries,
and no farther.
A man, suddenly struck with palsy in the leg or arm, or
who had newly lost those members, frequently endeavours,
at first to move them, and employ them, in their usual ofiices.
Here he is as much conscious of power to command such
limbs, as a man in perfect health is conscious of power to
actuate any member which remains in its natural state and
condition. But consciousness never deceives. Consequently,
neither in the one case nor in the other, are we ever
conscious of any power. We learn the influence of our will
from experience alone. And experience only teaches us,
how one event constantly follows another; without in-
structing us in the secret connexion, which binds them
togetjier, and renders them inseparable.
Thirdly, We learn from anatomy, that the immediate
object of power in voluntary motion, is not the member
itself which is moved, but certain muscles, and nerves, and
animal spirits, and, perhaps, something still more minute
and more unknown, through which the motion is successively
propagated, ere it reach the member itself whose motion is
the immediate object of volition. Can there be a more
certain proof, that the power, by which this whole operation
is performed, so far from being directly and fully known by
an inward sentiment or consciousness is, to the last degree,
mysterious and unintelligible ? Here the mind wills a certain
event. Immediately another event, unknown to ourselves,
and totally different from the one intended, is produced:
This event produces another, equally unknown: till at last,
through a long succession, the desired event is produced.
But if the original power were felt, it must be known : were
it known, its effect also must be known; since all power is
relative to its effect. And vice versa, if the effect be not
known, the power cannot be known nor felt. How indeed
can we be conscious of a power to move our limbs, when
we have no such power; but only that to move certain
animal spirits, which, though they produce at last the motion
360 DAVID HUME
of our limbs, yet operate in such a manner as is wholly
beyond our comprehension?
We may, therefore, conclude from the whole, I hope,
without any temerity, though with assurance; that our idea
of power is not copied from any sentiment or consciousness
of power within ourselves, when we give rise to animal
motion, or apply our limbs to their proper use and office.
That their motion follows the command of the will is a
matter of common experience, like other natural events:
But the power or energy by which this is effected, like that
in other natural events, is unknown and inconceivable.*
Shall we then assert, that we are conscious of a power or
energy in our own minds, when, by an act or command of
our will, we raise up a new idea, fix the mind to the con-
templation of it, turn it on all sides, and at last dismiss it
for some other idea, when we think that we have surveyed it
with sufficient accuracy? I believe the same arguments will
prove, that even this command of the will gives us ng real
idea of force or energy.
First, It must be allowed, that, when we know a power,
we know that very circumstance in the cause, by which it is
enabled to produce the effect: for these are supposed to be
synonymous. We must, therefore, know both the cause and
effect, and the relation between them. But do we pretend
to be acquainted with the nature of the human soul and the
nature of an idea, or the aptitude of the one to produce the
other? This is a real creation; a production of something
out of nothing: which implies a power so great, that it may
seem, at first sight, beyond the reach of any being, less than
infinite. At least it must be owned, that such a power is
2 It may be pretended, that the resistance which we meet with in bodies,
obliging us frequently to exert our force, and call up all our power, this
gives us the idea of force and power. It is this nisus, or strong endeavour,
of which we are conscious, that is the original impression from which this
idea is copied. But, first, we attribute power to a vast number of objects,
where we never can suppose this resistance or exertion of force to take
place; to the Supreme Being, who never meets with any resistance ; to
the mind in its command over its ideas and limbs, in common thinking
and motion, where the effect follows immediately upon the will, without
any exertion or summoning up of force; to inanimate matter, which is not
capable of this sentiment. Secondly, This sentiment of an endeavour to
overcome resistance has no known connexion with any event: What follows
it, we know by experience; but could not know it a priori. It must, ho>y-
ever, be confessed, that the animal nisus, which we experience, though it
can afford no accurate precise idea of power, enters very much into that
vulgar, inaccurate idea, which is formed of it.
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 361
not felt, nor known, nor even conceivable by the mind.
We only feel the event, namely, the existence of an idea,
consequent to a command of the will: but the manner, in
which this operation is performed, the power by which it is
produced, is entirely beyond our comprehension.
Secondly, The command of the mind over itself is limited,
as well as its command over the body; and these limits are
not known by reason, or any acquaintance with the nature
of cause and effect, but only by experience and observation,
as in all other natural events and in the operation of external
objects. Our authority over our sentiments and passions is
much weaker than that over our ideas; and even the latter
authority is circumscribed within very narrow boundaries.
Will any one pretend to assign the ultimate reason of these
boundaries, or show why the power is deficient in one case,
not in another.
Thirdly, This self-command is very different at different
times. A man in health possesses more of it than one
languishing with sickness. We are more master of our
thoughts in the morning than in the evening: fasting, than
after a full meal. Can we give any reason for these varia-
tions, except experience? Where then is the power, of which
we pretend to be conscious? Is there not here, either in
a spiritual or material substance, or both, some secret mech-
anism or structure of parts, upon which the effect de-
pends, and which, being entirely unknown to us, renders
the power or energy of the will equally unknown and
incomprehensible ?
Volition is surely an act of the mind, with which we are
sufficiently acquainted. Reflect upon it. Consider it on
all sides. Do you find anything in it like this creative power,
by which it raises from nothing a new idea, and with a kind
of Fiat, imitates the omnipotence of its Maker, if I may be
allowed so to speak, who called forth into existence all the
various scenes of nature? So far from being conscious of
this energy in the will, it requires as certain experience as
that of which we are possessed, to convince us that such ex-
traordinary effects do ever result from a simple act of
volition.
The generality of mankind never find any difficulty in
362 DAVID HUME
accounting for the more common and familiar operations of
nature — such as the descent of heavy bodies, the growth
of plants, the generation of animals, or the nourishment of
bodies by food: but suppose that, in all these cases, they
perceive the very force or energy of the cause, by which it is
connected with its effect, and is for ever infallible in its
operation. They acquire, by long habit, such a turn of
mind, that, upon the appearance of the cause, they immedi-
ately expect with assurance its usual attendant, and hardly
conceive it possible that any other event could result from
it. It is only on the discovery of extraordinary phaenomena,
such as earthquakes, pestilence, and prodigies of any kind,
that they find themselves at a loss to assign a proper cause,
and to explain the manner in which the effect is produced
by it. It is usual for men, in such difficulties, to have re-
course to some invisible intelligent principle* as the imme-
diate cause of that event which surprises them, and which,
they think, cannot be accounted for from the common
powers of nature. But philosophers, who carry their scrutiny
a little farther, immediately perceive that, even in the most
familiar events, the energy of the cause is as unintelligible
as in the most unusual, and that we only learn by experience
the frequent Conjunction of objects, without being ever able
to comprehend anything like Connexion between them.
Here, then, many philosophers think themselves obliged by
reason to have recourse, on all occasions, to the same
principle, which the vulgar never appeal to but in cases
that appear miraculous and supernatural They acknowledge
mind and intelligence to be, not only the ultimate and
original cause of all things, but the immediate and sole cause
of every event which appears in nature. They pretend
that those objects which are commonly denominated causes,
are in reality nothing but occasions; and that the true and
direct principle of every effect is not any power or force in
nature, but a volition of the Supreme Being, who wills that
such particular objects should for ever be conjoined with
each other. Instead of saying that one billiard-ball moves
another by a force which it has derived from the author of
nature, it is the Deity himself, they say, who, by a particular
4 ©ebs aTTO fjLTixo-v^i'
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 363
volition, moves the second ball, being determined to this
operation by the impulse of the first ball, in consequence
of those general laws which he has laid down to himself in
the government of the universe. But philosophers advanc-
ing still in their inquiries, discover that, as we are totally
ignorant of the power on which depends the mutual opera-
tion of bodies, we are no less ignorant of that power on
which depends the operation of mind on body, or of body
on mind, nor are we able, either from our senses or con-
sciousness, to assign the ultimate principle in one case more
than in the other. The same ignorance, therefore, reduces
them to the same conclusion. They assert that the Deity
is the immediate cause of the union between soul and body ;
and that they are not the organs of sense, which, being
agitated by external objects, produce sensations in the mind;
but that it is a particular volition of our omnipotent Maker,
which excites such a sensation, in consequence of such a
motion in the organ. In like manner, it is not any energy
in the will that produces local motion in our members: it
is God himself, who is pleased to second our will, in itself
impotent, and to command that motion which we erro-
neously attribute to our own power and efficacy. Nor do
philosophers stop at this conclusion. They sometimes extend
the same inference to the mind itself, in its internal opera-
tions. Our mental vision or conception of ideas is noth-
ing but a revelation made to us by our Maker. When
we voluntarily turn our thoughts to any object, and raise up
its image in the fancy, it is not the will which creates that
idea: it is the universal Creator, who discovers it to the
mind, and renders it present to us.
Thus, according to these philosophers, every thing is full
of God. Not content with the principle, that nothing exists
but by his will, that nothing possesses any power but by his
concession: they rob nature, and all created beings, of
every power, in order to render their dependence on the
Deity still more sensible and immediate. They consider
not that, by this theory, they diminish, instead of magni-
fying, the grandeur of those attributes, which they affect so
much to celebrate. It argues surely more power in the
Deity to delegate a certain degree of power to inferior
364 DAVID HUME
creatures than to produce every thing by his own im-
mediate volition. It argues more wisdom to contrive at
first the fabric of the world with such perfect foresight
that, of itself, and by its proper operation, it may serve all
the purposes of providence, than if the great Creator were
obliged every moment to adjust its parts, and animate by
his breath all the wheels of that stupendous machine.
But if we would have a more philosophical confutation
of this theory, perhaps the two following reflections may
suffice :
First, it seems to me that this theory of the universal
energy and operation of the Supreme Being is too bold
ever to carry conviction with it to a man, sufficiently ap-
prized of the weakness of human reason, and the narrow
limits to which it is confined in all its operations. Though
the chain of arguments which conduct to it were ever so
logical, there must arise a strong suspicion, if not an
absolute assurance, that it has carried us quite beyond the
reach of our faculties, when it leads to conclusions so
extraordinary, and so remote from common life and ex*
perience. We are got into fairy land, long ere we have
reached the last steps of our theory; and there we have no
reason to trust our common methods of argument, or to
think that our usual analogies and probabilities have any
Authority. Our line is too short to fathom such immense
ibysses. And however we may flatter ourselves that we
are guided, in every step which we take, by a kind of ver-
isimilitude and experience, we may be assured that this
fancied experience has no authority when we thus apply
it to subjects that lie entirely out of the sphere of ex-
perience. But on this we shall have occasion to touch
afterwards.^
Secondly, I cannot perceive any force in the arguments
on which this theory is founded. We are ignorant, it is
true, of the manner in which bodies operate on each other:
their force or energy is entirely incomprehensible: but are
we not equally ignorant of the manner or force by which
a mind, even the supreme mind, operates either on itself or
on body? Whence, I beseech you, do we acquire any idea
^ Section XII.
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 365
of it? We have no sentiment or consciousness of this power
in ourselves. We have no idea of the Supreme Being but
what we learn from reflection on our own faculties. Were
our ignorance, therefore, a good reason for rejecting any
thing, we should be led into that principle of denying all
energy in the Supreme Being as much as in the grossest
matter. We surely comprehend as little the operations of
one as of the other. Is it more difficult to conceive that
motion may arise from impulse than that it may arise from
volition? All we know is our profound ignorance in both
cases.*
Part II
But to hasten to a conclusion of this argument, which is
already drawn out to too great a length : we have sought
in vain for an idea of power or necessary connexion in all
the sources from which we could suppose it to be derived.
It appears that, in single instances of the operation of bodies,
we never can, by our utmost scrutiny, discover any thing
but one event following another, without being able to com-
prehend any force or power by which the cause operates, or
any connexion between it and its supposed effect. The same
difficulty occurs in contemplating the operations of mind on
body — where we observe the motion of the latter to follow
upon the volition of the former, but are not able to observe
or conceive the tie which binds together the motion and
volition, or the energy by which the mind produces this
* I need not examine at length the vis inertiae which is so much talked
of in the new philosophy, and which is ascribed to matter. We find by
experience, that a body at rest or in motion continues for ever in its present
state, till put from it by some new cause; and that a body impelled takes
as much motion from the impelling body as it acquires itself. These are
facts. When we call this a vis inertiae, we only mark these facts, without
pretending to have any idea of the inert power; in the same manner as,
when we talk of gravity, we mean certain effects, without comprehending
that active power. It was never the meaning of Sir Isaac Newton to rob
second causes of all force or energy; though some of his followers have
endeavoured to establish that theory upon his authority. On the contrary,
that great philosopher had recourse to an etherial active fluid to explain
his universal attraction; though he was so cautious and modest as to allow,
that it was a mere hypothesis, not to be insisted on, without more experi-
ments, I must confess, that there is something in the fate of opinions a
little extraordinary. Des Cartes insinuated that doctrine of the universal
and sole efficacy of the Deity, without insisting on it. Malebranche and other
Cartesians made it the foundation of all their philosophy. It had, however,
no authority in England. Locke, Clarke, and Cudworth, never so much
as take notice of it, but suppose all along, that matter has a real, though
subordinate and derived power. By what means has it become so prevalent
among our modern metaphysicians?
366 DAVID HUME
effect. The authority of the will over its own faculties and
ideas is not a whit more comprehensible: so that, upon the
whole, there appears not, throughout all nature, any one in-
stance of connexion which is conceivable by us. All events
seem entirely loose and separate. One event follows an-
other ; but we never can observe any tie between them. They
seem conjoined, but never connected. And as we can have
no idea of any thing which never appeared to our outward
sense or inward sentiment, the necessary conclusion seems to
be that we have no idea of connexion or power at all, and
that these words are absolutely, without any meaning, when
employed either in philosophical reasonings or common life.
But there still remains one method of avoiding this con-
clusion, and one source which we have not yet examined.
When any natural object or event is presented, it is im-
possible for us, by any sagacity or penetration, to discover,
or even conjecture, without experience, what event will
result from it, or to carry our foresight beyond that object
which is immediately present to the memory and senses.
Even after one instance or experiment where we have ob-
served a particular event to follow upon another, we are not
entitled to form a general rule, or foretell what will happen
in like cases; it being justly esteemed an unpardonable
temerity to judge of the whole course of nature from one
single experiment, however accurate or certain. But when
one particular species of event has always, in all instances,
been conjoined with another, we make no longer any scruple
of foretelling one upon the appearance of the other, and of
employing that reasoning, which can alone assure us of any
matter of fact or existence. We then call the one object.
Cause; the other. Effect. We suppose that there is some
connexion between them; some power in the one, by which
it infallibly produces the other, and operates with the great-
est certainty and strongest necessity.
It appears, then, that this idea of a necessary connexion
among events arises from a number of similar instances
which occur of the constant conjunction of these events;
nor can that idea ever be suggested by any one of these
instances, surveyed in all possible lights and positions. But
there is nothing in a number of instances, different from
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 367
every single instance, which is supposed to be exactly
similar; except only, that after a repetition of similar in-
stances, the mind is carried by habit, upon the appearance
of one event, to expect its usual attendant, and to believe
that it will exist. This connexion, therefore, which we feel
in the mind, this customary transition of the imagination
from one object to its usual attendant, is the sentiment or
impression from which we form the idea of power or neces-
sary connexion. Nothing farther is in the case. Contem-
plate the subject on all sides; you will never find any other
origin of that idea. This is the sole difference between one
instance, from which we can never receive the idea of con-
nexion, and a number of similar instances, by which it is
suggested. The first time a man saw the communication of
motion by impulse, as by the shock of two billiard balls, he
could not pronounce that the one event was connected: but
only that it was conjoined with the other. After he has ob-
served several instances of this nature, he then pronounces
them to be connected. What alteration has happened to give
rise to this new idea of connexion? Nothing but that he
now feels these events to be connected in his imagination, and
can readily foretell the existence of one from the appearance
of the other. When we say, therefore, that one object is
connected with another, we mean only that they have ac-
quired a connexion in our thought, and give rise to this
inference, by which they become proofs of each other's ex-
istence: A conclusion which is somewhat extraordinary, but
which seems founded on sufficient evidence. Nor will its
evidence be weakened by any general diffidence of the un-
derstanding, or sceptical suspicion concerning every con-
clusion which is new and extraordinary. No conclusions
can be more agreeable to scepticism than such as make dis-
coveries concerning the weakness and narrow limits of
human reason and capacity.
And what stronger instance can be produced of the sur-
prising ignorance and weakness of the understanding than
the present. For surely, if there be any relation among
objects which it imports to us to know perfectly, it is that of
cause and effect. On this are founded all our reasonings
concerning matter of fact or existence. By means of it
368 DAVID HUME
alone we attain any assurance concerning objects which are
removed from the present testimony of our memory and
senses. The only immediate utility of all sciences, is to
teach us, how to control and regulate future events by their
causes. Our thoughts and enquiries are, therefore, every
moment, employed about this relation: yet so imperfect are
the ideas which we form concerning it, that it is impossible
to give any just definition of cause, except what is drawn
from something extraneous and foreign to it. Similar ob-
jects are always conjoined with similar. Of this we have
experience. Suitably to this experience, therefore, we may
define a cause to be an object, followed by another, and
where all the objects similar to the first are followed by
objects similar to the second. Or in other words where, if
the first object had not been, the second never had existed.
The appearance of a cause always conveys the mind, by a
customary transition, to the idea of the effect. Of this also
we have experience. We may, therefore, suitably to this
experience, form another definition of cause, and call it,
an object followed by another, and whose appearance always
conveys the thought to that other. But though both these
definitions be drawn from circumstances foreign to the
cause, we cannot remedy this inconvenience, or attain any
more perfect definition, which may point out that circum-
stance in the cause, which gives it a connexion with its
effect. We have no idea of this connexion, nor even any
distant notion what it is we desire to know, when we en-
deavour at a conception of it. We say, for instance, that
the vibration of this string is the cause of this particular
sound. But what do we mean by that affirmation? We
either mean that this vibration is followed by this sound, and
that all similar vibrations have been followed by similar
sounds ' or, that this vibration is followed by this sound, and
that upon the appearance of one the mind anticipates the
senses, and forms immediately an idea of the other. We
may consider the relation of cause and effect in either of
these two lights ; but beyond these, we have no idea of it.^
To recapitulate, therefore, the reasonings of this section:
' According to these explications and definitions, the idea of power is
relative as much as that of cause; and both have a reference to an effect, or
some other event constantly conjoined with the former. When we consider
IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 369
Every idea is copied from some preceding impression or
sentiment; and where we cannot find any impression, we
may be certain that there is no idea. In all single instances
of the operation of bodies or minds, there is nothing that
produces any impression, nor consequently can suggest any
idea of power or necessary connexion. But when many
uniform instances appear, and the same object is always
followed by the same event; we then begin to entertain
the notion of cause and connexion. We then feel a new
sentiment or impression, to wit, a customary connexion in
the thought or imagination between one object and its
usual attendant; and this sentiment is the original of that
idea which we seek for. For as this idea arises from
a number of similar instances, and not from any single
instance, it must arise from that circumstance, in which
the number of instances differ from every individual in-
stance. But this customary connexion or transition of the
imagination is the only circumstance in which they dif-
fer. In every other particular they are alike. The first
instance which we saw of motion communicated by the
shock of two billiard balls (to return to this obvious illustra-
tion) is exactly similar to any instance that may, at present,
occur to us; except only, that we could not, at first, infer
one event from the other; which we are enabled to do
the unknown circumstance of an object, by which the degree or quantity
of its effect is fixed and determined, we call that its power: and accordingly,
it is allowed by all philosophers, that the effect is the measure of the power.
But if they had any idea of power, as it is in itself, why could not they
Measure it in itself? The dispute whether the force of a body in motion
be as its velocity, or the square of its velocity; this dispute, I say, need not
be decided by comparing its effects in equal or unequal times; but by a
direct mensuration and comparison.
As to the frequent use of the words, Force, Power, Energy, &c., which
every where occur in common conversation, as well as in philosophy; that is
no proof, that we are acquainted, in any instance, with the connecting
principle between cause and effect, or can account ultimately for the pro-
duction of one thing to another. These words, as commonly used, have
very loose meanings annexed to them; and their ideas are very uncertain
and confused. No animal can put external bodies in motion without the
sentiment of a nisus or endeavour; and every animal has a sentiment or
feeling from the stroke or blow of an external object, that is in motion.
These sensations, which are merely animal, and from which we can d priori
draw no inference, we are apt to transfer to inanimate objects, and to sup-
pose, that they have some such feelings, whenever they transfer or receive
motion. With regard to energies, which are exerted, without our annexing
to them any idea of communicated motion, we consider only the constant
experienced conjunction of the events; and as we feel a customary con-
nexion between the ideas, we transfer that feeling to the objects; as nothing
is more usual than to apply to external bodies every internal sensation,
which they occasion.
370 DAVID HUME
at present, after so long a course of uniform experience.
I know not whether the reader will readily apprehend this
reasoning. I am afraid that, should I multiply words about
it, or throw it into a greater variety of lights, it would only
become more obscure and intricate. In all abstract reason-
ings there is one point of view which, if we can happily
hit, we shall go farther towards illustrating the subject
than by all the eloquence and copious expression in the
world. This point of view we should endeavour to reach,
and reserve the flowers of rhetoric for subjects which are
more adapted to them.
SECTION VIII
OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY
Part I
IT might reasonably be expected in questions which have
been canvassed and disputed with great eagerness, since
the first origin of science, and philosophy, that the
meaning of all the terms, at least, should have been agreed
upon among the disputants ; and our enquiries, in the course
of two thousand years, been able to pass from words to
the true and real subject of the controversy. For how
easy may it seem to give exact definitions of the terms
employed in reasoning, and make these definitions, not the
mere sound of words, the object of future scrutiny and
examination ? But if we consider the matter more narrowly,
we shall be apt to draw a quite opposite conclusion. From
this circumstance alone, that a controversy has been long
kept on foot, and remains still undecided, we may presume
that there is some ambiguity in the expression, and that the
disputants affix different ideas to the terms employed in the
controversy. For as the faculties of the mind are supposed
to be naturally alike in every individual; otherwise nothing
could be more fruitless than to reason or dispute together;
it were impossible, if men affix the same ideas to their
terms, that they could so long form different opinions of
the same subject; especially when they communicate their
views, and each party turn themselves on all sides, in search
of arguments which may give them the victory over their
antagonists. It is true, if men attempt the discussion of
questions which lie entirely beyond the reach of human
capacity, such as those concerning the origin of worlds, or
the economy of the intellectual system or region of spirits,
they may long beat the air in their fruitless contests, and
never arrive at any determinate conclusion. But if the
371
372 DAVID HUME
question regard any subject of common life and experience,
nothing, one would think, could preserve the dispute so
long undecided but some ambiguous expressions, which
keep the antagonists still at a distance, and hinder them
from grappling with each other.
This has been the case in the long disputed question
concerning liberty and necessity; and to so remarkable
a degree that, if I be not much mistaken, we shall find,
that all mankind, both learned and ignorant, have always
been of the same opinion with regard to this subject, and
that a few intelligible definitions would immediately have
put an end to the whole controversy. I own that this
dispute has been so much canvassed on all hands, and has
led philosophers into such a labyrinth of obscure sophistry,
that it is no wonder, if a sensible reader indulge his ease so
far as to turn a deaf ear to the proposal of such a question,
from which he can expect neither instruction or entertain-
ment. But the state of the argument here proposed may,
perhaps, serve to renew his attention; as it has more
novelty, promises at least some decision of the controversy,
and will not much disturb his ease by any intricate or
obscure reasoning.
I hope, therefore, to make it appear that all men have
ever agreed in the doctrine both of necessity and of liberty,
according to any reasonable sense, which can be put on
these terms; and that the whole controversy, has hitherto
turned merely upon words. We shall begin with examining
the doctrine of necessity.
It is universally allowed that matter, in all its operations,
is actuated by a necessary force, and that every natural
effect is so precisely determined by the energy of its cause
that no other effect, in such particular circumstances, could
possibly have resulted from it. The degree and direction
of every motion is, by the laws of nature, prescribed with
such exactness that a living creature may as soon arise
from the shock of two bodies as motion in any other de-
gree or direction than what is actually produced by it.
Would we, therefore, form a just and precise idea of neces-
sity, we must consider whence that idea arises when we apply
it to the operation of bodies.
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 373
It seems evident that, if all the scenes of nature were
continually shifted in such a .manner that no two events
bore any resemblance to each other, but every object was
entirely new, without any similitude to whatever had been
seen before, we should never, in that case, have attained
the least idea of necessity, or of a connexion among these
objects. We might say, upon such a supposition, that one
object or event has followed another; not that one was
produced by the other. The relation of cause and effect
must be utterly unknown to mankind. Inference and rea-
soning concerning the operations of nature would, from
that moment, be at an end; and the memory and senses
remain the only canals, by which the knowledge of any
real existence could possibly have access to the mind. Our
idea, therefore, of necessity and causation arises entirely
from the uniformity observable in the operations of nature,
where similar objects are constantly conjoined together,
and the mind is determined by custom to infer the one
from the appearance of the other. These two circum-
stances form the whole of that necessity, which we ascribe
to matter. Beyond the constant conjunction of similar
objects, and the consequent inference from one to the other
we have no notion of any necessity or connexion.
If it appear, therefore, that all mankind have ever allowed,
without any doubt or hesitation, that these two circum-
stances take place in the voluntary actions of men, and in
the operations of mind; it must follow, that all mankind
have ever agreed in the doctrine of necessity, and that they
have hitherto disputed, merely for not understanding each
other.
As to the first circumstance, the constant and regular con-
junction of similar events, we may possibly satisfy ourselves
by the following considerations: It is universally acknowl-
edged that there is a great uniformity among the actions of
men, in all nations and ages, and that human nature remains
still the same, in its principles and operations. The same
motives always produce the same actions: the same events
follow from the same causes. Ambition, avarice, self-love,
vanity, friendship, generosity, public spirit : these passions,
mixed in various degrees, and distributed through society,
374 DAVID HUME
have been, from the beginning of the world, and still are,
the source of all the actions and enterprises, which have
ever been observed among mankind. Would you know the
sentiments, inclinations, and course of life of the Greeks
and Romans? Study well the temper and actions of the
French and English : You cannot be much mistaken in trans-
ferring to the former most of the observations which you
have made with regard to the latter. Mankind are so much
the same, in all times and places, that history informs us of
nothing new or strange in this particular. Its chief use is
only to discover the constant and universal principles of
human nature, by showing men in all varieties of circum-
stances and situations, and furnishing us with materials
from which we may form our observations and become ac-
quainted with the regular springs of human action and be-
haviour. These records of wars, intrigues, factions, and
revolutions, are so many collections of experiments, by
which the politician or moral philosopher fixes the prin-
ciples of his science, in the same manner as the physician
or natural philosopher becomes acquainted with the nature
of plants, minerals, and other external objects, by the ex-
periments which he forms concerning them. Nor are the
earth, water, and other elements, examined by Aristotle, and
Hippocrates, more like to those which at present lie under
our observation than the men described by Polybius and
Tacitus are to those who now govern the world.
Should a traveller, returning from a far country, bring us
an account of men, wholly different from any with whom
we were ever acquainted; men, who were entirely divested
of avarice, ambition, or revenge; who knew no pleasure but
friendship, generosity, and public spirit; we should immedi-
ately, from these circumstances, detect the falsehood, and
prove him a liar, with the same certainty as if he had stuffed
his narration with stories of centaurs and dragons, miracles
and prodigies. And if we would explode any forgery in
history, we cannot make use of a more convincing argu-
ment, than to prove, that the actions ascribed to any person
are directly contrary to the course of nature, and that no
human motives, in such circumstances, could ever induce
him to such a conduct. The veracity of Quintus Curtius
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 375
IS as much to be suspected, when he describes the super-
natural courage of Alexander, by which he was hurried on
singly to attack multitudes, as when he describes his super-
natural force and activity, by which he was able to resist
them. So readily and universally do we acknowledge a uni-
formity in human motives and actions as well as in the
operations of body.
Hence likewise the benefit of that experience, acquired
by long life and a variety of business and company, in order
to instruct us in the principles of human nature, and regu-
late our future conduct, as well as speculation. By means
of this guide, we mount up to the knowledge of men's in-
clinations and motives, from their actions, expressions, and
even gestures ; and again descend to the interpretation of
their actions from our knowledge of their motives and in-
clinations. The general observations treasured up by a
course of experience, give us the clue of human nature, and
teach us to unravel all its intricacies. Pretexts and appear-
ances no longer deceive us. Public declarations pass for the
specious colouring of a cause. And though virtue and
honour be allowed their proper weight and authority, that
perfect disinterestedness, so often pretended to, is never ex-
pected in multitudes and parties ; seldom in their leaders ;
and scarcely even in individuals of any rank or station. But
were there no uniformity in human actions, and were every
experiment which we could form of this kind irregular and
anomalous, it were impossible to collect any general observa-
tions concerning mankind; and no experience, however ac-
curately digested by reflection, would ever serve to any
purpose. Why is the aged husbandman more skilful in his
calling than the young beginner but because there is a
certain uniformity in the operation of the sun, rain, and
earth towards the production of vegetables; and experience
teaches the old practitioner the rules by which this operation
is governed and directed.
We must not, however, expect that this uniformity of
human actions should be carried to such a length as that all
men, in the same circumstances, will always act precisely in
the same manner, without making any allowance for the
diversity of characters, prejudices, and opinions. Such a
376 DAVID HUME
uniformity in every particular, is found in no part of nature.
On the contrary, from observing the variety of conduct in
different men, we are enabled to form a greater variety of
maxims, which still suppose a degree of uniformity and
regularity.
Are the manners of men different in different ages and
countries? We learn thence the great force of custom and
education, which mould the human mind from its infancy
and form it into a fixed and established character. Is the
behaviour and conduct of the one sex very unlike that of
the other? Is it thence we become acquainted with the
different characters which nature has impressed upon the
sexes, and which she preserves with constancy and regu-
larity? Are the actions of the same person much diversified
in the different periods of his life, from infancy to old age?
This affords room for many general observations concerning
the gradual change of our sentiments and inclinations, and
the different maxims which prevail in the different ages of
human creatures. Even the characters, which are peculiar
to each individual, have a uniformity in their influence;
otherwise our acquaintance with the persons and our obser-
vation of their conduct could never teach us their disposi-
tions, or serve to direct our behaviour with regard to them.
I grant it possible to find some actions, which seem to
have no regular connexion with any known motives, and
are exceptions to all the measures of conduct which have
ever been established for the government of men. But
if we would willingly know what judgment should be formed
of such irregular and extraordinary actions, we may con-
sider the sentiments commonly entertained with regard to
those irregular events which appear in the course of nature,
and the operations of external objects. All causes are not
conjoined to their usual effects with like uniformity. An
artificer, who handles only dead matter, may be disappointed
of his aim, as well as the politician, who directs the conduct
of sensible and intelligent agents.
The vulgar, who take things according to their first ap-
pearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to such an
uncertainty in the causes as makes the latter often fail
of their usual influence; though they meet with no impedi-
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 377
merit in their operation. But philosophers, observing that,
almost in every part of nature, there is contained a vast
variety of springs and principles, which are hid, by reason
of their minuteness or remoteness, find, that it is at least
possible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any
contingency in the cause, but from the secret operation of
contrary causes. This possibility is converted into cer-
tainty by farther observation, when they remark that, upon
an exact scrutiny, a contrariety of effects always betrays
a contrariety of causes, and proceeds from their mutual
opposition. A peasant can give no better reason for the
stopping of any clock or watch than to say that it does not
commonly go right: But an artist easily perceives that the
same force in the spring or pendulum has always the same
influence on the wheels; but fails of its usual effects, perhaps
by reason of a grain of dust, which puts a stop to the
whole movement. From the observation of several parallel
instances, philosophers form a maxim that the connexion
between all causes and effects is equally necessary, and
that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds
from the secret opposition of contrary causes.
Thus, for instance, in the human body, when the usual
symptoms of health or sickness disappoint our expectation;
when medicines operate not with their wonted powers;
when irregular events follow from any particular cause ; the
philosopher and physician are not surprised at the matter,
nor are ever tempted to deny, in general, the necessity and
uniformity of those principles by which the animal economy
is conducted. They know that a human body is a mighty
complicated machine: That many secret powers lurk in it,
which are altogether beyond our comprehension: That to
us it must often appear very uncertain in its operations : And
that therefore the irregular events, which outwardly discover
themselves, can be no proof that the laws of nature are
not observed with the greatest regularity in its internal
operations and government.
The philosopher, if he be consistent, must apply the same
reasoning to the actions and volitions of intelligent agents.
The most irregular and unexpected resolutions of men may
frequently be accounted for by those who know every par-
378 DAVID HUME
ticular circumstance of their character and situation. A
person of an obliging disposition gives a peevish answer:
But he has he toothache, or has not dined. A stupid fellow
discovers an uncommon alacrity in his carriage : But he
has met with a sudden piece of good fortune. Or even when
an action, as sometimes happens, cannot be particularly ac-
counted for, either by the person himself or by others; we
know, in general, that the characters of men are, to a certain
degree, inconstant and irregular. This is, in a manner, the
constant character of human nature; though it be appli-
cable, in a more particular manner, to some persons who
have no fixed rule for their conduct, but proceed in a con-
tinued course of caprice and inconstancy. The internal
principles and motives may operate in a uniform manner,
notwithstanding these seeming irregularities; in the same
manner as the winds, rain, cloud, and other variations of
the weather are supposed to be governed by steady prin-
ciples; though not easily discoverable by human sagacity
and enquiry.
Thus it appears, not only that the conjunction between
motives and voluntary actions is as regular and uniform
as that between the cause and effect in any part of nature ;
but also that this regular conjunction has been universally
acknowledged among mankind, and has never been the
subject of dispute, either in philosophy or common life.
Now, as it is from past experience that we draw all infer-
ences concerning the future, and as we conclude that objects
will always be conjoined together which we find to have
always been conjoined; it may seem superfluous to prove
that this experienced uniformity in human actions is a source
whence we draw inferences concerning them. But in order
to throw the argument into a greater variety of lights we
shall also insist, though briefly, on this latter topic.
The mutual dependence of men is so great in all societies
that scarce any human action is entirely complete in itself,
or is performed without some reference to the actions of
others, which are requisite to make it answer fully the in-
tention of the agent. The poorest artificer, who labours
alone, expects at least the protection of the magistrate, to
ensure him the enjoyment of the fruits of his labour. He
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 379
also expects that, when he carries his goods to market, and
offers them at a reasonable price, he shall find purchasers,
and shall be able, by the money he acquires, to engage others
to supply him with those commodities which are requisite
for his subsistence. In proportion as men extend their deal-
ings, and render their intercourse with others more com-
plicated, they always comprehend, in their schemes of life,
a greater variety of voluntary actions, which they expect,
from the proper motives, to co-operate with their own. In
all these conclusions they take their measures from past ex-
perience, in the same manner as in their reasonings con-
cerning external objects; and firmly believe that men, as
well as all the elements, are to continue, in their operations,
the same that they have ever found them. A manufacturer
reckons upon the labour of his servants for the execution of
any work as much as upon the tools which he employs,
and would be equally surprised were his expectations dis-
appointed. In short, this experimental inference and rea-
soning concerning the actions of others enters so much into
human life that no man, while awake, is ever a moment
without employing it. Have we not reason, therefore, to
affirm that all mankind have always agreed in the doctrine
of necessity according to the foregoing definition and ex-
plication of it?
Nor have philosophers even entertained a different
opinion from the people in this particular. For, not to men-
tion that almost every action of their life supposes that
opinion, there are even few of the speculative parts of learn-
ing to which it is not essential. What would become of
history, had we not a dependence on the veracity of the
historian according to the experience which we have had of
mankind? How could politics be a science, if laws and
forms of government had not a uniform influence upon
society? Where would be the foundation of morals, if par-
ticular characters had no certain or determinate power to
produce particular sentiments, and if these sentiments had
no constant operation on actions? And with what pretence
could we employ our criticism upon any poet or polite author,
if we could not pronounce the conduct and sentiments of
his actors either natural or unnatural to such characters,
380 DAVID HUME
and in such circumstances? It seems almost impossible,
therefore, to engage either in science or action of any kind
without acknowledging the doctrine of necessity, and this
inference from motive to voluntary actions, from characters
to conduct.
And indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and
moral evidence link together, and form only one chain of
argument, we shall make no scruple to allow that they are
of the same nature, and derived from the same principles.
A prisoner who has neither money nor interest, discovers
the impossibility of his escape, as well when he considers
the obstinacy of the gaoler, as the walls and bars with
which he is surrounded ; and, in all attempts for his freedom,
chooses rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one,
than upon the inflexible nature of the other. The same
prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death
as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of his guards, as
from the operation of the axe or wheel. His mind runs
along a certain train of ideas : the refusal of the soldiers
to consent to his escape; the action of the executioner;
the separation of the head and body; bleeding, convulsive
motions, and death. Here is a connected chain of natural
causes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no differ-
ence between them in passing from one link to another:
Nor is it less certain of the future event than if it were con-
nected with the objects present to the memory or senses, by
a train of causes, cemented together by what we are pleased
to call a physical necessity. The same experienced union
has the same effect on the mind, whether the united objects
be motives, volition, and actions; or figure and motion. We
may change the name of things; but their nature and their
operation on the understanding never change.
Were a man, whom I know to be honest and opulent,
and with whom I live in intimate friendship, to come into
my house, where I am surrounded with my servants, I rest
assured that he is not to stab me before he leaves it in
order to rob me of my silver standish; and I no more
suspect this event than the falling of the house itself, which
is new, and solidly built and founded. — But he may have
been seised with a sudden and unknown frenzy. — So may
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 381
a sudden earthquake arise, and shake and tumble my house
about my ears. I shall therefore change the suppositions.
I shall say that I know with certainty that he is not to put
his hand into the fire and hold it there till it be consumed:
and this event, I think I can foretell with the same assurance,
as that, if he throw himself out at the window, and meet
with no obstruction, he will not remain a moment suspended
in the air. No suspicion of an unknown frenzy can give
the least possibility to the former event, which is so con-
trary to all the known principles of human nature. A man
who at noon leaves his purse full of gold on the pavement
at Charing-Cross, may as well expect that it will fly away
like a feather, as that he will find it untouched an hour after.
Abox^e one half of human reasonings contain inferences of
a similar nature, attended with more or less degrees of cer-
tainty proportioned to our experience of the usual conduct
of mankind in such particular situations.
I have frequently considered, what could possibly be the
reason why all mankind, though they have ever, without
hesitation, acknowledged the doctrine of necessity in their
whole practice and reasoning, have yet discovered such
a reluctance to acknowledge it in words, and have rather
shown a propensity, in all ages, to profess the contrary
opinion. The matter, I think, may be accounted for after
the following manner. If we examine the operations of
body, and the production of effects from their causes, we
shall find that all our faculties can never carry us farther in
our knowledge of this relation than barely to observe that
particular objects are constantly conjoined together, and
that the mind is carried, by a customary transition, from the
appearance of one to the belief of the other. But though
this conclusion concerning human ignorance be the result
of the strictest scrutiny of this subject, men still entertain
a strong propensity to believe that they penetrate farther
into the powers of nature, and perceive something like
a necessary connexion between the cause and the effect.
When again they turn their reflections towards the opera-
tions of their own minds, and feel no such connexion of the
motive and the action; they are thence apt to suppose, that
there is a difference between the effects which result from
382 DAVID HUME
material force, and those which arise from thought and
intelligence. But being once convinced that we know
nothing farther of causation of any kind than merely the
constant conjunction of objects, and the consequent inference
of the mind from one to another, and finding that these
two circumstances are universally allowed to have place in
voluntary actions; we may be more easily led to own the
same necessity common to all causes. And though this
reasoning may contradict the systems of many philosophers,
in ascribing necessity to the determinations of the will, we
shall find, upon reflection, that they dissent from it in words
only, not in their real sentiment. Necessity, according to the
sense in which it is here taken, has never yet been rejected,
nor can ever, I think, be rejected by any philosopher. It
may only, perhaps, be pretended that the mind can per-
ceive, in the operations of matter, some farther connexion
between the cause and effect; and connexion that has not
place in voluntary actions of intelligent beings. Now
whether it be so or not, can only appear upon examination;
and it is incumbent on these philosophers to make good
their assertion, by defining or describing that necessity, and
pointing it out to us in the operations of material causes.
It would seem, indeed, that men begin at the wrong end
of this question concerning liberty and necessity, when
they enter upon it by examining the faculties of the soul,
the influence of the understanding, and the operations of
the will. Let them first discuss a more simple question,
namely, the operations of body and of brute unintelligent
matter; and try whether they can there form any idea of
causation and necessity, except that of a constant conjunc-
tion of objects, and subsequent inference of the mind from
one to another. If these circumstances form, in reality, the
whole of that necessity, which we conceive in matter, and
if these circumstances be also universally acknowledged to
take place in the operations of the mind, the dispute is at
an end; at least, must be owned to be thenceforth merely
verbal. But as long as we will rashly suppose, that we have
some farther idea of necessity and causation in the opera-
tions of external objects; at the same time, that we can find
nothing farther in the voluntary actions of the mind; there
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 383
is no possibility of bringing the question to any determinate
issue, while we proceed upon so erroneous a supposition.
The only method of undeceiving us is to mount up higher;
to examine the narrow extent of science when applied to
material causes; and to convince ourselves that all we
know of them is the constant conjunction and inference
above mentioned. We may, perhaps, find that it is with dif-
ficulty we are induced to fix such narrow limits to human
understanding: but we can afterwards find no difficulty
when we come to apply this doctrine to the actions of the
will. For as it is evident that these have a regular con-
junction with motives and circumstances and characters, and
as we always draw inferences from one to the other, we
must be obliged to acknowledge in words that necessity,
which we have already avowed, in every deliberation of our
lives, and in every step of our conduct and behaviour.^
But to proceed in this reconciling project with regard to
the question of liberty and necessity; the most contentious
question of metaphysics, the most contentious science; it
will not require many words to prove, that all mankind
^ The prevalence of the doctrine of liberty may be accounted for, from
another cause, viz. a false sensation or seeming experience which we have,
or may have, of liberty or indifference, in many of our actions. The necessity
of any action, whether of matter or of mind, is not, properly speaking, a
quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who may con-
sider the action; and it consists chiefly in the determination of his thoughts
to infer the existence of that action from some preceding objects; as liberty,
when opposed to necessity, is nothing but the want of that determination,
and a certain looseness or indifference, which we feel, in passing, or not
passing, from the idea of one object to that of any succeeding one. Now
we may observe, that, though, in reflecting on human actions, we seldom
feel such a looseness, or indifference, but are commonly able to infer them
with considerable certainty from their motives, and from the dispositions
of the agent; yet it frequently happens, that, in performing the actions
themselves, we are sensible of something like it: And as all resembling
objects are readily taken for each other, this has been employed as a
demonstrative and even intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel, that
our actions are subject to our will, on most occasions; and imagine we
feel, that the will itself is subject to nothing, because, when by a denial
of it we are provoked to try, we feel, that it moves easily every way, and
produces an image of itself (or a Velle'ity, as it^ is called in the schools)
even on that side, on which it did not settle. This image, or faint motion,
we persuade ourselves, could, at that time, have been compleated into the
thing itself; because, should that be denied, we find, upon a second trial,
that, at present, it can. We consider not, that the fantastical desire of
shewing liberty, is here the motive of our actions. And it seems certain,
that, however we may imagine we feel a liberty within ourselves, a spec-
tator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and character; and
even where he cannot, he concludes in general, that he might, were he
perfectly acquainted with every circumstance of our situation and temper,
and the most secret springs of our complexion and disposition. Now this
is the very essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine.
384 DAVID HUME
have ever agreed in the doctrine of liberty as well as in that
of necessity, and that the whole dispute, in this respect also,
has been hitherto merely verbal. For what is meant by
liberty, when applied to voluntary actions? We cannot
surely mean that actions have so little connexion with
motives, inclinations, and circumstances, that one does not
follow with a certain degree of uniformity from the other,
and that one affords no inference by which we can conclude
the existence of the other. For these are plain and acknowl-
edged matters of fact. By liberty, then, we can only mean
a power of acting or not acting, according to the determin-
ations of the will; this is, if we choose to remain at rest,
we may; if we choose to move, we also may. Now this
hypothetical liberty is universally allowed to belong to every
one who is not a prisoner and in chains. Here, then, is no
subject of dispute.
Whatever definition we may give of liberty, we should be
careful to observe two requisite circumstances; First, that
It be consistent with plain matter of fact; secondly, that
it be consistent with itself. If we observe these circum-
stances, and render our definition intelligible, I am per-
suaded that all mankind will be found of one opinion with
regard to it.
It is universally allowed that nothing exists without a
cause of its existence, and that chance, when strictly ex-
amined, is a mere negative word, and means not any real
power which has anywhere a being in nature. But it is
pretended that some causes are necessary, some not neces-
sary. Here then is the advantage of definitions. Let any
one define a cause, without comprehending, as a part of the
definition, a necessary connexion with its effect; and let him
show distinctly the origin of the idea, expressed by the
definition; and I shall readily give up the whole con-
troversy. But if the foregoing explication of the matter
be received, this must be absolutely impracticable. Had
not objects a regular conjunction with each other, we
should never have entertained any notion of cause and
effect; and this regular conjunction produces that inference
of the understanding, which is the only connexion, that we
can have any comprehension of. Whoever attempts a defi-
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 38S
nition of cause, exclusive of these circumstances, will be
obliged either to employ unintelligible terms or such as
are synonymous to the term which he endeavours to define."
And if the definition above mentioned be admitted; liberty,
when opposed to necessity, not to constraint, is the same
thing with chance; which is universally allowed to have no
existence.
Part II
There is no method of reasoning more common, and
yet none more blameable, than, in philosophical disputes,
to endeavour the refutation of any hypothesis, by a pre-
tence of its dangerous consequences to religion and mor-
ality. When any opinion leads to absurdities, it is cer-
tainly false; but it is not certain that an opinion is false,
because it is of dangerous consequence. Such topics, there-
fore, ought entirely to be forborne; as serving nothing to
the discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an
antagonist odious. This I observe in general, without pre-
tending to draw any advantage from it. I frankly submit
to an examination of this kind, and shall venture to affirm
that the doctrines, both of necessity and of liberty, as above
explained, are not only consistent with morality, but are
absolutely essential to its support.
Necessity may be defined two ways, conformably to the
two definitions of cause, of which it makes an essential part.
It consists either in the constant conjunction of like objects,
or in the inference of the understanding from one object
to another. Now necessity, in both these senses, (which,
indeed, are at bottom the same) has universally, though
tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common life,
been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no one
has ever pretended to deny that we can draw inferences
concerning human actions, and that those inferences are
founded on the experienced union of like actions, with like
*Thus, if a cause be defined, that which produces any thing; it is easy
to observe, that producing is synonymous to causing. In like manner, if a
cause be defined, that by which any thing exists; this is liable to the same
objection. For what is meant by these words, by which f Had it been
said, that a cause is that after which any thing constantly exists; we should
have understood the terms. For this is, indeed, all we know of the mat-
ter. And this constancy forms the very essence of necessity, nor have we
any other idea of it.
(t3) hc XXXVII
386 DAVID HUME
motives, inclinations, and circumstances. The only par-
ticular in which any one can differ, is, that either, perhaps,
he will refuse to give the name of necessity to this property
of human actions : but as long as the meaning is understood,
I hope the word can do no harm: or that he will maintain
it possible to discover something farther in the operations
of matter. But this, it must be acknowledged, can be of
no consequence to morality or religion, whatever it may be
to natural philosophy or metaphysics. We may here be
mistaken in asserting that there is no idea of any other
necessity or connexion in the actions of body: But surely
we ascribe nothing to the actions of the mind, but what
everyone does, and must readily allow of. We change no
circumstance in the received orthodox system with regard
to the will, but only in that with regard to material objects
and causes. Nothing, therefore, can be more innocent, at
least, than this doctrine.
All laws being founded on rewards and punishments, it
is supposed as a fundamental principle, that these motives
have a regular and uniform influence on the mind, and
both produce the good and prevent the evil actions. We
may give to this influence what name we please ; but, as it
is usually conjoined with the action, it must be esteemed
a cause, and be looked upon as an instance of that necessity,
which we would here establish.
The only proper object of hatred or vengeance is a
person or creature, endowed with thought and conscious-
ness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite
that passion, it is only by their relation to the person, or
connexion with him. Actions are, by their very nature,
temporary and perishing; and where they proceed not
from some cause in the character and disposition of the
person who performed them, they can neither redound to
his honour, if good; nor infamy, if evil. The actions
themselves may be blameable; they may be contrary to all
the rules of morality and religion: but the person is not
answerable for them; and as they proceeded from nothing
in him that is durable and constant, and leave nothing of
that nature behind them, it is impossible he can, upon their
account, become the object of punishment or vengeance.
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 387
According to the principle, therefore, which denies necessity,
and consequently causes, a man is as pure and untainted,
after having committed the most horrid crime, as at the
first moment of his birth, nor is his character anywise
concerned in his actions, since they are not derived from
it, and the wickedness of the one can never be used as
a proof of the depravity of the other.
Men are not blamed for such actions as they perform
ignorantly and casually, whatever may be the consequences.
Why? but because the principles of these actions are only
momentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are less
blamed for such actions as they perform hastily and unpre-
meditatedly than for such as proceed from deliberation. For
what reason? but because a hasty temper, though a constant
cause or principle in the mind, operates only by intervals,
and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance
wipes off every crime, if attended with a reformation of life
and manners. How is this to be accounted for? but by
asserting that actions render a person criminal merely as
they are proofs of criminal principles in the mind; and
when, by an alteration of these principles, they cease to
be just proofs, they likewise cease to be criminal. But,
except upon the doctrine of necessity, they never were just
proofs, and consequently never were criminal.
It will be equally easy to prove, and from the same
arguments, that liberty, according to that definition above
mentioned, in which all men agree, is also essential to
morality, and that no human actions, where it is wanting,
are susceptible of any moral qualities, or can be the objects
either of approbation or dislike. For as actions are objects
of our moral sentiment, so far only as they are indications
of the internal character, passions, and affections; it is
impossible that they can give rise either to praise or blame,
where they proceed not from these principles, but are
derived altogether from external violence.
I pretend not to have obviated or removed all objections
to this theory, with regard to necessity and liberty. I can
foresee other objections, derived from topics which have
not here been treated of. It may be said, for instance,
that, if voluntary actions be subjected to the same laws of
388 DAVID HUME
necessity with the operations of matter, there is a continued
chain of necessary causes, pre-ordained and pre-determined,
reaching from the original cause of all to every single
volition of every human creature. No contingency any-
where in the universe; no indifference; no liberty. While
we act, we are, at the same time, acted upon. The ulti-
mate Author of all our volitions is the Creator of the
world, who first bestowed motion on this immense machine,
and placed all beings in that particular position, whence
every subsequent event, by an inevitable necessity, must
result. Human actions, therefore, either can have no moral
turpitude at all, as proceeding from so good a cause; or
if they have any turpitude, they must involve our Creator
in the same guilt, while he is acknowledged to be their
ultimate cause and author. For as a man, who fired a mine,
is answerable for all the consequences whether the train he
employed be long or short; so wherever a continued chain
of necessary causes is fixed, that Being, either finite or
infinite, who produces the first, is likewise the author of all
the rest, and must both bear the blame and acquire the
praise which belong to them. Our clear and unalterable
ideas of morality establish this rule, upon unquestionable
reasons, when we examine the consequences of any human
action ; and these reasons must still have greater force
when applied to the volitions and intentions of a Being
infinitely wise and powerful. Ignorance or impotence may
be pleaded for so limited a creature as man; but those
imperfections have no place in our Creator. He foresaw,
he ordained, he intended all those actions of men, which
we so rashly pronounce criminal. And we must there-
fore conclude, either that they are not criminal, or that
the Deity, not man, is accountable for them. But as either
of these positions is absurd and impious, it follows, that
the doctrine from which they are deduced cannot possibly
be true, as being liable to all the same objections. An
absurd consequence, if necessary, proves the original doc-
trine to be absurd; in the same manner as criminal actions
render criminal the original cause, if the connexion be-
tween them be necessary and inevitable.
This objection consists of two parts, which we shall
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 389
examine separately; First, that, if human actions can be
traced up, by a necessary chain, to the Deity, they can never
be criminal; on account of the infinite perfection of that
Being from whom they are derived, and who can intend
nothing but what is altogether good and laudable. Or,
Secondly, if they be criminal, we must retract the attribute
of perfection, which we ascribe to the Deity, and must
acknowledge him to be the ultimate author of guilt and
moral turpitude in all his creatures.
The answer to the first objection seems obvious and con-
vincing. There are many philosophers who, after an exact
scrutiny of all the phenomena of nature, conclude, that
the WHOLE^ considered as one system, is, in every period of
its existence, ordered with perfect benevolence; and that
the utmost possible happiness will, in the end, result to all
created beings, without any mixture of positive or absolute
ill or misery. Every physical ill, say they, makes an essen-
tial part of this benevolent system, and could not possibly
be removed, even by the Deity himself, considered as a
wise agent, without giving entrance to greater ill, or ex-
cluding greater good, which will result from it. From this
theory, some philosophers, and the ancient Stoics among
the rest, derived a topic of consolation under all afflictions,
while they taught their pupils that those ills under which
they laboured were, in reality, goods to the universe; and
that to an enlarged view, which could comprehend the
whole system of nature, every event became an object of
joy and exultation. But though this topic be specious and
sublime, it was soon found in practice weak and inef-
fectual. You would surely more irritate than appease a
man lying under the racking pains of the gout by preaching
up to him the rectitude of those general laws, which pro-
duced the malignant humours in his body, and led them
through the proper canals, to the sinews and nerves, where
they now excite such acute torments. These enlarged
views may, for a moment, please the imagination of a
speculative man, who is placed in ease and security; but
neither can they dwell with constancy on his mind, even
though undisturbed by the emotions of pain or passion;
much less can they maintain their ground when attacked
390 DAVID HUME
by such powerful antagonists. The affections take a nar-
rower and more natural survey of their object; and by an
economy, more suitable to the infirmity of human minds,
regard alone the beings around us, and are actuated by
such events as appear good or ill to the private system.
The case is the same with moral as with physical ill. It
cannot reasonably be supposed, that those remote consid-
erations, which are found of so little efficacy with regard
to one, will have a more powerful influence with regard
to the other. The mind of man is so formed by nature
that, upon the appearance of certain characters, dispositions,
and actions, it immediately feels the sentiment of appro-
bation or blame; nor are there any emotions more essential
to .^ts frame and constitution. The characters which engage
our approbation are chiefly such as contribute to the peace
and security of human society; as the characters which
excite blame are chiefly such as tend to public detriment
and disturbance: whence it may reasonably be presumed,
that the moral sentiments arise, either mediately or im-
mediately, from a reflection of these opposite interests.
What though philosophical meditations establish a different
opinion or conjecture; that everything is right with regard
to the WHOLE, and that the qualities, which disturb society,
are, in the main, as beneficial, and are as suitable to the
primary intention of nature as those which more directly
promote its happiness and welfare? Are such remote and
uncertain speculations able to counterbalance the senti-
ments which arise from the natural and immediate view of
the objects? A man who is robbed of a considerable sum;
does he find his vexation for the loss anywise diminished
by these sublime reflections? Why then should his moral
resentment against the crime be supposed incompatible
with them? Or why should not the acknowledgment of
a real distinction between vice and virtue be reconcileable
to all speculative systems of philosophy, as well as that of
cL real distinction between personal beauty and deformity?
Both these distinctions are founded in the natural senti-
ments of the human mind: And these sentiments are not
to be controuled or altered by any philosophical theory or
speculation whatsoever.
LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 391
The second objection admits not of so easy and satis-
factory an answer; nor is it possible to explain distinctly,
how the Deity can be the mediate cause of all the actions
of men, without being the author of sin and moral turpitude.
These are mysteries, which mere natural and unassisted
reason is very unfit to handle; and whatever system she
embraces, she must find herself involved in inextricable
difficulties, and even contradictions, at every step which she
takes with regard to such subjects. To reconcile the in-
difference and contingency of human actions with prescience ;
or to defend absolute decrees, and yet free the Deity from
being the author of sin, has been found hitherto to exceed
all the power of philosophy. Happy, if she be thence
sensible of her temerity, when she pries into these sublime
mysteries ; and leaving a scene so full of obscurities and
perplexities, return, with suitable modesty, to her true and
proper province, the examination of common life; where
she will find difficulties enough to employ her enquiries,
without launching into so boundless an ocean of doubt,
uncertainty, and contradiction!
SECTION IX
OF THE REASON OF ANIMALS
ALL our reasonings concerning matter of fact are
l\ founded on a species of Analogy, which leads us
-^ — ^ to expect from any cause the same events, which
we have observed to result from similar causes. Where
the causes are entirely similar, the analogy is perfect,
and the inference, drawn from it, is regarded as cer-
tain and conclusive : nor does any man ever entertain a
doubt, where he sees a piece of iron, that it will have
weight and cohesion of parts; as in all other instances,
which have ever fallen under his observation. But where
the objects have not so exact a similarity, the analogy is
less perfect, and the inference is less conclusive ; though
still'it has some force, in proportion to the degree of similar-
ity and resemblance. The anatomical observations, formed
upon one animal, are, by this species of reasoning, extended
to all animals ; and it is certain, that when the circulation of
the blood, for instance, is clearly proved to have place in
one creature, as a frog, or fish, it forms a strong presump-
tion, that the same principle has place in all. These ana-
logical observations may be carried farther, even to this
science, of which we are now treating; and any theory, by
which we explain the operations of the understanding, or
the origin and connexion of the passions in man, will
acquire additional authority, if we find, that the same theory
is requisite to explain the same phenomena in all other
animals. We shall make trial of this, with regard to the
hypothesis, by which we have, in the foregoing discourse,
endeavoured to account for all experimental reasonings;
and it is hoped, that this new point of view will serve to
confirm all our former observations.
First, It seems evident, that animals as well as men learn
many things from experience, and infer, that the same events
will always follow from the same causes. By this principle
392
THE REASON OF ANIMALS 393
they become acquainted with the more obvious properties
of external objects, and gradually, from their birth, treasure
up a knowledge of the nature of fire, water, earth, stones,
heights, depths, &c., and of the effects which result from
their operation. The ignorance and inexperience of the
young are here plainly distinguishable from the cunning and
sagacity of the old, who have learned, by long observation,
to avoid what hurt them, and to pursue what gave ease or
pleasure. A horse, that has been accustomed to the field,
becomes acquainted with the proper height which he can
leap, and will never attempt what exceeds his force and
ability. An old greyhound will trust the more fatiguing
part of the chace to the younger, and will place himself so
as to meet the hare in her doubles ; nor are the conjectures,
which he forms on this occasion, founded in any thing but
his observation and experience.
This is still more evident from the effects of discipline
and education on animals, who, by the proper application
of rewards and punishments, may be taught any course of
action, and most contrary to their natural instincts and
propensities. Is it not experience, which renders a dog
apprehensive of pain, when you menace him, or lift up the
whip to beat him? Is it not even experience, which makes
him answer to his name, and infer, from such an arbitrary
sound, that you mean him rather than any of his fellows, and
intend to call him, when you pronounce it in a certain
manner, and with a certain tone and accent ?
In all these cases, we may observe, that the animal infers
some fact beyond what immediately strikes his senses; and
that this inference is altogether founded on past experience,
while the creature expects from the present object the same
consequences, which it has always found in its observation
to result from similar objects.
Secondly, It is impossible, that this inference of the animal
can be founded on any process of argument or reasoning,
by which he concludes, that like events must follow like
objects, and that the course of nature will always be regular
in its operations. For if there be in reality any arguments
of this nature, they surely lie too abstruse for the observation
of such imperfect understandings; since it may well employ
394 DAVID HUME
the utmost care and attention of a philosophic genius to
discover and observe them. Animals, therefore are not
guided in these inferences by reasoning: neither are chil-
dren; neither are the generality of mankind, in their ordi-
nary actions and conclusions : neither are philosophers them-
selves, who, in all the active parts of life, are, in the
main, the same with the vulgar, and are governed by the
same maxims. Nature must have provided some other
principle, of more ready, and more general use and applica-
tion; nor can an operation of such immense consequence in
life, as that of inferring effects from causes, be trusted to
the uncertain process of reasoning and argumentation.
Were this doubtful with regard to men, it seems to admit
of no question with regard to the brute creation; and the
conclusion being once firmly established in the one, we have
a strong presumption, from all the rules of analogy, that
it ought to be universally admitted, without any exception
or reserve. It is custom alone, which engages animals,
from every object, that strikes their senses, to infer its
usual attendant, and carries their imagination, from the
appearance of the one, to conceive the other, in that partic-
ular manner, which we denominate belief. No other ex-
plication can be given of this operation, in all the higher,
as well as lower classes of sensitive beings, which fall under
our notice and observation.^
^ Since all reasoning concerning facts or causes is derived merely from
custom, it may be asked how it happens, that men so much surpass animals
in reasoning, and one man so much surpasses another? Has not the same
custom the same influence on all ?
We shall here endeavour briefly to explain the great difference in human
understandings: After which the reason of the difference between men and
animals will easily be comprehended.
1. When we have lived any time, and have been accustomed to the uni-
formity of nature, we acquire a general habit, by which we always transfer
the known to the unknown, and conceive the latter to resemble the former.
By means of this general habitual principle, we regard even one experi-
ment as the foundation of reasoning, and expect a similar event with some
degree of certainty, where the experiment has been made accurately, and
free from all foreign circumstances. It is therefore considered as a matter
of great importance to observe the consequences of things; and as one man
may very much surpass another in attention and memory and observation,
this will make a very great difference in their reasoning.
2. Where there is a complication of causes to produce any effect, one
mind may be much larger than another, and better able to comprehend the
whole system of objects, and to infer justly their consequences.
3. One man is able to carry on a chain of consequences to a greater
length than another.
4. Few men can think long without running into a confusion of ideas, and
mistaking one for another; and there are various degrees of this infirmity.
THE REASON OF ANIMALS 395
But though animals learn many parts of their knowledge
from observation, there are also many parts of it, which
they derive from the original hand of nature; which much
exceed the share of capacity they possess on ordinary occa-
sions; and in which they improve, little or nothing, by the
longest practice and experience. These we denominate
Instincts, and are so apt to admire as something very extraor-
dinary, and inexplicable by all the disquisitions of human
understanding. But our wonder will, perhaps, cease or
diminish, when we consider, that the experimental reason-
ing itself, which we possess in common with beasts, and on
which the whole conduct of life depends, is nothing but
a species of instinct or mechanical power, that acts in us
unknown to ourselves; and in its chief operations, is not
directed by any such relations or comparisons of ideas, as
are the proper objects of our intellectual faculties. Though
the instinct be different, yet still it is an instinct, which
teaches a man to avoid the fire; as much as that, which
teaches a bird, with such exactness, the art of mcubation, and
the whole economy and order of its nursery.
5. The circumstance, on which the effect depends, is frequently involved
in other circumstances, which are foreign and extrinsic. The separation of
it often requires great attention, accuracy, and subtility.
6. The forming of general maxims from particular observation is a very
nice operation; and nothing is more usual, from haste or a narrowness of
mind, which sees not on all sides, than to commit mistakes in this particular.
7. When we reason from analogies, the man, who has the greater experi-
ence or the greater promptitude of suggesting analogies, will be the better
reasoner.
8. Biases from prejudice, education, passion, party, &c. hang more ..pon
one mind than another.
9. After we have acquired a confidence in human testimony, books and
conversation enlarge much more the sphere of one man's experience and
thought than those of another.
It would be easy to discover many other circumstances that make a
difference in the understandings of men.
SECTION X
OF MIRACLES
Part I
THERE is, in Dr. Tillotson^s writings, an argument
against the real presence, which is as concise, and
elegant, and strong as any argument can possibly be
supposed against a doctrine, so little worthy of a serious
refutation. It is acknowledged on all hands, says that
learned prelate, that the authority, either of the scripture
or of tradition, is founded merely in the testimony of the
Apostles, who were eye-witnesses to those miracles of our
Saviour, by which he proved his divine mission. Our evi-
dence, then, for, the truth of the Christian religion is
less than the evidence for the truth of our senses; because,
even in the first authors of our religion, it was no greater;
and it is evident it must diminish in passing from them to
their disciples ; nor can any one rest such confidence in their
testimony, as in the immediate object of his senses. But a
weaker evidence can never destroy a stronger; and therefore,
were the doctrine of the real presence ever so clearly re-
vealed in scripture, it were directly contrary to the rules
of just reasoning to give our assent to it. It contradicts
sense, though both the scripture and tradition, on which
it is supposed to be built, carry not such evidence with them
as sense ; when they are considered merely as external
evidences, and are not brought home to every one's breast,
by the immediate operation of the Holy Spirit.
Nothing is so convenient as a decisive argument of this
kind, which must at least silence the most arrogant big-
otry and superstition, and free us from their impertinent
solicitations. I flatter myself, that I have discovered an
argument of a like nature, which, if just, will, with the wise
and learned, be an everlasting check to all kinds of super-
396
MIRACLES 397
stitious delusion, and consequently, will be useful as long as
the world endures. For so long, I presume, will the accounts
of miracles and prodigies be found in all history, sacred and
profane.
Though experience be our only guide in reasoning con-
cerning matters of fact; it must be acknowledged, that
this guide is not altogether infallible, but in some cases
is apt to lead us into errors. One, who in our climate,
should expect better weather in any week of June than in
one of December, would reason justly, and conformably to
experience; but it is certain, that he may happen, in the
event, to find himself mistaken. However, we may observe,
that, in such a case, he would have no cause to complain of
experience; because it commonly informs us beforehand of
the uncertainty, by that contrariety of events, which we may
learn from a diligent observation. All effects follow not with
like certainty from their supposed causes. Some events are
found, in all countries and all ages, to have been con-
stantly conjoined together: Others are found to have been
more variable, and sometimes to disappoint our expecta-
tions; so that, in our reasonings concerning matter of fact,
there are all imaginable degrees of assurance, from the
highest certainty to the lowest species of moral evidence.
A wise man, therefore, proportions his belief to the
evidence. In such conclusions as are founded on an infal-
lible experience, he expects the event with the last degree
of assurance, and regards his past experience as a full
proof of the future existence of that event. In other
cases, he proceeds with more caution: he weighs the
opposite experiments: he considers which side is sup-
ported by the greater number of experiments: to that side
he inclines, with doubt and hesitation; and when at last
he fixes his judgement, the evidence exceeds not what we
properly call probability. All probability, then, supposes
an opposition of experiments and observations, where the
one side is found to overbalance the other, and to produce
a degree of evidence, proportioned to the superiority. A
hundred instances or experiments on one side, and fifty on
another, afford a doubtful expectation of any event; though
a hundred uniform experiments, with only one that is con-
398 DAVID HUME
tradictory, reasonably beget a pretty strong degree oi as-
surance. In all cases, we must balance the opposite experi-
ments, where they are opposite, and deduct the smaller
number from the greater, in order to know the exact force
of the superior evidence.
To apply these principles to a particular instance ; we may
observe, that there is no species of reasoning more common,
more useful, and even necessary to human life, than that
which is derived from the testimony of men, and the reports
of eye-witnesses and spectators. This species of reasoning,
perhaps, one may deny to be founded on the relation of cause
and effect. I shall not dispute about a word. It will be
sufficient to observe that our assurance in any argument
of this kind is derived from no other principle than our
observation of the veracity of human testimony, and of the
usual conformity of facts to the reports of witnesses. It
being a general maxim, that no objects have any dis-
coverable connexion together, and that all the inferences,
which we can draw from one to another, are founded merely
on our experience of their constant and regular conjunction;
it is evident, that we ought not to make an exception to this
maxim in favour of human testimony, whose connexion
with any event seems, in itself, as little necessary as any
other. Were not the memory tenacious to a certain degree ;
had not men commonly an inclination to truth and a prin-
ciple of probity; were they not sensible to shame, when
detected in a falsehood : were not these, I say, discovered by
experience to be qualities, inherent in human nature, we
should never repose the least confidence in human testi-
mony. A man delirious, or noted for falsehood and villainy,
has no manner of authority with us.
And as the evidence, derived from witnesses and human
testimony, is founded on past experience, so it varies with
the experience, and is regarded either as a proof or a
probability, according as the conjunction between any par-
ticular kind of report and any kind of object has been found
to be constant or variable. There are a number of circum-
stances to be taken into consideration in all judgements of this
kind; and the ultimate standard, by which we determine all
disputes, that may arise concerning them, is always derived
MIRACLES 399
from experience and observation. Where this experience
is not entirely uniform on any side, it is attended with an
unavoidable contrariety in our judgements, and with the
same opposition and mutual destruction of argument as in
every other kind of evidence. We frequently hesitate con-
cerning the reports of others. We balance the opposite
circumstances, which cause any doubt or uncertainty; and
when we discover a superiority on any side, we incline to it ;
but still with a diminution of assurance, in proportion to the
force of its antagonist.
This contrariety of evidence, in the present case, may be
derived from several different causes; from the opposition
of contrary testimony; from the character or number of the
witnesses; from the manner of their delivering their testi-
mony; or from the union of all these circumstances. We
entertain a suspicion concerning any matter of fact, when
the witnesses contradict each other; when they are but
few, or of a doubtful character; when they have an interest
in what they affirm; when they deliver their testimony with
hesitation, or on the contrary, with too violent asseverations.
There are many other particulars of the same kind, which
may diminish or destroy the force of any argument, derived
from human testimony.
Suppose, for instance, that the fact, which the testimony
endeavours to establish, partakes of the extraordinary and
the marvellous; in that case, the evidence, resulting from
the testimony, admits of a diminution, greater or less, in
proportion as the fact is more or less unusual. The reason
why we place any credit in witnesses and historians, is
not derived from any connexion, which we perceive a
priori, between testimony and reality, but because we are
accustomed to find a conformity between them. But when
the fact attested is such a one as has seldom fallen under
our observation, here is a contest of two opposite experi-
ences; of which the one destroys the other, as far as its
force goes, and the superior can only operate on the mind
by the force, which remains. The very same principle of
experience, which gives us a certain degree of assurance in
the testimony of witnesses, gives us also, in this case,
another degree of assurance against the fact, which they
400 DAVID HUME
endeavour to establish; from which contradiction there
necessarily arises a counterpoize, and mutual destruction of
belief and authority.
/ should not believe such a story were it told me by Cato,
was a proverbial saying in Rome, even during the lifetime
of that philosophical patriot/ The incredibility of a fact.
It was allowed, might invalidate so great an authority.
The Indian prince, who refused to believe the first re-
lations concerning the effects of frost, reasoned justly;
and it naturally required very strong testimony to engage
his assent to facts, that arose from a state of nature,
with which he was unacquainted, and which bore so little
analogy to those events, of which he had had constant and
uniform experience. Though they were not contrary to his
experience, they were not conformable to it/
But in order to encrease the probability against the
testimony of witnesses, let us suppose, that the fact, which
they affirm, instead of being only marvellous, is really
miraculous; and suppose also, that the testimony considered
apart and in itself, amounts to an entire proof; in that
case, there is proof against proof, of which the strongest
must prevail, but still with a diminution of its force, in pro-
portion to that of its antagonist.
A miracle is a violation of the laws of nature; and as
a firm and unalterable experience has established these laws,
the proof against a miracle, from the very nature of the fact,
is as entire as any argument from experience can possibly
^ Plutarch, in vita Catonis.
2 No Indian, it is evident, could have experience that water did not freeze
in cold climates. This is placing nature in a situation quite unknown to
him; and it is impossible for him to tell a priori what will result from it.
It is making a new experiment, the consequence of which is always uncer-
tain. One may sometimes conjecture from analogy what will follow; but
still this is but conjecture. And it must be confessed, that, in the present
case of freezing, the event follows contrary to the rules of analogy, and
is such as a rational Indian would not look for. The operations of cold
upon water are not gradual, according to the degrees of cold; but when-
ever it comes to the freezing point, the water passes in a moment, from
the utmost liquidity to perfect hardness. Such an event, therefore, may be
denominated extraordinary, and requires a pretty strong testimony, to ren-
der it credible to people in a warm climate: But still it is not miraculous,
nor contrary to uniform experience of the course of nature in cases where
all the circumstances are the same. The inhabitants of Sumatra have always
seen water fluid in their own climate, and the freezing of their rivers ought
to be deemed a prodigy: But they never saw water in Muscovy during
the winter; and therefore they cannot reasonably be positive what would
there be the consequence.
MIRACLES 401
Ee imagined. Why is it more than prohable, that all men
must die; that lead cannot, of itself, remain suspended in
the air; that fire consumes wood, and is extinguished by
water; unless it be, that these events are found agreeable
to the laws of nature, and there is required a violation of
these laws, or in other words, a miracle to prevent them?
Nothing is esteemed a miracle, if it ever happen in the
common course of nature. It is no miracle that a man,
seemingly in good health, should die on a sudden: because
such a kind of death, though more unusual than any other,
has yet been frequently observed to happen. But it is
a miracle, that a dead man should come to life; because
that has never been observed in any age or country. There
must, therefore, be a uniform experience against every
miraculous event, otherwise the event would not merit that
appellation. And as a uniform experience amounts to a
proof, there is here a direct and full proof, from the nature
of the fact, against the existence of any miracle; nor can
such a proof be destroyed, or the miracle rendered credible,
but by an opposite proof, which is superior.*
The plain consequence is (and it is a general maxim
worthy of our attention), * that no testimony is sufficient
to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such
a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous, than
the fact, which it endeavors to establish; and even in
that case there is a mutual destruction of arguments, and
the superior only gives us an assurance suitable to that
• Sometimes an event may not, in itself, seem to be contrary to the laws
of nature, and yet, if it were real, it might, by reason of some circum-
stances, be denominated a miracle; because, in fact, it is contrary to these
laws. Thus if a person, claiming a divine authority, should command a
sick person to be well, a healthful man to fall down dead, the clouds to
pour rain, the winds to blow, in short, should order many natural events,
which immediately follow upon his command; these might justly be esteemed
miracles, because they are really, in this case, contrary to the laws of
nature. For if any suspicion remain, that the event and command con-
curred by accident, there is no miracle and no transgression of the laws of
nature. If this suspicion be removed, there is evidently a miracle, and a
transgression of these laws; because nothing can be more contrary to nature
than that the voice or command of a man should have such an influence.
A miracle may be accurately defined, a transgression of a law of nature by
a particular volition of the Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible
agent. A miracle may either be discoverable by men or not. This alters
not its nature and essence. The raising of a house or ship into the air is
a visible miracle. The raising of a feather, when the wind wants ever so
little of a force requisite for that purpose, is as real a miracle, though not
6o sensible with regard to us.
402 DAVID HUME
degree of force, which remains, after deducting the inferior/
When anyone tells me, that he saw a dead man restored
to life, I immediately consider with myself, whether it be
more probable, that this person should either deceive or be
deceived, or that the fact, which he relates, should really
have happened. I weigh the one miracle against the other;
and according to the superiority, which I discover, I pro-
nounce my decision, and always reject the greater miracle
If the falsehood of his testimony would be more miraculous,
than the event which he relates; then, and not till then,
can he pretend to command my belief or opinion.
Part II
In the foregoing reasoning we have supposed, that the
testimony, upon which a miracle is founded, may possibly
amount to an entire proof, and that the falsehood of that
testimony would be a real prodigy: but it is easy to shew,
that we have been a great deal too liberal in our concession,
and that there never was a miraculous event established on
so full an evidence.
For first, there is not to be found, in all history, any
miracle attested by a sufficient number of men, of such
unquestioned good-sense, education, and learning, as to
secure us against all delusion in themselves; of such un-
doubted integrity, as to place them beyond all suspicion of
any design to deceive others; of such credit and reputation
in the eyes of mankind, as to have a great deal to lose in
case of their being detected in any falsehood; and at the
same time, attesting facts performed in such a public manner
and in so celebrated a part of the world, as to render the
detection unavoidable: all which circumstances are re-
quisite to give us a full assurance in the testimony of men.
Secondly, We may observe in human nature a principle
which, if strictly examined, will be found to diminish
extremely the assurance, which we might, from human
testimony, have in any kind of prodigy. The maxim, by
which we commonly conduct ourselves in our reasonings,
is, that the objects, of which we have no experience, re-
sembles those, of which we have; that what we have found
MIRACLES 403
to be most usual is always most probable; and that where
there is an opposition of arguments, we ought to give the
preference to such as are founded on the greatest number
of past observations. But though, in proceeding by this rule,
we readily reject any fact which is unusual and incredible
in an ordinary degree; yet in advancing farther, the mind
observes not always the same rule; but when anything is
affirmed utterly absurd and miraculous, it rather the more
readily admits of such a fact, upon account of that very
circumstance, which ought to destroy all its authority. The
passion of surprise and wonder, arising from miracles, being
an agreeable emotion, gives a sensible tendency towards the
belief of those events, from which it is derived. And this
goes so far, that even those who cannot enjoy this pleasure
immediately, nor can believe those miraculous events, of
which they are informed, yet love to partake of the satisfac-
tion at second-hand or by rebound, and place a pride and
delight in exciting the admiration of others.
With what greediness are the miraculous accounts of
travellers received, their descriptions of sea and land mon-
sters, their relations of wonderful adventures, strange men,
and uncouth manners? But if the spirit of religion join
itself to the love of wonder, there is an end of common
sense; and human testimony, in these circumstances, loses
all pretensions to authority. A religionist may be an en-
thusiast, and imagine he sees what has no reality: he may
know his narrative to be false, and yet persevere in itj with
the best intentions in the world, for the sake of promoting
so holy a cause: or even where this delusion has not place,
vanity, excited by so strong a temptation, operates on
him more powerfully than on the rest of mankind in any
other circumstances; and self-interest with equal force.
His auditors may not have, . and commonly have not, suf-
ficient judgement to canvass his evidence: what judgement
they have, they renounce by principle, in these sublime
and mysterious subjects: or if they were ever so willing
to employ it, passion and a heated imagination disturb the
regularity of its operations, their credulity increases his
impudence: and his impudence overpowers their credulity.
Eloquence, when at its highest pitch, leaves little room
404 DAVID HUME
for reason or reflection; but addressing itself entirely to the
fancy or the affections, captivates the willing hearers, and
subdues their understanding. Happily, this pitch it seldom
attains. But what a Tully or a Demosthenes could scarcely
effect over a Roman or Athenian audience, every Capuchin,
every itinerant or stationary teacher can perform over the
generality of mankind, and in a higher degree, by touching
such gross and vulgar passions.
The many instances of forged miracles, and prophecies,
and supernatural events, which, in all ages, have either been
detected by contrary evidence, or which detect themselves
by their absurdity, prove sufficiently the strong propensity
of mankind to the extraordinary and the marvellous, and
ought reasonably to beget a suspicion against all relations
of this kind. This is our natural way of thinking, even
with regard to the most common and most credible events.
For instance: There is no kind of report which rises so
easily, and spreads so quickly, especially in country places
and provincial towns, as those concerning marriages; inso-
much that two young persons of equal condition never see
each other twice, but the whole neighbourhood immediately
join them together. The pleasure of telling a piece of
news so interesting, of propagating it, and of being the first
reporters of it, spreads the intelligence. And this is so well
known, that no man of sense gives attention to these reports,
till he find them confirmed by some greater evidence. Do
not the same passions, and others still stronger, incline the
generality of mankind to believe and report, with the
greatest vehemence and assurance, all religious miracles?
Thirdly. It forms a strong presumption against all super-
natural and miraculous relations, that they are observed
chiefly to abound among ignorant and barbarous nations;
or if a civilized people has ever given admission to any
of them, that people will be found to have received them
from ignorant and barbarous ancestors, who transmitted
them with that inviolable sanction and authority, which
always attend received opinions When we peruse the
first histories of all nations, we are apt to imagine our-
selves transported into some new world; where the whole
frame of nature is disjointed, and every element performs
MIRACLES . 405
its operations in a different manner, from what it does at
present. Battles, revolutions, pestilence, famine and death,
are never the effect of those natural causes, which we
experience. Prodigies, omens, oracles, judgements, quite
obscure the few natural events, that are intermingled with
them. But as the former grow thinner every page, in
proportion as we advance nearer the enlightened ages, we
soon learn, that there is nothing mysterious or supernatural
in the case, but that all proceeds from the usual propensity
of mankind towards the marvellous, and that, though this
inclination may at intervals receive a check from sense and
learning, it can never be thoroughly extirpated from human
nature.
// is strange, a judicious reader is apt to say, upon the
perusal of these wonderful historians, that such prodigious
Clients never happen in our days. But it is nothing strange,
I hope, that men should He in all ages. You must surely
have seen instances enough of that frailty. You have your-
self heard many such marvellous relations started, which,
being treated with scorn by all the wise and judicious,
have at last been abandoned even by the vulgar. Be as-
sured, that those renowned lies, which have spread and
flourished to such a monstrous height, arose from like
beginnings; but being sown in a more proper soil, shot
up at last into prodigies almost equal to those which they
relate.
It was a wise policy in that false prophet, Alexander, who
though now forgotten, was once so famous, to lay the first
scene of his impostures in Paphlagonia, where, as Lucian
tells us, the people were extremely ignorant and stupid, and
ready to swallow even the grossest delusion. People at
a distance, who are weak enough to think the matter at all
worth enquiry, have no opportunity of receiving better in-
formation. The stories come magnified to them by a hundred
circumstances. Fools are industrious in propagating the
imposture; while the wise and learned are contented, in
general, to deride its absurdity, without informing themselves
of the particular facts, by which it may be distinctly refuted.
And thus the impostor above mentioned was enabled to
proceed, from his ignorant Paphlagonians, to the enlisting
406 DAVID HUME
of votaries, even among the Grecian philosophers, and men
of the most eminent rank and distinction in Rome; nay,
could engage the attention of that sage emperor Marcus
Aurelius; so far as to make him trust the success of
a military expedition to his delusive prophecies.
The advantages are so great, of starting an imposture
among an ignorant people, that, even though the delusion
should be too gross to impose on the generality of them
(which, though seldom, is sometimes the case) it has a much
better chance for succeeding in remote countries, than if
the first scene had been laid in a city renowned for arts and
knowledge. The most ignorant and barbarous of these
barbarians carry the report abroad. None of their country-
men have a large correspondence, or sufficient credit and
authority to contradict and beat down the delusion. Men's
inclination to the marvellous has full opportunity to display
itself. And thus a story, which is universally exploded in
the place where it was first started, shall pass for certain at
a thousand miles distance. But had Alexander fixed his
residence at Athens, the philosophers of that renowned
mart of learning had immediately spread, throughout the
whole Roman empire, their sense of the matter; which,
being supported by so great authority, and displayed by all
the force of reason and eloquence, had entirely opened the
eyes of mankind. It is true; Lucian, passing by chance
through Paphlagonia, had an opportunity of performing
this good office. But, though much to be wished, it does
not always happen, that every Alexander meets with a
Lucian, ready to expose and detect his impostures.
I may add as a fourth reason, which diminishes the
authority of prodigies, that there is no testimony for any,
even those which have not been expressly detected, that
is not opposed by an infinite number of witnesses; so that
not only the miracle destroys the credit of testimony, but
the testimony destroys itself. To make this the better
understood, let us consider, that, in matters of religion,
whatever is different is contrary ; and that it is impossible
the religions of ancient Rome, of Turkey, of Siam, and of
China should, all of them, be established on any solid
foundation. Every miracle, therefore, pretended to have
MIRACLES 407
been wrought in any of these religions (and all of them
abound in miracles), as its direct scope is to establish the
particular system to which it is attributed; so has it the
same force, though more indirectly, to overthrow every
other system. In destroying a rival system, it likewise
destroys the credit of those miracles, on which that system
was established; so that all the prodigies of different re-
ligions are to be regarded as contrary facts, and the evi-
dences of these prodigies, whether weak or strong, as
opposite to each other. According to this method of rea-
soning, when we believe any miracle of Mahomet or his
successors, we have for our warrant the testimony of a
few barbarous Arabians : and on the other hand, we are
to regard the authority of Titus Livius, Plutarch, Tacitus,
and, in short, of all the authors and witnesses, Grecian,
Chinese, and Roman Catholic, who have related any mira-
cle in their particular religion; I say, we are to regard
their testimony in the same light as if they had mentioned
that Mahometan miracle, and had in express terms con-
tradicted it, with the same certainty as they have for the
miracle they relate. This argument may appear over sub-
tile and refined; but is not in reality different from the
reasoning of a judge, who supposes, that the credit of
two witnesses, maintaining a crime against any one, is
destroyed by the testimony of two others, who affirm him
to have been two hundred leagues distant, at the same in-
stant when the crime is said to have been committed.
One of the best attested miracles in all profane history,
is that which Tacitus reports of Vespasian, who cured
a blind man in Alexandria, by means of his spittle, and
a lame man by the mere touch of his foot; in obedience
to a vision of the god Serapis, who had enjoined them to
have recourse to the Emperor, for these miraculous cures.
The story may be seen in that fine historian*; where every
circumstance seems to add weight to the testimony, and
might be displayed at large with all the force of argument
and eloquence, if any one were now concerned to enforce
the evidence of that exploded and idolatrous superstition.
The gravity, solidity, age, and probity of so great an
* Hist. lib. V. cap. 8. Suetonius gives nearly the same account in vita Vesp.
408 DAVID HUME
emperor, who, through the whole course of his life, con-
versed in a familiar manner with his friends and courtiers,
and never affected those extraordinary airs of divinity
assumed by Alexander and Demetrius. The historian, a
cotemporary writer, noted for candour and veracity, and
withal, the greatest and most penetrating genius, perhaps,
of all antiquity; and so free from any tendency to credulity,
that he even lies under the contrary imputation, of atheism
and profaneness: The persons, from whose authority he
related the miracle, of established character for judgement
and veracity, as we may well presume; eye-witnesses of the
fact, and confirming their testimony, after the Flavian
family was despoiled of the empire, and could no longer
give any reward, as the price of a lie. Utrumque, qui
interfuere, nunc quoque memorant, postquam nullum men-
dacio pretium. To which if we add the public nature of
the facts, as related, it will appear, that no evidence can
well be supposed stronger for so gross and so palpable a
falsehood.
There is also a memorable story related by Cardinal de
Retz, which may well deserve our consideration. When
that intriguing politician fled into Spain, to avoid the
persecution of his enemies, he passed through Saragossa,
the capital of Arragon, where he was shewn, in the cathe-
dral, a man, who had served seven years as a doorkeeper,
and was well known to every body in town, that had
ever paid his devotions at that church. He had been
seen, for so long a time, wanting a leg; but recovered that
limb by the rubbing of holy oil upon the stump; and the
cardinal assures us that he saw him with two legs. This
miracle was vouched by all the canons of the church; and
the whole company in town were appealed to for a con-
firmation of the fact; whom the cardinal found, by their
zealous devotion, to be thorough believers of the miracle.
Here the relater was also cotemporary to the supposed
prodigy, of an incredulous and libertine character, as well
as of great genius; the miracle of so singular a nature as
could scarcely admit of a counterfeit, and the witnesses
very numerous, and all of them, in a manner, spectators of
the fact, to which they gave their testimony. And what
MIRACLES 409
adds mightily to the force of the evidence, and may double
our surprise on this occasion, is, that the cardinal himself,
who relates the story, seems not to give any credit to it, and
consequently cannot be suspected of any concurrence in
the holy fraud. He considered justly, that it was not
requisite, in order to reject a fact of this nature, to be
able accurately to disprove the testimony, and to trace its
falsehood, through all the circumstances of knavery and
credulity which produced it. He knew, that, as this was
commonly altogether impossible at any small distance of
time and place; so was it extremely difficult, even where
one was immediately present, by reason of the bigotry,
ignorance, cunning, and roguery of a great part of man-
kind. He therefore concluded, like a just reasoner, that
such an evidence carried falsehood upon the very face
of it, and that a miracle, supported by any human testi-
mony, was more properly a subject of derision than of
argument.
There surely never was a greater number of miracles
ascribed to one person, than those, which were lately said
to have been wrought in France upon the tomb of Abbe
Paris, the famous Jansenist, with whose sanctity the people
were so long deluded. The curing of the sick, giving
hearing to the deaf, and sight to the blind, were every
where talked of as the usual effects of that holy sepulchre.
But what is more extraordinary ; many of the miracles were
immediately proved upon the spot, before judges of un-
questioned integrity, attested by witnesses of credit and
distinction, in a learned age, and on the most eminent
theatre that is now in the world. Nor is this all: a relation
of them was published and dispersed everywhere; nor were
the Jesuits, though a learned body supported by the civil
magistrate, and determined enemies to those opinions, in
whose favour the miracles were said to have been wrought,
ever able distinctly to refute or detect them.^ Where shall
we find such a number of circumstances, agreeing to the
corroboration of one fact? And what have we to oppose
to such a cloud of witnesses, but the absolute impossibility
or miraculous nature of the events, which they relate ? And
^By Mons. Monteeron, counsellor or judge of the Parliament of Paris.
410 DAVID HUME
this surely, in the eyes of all reasonable people, will alone
be regarded as a sufficient refutation.
Is the consequence just, because some human testimony
has the utmost force and authority in some cases, when it
relates the battle of Philippi or Pharsalia for instance; that
therefore all kinds of testimony must, in all cases, have
equal force and authority? Suppose that the Csesarean
and Pompeian factions had, each of them, claimed the
victory in these battles, and that the historians of each
party had uniformly ascribed the advantage to their own
side; how could mankind, at this distance, have been able
to determine between them? The contrariety is equally
strong between the miracles related by Herodotus or
Plutarch, and those delivered by Mariana, Bede, or any
monkish historian.
The wise lend a very academic faith to every report
which favours the passion of the reporter; whether it
magnifies his country, his family, or himself, or in any
other way strikes in with his natural inclinations and pro-
pensities. But what greater temptation than to appear
a missionary, a prophet, an ambassador from heaven? Who
would not encounter many dangers and difficulties, in
order to attain so sublime a character? Or if, by the help
of vanity and a heated imagination, a man has first made a
convert of himself, and entered seriously into the delusion ;
who ever scruples to make use of pious frauds, in support
of so holy and meritorious a cause?
The smallest spark may here kindle into the greatest
flame; because the materials are always prepared for it.
The avidum genus auricularum^ the gazing populace, re-
ceive greedily, without examination, whatever sooths super-
stition, and promotes wonder.
How many stories of this nature have, in all ages, been
detected and exploded in their infancy? How many more
have been celebrated for a time, and have afterwards sunk
into neglect and oblivion? Where such reports, therefore,
fly about, the solution of the phenomenon is obvious; and
we judge in conformity to regular experience and observa-
tion, when we account for it by the known and natural
® Lucret.
MIRACLES 411
principles of credulity and delusion. And shall we, rather
than have a recourse to so natural a solution, allow of a
miraculous violation of the most established laws of nature?
I need not mention the difficulty of detecting a falsehood
in any private or even public history, at the place, where it
is said to happen; much more when the scene is removed
to ever so small a distance. Even a court of judicature,
with all the authority, accuracy, and judgement, which they
can employ, find themselves often at a loss to distinguish
between truth and falsehood in the most recent actions.
But the matter never comes to any issue, if trusted to the
common method of altercations and debate and flying
rumours; especially when men's passions have taken part
on either side.
In the infancy of new religions, the wise and learned
commonly esteem the matter too inconsiderable to deserve
their attention or regard. And when afterwards they would
willingly detect the cheat, in order to undeceive the deluded
multitude, the season is now past, and the records and
witnesses, which might clear up the matter, have perished
beyond recovery.
No means of detection remain, but those which must be
drawn from the very testimony itself of the reporters: and
these, though always sufficient with the judicious and know-
ing, are commonly too fine to fall under the comprehension
of the vulgar.
Upon the whole, then, it appears, that no testimony for
any kind of miracle has ever amounted to a probability,
much less to a proof; and that, even supposing it amounted
to a proof, it would be opposed by another proof; derived
from the very nature of the fact, which it would endeavour
to establish. It is experience only, which gives authority
to human testimony; and it is the same experience, which
assures us of the laws of nature. When, therefore, these
two kinds of experience are contrary, we have nothing to
do but subtract the one from the other, and embrace an
opinion, either on one side or the other, with that assurance
which arises from the remainder. But according to the
principle here explained, this subtraction, with regard to
all popular religions, amounts to an entire annihilation; and
412 DAVID HUME
therefore we may establish it as a maxim, that no human
testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle, and
make it a. just foundation for any such system of religion.
I beg the limitations here made may be remarked, when
I say, that a miracle can never be proved, so as to be the
foundation of a system of religion. For I own, that other-
wise, there may possibly be miracles, or violations of the
usual course of nature, of such a kind as to admit of proof
from human testimony; though, perhaps, it will be im-
possible to find any such in all the records of history.
Thus, suppose, all authors, in all languages, agree, that,
from the first of January, 1600, there was a total darkness
over the whole earth for eight days: suppose that the
tradition of this extraordinary event is still strong and
lively among the people: that all travellers, who return
from foreign countries, bring us accounts of the same
tradition, without the least variation or contradiction: it is
evident, that our present philosophers, instead of doubting
the fact, ought to receive it as certain, and ought to search
for the causes whence it might be derived. The decay,
corruption, and dissolution of nature, is an event rendered
probable by so many analogies, that any phenomenon,
which seems to have a tendency towards that catastrophe,
comes within the reach of human testimony, if that testi-
mony be very extensive and uniform.
But suppose, that all the historians who treat of England,
should agree, that, on the first of January, 1600, Queen
Elizabeth died; that both before and after her death she
was seen by her physicians and the whole court, as is usual
with persons of her rank; that her successor was acknowl-
edged and proclaimed by the parliament; and that, after
being interred a month, she again appeared, resumed the
throne, and governed England for three years: I must
confess that I should be surprised at the concurrence of so
many odd circumstances, but should not have the least
inclination to believe so miraculous an event. I should not
doubt of her pretended death, and of those other public
circumstances that followed it : I should only assert it to have
been pretended, and that it neither was, nor possibly could
be real. You would in vain object to me the difficulty.
MIRACLES 413
and almost impossibility of deceiving the world in an affair
of such consequence; the wisdom and solid judgment of
that renowned queen; with the little or no advantage which
she could reap from so poor an artifice: all this might
astonish me; but I would still reply, that the knavery and
folly of men are such common phenomena, that I should
rather believe the most extraordinary events to arise from
their concurrence, than admit of so signal a violation of
the laws of nature.
But should this miracle be ascribed to any new system of
religion; men, in all ages, have been so much imposed on
by ridiculous stories of that kind, that this very circumstance
would be a full proof of a cheat, and sufficient, with all men
of sense, not only to make them reject the fact, but even
reject it without farther examination. Though the Being to
whom the miracle is ascribed, be, in this case, Almighty, it
does not, upon that account, become a whit more probable;
since it is impossible for us to know the attributes or actions
of such a Being, otherwise than from the experience which
we have of his productions, in the usual course of nature.
This still reduces us to past observation, and obliges us to
compare the instances of the violation of truth in the testi-
mony of men, with those of the violation of the laws of
nature by miracles, in order to judge which of them is
most likely and probable. As the violations of truth are
more common in the testimony concerning religious mir-
acles, than in that concerning any other matter of fact;
this must diminish very much the authority of the former
testimony, and make us form a general resolution, never to
lend any attention to it, with whatever specious pretence it
may be covered.
Lord Bacon seems to have embraced the same principles
of reasoning. ' We ought,' says he, ' to make a collection or
particular history of all monsters and prodigious births or
productions, and in a word of every thing new, rare, and
extraordinary in nature. But this must be done with the
most severe scrutiny, lest we depart from truth. Above all,
every relation must be considered as suspicious, which
depends in any degree upon religion, as the prodigies of
Livy: and no less so, everything that is to be found in the
414 DAVID HUME
writers of natural magic or alchimy, or such authors, who
seem, all of them, to have an unconquerable appetite for
falsehood and fable.'
I am the better pleased with the method of reasoning
here delivered, as I think it may serve to confound those
dangerous friends or disguised enemies to the Christian
Religion, who have undertaken to defend it by the principles
of human reason. Our most holy religion is founded on
Faith, not on reason; and it is a sure method of exposing
it to put it to such a trial as it is, by no means, fitted to
endure. To make this more evident, let us examine those
miracles, related in scripture; and not to lose ourselves in
too wide a field, let us confine ourselves to such as we find
in the Pentateuch, which we shall examine, according to the
principles of these pretended Christians, not as the word or
testimony of God himself, but as the production of a mere
human writer and historian. Here then we are first to
consider a bock, presented to us by a barbarous and ignorant
people, written in an age when they were still more bar-
barous, and in all probability long after the facts which
it relates, corroborated by no concurring testimony, and
resembling those fabulous accounts, which every nation gives
of its origin. Upon reading this book, we find it full of
prodigies and miracles. It gives an account of a state of
the world and of human nature entirely different from the
present: of our fall from that state: of the age of man,
extended to near a thousand years : of the destruction of
the world by a deluge: of the arbitrary choice of one
people, as the favourites of heaven; and that people the
countrymen of the author: of their deliverance from bond-
age by prodigies the most astonishing imaginable: I desire
any one to lay his hand upon his heart, and after a serious
consideration declare, whether he thinks that the falsehood
of su:h a book, supported by such a testimony, would be
more extraordinary and miraculous than all the miracles it
relates; which is, however, necessary to make it be received,
according to the measures of probability above established.
What we have said of miracles may be applied, without
any variation, to prophecies ; and indeed, all prophecies are
' Nov. Org. lib. ii. aph. 29.
MIRACLES 415
real miracles, and as such only, can be admitted as proofs of
any revelation. If it did not exceed the capacity of human
nature to foretell future events, it would be absurd to employ
any prophecy as an argument for a divine mission or
authority from heaven. So that, upon the whole, we may
conclude, that the Christian Religion not only was at first
attended with miracles, but even at this day cannot be
believed by any reasonable person without one. Mere reason
is insufficient to convince us of its veracity: and whoever
is moved by Faith to assent to it, is conscious of a con-
tinued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the
principles of his understanding, and gives him a determina-
tion to believe what is most contrary to custom and ex-
perience.
SECTION XI
OF A PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE AND OF A FUTURE STATE
I WAS lately engaged in conversation with a friend
who loves sceptical paradoxes; where, though he ad-
vanced many principles, of which I can by no means
approve, yet as they seem to be curious, and to bear some
relation to the chain of reasoning carried on throughout
this enquiry, I shall here copy them from my memory as
accurately as I can, in order to submit them to the judge-
ment of the reader.
Our conversation began with my admiring the singular
good fortune of philosophy, which, as it requires entire
liberty above all other privileges, and chiefly flourishes
from the free opposition of sentiments and argumentation,
received its first birth in an age and country of freedom and
toleration, and was never cramped, even in its most extrav-
agant principles, by any creeds, concessions, or penal
statutes. For, except the banishment of Protagoras, and
the death of Socrates, which last event proceeded partly
from other motives, there are scarcely any instances to be
met with, in ancient history, of this bigoted jealousy, with
which the present age is so much infested. Epicurus lived
at Athens to an advanced age, in peace and tranquillity:
Epicureans^ were even admitted to receive the sacerdotal
character, and to officiate at the altar, in the most sacred
rites of the established religion: and the public encourage-
ment'' of pensions and salaries was afforded equally, by the
wisest of all the Roman emperors,' to the professors of
every sect of philosophy. How requisite such kind of treat-
ment was to philosophy, in her early youth, will easily be
conceived, if we reflect, that, even at present, when she
may be supposed more hardy and robust, she bears with
much difficulty the inclemency of the seasons, and those
* Luciani. rwMir. ^ Aavieat 2 Luciani, evvovx©?. » Luciani and Dio.
416
PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 417
harsh winds of calumny and persecution, which blow upon
her.
You admire, says my friend, as the singular good fortune
of philosophy, what seems to result from the natural course
of things, and to be unavoidable in every age and nation.
This pertinacious bigotry, of which you complain, as so fatal
to philosophy, is really her offspring, who, after allying with
superstition, separates himself entirely from the interest of
his parent, and becomes her most inveterate enemy and
persecutor. Speculative dogmas of religion, the present
occasions of such furious dispute, could not possibly be con-
ceived or admitted in the early ages of the world; when
mankind, being wholly illiterate, formed an idea of religion
more suitable to their weak apprehension, and composed
their sacred tenets of such tales chiefly as were the objects
of traditional belief, more than of argument or disputation.
After the first alarm, therefore, was over, which arose from
the new paradoxes and principles of the philosophers; these
teachers seem ever after, during the ages of antiquity, to
have lived in great harmony with the established supersti-
tion, and to have made a fair partition of mankind between
them; the former claiming all the learned and wise, the
latter possessing all the vulgar and illiterate.
It seems then, say I, that you leave politics entirely out of
the question, and never suppose, that a wise magistrate can
justly be jealous of certain tenets of philosophy, such as those
of Epicurus, which, denying a divine existence, and conse-
quently a providence and a future state, seem to loosen, in a
great measure the ties of morality, and may be supposed,
for that reason, pernicious to the peace of civil society.
I know, replied he, that in fact these persecutions never,
in any age, proceeded from calm reason, or from experience
of the pernicious consequences of philosophy; but arose
entirely from passion and prejudice. But what if I should
advance farther, and assert, that if Epicurus had been ac-
cused before the people, by any of the sycophants or inform-
ers of those days, he could easily have defended his cause,
and proved his principles of philosophy to be as salutary as
those of his adversaries, who endeavoured, with such zeal, to
expose him to the public hatred and jealousy?
(14) HC xxxvii
418 DAVID HUME
I wish, said I, you would try your eloquence upon so
extraordinary a topic, and make a speech for Epicurus,
Which might satisfy, not the mob of Athens, if you will
allow that ancient and polite city to have contained any mob,
but the more philosophical part of his audience, such as
might be supposed capable of comprehending his arguments.
The matter would not be difficult, upon such conditions,
replied he: and if you please, I shall suppose myself Epi-
curus for a moment, and make you stand for the Athenian
people, and shall deliver you such an harangue as will fill
all the urn with white beans, and leave not a black one to
gratify the malice of my adversaries.
Very well: pray proceed upon these suppositions.
I come hither, O ye Athenians, to justify in your assembly
what I maintain in my school, and I find myself impeached
by furious antagonists, instead of reasoning with calm and
dispassionate enquirers. Your deliberations, which of right
should be directed to questions of public good, and the
interest of the commonwealth, are diverted to the disquisi-
tions of speculative philosophy; and these magnificent, but
perhaps fruitless enquiries, take place of your more familiar
but more useful occupations. But so far as in me lies,
I will prevent this abuse. We shall not here dispute con-
cerning the origin and government of worlds. We shall only
enquire how far such questions concern the public interest.
And if I can persuade you, that they are entirely indifferent
to the peace of society and security of government, I hope
that you will presently send us back to our schools, there to
examine, at leisure, the question the most sublime, but, at the
same time, the most speculative of all philosophy.
The religious philosophers, not satisfied with the tradition
of your forefathers, and doctrine of your priests (in which
I willingly acquiesce), indulge a rash curiosity, in trying how
far they can establish religion upon the principles of reason;
and they thereby excite, instead of satisfying, the doubts,
which naturally arise from a diligent and scrutinous enquiry.
They paint, in the most magnificent colours, the order,
beauty, and wise arrangement of the universe; and then
ask, if such a glorious display of intelligence could proceed
from the fortuitous concourse of atoms, or if chance could
PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 419
produce what the greatest genius can never sufficiently
admire. I shall not examine the justness of this argument.
I shall allow it to be as solid as my antagonists and accusers
can desire. It is sufficient, if I can prove, from this very
reasoning, that the question is entirely speculative, and
that, when, in my philosophical disquisitions, I deny a
providence and a future state, I undermine not the founda-
tions of society, but advance principles, which they them-
selves, upon their own topics, if they argue consistently,
must allow to be solid and satisfactory.
You then, who are my accusers, have acknowledged, that
the chief or sole argument for a divine existence (which I
never questioned) is derived from the order of nature;
where there appear such marks of intelligence and design,
that you think it extravagant to assign for its cause, either
chance, or the blind and unguided force of matter. You
allow, that this is an argument drawn from effects to causes.
From the order of the work, you infer, that there must have
been project and forethought in the workman. If you can-
not make out this point, you allow, that your conclusion
fails; and you pretend not to establish the conclusion in a
greater latitude than the phenomena of nature will justify.
These are your concessions. I desire you to mark the con-
sequences.
When we infer any particular cause from an effect, we
must proportion the one to the other, and can never be
allowed to ascribe to the cause any qualities, but what are
exactly sufficient to produce the effect. A body of ten
ounces raised in any scale may serve as a proof, that the
counterbalancing weight exceeds ten ounces; but can never
afford a reason that it exceeds a hundred. If the cause,
assigned for any effect, be not sufficient to produce it, we
must either reject that cause, or add to it such qualities as
will give it a just proportion to the effect. But if we ascribe
to it farther qualities, or affirm it capable of producing other
effects, we can only indulge the licence of conjecture, and
arbitrarily suppose the existence of qualities and energies,
without reason or authority.
The same rule holds, whether the cause assigned be brute
unconscious matter, or a rational intelligent being. If the
420 DAVID HUME
cause be known only by the effect, we never ought to ascribe
to it any qualities, beyond what are precisely requisite to
produce the effect: nor can we, by any rules of just reason-
ing, return back from the cause, and infer other effects from
it, beyond those by which alone it is known to us No one,
merely from the sight of one of Zeuxis's pictures, could
know, that he was also a statuary or architect, and was an
artist no less skilful in stone and marble than in colours.
The talents and taste, displayed in the particular work before
us; these we may safely conclude the workman to be pos-
sessed of. The cause must be proportioned to the effect;
and if we exactly and precisely proportion it, we shall
never find in it any qualities, that point farther, or afford an
inference concerning any other design or performance.
Such qualities must be somewhat beyond what is merely
requisite for producing the effect, which we examine.
Allowing, therefore, the gods to be the authors of the
existence or order of the universe ; it follows, that they
possess that precise degree of power, intelligence, and
benevolence, which appears in their workmanship; but
nothing farther can ever be proved, except we call in the
assistance of exaggeration and flattery to supply the defects
of argument and reasoning. So far as the traces of any
attributes, at present, appear, so far may we conclude these
attributes to exist. The supposition of farther attributes
is mere hypothesis; much more the supposition, that, in
distant regions of space or periods of time, there has been,
or will be, a more magnificent display of these attributes, and
a scheme of administration more suitable to such imaginary
virtues. We can never be allowed to mount up from the
universe, the effect, to Jupiter, the cause; and then descend
downwards, to infer any new effect from that cause; as if
the present effects alone were not entirely worthy of the
glorious attributes, which we ascribe to that deity. The
knowledge of the cause being derived solely from the effect,
they must be exactly adjusted to each other; and the one
can never refer to anything farther, or be the foundation of
any new inference and conclusion.
You find certain phenomena in nature. You seek a
cause or author. You imagine that you have found him.
PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 421
You afterwards become so enamoured of this offspring of
your brain, that you imagine it impossible, but he must
produce something greater and more perfect than the
present scene of things, which is so full of ill and disorder.
You forget, that this superlative intelligence and benevo-
lence are entirely imaginary, or, at least, without any foun-
dation in reason; and that you have no ground to ascribe
to him any qualities, but what you see he has actually
exerted and displayed in his productions. Let your gods,
therefore, O philosophers, be suited to the present appear-
ances of nature : and presume not to alter these appearances
by arbitrary suppositions, in order to suit them to the at-
tributes, which you so fondly ascribe to your deities.
When priests and poets, supported by your authority, O
Athenians, talk of a golden or silver age, which preceded
the present state of vice and misery, I hear them with at-
tention and with reverence. But when philosophers, who
pretend to neglect authority, and to cultivate reason, hold
the same discourse, I pay them not, I own, the same ob-
sequious submission and pious deference. I ask ; who carried
them into the celestial regions, who admitted them into
the councils of the gods, who opened to them the book of
fate, that they thus rashly affirm, that their deities have
executed, or will execute, any purpose beyond what has
actually appeared? If they tell me, that they have mounted
on the steps or by the gradual ascent of reason, and by
drawing inferences from effects to causes, I still insist, that
they have aided the ascent of reason by the wings of
imagination; otherwise they could not thus change their
manner of inference, and argue from causes to effects;
presuming, that a more perfect production than the present
world would be more suitable to such perfect beings as the
gods, and forgetting that they have no reason to ascribe
to these celestial beings any perfection or any attribute, but
what can be found in the present world.
Hence all the fruitless industry to account for the ill
appearances of nature, and save the honour of the gods;
while we must acknowledge the reality of that evil and
disorder, with which the world so much abounds. The
obstinate and intractable qualities of matter, we are told.
422 DAVID HUME
or the observance of general laws, or some such reason,
is the sole cause, which controlled the power and benevo-
lence of Jupiter, and obliged him to create mankind and
every sensible creature so imperfect and so unhappy. These
attributes then, are, it seems, beforehand, taken for granted,
in their greatest latitude. And upon that supposition, I
own that such conjectures may, perhaps, be admitted as
plausible solutions of the ill phenomena. But still I ask;
Why take these attributes for granted, or why ascribe to
the cause any qualities but what actually appear in the
effect? Why torture your brain to justify the course of
nature upon suppositions, which, for aught you know, may
be entirely imaginary, and of which there are to be found no
traces in the course of nature?
The religious hypothesis, therefore, must be considered
only as a particular method of accounting for the visible
phenomena of the universe: but no just reasoner will ever
presume to infer from it any single fact, and alter or add
to the phenomena, in any single particular. If you think,
that the appearances of things prove such causes, it is al-
lowable for you to draw an inference concerning the exist-
ence of these causes. In such complicated and sublime
subjects, every one should be indulged in the liberty of
conjecture and argument. But here you ought to rest.
If you come backward, and arguing from your inferred
causes, conclude, that any other fact has existed, or will
exist, in the course of nature, which may serve as a fuller
display of particular attributes; I must admonish you, that
you have departed from the method of reasoning, attached
to the present subject, and have certainly added something
to the attributes of the cause, beyond what appears in the
effect; otherwise you could never, with tolerable sense or
propriety, add anything to the effect, in order to render it
more worthy of the cause.
Where, then, is the odiousness of that doctrine, which
I teach in my school, or rather, which I examine in my
gardens? Or what do you find in this whole question,
wherein the security of good morals, or the peace and order
of society, is in the least concerned?
I deny a providence, you say, and supreme governor
PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 423
of the world, who guides the course of events, and punishes
the vicious with infamy and disappointment, and rewards
the virtuous with honour and success, in all their under-
takings. But surely, I deny not the course itself of events,
which lies open to every one's inquiry and examination.
I acknowledge, that, in the present order of things, virtue
is attended with more peace of mind than vice, and meets
with a more favourable reception from the world. I am
sensible, that, according to the past experience of mankind,
friendship is the chief joy of human life, and moderation
the only source of tranquillity and happiness. I never
balance between the virtuous and the vicious course of life;
but am sensible, that, to a well-disposed mind, every ad-
vantage is on the side of the former. And what can you say
more, allowing all your suppositions and reasonings? You
tell me, indeed, that this disposition of things proceeds from
intelligence and design. But whatever it proceeds from, the
disposition itself, on which depends our happiness or
misery, and consequently our conduct and deportment in
life is still the same. It is still open for me, as well as you,
to regulate my behaviour, by my experience of past events.
And if you affirm, that, while a divine providence is allowed
and a supreme distributive justice in the universe, I ought
to expect some more particular reward of the good, and
punishment of the bad, beyond the ordinary course of
events; I here find the same fallacy, which I have before
endeavoured to detect. You persist in imagining, that, if
we grant that divine existence, for which you so earnestly
contend, you may safely infer consequences from it, and add
something to the experienced order of nature, by arguing
from the attributes which you ascribe to your gods. You
seem not to remember, that all your reasonings on this
subject can only be drawn from effects to causes; and that
every argument, deducted from causes to effects, must of
necessity be a gross sophism; since it is impossible for
you to know anything of the cause, but what you have
antecedently, not inferred, but discovered to the full, in
the effect.
But what must a philosopher think of those vain rea-
soners, who instead of regarding the present scene of things
424 DAVID HUME
as the sole object of their contemplation, so far reverse the
whole course of nature, as to render this life merely a
passage to something farther; a porch, which leads to a
greater, and vastly different building; a prologue, which
serves only to introduce the piece, and give it more grace
and propriety? Whence, do you think, can such philoso-
phers derive their idea of the gods? From their own con-
ceit and imagination surely. For if they derived it from the
present phenomena, it would never point to anything farther,
but must be exactly adjusted to them. That the divinity may
possibly be endowed with attributes, which we have never
seen exerted; may be governed by principles of action,
which we cannot discover to be satisfied : all this will freely
be allowed. But still this is mere possibility and hypothesis.
We never can have reason to infer any attributes, or any
principles of action in him, but so far as we know them to
have been exerted and satisfied.
Are there any marks of a distributive justice in the world f
If you answer in the affirmative, I conclude, that, since
justice here exerts itself, it is satisfied. If you reply in
the negative, I conclude, that you have then no reason
to ascribe justice, in our sense of it, to the gods. If
you hold a medium between affirmation and negation, by
saying, that the justice of the gods, at present, exerts
itself in part, but not in its full extent; I answer, that
you have no reason to give it any particular extent, but
only so far as you see it, at present, exert itself.
Thus I bring the dispute, O Athenians, to a short issue
with my antagonists. The course of nature lies open
to my contemplation as well as to theirs. The experi-
enced train of events is the great standard, by which we
all regulate our conduct. Nothing else can be appealed
to in the field, or in the senate. Nothing else ought ever
to be heard of in the school, or in the closet. In vain
would our limited understanding break through those
boundaries, which are too narrow for our fond imagination.
While we argue from the course of nature, and infer a
particular intelligent cause, which first bestowed, and still
preserves order in the universe, we embrace a principle,
which is both uncertain and useless. It is uncertain; be-
PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 425
cause the subject lies entirely beyond the reach of human
experience. It is useless ; because our knowledge of this
cause being derived entirely from the course of nature,
we can never, according to the rules of just reasoning,
return back from the cause with any new inference, or
making additions to the common and experienced course
of nature, establish any new principles of conduct and be-
haviour.
I observe (said I, finding he had finished his harangue)
that you neglect not the artifice of the demagogues of
old; and as you were pleased to make me stand for the
people, you insinuate yourself into my favour by embracing
those principles, to which, you know, I have always ex-
pressed a particular attachment. But allowing you to
make experience (as indeed I think you ought) the only
standard of our judgement concerning this, and all other
questions of fact; I doubt not but, from the very same
experience, to which you appeal, it may be possible to
refute this reasoning, which you have put into the mouth of
Epicurus. If you saw, for instance, a half-finished building,
surrounded with heaps of brick and stone and mortar,
and all the instruments of masonry; could you not infer
from the effect, that it was a work of design and con-
trivance? And could you not return again, from this in-
ferred cause, to infer new additions to the effect, and
conclude, that the building would soon be finished, and
receive all the further improvements, which art could be-
stow upon it? If you saw upon the sea-shore the print
of one human foot, you would conclude, that a man had
passed that way, and that he had also left the traces
of the other foot, though effaced by the rolling of the
sands or inundation of the waters. Why then do you
refuse to admit the same method of reasoning with regard
to the order of nature ? Consider the world and the present
life only as an imperfect building, from which you can
infer a superior intelligence ; and arguing from that superior
intelligence, which can leave nothing imperfect; why may
you not infer a more finished scheme or plan, which will
receive its completion in some distant point of space or
time? Are not these methods of reasoning exactly similar?
426 DAVID HUME
And under what pretence can you embrace the one, while
you reject the other?
The infinite difference of the subjects, replied he, is
a sufficient foundation for this difference in my conclusions.
In works of human art and contrivance, it is allowable to
advance from the effect to the cause, and returning back
from the cause, to form new inferences concerning the
effect, and examine the alterations, which it has probably
undergone, or may still undergo. But what is the founda-
tion of this method of reasoning? Plainly this; that man
is a being, whom we know by experience, whose motives
and designs we are acquainted with, and whose projects
and inclinations have a certain connexion and coherence,
according to the laws which nature has established for
the government of such a creature. When, therefore,
we find, that any work has proceeded from the skill and
industry of man; as we are otherwise acquainted with
the nature of the animal, we can draw a hundred infer-
ences concerning what may be expected from him; and
these inferences will all be founded in experience and
observation. But did we know man only from the single
work or production which we examine, it were impossible
for us to argue in this manner; because our knowledge
of all the qualities, which we ascribe to him, being in that
case derived from the production, it is impossible they
could point to anything farther, or be the foundation of
any new inference. The print of a foot in the sand can
only prove, when considered alone, that there was some
figure adapted to it, by which it was produced: but the
print of a human foot proves likewise, from our other
experience, that there was probably another foot, which
also left its impression, though effaced by time or other
accidents. Here we mount from the effect to the cause;
and descending again from the cause, infer alterations in
the effect; but this is not a continuation of the same
simple chain of reasoning. We comprehend in this case
a hundred other experiences and observations, concerning
the usual figure and members of that species of animal,
without which this method of argument must be considered
as fallacious and sophistical.
PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 427
The case is not the same with our reasonings from the
works of nature. The Deity is known to us only by his
productions, and is a single being in the universe, not
comprehended under any species or genus, from whose
experienced attributes or qualities, we can, by analogy,
infer any attribute or quality in him. As the universe
shews wisdom and goodness, we infer wisdom and good-
ness. As it shews a particular degree of these perfections,
we infer a particular degree of them, precisely adapted to
the effect which we examine. But farther attributes or
farther degrees of the same attributes, we can never be
authorised to infer or suppose, by any rules of just rea-
soning. Now, without some such licence of supposition,
it is impossible for us to argue from the cause, or infer
any alteration in the effect, beyond what has immediately
fallen under our observation. Greater good produced by
this Being must still prove a greater degree of goodness:
a more impartial distribution of rewards and punishments
must proceed from a greater regard to justice and equity.
Every supposed addition to the works of nature makes an
addition to the attributes of the Author of nature; and
consequently, being entirely unsupported by any reason or
argument, can never be admitted but as mere conjecture
and hypothesis*.
The great source of our mistake in this subject, and of
the unbounded licence of conjecture, which we indulge,
is, that we tacitly consider ourselves, as in the place of
the Supreme Being, and conclude, that he will, on every
occasion, observe the same conduct, which we ourselves,
* In general, it may, I think, be established as a maxim, that where any
cause is known only by its particular effects, it must be impossible to infer
any new effects from that cause; since the qualities, which are requisite to
produce these new effects along^ with the former, must either be different,
or superior, or of more extensive operation, than those which simply pro-
duced the effect, whence alone the cause is supposed to be known to us.
We can never, therefore, have any reason to suppose the existence of these
qualities. To say, that the new effects proceed only from a continuation
of the same energy, which is already known from the first effects, will not
remove the difficulty. For even granting this to be the case (which can
seldom be supposed), the very continuation and exertion of a like energy
(for it is impossible it can be absolutely the same), I say, this exertion
of a like energy, in a different period of space and time, is a very arbitrary
supposition, and what there cannot possibly be any traces of in the effects,
from which all our knowledge of the cause is originally derived. Let the
inferred cause be exactly proportioned (as it should be) to the known
effect; and it is impossible that it can possess any qualities, from which new
or different effects can be inferred.
428 DAVID HUME
in his situation, would have embraced as reasonable and
eligible. But, besides that the ordinary course of nature
may convince us, that almost everything is regulated by
principles and maxims very different from ours; besides
this, I say, it must evidently appear contrary to all rules
of analogy to reason, from the intentions and projects
of men, to those of a Being so different, and so much su-
perior. In human nature, there is a certain experienced
coherence of designs and inclinations; so that v^hen, from
any fact, we have discovered one intention of any man, it
may often be reasonable, from experience, to infer an-
other, and draw a long chain of conclusions concerning his
past or future conduct. But this method of reasoning can
never have place with regard to a Being, so remote and in-
comprehensible, who bears much less analogy to any other
being in the universe than the sun to a waxen taper, and
who discovers himself only by some faint traces or outlines,
beyond which we have no authority to ascribe to him any
attribute or perfection. What we imagine to be a superior
perfection, may really be a defect. Or were it ever so
much a perfection, the ascribing of it to the Supreme Being,
where it appears not to have been really exerted, to the
full, in his works, savours more of flattery and panegyric,
than of just reasoning and sound philosophy. All the philo-
sophy, therefore, in the world, and all the religion, which
is nothing but a species of philosophy, will never be able to
carry us beyond the usual course of experience, or give us
measures of conduct and behaviour different from those
which are furnished by reflections on common life. No new
fact can ever be inferred from the religious hypothesis; no
event foreseen or foretold; no reward or punishment ex-
pected or dreaded, beyond what is already known by practice
and observation. So that my apology for Epicurus will still
appear solid and satisfactory; nor have the political inter-
ests of society any connexion with the philosophical dis-
putes concerning metaphysics and religion.
There is still one circumstance, replied T, which you
seem to have overlooked. Though I should allow your
premises, I must deny your conclusion. You conclude, that
religious doctrines and reasonings can have no influence on
PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 429
life, because they ought to have no influence ; never con-
sidering, that men reason not in the same manner you do,
but draw many consequences from the belief of a divine
Existence, and suppose that the Deity will inflict punish-
ments on vice, and bestow rewards on virtue, beyond what
appear in the ordinary course of nature. Whether this
reasoning of theirs be just or not, is no matter. Its influence
on their life and conduct must still be the same. And
those, who attempt to disabuse them of such prejudices,
may, for aught I know, be good reasoners, but I cannot
allow them to be good citizens and politicians; since they
free men from one restraint upon their passions, and make
the infringement of the laws of society, in one respect, more
easy and secure.
After all, I may, perhaps, agree to your general conclusion
in favour of liberty, though upon different premises from
those, on which you endeavour to found it. I think, that
the state ought to tolerate every principle of philosophy;
nor is there an instance, that any government has suffered
in its political interests by such indulgence. There is no
enthusiasm among philosophers; their doctrines are not
very alluring to the people; and no restraint can be put
upon their reasonings, but what must be of dangerous con-
sequence to the sciences, and even to the state, by paving
the way for persecution and oppression in points, where
the generality of mankind are more deeply interested and
concerned.
But there occurs to me (continued I) with regard to your
main topic, a difficulty, which I shall just propose to you
without insisting on it; lest it lead into reasonings of too
nice and delicate a nature. In a word, I much doubt
whether it be possible for a cause to be known only by its
effect (as you have all along supposed) or to be of so
singular and particular a nature as to have no parallel and
no similarity with any other cause or object, that has ever
fallen under our observation. It is only when two species of
objects are found to be constantly conjoined, that we can
infer the one from the other; and were an effect presented,
which was entirely singular, and could not be comprehended
under any known species, 1 do not see, that we could form
430 DAVID HUME
any conjecture or inference at all concerning its cause. If
experience and observation and analogy be, indeed, the
only guides which we can reasonably follow in inferences of
this nature; both the effect and cause must bear a similarity
and resemblance to other effects and causes, which we know,
and which we have found, in many instances, to be con-
joined with each other. I leave it to your own reflection to
pursue the consequences of this principle. I shall just
observe, that, as the antagonists of Epicurus always sup-
pose the universe, an effect quite singular and unparalleled,
to be the proof of a Deity, a cause no less singular and un-
paralleled; your reasonings, upon that supposition, seem,
at least, to merit our attention. There is, I own, some dif-
ficulty, how we can ever return from the cause to the
effect, and, reasoning from our ideas of the former, infer
any alteration on the latter, or any addition to it.
SECTION XII
OF THE ACADEMICAL OR SCEPTICAL PHILOSOPHY
Part I
THERE is not a greater number of philosophical reason-
ings, displayed upon any subject, than those, which
prove the existence of a Deity, and refute the falla-
cies of Atheists; and yet the most religious philosophers
still dispute whether any man can be so blinded as to be a
speculative atheist. How shall we reconcile these contra-
dictions? The knights errant, who wandered about to
clear the world of dragons and giants, never entertained
the least doubt with regard to the existence of these
monsters.
The Sceptic is another enemy of religion, who naturally
provokes the indignation of all divines and graver philoso-
phers; though it is certain, that no man ever met with any
such absurd creature, or conversed with a man, who had no
opinion or principle concerning any subject, either of action
or speculation. This begets a very natural question; What
is meant by a sceptic? And how far it is possible to push
these philosophical principles of doubt and uncertainty?
There is a species of scepticism, antecedent to all study
and philosophy, which is much inculcated ty Des Cartes
and others, as a sovereign preservative against error and
precipitate judgement. It recommends an universal doubt,
not only of all our former opinions and principles, but also
of our very faculties; of whose veracity, say they, we must
assure ourselves, by a chain of reasoning, deduced from some
original principle, which cannot possibly be fallacious or
deceitful. But neither is there any such original principle,
which has a prerogative above others, that are self-evident
and convincing: or if there were, could we advance a step
beyond it, but by the use of those very faculties, of which
■vve are supposed to be already diffident. The Cartesian
431
432 DAVID HUME
doubt, therefore, were it ever possible to be attained by any
human creature (as it plainly is not) would be entirely in-
curable; and no reasoning could ever bring us to a state
of assurance and conviction upon any subject.
It must, however, be confessed, that this species of scep-
ticism, when more moderate, may be understood in a very
reasonable sense, and is a necessary preparative to the study
of philosophy, by preserving a proper impartiality in our
judgements, and weaning our mind from all those preju-
dices, which we may have imbibed from education or rash
opinion. To begin with clear and self-evident principles, to
advance by timorous and sure steps, to review frequently
our conclusions, and examine accurately all their conse-
quences; though by these means we shall make both a slow
and a short progress in our systems; are the only methods,
by which we can ever hope to reach truth, and attain a
proper stability and certainty in our determinations.
There is another species of scepticism, consequent to
science and enquiry, when men are supposed to have dis-
covered, either the absolute fallaciousness of their mental
faculties, or their unfitness to reach any fixed determination
in all those curious subjects of speculation, about which
they are commonly employed. Even our very senses are
brought into dispute, by a certain species of philosophers;
and the maxims of common life are subjected to the same
doubt as the most profound principles or conclusions of
metaphysics and theology. As these paradoxical tenets
(if they may be called tenets) are to be met with in some
philosophers, and the refutation of them in several, they
naturally excite our curiosity, and make us enquire into the
arguments, on which they may be founded.
I need not insist upon the more trite topics, employed by
the sceptics in all ages, against the evidence of sense; such
as those which are derived from the imperfection and
fallaciousness of our organs, on numberless occasions; the
crooked appearance of an oar in water; the various aspects
of objects, according to their different distances; the double
images which arise from the pressing one eye ; with many
other appearances of a like nature. These sceptical topics,
indeed, are only sufficient to prove, that the senses alone
THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 433
are not implicitly to be depended on; but that we must
correct their evidence by reason, and by considerations,
! derived from the nature of the medium, the distance of the
object, and the disposition of the organ, in order to render
them, v^ithin their sphere, the proper criteria of truth and
falsehood. There are other more profound arguments
against the senses, which admit not of so easy a solution.
It seems evident, that men are carried, by a natural
instinct or prepossession, to repose faith in their senses;
and that, without any reasoning, or even almost before the
use of reason, we always suppose an external universe,
which depends not on our perception, but would exist,
though we and every sensible creature were absent or an-
nihilated. Even the animal creation are governed by a
like opinion, and preserve this belief of external objects,
in all their thoughts, designs, and actions.
It seems also evident, that, when men follow this blind
and powerful instinct of nature, they always suppose the
very images, presented by the senses, to be the external
objects, and never entertain any suspicion, that the one are
nothing but representations of the other. This very table,
which we see white, and which we feel hard, is believed to
exist, independent of our perception, and to be something
external to our mind, which perceives it. Our presence
bestows not being on it: our absence does not annihilate
it. It preserves its existence uniform and entire, independ-
ent of the situation of intelligent beings, who perceive
or contemplate it.
But this universal and primary opinion of all men is soon
destroyed by the slightest philosophy, which teaches us, that
nothing can ever be present to the mind but an image or
perception, and that the senses are only the inlets, through
which these images are conveyed, without being able to
produce any immediate intercourse between the mind and
the object. The table, which we see, seems to diminish,
as we remove farther from it: but the real table, which
exists independent of us, suffers no alteration : it was, there-
fore, nothing but its image, which was present to the mind.
These are the obvious dictates of reason; and no man,
who reflects, ever doubted, that the existences, which we
434 DAVID HUME
consider, wnen we say, this house and that tree, are nothing
but perceptions in the mind, and fleeting copies or represen-
tations of other existences, which remain uniform and inde-
pendent.
So far, then, are we necessitated by reasoning to con-
tradict or depart from the primary instincts of nature, and
to embrace a new system with regard to the evidence of our
senses. But here philosophy finds herself extremely em
barrassed, when she would justify this new system, and
obviate the cavils and objections of the sceptics. She can
no longer plead the infallible and irresistible instinct of
nature: for that led us to a quite different system, which is
acknowledged fallible and even erroneous. And to justify
this pretended philosophical system, by a chain of clear
and convincing argument, or even any appearance of argu-
ment, exceeds the power of all human capacity.
By what argument can it be proved, that the perceptions
of the mind must be caused by external objects, entirely
different from them, though resembling them (if that be
possible) and could not arise either from the energy of the
mind itself, or from the suggestion of some invisible and
unknown spirit, or from some other cause still more un-
known to us? It is acknowledged, that, in fact, many of
these perceptions arise not from anything external, as in
dreams, madness, and other diseases. And nothing can be
more inexplicable than the manner, in which body should
so operate upon mind as ever to convey an image of itself
to a substance, supposed of so different, and even contrary
a nature.
It is a question of fact, whether the perceptions of the
senses be produced by external objects, resembling them:
how shall this question be determined? By experience
surely; as all other questions of a like nature. But here
experience is, and must be entirely silent. The mind has
never anything present to it but the perceptions, and cannot
possibly reach any experience of their connexion with ob-
jects. The supposition of such a connexion is, therefore,
without any foundation in reasoning.
To have recourse to the veracity of the supreme Being,
in order to prove the veracity of our senses, is surely
THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 435
making a very unexpected circuit. If his veracity were at
lall concerned in this matter, our senses would be entirely
infallible; because it is not possible that he can ever
deceive. Not to mention, that, if the external world be
once called in question, we shall be at a loss to find argu-
ments, by which we may prove the existence of that Being
or any of his attributes.
This is a topic, therefore, in which the profounder and
more philosophical sceptics will always triumph, when they
endeavour to introduce an universal doubt into all subjects
of human knowledge and enquiry. Do you follow the in-
stincts and propensities of nature, may they say, in assenting
to the veracity of sense? But these lead you to believe
that the very perception or sensible image is the external
object. Do you disclaim this principle, in order to embrace
a more rational opinion, that the perceptions are only
representations of something external? You here depart
from your natural propensities and more obvious senti-
ments; and yet are not able to satisfy your reason, which
can never find any convincing argument from experience to
prove, that the perceptions are connected with any external
objects.
There is another sceptical topic of a like nature, derived
from the most profound philosophy; which might merit
our attention, were it requisite to dive so deep, in order
to discover arguments and reasonings, which can so little
serve to any serious purpose. It is universally allowed
by modern enquirers, that all the sensible qualities of ob-
jects, such as hard, soft, hot, cold, white, black, &c. are
merely secondary, and exist not in the objects themselves,
but are perceptions of the mind, without any external
archetype or model, which they represent. If this be al-
lowed, with regard to secondary qualities, it must also
follow, with regard to the supposed primary qualities of
extension and solidity; nor can the latter be any more
entitled to that denomination than the former. The idea
of extension is entirely acquired from the senses of sight
and feeling; and if all the qualities, perceived by the
senses, be in the mind, not in the object, the same con-
clusion must reach the idea of extension, which is wholly
436 DAVID HUME
dependent on the sensible ideas or the ideas of secondary
qualities. Nothing can save us from this conclusion, but
the asserting, that the ideas of those primary qualities are
attained by Abstraction, an opinion, which, if we examine it
accurately, we shall find to be unintelligible, and even absurd.
An extension, that is neither tangible nor visible, cannot
possibly be conceived: and a tangible or visible extension,
which is neither hard nor soft, black nor white, is equally
beyond the reach of human conception. Let any man try
to conceive a triangle in general, which is neither Isosceles
nor Scalenum, nor has any particular length or proportion
of sides; and he will soon perceive the absurdity of all the
scholastic notions with regard to abstraction and general
ideas.^
Thus the first philosophical objection to the evidence of
sense or to the opinion of external existence consists in
this, that such an opinion, if rested on natural instinct, is
contrary to reason, and if referred to reason, is contrary to
natural instinct, and at the same time carries no rational
evidence with it, to convince an impartial enquirer. The
second objection goes farther, and represents this opinion
as contrary to reason : at least, if it be a principle of reason,
that all sensible qualities are in the mind, not in the object.
Bereave matter of all its intelligible qualities, both primary
and secondary, you in a manner annihilate it, and leave
only a certain unknown, inexplicable something, as the cause
of our perceptions; a notion so imperfect, that no sceptic
will think it worth while to contend against it.
Part II
It may seem a very extravagant attempt of the sceptics
to destroy reason by argument and ratiocination; yet is
this the grand scope of all their enquiries and disputes.
^This argument is drawn from Dr. Berkeley; and indeed most of the
writings of that very ingenious author form the best lessons of scepticism,
which are to be found either among the ancient or modern philosophers,
Bayle not excepted. He professes, however, in his title-page (and undoubt-
edly with great truth) to have composed his book against the sceptics as
well as against the atheists and free-thinkers. But that all his arguments,
though otherwise intended, are, in reality, merely sceptical, appears from
this, that they admit of no answer and produce no conviction. Their only
effect is to cause that momentary amazement and irresolution and confu-
sion, which is the result of scepticism.
THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 437
They endeavour to find objections, both to our abstract
reasonings, and to those which regard matter of fact and
existence.
The chief objection against all abstract reasonings is
derived from the ideas of space and time; ideas, which, in
common life and to a careless view, are very clear and
intelligible, but when they pass through the scrutiny of the
profound sciences (and they are the chief object of these
sciences) afford principles, which seem full of absurdity and
contradiction. No priestly dogmas, invented on purpose to
tame and subdue the rebellious reason of mankind, ever
shocked common sense more than the doctrine of the
infinitive divisibility of extension, with its consequences;
as they are pompously displayed by all geometricians and
metaphysicians, with a kind of triumph and exultation. A
real quantity, infinitely less than any finite quantity, con-
taining quantities infinitely less than itself, and so on in
infinitum; this is an edifice so bold and prodigious, that it
is too weighty for any pretended demonstration to support,
because it shocks the clearest and most natural principles
of human reason.^ But what renders the matter more
extraordinary, is, that these seemingly absurd opinions are
supported by a chain of reasoning, the clearest and most
natural; nor is it possible for us to allow the premise!,
without admitting the consequences. Nothing can be more
convincing and satisfactory than all the conclusions con-
cerning the properties of circles and triangles; and yet,
when these are once received, how can we deny, that the
angle of contact between a circle and its tangent is infinitely
ie5s than any rectilineal angle, that as you may increase the
diameter of the circle in infinitum, this angle of contact
becomes still less, even in infinitum, and that the angle
of contact between other curves and their tangents may be
infinitely less than those betwen any circle and its tangent,
2 Whatever disputes there may be about mathematical points, we must
allow that there are physical points; that is, parts of extension, which can-
not be divided or lessened, either by the eye or imagination. These images,
then, which are present to the fancy or senses, are absolutely indivisible,
and consequently must be allowed by mathematicians to be infinitely less
than any real part of extension; and yet nothing appears more certain to
reason, than that an infinite number of them composes an infinite extension.
How much more an infinite number of those infinitely small parts of exten-
sion, which are still supposed infinitely divisible.
438 DAVID HUME
and so on, in infinitum f The demonstration of these prin-
ciples seems as unexceptionable as that which proves the
three angles of a triangle to be equal to two right ones,
though the latter opinion be natural and easy, and the
former big with contradiction and absurdity. Reason here
seems to be thrown into a kind of amazement and sus-
pence, which, without the suggestions of any sceptic, gives
her a diffidence of herself, and of the ground on which
she treads. She sees a full light, which illuminates certain
places; but that light borders upon the most profound
darkness. And between these she is so dazzled and con-
founded, that she scarcely can pronounce with certainty and
assurance concerning any one object.
The absurdity of these bold determinations of the ab-
stract sciences seems to become, if possible, still more
palpable with regard to time than extension. An infinite
number of real parts of time, passing in succession, and
exhausted one after another, appears so evident a contra-
diction, that no man, one should think, whose judgement
is not corrupted, instead of being improved, by the sciences,
would ever be able to admit of it.
Yet still reason must remain restless, and unquiet, even
with regard to that scepticism, to which she is driven by
these seeming absurdities and contradictions. How any
clear, distinct idea can contain circumsances, contradictory
to itself, or to any other clear, distinct idea, is absolutely
incomprehensible; and is, perhaps, as absurd as any propo-
sition, which can be formed. So that nothing can be
more sceptical, or more full of doubt and hesitation,
than this scepticism itself, which arises from some of the
paradoxical conclusions of geometry or the science of
quantity'.
3 It seems to me not impossible to avoid these absurdities and contradic-
tions, if it be admitted, that there is no such thing as abstract or general
ideas, properly speaking; but that all general ideas are, in reality, particular
ones, attached to a general term, which recalls, upon occasion, other par-
ticular ones, that resemble, in certain circumstances, the idea, present to
the mind. Thus when the term Horse is pronounced, we immediately figure
to ourselves the idea of a black or a white animal, of a particular size or
figure: But as that term is also usually applied to animals of other colours,
figures and sizes, these ideas, though not actually present to the imagina-
tion, are easily recalled; and our reasoning and conclusion proceed in the
same way, as if they were actually present. If this be admitted (as seems
reasonable) it follows that all the ideas of quantity, upon which mathema-
THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 439
The sceptical objections to moral evidence, or to the
reasonings concerning matter of fact, are either popular or
philosophical. The popular objections are derived from the
natural weakness of human understanding; the contra-
dictory opinions, which have been entertained in different
ages and nations; the variations of our judgement in sick-
ness and health, youth and old age, prosperity and adver-
sity; the perpetual contradiction of each particular man's
opinions and sentiments; with many other topics of that
kind. It is needless to insist farther on this head. These
objections are but weak. For as, in common life, we reason
every moment concerning fact and existence, and cannot
possibly subsist, without continually employing this species
of argument, any popular objections, derived from thence,
must be insufficient to destroy that evidence. The great
subverter of Pyrrhonism or the excessive principles of
scepticism is action, and employment, and the occupations
of common life. These principles may flourish and triumph
in the schools ; where it is, indeed, difficult, if not impossible,
to refute them. But as soon as they leave the shade, and
by the presence of the real objects, which actuate our
passions and sentiments, are put in opposition to the more
powerful principles of our nature, they vanish like smoke,
and leave the most determined sceptic in the same condition
as other mortals.
The sceptic, therefore, had better keep within his proper
sphere, and display those philosophical objections, which
arise from more profound researches. Here he seems to
have ample matter of triumph; while he justly insists, that
all our evidence for any matter of fact, which lies beyond the
testimony of sense or memory, is derived entirely from the
relation of cause and effect; that we have no other idea
of this relation than that of two objects, which have been
frequently conjoined together ; that we have no argument to
convince us, that objects, which have, in our experience,
been frequently conjoined, will likewise, in other instances,
ticians reason, are nothing but particular, and such as are suggested by the
senses and imagination, and consequently, cannot be infinitely divisible. It
is sufficient to have dropped this hint at present, without prosecuting it
any farther. It certainly concerns all lovers of science not to expose them-
selves to the ridicule and contempt of the ignorant by their conclusions;
and this seems the readiest solution of these difficulties.
440 DAVID HUME
be conjoined in the same manner; and that nothing leads
us to this inference but custom or a certain instinct of our
nature; which it is indeed difficult to resist, but which,
like other instincts, may be fallacious and deceitful. While
the sceptic insists upon these topics, he shows his force, or
rather, indeed, his own and our weakness; and seems, for
the time at least, to destroy all assurance and conviction.
These arguments might be displayed at greater length,
if- any durable good or benefit to society could ever be
expected to result from them.
For here is the chief and most confounding objection to
excessive scepticism, that no durable good can ever result
from it; while it remains in its full force and vigour. We
need only ask such a sceptic. What his meaning is? And
what he proposes by all these curious researches f He is
immediately at a loss, and knows not what to answer.
A Copernican or Ptolemaic, who supports each his different
system of astronomy, may hope to produce a conviction,
which will remain constant and durable, with his audience.
A Stoic or Epicurean displays principles, which may not
be durable, but which have an effect on conduct and be-
haviour. But a Pyrrhonian cannot expect, that his philos-
ophy will have any constant influence on the mind: or if
it had, that its influence would be beneficial to society. On
the contrary, he must acknowledge, if he will acknowledge
anything, that all human life must perish, were his principles
universally and steadily to prevail. All discourse, all action
would immediately cease ; and men remain in a total lethargy,
till the necessities of nature, unsatisfied, put an end to their
miserable existence. It is true ; so fatal an event is very little
to be dreaded. Nature is always too strong for principle.
And though a Pyrrhonian may throw himself or others into
a momentary amazement and confusion by his profound
reasonings; the first and most trivial event in life will
put to flight all his doubts and scruples, and leave him the
same, in every point of action and speculation, with the
philosophers of every other sect, or with those who never
concerned themselves in any philosophical researches.
When he awakes from his dream, he will be the first to join
in the laugh against himself, and to confess, that all his
THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 441
objections are mere amusement, and can have no other
tendency than to show the whimsical condition of mankind,
who must act and reason and believe; though they are not
able, by their most diligent enquiry, to satisfy themselves
concerning the foundation of these operations, or to remove
the objections, which may be raised against them.
Part III
There is, indeed, a more mitigated scepticism or academ-
ical philosophy, which may be both durable and useful, and
which may, in part, be the result of this Pyrrhonism, or
excessive scepticism, when its undistinguished doubts are,
in some measure, corrected by common sense and reflection.
The greater part of mankind are naturally apt to be affirm-
ative and dogmatical in their opinions; and while they see
objects only on one side, and have no idea of any counter-
poising argument, they throw themselves precipitately into
the principles, to which they are inclined; nor have they
any indulgence for those who entertain opposite sentiments.
To hesitate or balance perplexes their understanding, checks
their passion, and suspends their action. They are, there-
fore, impatient till they escape irom a state, which to them
is so uneasy: and they think, that they could never remove
themselves far enough from it, by the violence of their
affirmations and obstinacy of their belief. But could such
dogmatical reasoners become sensible of the strange in-
firmities of human understanding, even in its most perfect
state, and when most accurate and cautious in its determina-
tions; such a reflection would naturally inspire them with
more modesty and reserve, and diminish their fond opinion
of themselves, and their prejudice against antagonists. The
illiterate may reflect on the disposition of the learned, who,
amidst all the advantages of study and reflection, are com-
monly still diffident in their determinations: and if any
of the learned be inclined, from their natural temper, to
haughtiness and obstinacy, a small tincture of Pyrrhonism
might abate their pride, by showing them, that the few ad-
vantages, which they may have attained over their fellows,
are but inconsiderable, if compared with the universal per-
442 DAVID HUME
plexity and confusion, which is inherent in human nature.
In general, there is a degree of doubt, and caution, and
modesty, which, in all kinds of scrutiny and decision, ought
for ever to accompany a just reasoner.
Another species of mitigated scepticism which may be
of advantage to mankind, and which may be the natural
result of the Pyrrhonian doubts and scruples, is the limita-
tion of our enquiries to such subjects as are best adapted to
the narrow capacity of human understanding. The imagina-
tion of man is naturally sublime, delighted with whatever is
remote and extraordinary, and running, without control,
into the most distant parts of space and time in order to
avoid the objects, which custom has rendered too familiar
to ito A correct Judgement observes a contrary method, and
avoiding all distant and high enquiries, confines itself to
common life, and to such subjects as fall under daily prac-
tice and experience; leaving the more sublime topics to the
embellishment of poets and orators, or to the arts of priests
and politicians. To bring us to so salutary a determination,
nothing can be more serviceable, than to be once thoroughly
convinced of the force of the Pyrrhonian doubt, and of the
impossibility, that anything, but the strong power of natural
instinct, could free us from it. Those who have a propensity
to philosophy, will still continue their researches; because
they reflect, that, besides the immediate pleasure attending
such an occupation, philosophical decisions are nothing but
the reflections of common life, methodized and corrected.
But they will never be tempted to go beyond common life,
so long as they consider the imperfection of those faculties
which they employ, their narrow reach, and their inaccurate
operations. While we cannot give a satisfactory reason, why
we believe, after a thousand experiments, that a stone will
fall, or fire burn; can we ever satisfy ourselves concerning
any determination, which we may form, with regard to the
origin of worlds, and the situation of nature, from, and to
eternity ?
This narrow limitation, indeed, of our enquiries, is, in
every respect, so reasonable, that it suffices to make the
slightest examination into the natural powers of the human
mind and to compare them with their objects, in order to
THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 443
recommend it to us. We shall then find what are the proper
subjects of science and enquiry.
It seems to me, that the only objects of the abstract
science or of demonstration are quantity and number, and
that all attempts to extend this more perfect species of
knowledge beyond these bounds are mere sophistry and
illusion. As the component parts of quantity and number
are entirely similar, their relations become intricate and
involved; and nothing can be more curious, as well as
useful, than to trace, by a variety of mediums, their equality
or inequality, through their different appearances. But as
all other ideas are clearly distinct and different from each
other, we can never advance farther, by our utmost scrutiny,
than to observe this diversity, and, by an obvious reflection,
pronounce one thing not to be another. Or if there be any
difficulty in these decisions, it proceeds entirely from the
undeterminate meaning of words, which is corrected by
juster definitions. That the square of the hypothenuse is
equal to the squares of the other two sides, cannot be known,
let the terms be ever so exactly defined, without a train of
reasoning and enquiry. But to convince us of this propo-
sition, that where there is no property, there can he no in-
justice, it is only necessary to define the terms, and explain
injustice to be a violation of property. This proposition is,
indeed, nothing but a more imperfect definition. It is the
same case with all those pretended syllogistical reasonings,
which may be found in every other branch of learning,
except the sciences of quantity and number; and these may
safely, I think, be pronounced the only proper objects of
knowledge and demonstration.
All other enquiries of men regard only matter of fact and
existence; and these are evidently incapable of demon-
stration. Whatever is may not he. No negation of a fact
can involve a contradiction. The non-existence of any
being, without exception, is as clear and distinct an idea
as its existence. The proposition, which affirms it not
to be, however false, is no less conceivable and intelligible,
than that which affirms it to be. The case is different
with the sciences, properly so called. Every proposition,
which is not true, is there confused and unintelligible. That
444 DAVID HUME
the cube root of 64 is equal to the half of 10, is a false
proposition, and can never be distinctly conceived. But
that Caesar, or the angel Gabriel, or any being never ex-
isted, may be a false proposition, but still is perfectly con-
ceivable, and implies no contradiction.
The existence, therefore, of any being can only be proved
by arguments from its cause or its effect; and these argu-
ments are founded entirely on experience. If we reason
a priori, anything may appear able to produce anything.
The falling of a pebble may, for aught we know, extinguish
the sun; or the wish of a man control the planets in their
orbits. It is only experience, which teaches us the nature
and bounds of cause and effect, and enables us to infer the
existence of one object from that of another*. Such is the
foundation of moral reasoning, which forms the greater part
of human knowledge, and is the source of all human action
and behaviour.
Moral reasonings are either concerning particular or gen-
eral facts. All deliberations in life regard the former;
as also all disquisitions in history, chronology, geography,
and astronomy.
The sciences, which treat of general facts, are politics,
natural philosophy, physic, chemistry, &c. where the quali-
ties, causes and effects of a whole species of objects are
enquired into.
Divinity or Theology, as it proves the existence of a
Deity, and the immortality of souls, is composed partly
of reasonings concerning particular, partly concerning gen-
eral facts. It has a foundation in reason, so far as it is
supported by experience. But its best and most solid
foundation is faith and divine revelation.
Morals and criticism are not so properly objects of the
understanding as of taste and sentiment. Beauty, whether
moral or natural, is felt, more properly than perceived.
Or if we reason concerning it, and endeavour to fix its
standard, we regard a new fact, to wit, the general tastes of
* That impious maxim of the ancient philosophy, Ex nihilo, nihil fit, by
which the creation of matter was excluded, ceases to be a maxim, accord-
ing to this philosophy. Not only the will of the supreme Being may create
matter; but, for aught we know a priori, the will of any other being might
create it, or any other cause, that the most whimsical imagination can assign.
THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 445
mankind, or some such fact, which may be the object of
reasoning and enquiry.
When we run over libraries, persuaded of these principles,
what havoc must we make? If we take in our hand any
volume; of divinity or school metaphysics, for instance;
let us ask, Does it contain any abstract reasoning concern-
ing quantity or number? No. Does it contain any experi-
mental reasoning concerning matter of fact and existence?
No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain
nothing but sophistry and illusion.
THE PUBLISHERS OF THE HAR-
VARD CLASSICS • DR. ELIOT'S
FIVE-FOOT SHELF OF BOOKS ARE
PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THE
PUBLICATION OF
THE JUNIOR CLASSICS
A LIBRARY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
The Junior Classics constitute a set
of books whose contents will delight
children and at the same time
satisfy the legitimate ethical require-
ments of those who have the children's
best interests at heart."
CHARLES W. ELIOT
THE COLLIER PRESS • NEW YORK
P- F- COLLIER fsfSON
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DEC ^ 1986
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