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FOUR DISSERTATIONS.

  • I. THE NATURAL HISTORY OF RELIGION.
  • II. OF THE PASSIONS.
  • III. OF TRAGEDY.
  • IV. OF THE STANDARD OF TASTE.

Written by the ſame AUTHOR, and Printed for A. MILLAR.

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  • I. Eſſays and Treatiſes on ſeveral Subjects. In 4 Volumes, Duodecimo. Containing in
    • VOL. I. Eſſays Moral and Political.
    • VOL. II. Philoſophical Eſſays concerning Human Underſtanding.
    • VOL. III. An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals.
    • VOL. IV. Political Diſcourſes.
  • II. The Hiſtory of Great Britain. In 2 Vol. Quarto. Containing in
    • VOL. I. The Reigns of James I, and Charles I.
    • VOL. II. The Commonwealth, and the Reigns of Charles II. and James II.

FOUR DISSERTATIONS.

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  • I. THE NATURAL HISTORY OF RELIGION.
  • II. OF THE PASSIONS.
  • III. OF TRAGEDY.
  • IV. OF THE STANDARD OF TASTE.

BY DAVID HUME, Eſq.

LONDON, Printed for A. MILLAR, in the Strand. MDCCLVII.

TO The Reverend Mr. Hume, Author of DOUGLAS, a Tragedy.

[i]
MY DEAR SIR,

IT was the practice of the antients to addreſs their compoſitions only to friends and equals, and to render their dedications monuments of regard and affection, not of ſervility and flattery. In thoſe days of ingenuous and candid liberty, a dedication did honour to the perſon to whom it [ii] was addreſſed, without degrading the author. If any partiality appeared towards the patron, it was at leaſt the partiality of friendſhip and affection.

ANOTHER inſtance of true liberty, of which antient times can alone afford us an example, is the liberty of thought, which engaged men of letters, however different in their abſtract opinions, to maintain a mutual friendſhip and regard; and never to quarrel about principles, while they agreed in inclinations and manners. Science was often the ſubject of diſputation, never of animoſity. Cicero, an academic, addreſſed his philoſophical treatiſes, ſometimes to Brutus, a ſtoic; ſometimes to Atticus, an epicurean.

[iii] I HAVE been ſeized with a ſtrong deſire of renewing theſe laudable practices of antiquity, by addreſſing the following diſſertations to you, my good friend: For ſuch I will ever call and eſteem you, notwithſtanding the oppoſition, which prevails between us, with regard to many of our ſpeculative tenets. Theſe differences of opinion I have only found to enliven our converſation; while our common paſſion for ſcience and letters ſerved as a cement to our friendſhip. I ſtill admired your genius, even when I imagined, that you lay under the influence of prejudice; and you ſometimes told me, that you excuſed my errors, on account of the candor and ſincerity, which, you thought, accompanied them.

[iv] BUT to tell truth, it is leſs my admiration of your fine genius, which has engaged me to make this addreſs to you, than my eſteem of your character and my affection to your perſon. That generoſity of mind which ever accompanies you; that cordiality of friendſhip, that ſpirited honour and integrity, have long intereſted me ſtrongly in your behalf, and have made me deſirous, that a monument of our mutual amity ſhould be publicly erected, and, if poſſible, be preſerved to poſterity.

I own too, that I have the ambition to be the firſt who ſhall in public expreſs his admiration of your noble tragedy of DOUGLAS; one of the moſt [v] intereſting and pathetic pieces, that was ever exhibited on any theatre. Should I give it the preference to the Merope of Maffei, and to that of Voltaire, which it reſembles in its ſubject; ſhould I affirm, that it contained more fire and ſpirit than the former, more tenderneſs and ſimplicity than the latter; I might be accuſed of partiality: And how could I entirely acquit myſelf, after the profeſſions of friendſhip, which I have made you? But the unfeigned tears which flowed from every eye, in the numerous repreſentations which were made of it on this theatre; the unparalleled command, which you appeared to have over every affection of the human breaſt: Theſe are inconteſtible proofs, that you poſſeſs the true theatric genius of Shakeſpear [vi] and Otway, refined from the unhappy barbariſm of the one, and licentiouſneſs of the other.

MY enemies, you know, and, I own, even ſometimes my friends, have reproached me with the love of paradoxes and ſingular opinions; and I expect to be expoſed to the ſame imputation, on account of the character, which I have here given of your DOUGLAS. I ſhall be told, no doubt, that I had artfully choſen the only time, when this high eſteem of that piece could be regarded as a paradox, to wit, before its publication; and that not being able to contradict in this particular the ſentiments of the public, I have, at leaſt, reſolved to go before them. But I ſhall be amply compenſated [vii] for all theſe pleaſantries, if you accept this teſtimony of my regard, and believe me to be, with the greateſt ſincerity,

DEAR SIR,
Your moſt affectionate Friend, and humble Servant, DAVID HUME.

DISSERTATION I. NATURAL HISTORY OF RELIGION.
DISSERTATION I. The Natural Hiſtory of Religion.

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INTRODUCTION.

AS every enquiry, which regards Religion, is of the utmoſt importance, there are two queſtions in particular, which challenge our principal attention, to wit, that concerning it's foundation in reaſon, and that concerning its origin in human nature. Happily, the firſt queſtion, which is the moſt important, admits of the moſt obvious, at leaſt, the cleareſt ſolution. The whole frame of nature beſpeaks an intelligent author; and no rational enquirer can, after ſerious reflexion, ſuſpend his belief a moment with regard to the primary principles of genuine Theiſm and Religion. But the other queſtion, concerning the origin of religion in human nature, admits of ſome more difficulty. The belief of inviſible, intelligent power has been very generally diffuſed over the human race, in all places and in all ages; but it has neither perhaps been ſo univerſal as to admit of no exceptions, [2] nor has it been, in any degree, uniform in the ideas, which it has ſuggeſted. Some nations have been diſcovered, who entertained no ſentiments of Religion, if travellers and hiſtorians may be credited; and no two nations, and ſcarce any two men, have ever agreed preciſely in the ſame ſentiments. It would appear, therefore, that this preconception ſprings not from an original inſtinct or primary impreſſion of nature, ſuch as gives riſe to ſelf-love, affection betwixt the ſexes, love of progeny, gratitude, reſentment; ſince every inſtinct of this kind has been found abſolutely univerſal in all nations and ages, and has always a preciſe, determinate object, which it inflexibly purſues. The firſt religious principles muſt be ſecondary; ſuch as may eaſily be perverted by various accidents and cauſes, and whoſe operation too, in ſome caſes, may, by an extraordinary concurrence of circumſtances, be altogether prevented. What thoſe principles are, which give riſe to the original belief, and what thoſe accidents and cauſes are, which direct its operation, is the ſubject of our preſent enquiry.

I.

[3]

IT appears to me, that if we conſider the improvement of human ſociety, from rude beginnings to a ſtate of greater perfection, polytheiſm or idolatry was, and neceſſarily muſt have been, the firſt and moſt antient religion of mankind. This opinion I ſhall endeavour to confirm by the following arguments.

'TIS a matter of fact unconteſtable, that about 1700 years ago all mankind were idolaters. The doubtful and ſceptical principles of a few philoſophers, or the theiſm, and that too not entirely pure, of one or two nations, form no objection worth regarding. Behold then the clear teſtimony of hiſtory. The farther we mount up into antiquity, the more do we find mankind plunged into idolatry. No marks, no ſymptoms of any more perfect religion. The moſt antient records of human race ſtill preſent us with polytheiſm as the popular and eſtabliſhed ſyſtem. The north, the ſouth, the eaſt, the weſt, give their unanimous teſtimony to the ſame fact. What can be oppoſed to ſo full an evidence?

[4] As far as writing or hiſtory reaches, mankind, in antient times, appear univerſally to have been polytheiſts. Shall we aſſert, that, in more antient times, before the knowledge of letters, or the diſcovery of any art or ſcience, men entertained the principles of pure theiſm? That is, while they were ignorant and barbarous, they diſcovered truth: But fell into error, as ſoon as they acquired learning and politeneſs.

BUT in this aſſertion you not only contradict all appearance of probability, but alſo our preſent experience concerning the principles and opinions of barbarous nations. The ſavage tribes of America, Africa, and Aſia are all idolaters. Not a ſingle exception to this rule. Inſomuch, that, were a traveller to tranſport himſelf into any unknown region; if he found inhabitants cultivated with arts and ſciences, tho' even upon that ſuppoſition there are odds againſt their being theiſts, yet could he notſafely, till farther enquiry, pronounce any thing on that head: But if he found them ignorant and barbarous, he might beforehand declare them idolaters; and there ſcarce is a poſſibility of his being miſtaken.

[5] IT ſeems certain, that, according to the natural progreſs of human thought, the ignorant multitude muſt firſt entertain ſome groveling and familiar notion of ſuperior powers, before they ſtretch their conception to that perfect being, who beſtowed order on the whole frame of nature. We may as reaſonably imagine, that men inhabited palaces before huts and cottages, or ſtudied geometry before agriculture; as aſſert that the deity appeared to them a pure ſpirit, omniſcient, omnipotent, and omnipreſent, before he was apprehended to be a powerful, tho' limited being, with human paſſions and appetites, limbs and organs. The mind riſes gradually, from inferior to ſuperior: By abſtracting from what is imperfect, it forms an idea of perfection: And ſlowly diſtinguiſhing the nobler parts of its frame from the groſſer, it learns to transfer only the former, much elevated and refined, to its divinity. Nothing could diſturb this natural progreſs of thought, but ſome obvious and invincible argument, which might immediately lead the mind into the pure principles of theiſm, and make it overleap, at one bound, the vaſt interval, which is interpoſed betwixt the human and the divine nature. [6] But tho' I allow, that the order and frame of the univerſe, when accurately examined, affords ſuch an argument; yet I can never think that this conſideration could have an influence on manking, when they formed their firſt, rude notions of religion.

THE cauſes of objects, which are quite familiar to us, never ſtrike our attention or curioſity; and however extraordinary or ſurprizing theſe objects may be in themſelves, they are paſt over, by the raw and ignorant multitude, without much examination or enquiry. Adam, riſing at once, in paradiſe, and in the full perfection of his faculties, would naturally, as repreſented by Milton, be aſtoniſhed at the glorious appearances of nature, the heavens, the air, the earth, his own organs and members; and would be led to aſk, whence this wonderful ſcene aroſe. But a barbarous, neceſſitous animal (ſuch as man is on the firſt origin of ſociety) preſſed by ſuch numerous wants and paſſions, has no leiſure to admire the regular face of nature, or make enquiries concerning the cauſe of objects, to which, from his infancy, he has been gradually accuſtomed. On the contrary, the more regular and uniform, that is, the more [7] perfect, nature appears, the more is he familiarized to it, and the leſs inclined to ſcrutinize and examine it. A monſtrous birth excites his curioſity, and is deemed a prodigy. It alarms him from its novelty; and immediately ſets him a trembling, and ſacrificing, and praying. But an animal compleat in all its limbs and organs, is to him an ordinary ſpectacle, and produces no religious opinion or affection. Aſk him, whence that animal aroſe; he will tell you, from the copulation of its parents. And theſe, whence? From the copulation of theirs. A few removes ſatisfy his curioſity, and ſets the objects at ſuch a diſtance, that he entirely loſes [...]ight of them. Imagine not, that he will ſo much as ſtart the queſtion, whence the firſt animal; much leſs, whence the whole ſyſtem or united fabric of the univerſe aroſe. Or, if you ſtart ſuch a queſtion to him, expect not, that he will employ his mind with any anxiety about a ſubject, ſo remote, ſo unintereſting, and which ſo much exceeds the bounds of his capacity.

BUT farther, if men were at firſt led into the belief of one ſupreme being, by reaſoning from the frame of nature, they could never poſſibly [8] leave that belief, in order to embrace idolatry; but the ſame principles of reaſoning, which at firſt produced, and diffuſed over mankind, ſo magnificent an opinion, muſt be able, with greater facility, to preſerve it. The firſt invention and proof of any doctrine is infinitely more difficult than the ſupporting and retaining it.

THERE is a great difference betwixt hiſtorical facts and ſpeculative opinions; nor is the knowledge of the one propagated in the ſame manner with that of the other. An hiſtorical fact, while it paſſes by oral tradition from eye-witneſſes and contemporaries, is diſguiſed in every ſucceſſive narration, and may at laſt retain but very ſmall, if any, reſemblance of the original truth, on which it was founded. The frail memories of men, their love of exaggeration, their ſupine careleſſneſs; theſe principles, if not corrected by books and writing, ſoon pervert the account of hiſtorical events; where argument or reaſoning has little or no place, nor can ever recal the truth, which has once eſcaped thoſe narrations. 'Tis thus the fables of Hercules, Theſeus, Bacchus are ſuppoſed to have been originally founded in true hiſtory, corrupted by tradition. But with regard to ſpeculative [9] opinions, the caſe is far otherwiſe. If theſe opinions be founded in arguments ſo clear and obvious as to carry conviction with the generality of mankind, the ſame arguments, which at firſt diffuſed the opinions, will ſtill preſerve them in their original purity. If the arguments be more abſtruſe, and more remote from vulgar apprehenſions, the opinions will always be confined to a few perſons; and as ſoon as men leave the contemplation of the arguments, the opinions will immediately be loſt and buried in oblivion. Which ever ſide of this dilemma we take, it muſt appear impoſſible, that theiſm could, from reaſoning, have been the primary religion of human race, and have afterwards, by its corruption, given birth to idolatry and to all the various ſuperſtitions of the heathen world. Reaſon, when very obvious, prevents theſe corruptions: When abſtruſe, it keeps the principles entirely from the knowledge of the vulgar, who are alone liable to corrupt any principles, or opinions.

II.

[10]

IF we would, therefore, indulge our curioſity, in enquiring concerning the origin of religion, we muſt turn our thoughts towards idolatry or polytheiſm, the primitive Religion of uninſtructed mankind.

WERE men led into the apprehenſion of inviſible, intelligent power by a contemplation of the works of nature, they could never poſſibly entertain any conception but of one ſingle being, who beſtowed exiſtence and order on this vaſt machine, and adjuſted all its parts, according to one regular plan or connected ſyſtem. For tho', to perſons of a certain turn of mind, it may not appear altogether abſurd, that ſeveral independent beings, endowed with ſuperior wiſdom, might conſpire in the contrivance and execution of one regular plan; yet is this a mere arbitrary ſuppoſition, which, even if allowed poſſible, muſt be confeſſed neither to be ſupported by probability nor neceſſity. All things in the univerſe are evidently of a piece. Every thing is adjuſted to every thing. One [11] deſign prevails thro' the whole. And this uniformity leads the mind to acknowledge one author; becauſe the conception of different authors, without any diſtinction of attributes or operations, ſerves only to give perplexity to the imagination, without beſtowing any ſatisfaction on the underſtandinga.

ON the other hand, if, leaving the works of nature, we trace the footſteps of inviſible power in the various and contrary events of human life, we are neceſſarily led into polytheiſm, and to the acknowledgment of ſeveral limited and imperfect deities. Storms and tempeſts ruin what is nouriſhed by the ſun. The ſun deſtroys what is foſtered by the moiſture of dews and rains. War may be favourable to a nation, whom the inclemency of the ſeaſons afflicts with famine. Sickneſs and peſtilence may depopulate a kingdom, amidſt the moſt profuſe plenty. The ſame nation is not, at the [12] ſame time, equally ſucceſsful by ſea and by land. And a nation, which now triumphs over its enemies, may anon ſubmit to their more proſperous arms. In ſhort, the conduct of events or what we call the plan of a particular providence, is ſo full of variety and uncertainty, that, if we ſuppoſe it immediately ordered by any intelligent beings, we muſt acknowledge a contrariety in their deſigns and intentions, a conſtant combat of oppoſite powers, and a repentance or change of intention in the ſame power, from impotence or levity. Each nation has its tutelar deity. Each element is ſubjected to its inviſible power or agent. The province of each god is ſeparate from that of another. Nor are the operations of the ſame god always certain and invariable. To day, he protects: To morrow, he abandons us. Prayers and ſacrifices, rites and ceremonies, well or ill performed, are the ſources of his favour or enmity, and produce all the good or ill fortune, which are to be found amongſt mankind.

WE may conclude, therefore, that, in all nations, which have embraced polytheiſm or idolatry, the firſt ideas of religion aroſe not from a contemplation of the works of nature, [13] but from a concern with regard to the events of life, and from the inceſſant hopes and fears, which actuate the human mind. Accordingly, we find, that all idolaters, having ſeparated the provinces of their deities, have recourſe to that inviſible agent, to whoſe authority they are immediately ſubjected, and whoſe province it is to ſuperintend that courſe of actions, in which they are, at any time, engaged. Juno is invoked at marriages; Lucina at births. Neptune receives the prayers of ſeamen; and Mars of warriors. The huſbandman cultivates his field under the protection of Ceres; and the merchant acknowledges the authority of Mercury. Each natural event is ſuppoſed to be governed by ſome intelligent agent; and nothing proſperous or adverſe can happen in life, which may not be the ſubject of peculiar prayers or thankſgivingsb.

[14] IT muſt neceſſarily, indeed, be allowed, that, in order to carry men's attention beyond the viſible courſe of things, or lead them into any inference concerning inviſible intelligent power, they muſt be actuated by ſome paſſion, which prompts their thought and reflection; ſome motive, which urges their firſt enquiry. But what paſſion ſhall we here have recourſe to, for explaining an effect of ſuch mighty conſequence? Not ſpeculative curioſity ſurely, or the pure love of truth. That motive is too refined for ſuch groſs apprehenſions, and would lead men into enquiries concerning the frame of nature; a ſubject too large and comprehenſive for their narrow capacities. No paſſions, therefore, can be ſuppoſed to work upon ſuch barbarians, but the ordinary affections of human life; the anxious concern for happineſs, the dread of future miſery, the terror of death, the thirſt of revenge, the appetite for food and other neceſſaries. Agitated by hopes and fears of this nature, eſpecially the latter, men ſcrutinize, with a trembling curioſity, the courſe of future cauſes, and examine the various and [15] contrary events of human life. And in this diſordered ſcene, with eyes ſtill more diſordered and aſtoniſhed, they ſee the firſt obſcure traces of divinity.

III.

[16]

WE are placed in this world, as in a great theatre, where the true ſprings and cauſes of every event, are entirely unknown to us; nor have we either ſufficient wiſdom to foreſee, or power to prevent thoſe ills, with which we are continually threatened. We hang in perpetual ſuſpenſe betwixt life and death, health and ſickneſs, plenty and want; which are diſtributed amongſt the human ſpecies by ſecret and unknown cauſes, whoſe operation is oft unexpected, and always unaccountable. Theſe unknown cauſes, then, become the conſtant object of our hope and fear; and while the paſſions are kept in perpetual alarm by an anxious expectation of the events, the imagination is equally employed in forming ideas of thoſe powers, on which we have ſo entire a dependance. Could men anatomize nature, according to the moſt probable, at leaſt the moſt intelligible philoſophy, they would find, that theſe cauſes are nothing but the particular fabric and ſtructure of the minute parts of their own bodies and of external objects; and that, by a regular and conſtant machinery, all the events are produced, [17] about which they are ſo much concerned. But this philoſophy exceeds the comprehenſion of the ignorant multitude, who can only conceive the unknown cauſes in a general and confuſed manner; tho' their imagination, perpetually employed on the ſame ſubject, muſt labour to form ſome particular and diſtinct idea of them. The more they conſider theſe cauſes themſelves, and the uncertainty of their operation, the leſs ſatisfaction do they meet with in their reſearch; and, however unwilling, they muſt at laſt have abandoned ſo arduous an attempt, were it not for a propenſity in human nature, which leads into a ſyſtem, that gives them ſome ſeeming ſatisfaction.

THERE is an univerſal tendency amongſt mankind to conceive all beings like themſelves, and to transfer to every object thoſe qualities, with which they are familiarly acquainted, and of which they are intimately conſcious. We find human faces in the moon, armies in the clouds; and by a natural propenſity, if not corrected by experience and reflection, aſcribe malice and good-will to every thing, that hurts or pleaſes us. Hence the frequency and beauty of the proſopopoeia in poetry, where trees, [18] mountains and ſtreams are perſoniſied, and the inanimate parts of nature acquire ſentiment and paſſion. And tho' theſe poetical figures and expreſſions gain not on the belief, they may ſerve, at leaſt, to prove a certain tendency in the imagination, without which they could neither be beautiful nor natural. Nor is a rivergod or hama-dryad always taken for a mere poetical or imaginary perſonage; but may ſometimes enter into the real creed of the ignorant vulgar; while each grove or field is repreſented as poſſeſt of a particular genius or inviſible power, which inhabits and protects it. Nay, philoſophers cannot entirely exempt themſelves from this natural frailty; but have oft aſcribed to inanimate matter the horror of a vacuum, ſympathies, antipathies, and other affections of human nature. The abſurdity is not leſs, while we caſt our eyes upwards; and transferring, as is too uſual, human paſſions and infirmities to the deity, repreſent him as jealous and revengeful, capricious and partial, and, in ſhort, a wicked and fooliſh man in every reſpect, but his ſuperior power and authority. No wonder, then, that mankind, being placed in ſuch an abſolute ignorance of cauſes, and being at the ſame time ſo anxious concerning their future [19] fortunes, ſhould immediatly acknowledge a dependence on inviſible powers, poſſeſt of ſentiment and intelligence. The unknown cauſes, which continually employ their thought, appearing always in the ſame aſpect, are all apprehended to be of the ſame kind or ſpecies. Nor is it long before we aſcribe to them thought, and reaſon, and paſſion, and ſometimes even the limbs and figures of men, in order to bring them nearer to a reſemblance with ourſelves.

IN proportion as any man's courſe of life is governed by accident, we always find, that he encreaſes in ſuperſtition; as may particularly be obſerved of gameſters and ſailors, who, tho', of all mankind, the leaſt capable of ſerious meditation, abound moſt in frivolous and ſuperſtitious apprehenſions. The gods, ſays Coriolanus in Dionyſius *, have an influence in every affair; but above all, in war; where the event is ſo uncertain. All human life, eſpecially before the inſtitution of order and good government, being ſubject to fortuitous accidents; it is natural, that ſuperſtition ſhould prevail every where in barbarous ages, and put men on the moſt [20] earneſt enquiry concerning thoſe inviſible powers, who diſpoſe of their happineſs or miſery. Ignorant of aſtronomy and the anatomy of plants and animals, and too little curious to obſerve the admirable adjuſtment of final cauſes; they remain ſtill unacquainted with a firſt and ſupreme creator, and with that infinitely perfect ſpirit, who alone, by his almighty will, beſtowed order on the whole frame of nature, Such a magnificent idea is too big for their narrow conceptions, which can neither obſerve the beauty of the work, nor comprehend the grandeur of its author. They ſuppoſe their deities, however potent and inviſible, to be nothing but a ſpecies of human creatures, perhaps raiſed from among mankind, and retaining all human paſſions and appetites, along with corporeal limbs and organs. Such limited beings, tho' maſters of human fate, being, each of them, incapable of extending his influence every where, muſt be vaſtly multiplied, in order to anſwer that variety of events, which happen over the whole face of nature. Thus every place is ſtored with a crowd of local deities; and thus idolatry has prevailed, and ſtill prevails, among the greateſt part of uninſtructed mankind*.

[21] ANY of the human affections may lead us into the notion of inviſible, intelligent power; hope as well as fear, gratitude as well as affliction: But if we examine our own hearts, or obſerve what paſſes around us, we ſhall find, that men are much oſtener thrown on their knees by the melancholy than by the agreeable paſſions. Proſperity is eaſily received as our due, and few queſtions are aſked concerning its cauſe or author. It engenders cheerfulneſs and activity and alacrity and a lively enjoyment of every ſocial and ſenſual pleaſure: And during this ſtate of mind, men have little leiſure or inclination to think of the unknown, inviſible regions. On the other hand, every diſaſtrous accident alarms us, and ſets us on enquiries concerning the principles whence it aroſe: Apprehenſions ſpring up with regard to futurity: And the mind, ſunk into diffidence, terror, and melancholy, has recourſe to every [22] method of appeaſing thoſe ſecret, intelligent powers, on whom our fortune is ſuppoſed entirely to depend.

NO topic is more uſual with all popular divines than to diſplay the advantages of affliction, in bringing men to a due ſenſe of religion; by ſubduing their confidence and ſenſuality, which, in times of proſperity, make them forgetful of a divine providence. Nor is this topic confined merely to modern religions. The ancients have alſo employed it. Fortune has never liberally, without envy, ſays a Greek hiſtoriana, beſtowed an unmixt happineſs on mankind; but with all her gifts has ever conjoined ſome diſaſtrous circumſtance, in order to chaſtize men into a reverence for the gods, whom, in a continued courſe of proſperity, they are apt to neglect and forget.

WHAT age or period of life is the moſt addicted to ſuperſtition? The weakeſt and moſt timid. What ſex? The ſame anſwer muſt be given. The leaders and examples of every kind of ſuperſtition, ſays Strabo b, are the women. Theſe excite the men to devotion and ſupplications, and the obſervance of religious days. It is rare to meet [23] with one, that lives apart from the females, and yet is addicted to ſuch practiſes. And nothing can, for this reaſon, be more improbable, than the account given of an order of men amongſt the Getes, who practiſed celibacy, and were notwithſtanding the moſt religious fanatics. A method of reaſoning, which would lead us to entertain a very bad idea of the devotion of monks; did we not know by an experience, not ſo common, perhaps, in Strabo's days, that one may practice celibacy, and profeſs chaſtity; and yet maintain the cloſeſt connexions and moſt entire ſympathy with that timorous and pious ſex.

IV.

[24]

THE only point of theology, in which we ſhall find a conſent of mankind almoſt univerſal, is, that there is inviſible, intelligent power in the world: But whether this power be ſupreme or ſubordinate, whether confined to one being or diſtributed amongſt ſeveral, what attributes, qualities, connexions or principles of action ought to be aſcribed to thoſe beings; concerning all theſe points, there is the wideſt difference in the popular ſyſtems of theology. Our anceſtors in Europe, before the revival of letters, believed, as we do at preſent, that there was one ſupreme God, the author of nature, whoſe power, tho', in itſelf, uncontrolable, yet was often exerted by the interpoſition of his angels and ſubordinate miniſters, who executed his ſacred purpoſes. But they alſo believed, that all nature was full of other inviſible powers; fairies, goblins, elves, ſprights; beings, ſtronger and mightier than men, but much inferior to the celeſtial natures, who ſurround the throne of God. Now ſuppoſe, that any one, in thoſe ages, had denied the exiſtence of God and of his angels; would not his impiety juſtly have [25] deſerved the appellation of atheiſm, even tho' he had ſtill allowed, by ſome odd capricious reaſoning, that the popular ſtories of elves and fairies were juſt and well-grounded? The difference, on the one hand, betwixt ſuch a perſon and a genuine theiſt is infinitely greater, than that, on the other, betwixt him and one, that abſolutely excludes all inviſible, intelligent power. And it is a fallacy, merely from the caſual reſemblance of names, without any conformity of meaning, to rank ſuch oppoſite opinions under the ſame denomination.

TO any one, who conſiders juſtly of the matter, it will appear, that the gods of all polytheiſts or idolaters are no better than the elves or fairies of our anceſtors, and merit as little any pious worſhip or veneration. Theſe pretended religioniſts are really a kind of ſuperſtitious atheiſts, and acknowledge no being, that correſponds to our idea of a deity. No firſt principle of mind or thought: No ſupreme government and adminiſtration: No divine contrivance or intention in the fabric of the world.

[26] THE Chineſe, when a their prayers are not anſwered, beat their idols. The deities of the Laplanders are any large ſtone which they meet with of an extraordinary ſhapeb. The Egyptian mythologiſts, in order to account for animal worſhip, ſaid, that the gods, purſued by the violence of earth-born men, who were their enemies, had formerly been obliged to diſguiſe themſelves under the ſemblance of beaſtsc. The Caunii, a nation in the leſſer Aſia, reſolving to admit no ſtrange gods amongſt them, regularly, at certain ſeaſons, aſſembled themſelves compleatly armed, beat the air with their lances, and proceeded in that manner to their frontiers; in order, as they ſaid, to expel the foreign deitiesd. Not even the immortal gods, ſaid ſome German nations to Caeſar, are a match for the Suevi e.

MANY ills, ſays Dione in Homer to Venus wounded by Diomede, many ills, my daughter, have the gods inflicted on men: And many ills, in return, have men inflicted on the godsf. We [27] need but open any claſſic author to meet with theſe groſs repreſentations of the deities; and Longinus a with reaſon obſerves, that ſuch ideas of the divine nature, if literally taken, contain a true atheiſm.

SOME writersb have been ſurpriſed, that the the impieties of Ariſtophanes ſhould have been tolerated, nay publickly acted and applauded, by the Athenians; a people ſo ſuperſtitious and ſo jealous of the public religion, that, at that very time, they put Socrates to death for his imagined incredulity. But theſe writers conſider not, that the ludicrous, familiar images, under which the gods are repreſented by that comic poet, inſtead of appearing impious, were the genuine lights, in which the ancients conceived their divinities. What conduct can be more criminal or mean, than that of Jupiter in the Amphitryon? Yet that play, which repreſented his gallant exploits, was ſuppoſed ſo agreeable to him, that it was always acted in Rome by public authority, when the State was threatened with peſtilence, famine, or any general calamityc. The Romans ſuppoſed, that, like all old [28] letchers, he would be highly pleaſed with the rehearſal of his former feats of activity and vigour, and that no topic was ſo proper, upon which to flatter his pride and vanity.

THE Lacedemonians, ſays Xenophon a, always, during war, put up their petitions very early in the morning, in order to be beforehand with their enemies, and by being the firſt ſolicitors, pre-engage the gods in their favour. We may gather from Seneca b, that it was uſual for the votaries in the temples, to make intereſt with the beadles or ſextons, in order to have a ſeat near the image of the deity, that they might be the beſt heard in their prayers and applications to him. The Tyrians, when beſieged by Alexander, threw chains on the ſtatue of Hercules, to prevent that deity from deſerting to the enemyc. Auguſtus, having twice loſt his fleet by ſtorms, forbad Neptune to be carried in proceſſion along with the other gods; and fancied, that he had ſufficiently revenged himſelf by that expedientd. After Germanicus's death, the people were ſo enraged at their gods, that they ſtoned [29] them in their temples; and openly renounced all allegiance to thema.

TO aſcribe the origin and fabric of the univerſe to theſe imperfect beings never enters into the imagination of any polytheiſt or idolater. Heſiod, whoſe writings, along with thoſe of Homer, contained the canonical ſyſtem of the heathensb; Heſiod, I ſay, ſuppoſes gods and men to have ſprung equally from the unknown powers of naturec. And thro' the whole theogony of that author, Pandora is the only inſtance of creation or a voluntary production; and ſhe too was formed by the gods merely from deſpight to Prometheus, who had furniſhed men with ſtolen fire from the celeſtial regionsd. The ancient mythologiſts, indeed, ſeem throughout to have rather embraced the idea of generation than that of creation, or formation; and to have thence accounted for the origin of this univerſe.

OVID, who lived in a learned age, and had been inſtructed by philoſophers in the principles of a [30] divine creation or formation of the world; finding, that ſuch an idea would not agree with the popular mythology, which he delivers, leaves it, in a manner, looſe and detached from his ſyſtem. Quiſquis fuit ille Deorum a: Whichever of the gods it was, ſays he, that diſſipated the chaos, and introduced order into the univerſe. It could neither be Saturn, he knew, nor Jupiter, nor Neptune, nor any of the received deities of paganiſm. His theological ſyſtem had taught him nothing upon that head, and he leaves the matter equally undetermined.

Diodorus Siculus b, beginning his work with an enumeration of the moſt reaſonable opinions concerning the origin of the world, makes no mention of a deity or intelligent mind; tho' it is evident from his hiſtory, that that author had a much greater proneneſs to ſuperſtition than to irreligion. And in another paſſagec, talking of the Ichthyophages, a nation in India, he ſays, that there being ſo great difficulty in accounting for their deſcent, we muſt conclude them to be aborigines, without any beginning of their generation, propagating their race from all eternity; [31] as ſome of the phyſiologers, in treating of the origin of nature, have juſtly obſerved. ‘"But in ſuch ſubjects as theſe,"’ adds the hiſtorian, ‘"which exceed all human capacity, it may well happen, that thoſe, who diſcourſe the moſt, know the leaſt; reaching a ſpecious appearance of truth in their reaſonings, while extremely wide of the real truth and matter of fact."’

A ſtrange ſentiment in our eyes, to be embraced by a profeſt and zealous religioniſta! But it was merely by accident, that the queſtion concerning the origin of the world did ever in antient times enter into religious ſyſtems, or was treated of by theologers. The philoſophers alone made profeſſion of delivering ſyſtems of this nature; and it was pretty late too before theſe bethought themſelves of having recourſe to a mind or ſupreme intelligence, as the firſt cauſe of all. So far was it from being eſteemed [32] prophane in thoſe days to account for the origin of things without a deity, that Thales, Anaximenes, Heraclitus, and others, who embraced that ſyſtem of coſmogony, paſt unqueſtioned; while Anaxagoras, the firſt undoubted theiſt among the philoſophers, was perhaps the firſt that ever was accuſed of atheiſma.

WE are told by Sextus Empiricus b, that Epicurus, when a boy, reading with his preceptor theſe verſes of Heſiod:

Eldeſt of beings, chaos firſt aroſe;
Next earth, wide-ſtretcht, the ſeat of all.

the young ſcholar firſt betrayed his inquiſitive genius, by aſking, And choas whence? But was [33] told by his preceptor, that he muſt have recourſe to the philoſophers for a ſolution of ſuch queſtions. And from this hint, Epicurus left philology and all other ſtudies, in order to betake himſelf to that ſcience, whence alone he expected ſatisfaction with regard to theſe ſublime ſubjects.

THE common people were never likely to puſh their reſearches ſo far, or derive from reaſoning their ſyſtems of religion; when philologers and mythologiſts, we ſee, ſcarce ever diſcovered ſo much penetration. And even the philoſophers, who diſcourſed of ſuch topics, readily aſſented to the groſſeſt theory, and admitted the joint origin of gods and men from night and chaos; from fire, water, air, or whatever they eſtabliſhed to be the ruling element.

NOR was it only on their firſt origin, that the gods were ſuppoſed dependent on the powers of nature. Thro' the whole period of their exiſtence, they were ſubjected to the dominion of fate or deſtiny. Think of the force of neceſſity, ſays Agrippa to the Roman people, that force, to which even the gods muſt ſubmit a. And [34] the younger Pliny a, ſuitable to this way of reaſoning, tells us, that, amidſt the darkneſs, horror, and confuſion, which enſued upon the firſt eruption of Veſuvius, ſeveral concluded, that all nature was going to wrack, and that gods and men were periſhing in one common ruin.

IT is great complaiſance, indeed, if we dignify with the name of religion ſuch an imperfect ſyſtem of theology, and put it on a level with latter ſyſtems, which are founded on principles more juſt and more ſublime. For my part, I can ſcarce allow the principles even of Marcus Aurelius, Plutarch, and ſome other Stoics and Academics, tho' infinitely more refined than the pagan ſuperſtition, to be worthy of the honourable denomination of theiſm. For if the mythology of the heathens reſemble the antient European ſyſtem of ſpiritual beings, excluding God and angels, and leaving only fairies and ſprights; the creed of theſe philoſophers may juſtly be ſaid to exclude a deity, and to leave only angels and fairies.

V.

[35]

BUT it is chiefly our preſent buſineſs to conſider the groſs polytheiſm and idolatry of the vulgar, and to trace all its various appearances, in the principles of human nature, whence they are derived.

WHOEVER learns, by argument, the exiſtence of inviſible, intelligent power, muſt reaſon from the admirable contrivance of natural objects, and muſt ſuppoſe the world to be the workmanſhip of that divine being, the original cauſe of all things. But the vulgar polytheiſt, ſo far from admitting that idea, deifies every part of the univerſe, and conceives all the conſpicuous productions of nature to be themſelves ſo many real divinities. The fun, moon, and ſtars are all gods, according to his ſyſtem: Fountains are inhabited by nymphs, and trees by hamadryads: Even monkies, dogs, cats, and other animals often become ſacred in his eyes, and ſtrike him with a religious veneration. And thus, however ſtrong men's propenſity to believe inviſible, intelligent power in nature, their propenſity is equally ſtrong to reſt their [36] attention on ſenſible, viſible objects; and in order to reconcile theſe oppoſite inclinations, they are led to unite the inviſible power with ſome viſible object.

THE diſtribution alſo of diſtinct provinces to the ſeveral deities is apt to cauſe ſome allegory, both phyſical and moral, to enter into the vulgar ſyſtems of polytheiſm. The god of war will naturally be repreſented as furious, cruel, and impetuous: The god of poetry as elegant, polite, and amiable: The god of merchandiſe, eſpecially in early times, as thieviſh and deceitful. The allegories, ſuppoſed in Homer and other mythologiſts, I allow, have been often ſo ſtrained, that men of ſenſe are apt entirely to reject them, and to conſider them as the product merely of the fancy and conceit of critics and commentators. But that allegory really has place in the heathen mythology is undeniable even on the leaſt reflection. Cupid the ſon of Venus; the Muſes the daughters of memory; Prometheus the wiſe brother, and Epimetheus the fooliſh; Hygieia or the goddeſs of health deſcended from Aeſculapius or the god of phyſic: Who ſees not, in theſe, and in many other inſtances, the plain traces of allegory? [37] When a god is ſuppoſed to preſide over any paſſion, event, or ſyſtem of actions; it is almoſt unavoidable to give him a genealogy, attributes, and adventures, ſuitable to his ſuppoſed powers and influence; and to carry on that ſimilitude and compariſon, which is naturally ſo agreeable to the mind of man.

ALLEGORIES, indeed, entirely perfect, we ought not to expect as the products of ignorance and ſuperſtition; there being no work of genius, that requires a nicer hand, or has been more rarely executed with ſucceſs. That Fear and Terror are the ſons of Mars is juſt; but why by Venus a? That Harmony is the daughter of Venus is regular; but why by Mars b? That Sleep is the brother of Death is ſuitable; but why deſcribe him as enamoured of one of the Gracesc? And ſince the ancient mythologiſts fall into miſtakes ſo groſs and obvious, we have no reaſon ſurely to expect ſuch refined and longſpun allegories, as ſome have endeavoured to deduce from their fictionsd.

[38] THE deities of the vulgar are ſo little ſuperior to human creatures, that where men are affected with ſtrong ſentiments of veneration or gratitude for any hero or public benefactor; nothing can be more natural than to convert him into a god, and fill the heavens, after this manner, with continual recruits from amongſt mankind. Moſt of the divinities of the antient world are ſuppoſed to have once been men, and to have been beholden for their apotheoſis to the admiration and affection of the people. And the real hiſtory of their adventures, corrupted by tradition, and elevated by the marvellous, became a plentiful ſource of fable; eſpecially in paſſing thro' the hands of poets, allegoriſts, and prieſts, who ſucceſſively improved upon the wonder and aſtoniſhment of the ignorant multitude.

PAINTERS too and ſculptors came in for their ſhare of profit in the ſacred myſteries; and furniſhing men with ſenſible repreſentations of their [39] divinities, whom they cloathed in human figures, gave great encreaſe to the public devotion, and determined its object. It was probably for want of theſe arts in rude and barbarous ages, that men deified plants, animals, and even brute, unorganized matter; and rather than be without a ſenſible object of worſhip, affixed divinity to ſuch ungainly forms. Could any ſtatuary of Syria, in early times, have formed a juſt figure of Apollo, the conic ſtone, Heliogabalus, had never become the object of ſuch profound adoration, and been received as a repreſentation of the ſolar deitya.

STILPO was baniſhed by the council of Areopagus for affirming that the Minerva in the citadel was no divinity; but the workmanſhip of Phidias, the ſculptorb. What degree of reaſon may we expect in the religious belief of the vulgar in other nations; when Athenians and Areopagites could entertain ſuch groſs conceptions?

[40] THESE then are the general principles of polytheiſm, founded in human nature, and little or nothing dependent on caprice and accident. As the cauſes, which beſtow on us happineſs or miſery, are, in general, very unknown and uncertain, our anxious concern endeavours to attain a determinate idea of them; and finds no better expedient than to repreſent them as intelligent, voluntary agents, like ourſelves; only ſomewhat ſuperior in power and wiſdom. The limited influence of theſe agents, and their great proximity to human weakneſs, introduce the various diſtribution and diviſion of their authority; and thereby give riſe to allegory. The ſame principles naturally deiſy mortals, ſuperior in power, courage, or underſtanding, and produce hero-worſhip; along with fabulous hiſtory and mythological tradition, in all its wild and unaccountable forms. And as an inviſible ſpiritual intelligence is an object too refined for vulgar apprehenſion, men naturally affix it to ſome ſenſible repreſentation; ſuch as either the more conſpicuous parts of nature, or the ſtatues, images, and pictures, which a more refined age forms of its divinities.

[41] ALMOST all idolaters, of whatever age or country, concur in theſe general principles and conceptions; and even the particular characters and provinces, which they aſſign to their deities are not extremely differenta. The Greek and Roman travellers and conquerors, without much difficulty, found their own deities every where; and ſaid, this is Mercury, that Venus; this Mars, that Neptune; by whatever titles the ſtrange gods may be denominated. The goddeſs Hertha of our Saxon anceſtors ſeems to be no other, according to Tacitus b, than the Mater Tellus of the Romans; and his conjecture was evidently juſt.

VI.

[42]

THE doctrine of one ſupreme deity, the author of nature, is very antient, has ſpread itſelf over great and populous nations, and among them has been embraced by all ranks and condition of perſons: But whoever thinks that it has owed its ſucceſs to the prevalent force of thoſe invincible reaſons, on which it is undoubtedly founded, would ſhow himſelf little acquainted with the ignorance and ſtupidity of the people, and their incurable prejudices in favour of their particular ſuperſtitions. Even at this day, and in Europe, aſk any of the vulgar, why he believes in an omnipotent creator of the world; he will never mention the beauty of final cauſes, of which he is wholly ignorant: He will not hold out his hand, and bid you contemplate the ſuppleneſs and variety of joints in his fingers, their bending all one way, the counterpoiſe which they receive from the thumb, the ſoftneſs and fleſhy parts of the inſide of his hand, with all the other circumſtances, which render that member fit for the uſe, to which it was deſtined. To theſe he has been long accuſtomed; and he beholds them with liſtleſſneſs [43] and unconcern. He will tell you of the ſudden and unexpected death of ſuch a one: The fall and bruiſe of ſuch another: The exceſſive drought of this ſeaſon: The cold and rains of another. Theſe he aſcribes to the immediate operation of providence: And ſuch events, as, with good reaſoners, are the chief difficulties in admitting a ſupreme intelligence, are with him the ſole arguments for it.

MANY theiſts, even the moſt zealous and refined, have denied a particular providence, and have aſſerted, that the Sovereign mind or firſt principle of all things, having fixt general laws, by which nature is governed, gives free and uninterrupted courſe to theſe laws, and diſturbs not, at every turn, the ſettled order of events, by particular volitions. From the beautiful connexion, ſay they, and rigid obſervance of eſtabliſhed rules, we draw the chief argument for theiſm; and from the ſame principles are enabled to anſwer the principal objections againſt it. But ſo little is this underſtood by the generality of mankind, that, wherever they obſerve any one to aſcribe all events to natural cauſes, and to remove the particular interpoſal of a deity, they are apt to ſuſpect him of the groſſeſt infidelity. [44] A little philoſophy, ſays my Lord Bacon, makes men atheiſts: A great deal reconciles them to religion. For men, being taught, by ſuperſtitious prejudices, to lay the ſtreſs on a wrong place; when that fails them, and they diſcover, by a little reflection, that the courſe of nature is regular and uniform, their whole faith totters, and falls to ruin. But being taught, by more reflection, that this very regularity and uniformity is the ſtrongeſt proof of deſign and of a ſupreme intelligence, they return to that belief, which they had deſerted; and they are now able to eſtabliſh it on a firmer and more durable foundation.

CONVULSIONS in nature, diſorders, prodigies, miracles, tho' the moſt oppoſite to the plan of a wiſe ſuperintendent, impreſs mankind with the ſtrongeſt ſentiments of religion; the cauſes of events ſeeming then the moſt unknown and unaccountable. Madneſs, fury, rage, and an inflamed imagination, tho' they ſink men neareſt the level of beaſts, are, for a like reaſon, often ſuppoſed to be the only diſpoſitions, in which we can have any immediate communication with the deity.

[45] WE may conclude, therefore, upon the whole, that ſince the vulgar, in nations, which have embraced the doctrine of theiſm, ſtill build it upon irrational and ſuperſtitious opinions, they are never led into that opinion by any proceſs of argument, but by a certain train of thinking, more ſuitable to their genius and capacity.

IT may readily happen, in an idolatrous nation, that, tho' men admit the exiſtence of ſeveral limited deities, yet may there be ſome one god, whom, in a particular manner, they make the object of their worſhip and adoration. They may either ſuppoſe, that, in the diſtribution of power and territory among the gods, their nation was ſubjected to the juriſdiction of that particular deity; or reducing heavenly objects to the model of things below, they may repreſent one god as the prince or ſupreme magiſtrate of the reſt, who, tho' of the ſame nature, rules them with an authority, like that which an earthly ſovereign exerciſes over his ſubjects and vaſſals. Whether this god, therefore, be conſidered as their peculiar patron, or as the general ſovereign of heaven, his votaries will endeavour, by every act, to inſinuate themſelves into his favour; and ſuppoſing him to be pleaſed, [46] like themſelves, with praiſe and flattery, there is no eulogy or exaggeration, which will be ſpared in their addreſſes to him. In proportion as men's fears or diſtreſſes become more urgent, they ſtill invent new ſtrains of adulation; and even he who out-does his predeceſſors, in ſwelling up the titles of his divinity, is ſure to be out-done by his ſucceſſors, in newer and more pompous epithets of praiſe. Thus they proceed; till at laſt they arrive at infinity itſelf, beyond which there is no farther progreſs: And it is well, if, in ſtriving to get farther, and to repreſent a magnificent ſimplicity, they run not into inexplicable myſtery, and deſtroy the intelligent nature of their deity; on which alone any rational worſhip or adoration can be founded. While they confine themſelves to the notion of a perfect being, the creator of the world, they coincide, by chance, with the principles of reaſon and true philoſophy; tho' they are guided to that notion, not by reaſon, of which they are in a great meaſure incapable, but by the adulation and fears of the moſt vulgar ſuperſtition.

WE often find amongſt barbarous nations, and even ſometimes amongſt civilized, that, [47] when every ſtrain of flattery has been exhauſted towards arbitrary princes; when every human quality has been applauded to the utmoſt; their ſervile courtiers repreſent them, at laſt, as real divinities, and point them out to the people as objects of adoration. How much more natural, therefore, is it, that a limited deity, who at firſt is ſuppoſed only the immediate author of the particular goods and ills in life, ſhould in the end be repreſented as ſovereign maker and modifier of the univerſe?

EVEN where this notion of a ſupreme deity is already eſtabliſhed; tho' it ought naturally to leſſen every other worſhip, and abaſe every object of reverence, yet if a nation has entertained the opinion of a ſubordinate tutelar divinity, faint, or angel; their addreſſes to that being gradually riſe upon them, and encroach on the adoration due to their ſupreme deity. The virgin Mary, ere checkt by the reformation, had proceeded, from being merely a good woman to uſurp many attributes of the Almightya: [48] God and St. Nicholas go hand in hand, in all the prayers and petitions of the Muſcovites.

THUS the deity, who, from love, converted himſelf into a bull, in order to carry off Europa; and who, from ambition, dethroned his father, Saturn, became the Optimus Maximus of the heathens. Thus, notwithſtanding the ſublime ideas ſuggeſted by Moſes and the inſpired writers, many vulgar Jews ſeem ſtill to have conceived the ſupreme Being as a mere topical deity or national protector.

RATHER than relinquiſh this propenſity to adulation, religioniſts, in all ages, have involved themſelves in the greateſt abſurdities and contradictions.

HOMER, in one paſſage, calls Oceanus and Tethys the original parents of all things, conformable [49] to the eſtabliſhed mythology and tradition of the Greeks: Yet, in other paſſages, he could not forbear complimenting Jupiter, the reigning deity, with that magnificent appellation; and accordingly denominates him the father of gods and men. He forgets, that every temple, every ſtreet was full of the anceſtors, uncles, brothers, and ſiſters of this Jupiter; who was in reality nothing but an upſtart parricide and uſurper. A like contradiction is obſervable in Heſiod; and is ſo much the leſs excuſable, that his profeſſed intention was to deliver a true genealogy of the gods.

WERE there a religion (and we may ſuſpect Mahometaniſm of this inconſiſtence) which ſometimes painted the deity in the moſt ſublime colours, as the creator of heaven and earth; ſometimes degraded him nearly to a level with human creatures in his powers and faculties; while at the ſame time it aſcribed to him ſuitable infirmities, paſſions, and partialities of the moral kind: That religion, after it was extinct, would alſo be cited as an inſtance of thoſe contradictions, which ariſe from the groſs, vulgar, natural conceptions of mankind, oppoſed to their continual propenſity towards flattery and exaggeration. [50] aggeration. Nothing indeed would prove more ſtrongly the divine origin of any religion, than to find (and happily this is the caſe with Chriſtianity) that it is free from a contradiction, ſo incident to human nature.

VII.

[51]

IT appears certain, that, tho' the original notions of the vulgar repreſent the Divinity as a very limited being, and conſider him only as the particular cauſe of health or ſickneſs; plenty or want; proſperity or adverſity; yet when more magnificent ideas are urged upon them, they eſteem it dangerous to refuſe their aſſent. Will you ſay, that your deity is finite and bounded in his perfections; may be overcome by a greater force; is ſubject to human paſſions, pains, and infirmities; has a beginning, and may have an end? This they dare not affirm; but thinking it ſafeſt to comply with the higher encomiums, they endeavour, by an affected raviſhment and devotion, to ingratiate themſelves with him. As a confirmation of this, we may obſerve, that the aſſent of the vulgar is, in this caſe, merely verbal, and that they are incapable of conceiving thoſe ſublime qualities, which they ſeemingly attribute to the deity. Their real idea of him, notwithſtanding their pompous language, is ſtill as poor and frivolous as ever.

[52] THAT original intelligence, ſay the Magians, who is the firſt principle of all things, diſcovers himſelf immediately to the mind and underſtanding alone; but has placed the ſun as his image in the viſible univerſe; and when that bright luminary diffuſes its beams over the earth and the firmament, it is a faint copy of the glory, which reſides in the higher heavens. If you would eſcape the diſpleaſure of this divine being, you muſt be careful never to ſet your bare foot upon the ground, nor ſpit into a fire, nor throw any water upon it, even tho' it were conſuming a whole citya. Who can expreſs the perfections of the Almighty, ſay the Mahometans? Even the nobleſt of his works, if compared to him, are but duſt and rubbiſh. How much more muſt human conception fall ſhort of his infinite perfections? His ſmile and favour renders men for ever happy; and to obtain it for your children, the beſt method is to cut off from them, while infants, a little bit of ſkin, about half the breadth of a farthing. Take two bits of cloathb, ſay the Roman catholics, about an inch or an inch and a half ſquare, join them by the corners with two ſtrings or pieces [53] of tape about ſixteen inches long, throw this over your head, and make one of the bits of cloath lie upon your breaſt, and the other upon your back, keeping them next your ſkin. There is not a better ſecret for recommending yourſelf to that infinite Being, who exiſts from eternity to eternity.

THE Getes, commonly called immortal, from their ſteddy belief of the ſoul's immortality, were genuine theiſts and unitarians. They affirmed Zamolxis, their deity, to be the only true god; and aſſerted the worſhip of all other nations to be addreſſed to mere fictions and chimeras. But were their religious principles any more refined, on account of theſe magnificent pretenſions? Every fifth year they ſacrified a human victim, whom they ſent as a meſſenger to their deity, in order to inform him of their wants and neceſſities. And when it thundered, they were ſo provoked, that, in order to return the defiance, they let fly arrows at him, and declined not the combat as unequal. Such at leaſt is the account, which Herodotus gives of the theiſm of the immortal Getes a.

VIII.

[54]

IT is remarkable, that the principles of religion have a kind of flux and reflux in the human mind, and that men have a natural tendency to riſe from idolatry to theiſm, and to ſink again from theiſm into idolatry. The vulgar, that is, indeed, all mankind, a few excepted, being ignorant and uninſtructed, never elevate their contemplation to the heavens, or penetrate by their diſquiſitions into the ſecret ſtructure of vegetable or animal bodies; ſo as to diſcover a ſupreme mind or original providence, which beſtowed order on every part of nature. They conſider theſe admirable works in a more confined and ſelfiſh view; and finding their own happineſs and miſery to depend on the ſecret influence and unforeſeen concurrence of external objects, they regard, with perpetual attention, the unknown cauſes, which govern all theſe natural events, and diſtribute pleaſure and pain, good and ill, by their powerful, but ſilent, operation. The unknown cauſes are ſtill appealed to, at every emergence; and in this general appearance or confuſed image, are the perpetual objects of human hopes and [55] fears, wiſhes and apprehenſions. By degrees, the active imagination of men, uneaſy in this abſtract conception of objects, about which it is inceſſantly employed, begins to render them more particular, and to cloathe them in ſhapes more ſuitable to its natural comprehenſion. It repreſents them to be ſenſible, intelligent beings, like mankind; actuated by love and hatred, and flexible by gifts and entreaties, by prayers and ſacrifices. Hence the origin of religion: And hence the origin of idolatry or polytheiſm.

BUT the ſame anxious concern for happineſs, which engenders the idea of theſe inviſible, intelligent powers, allows not mankind to remain long in the firſt ſimple conception of them; as powerful, but limited beings; maſters of human fate, but ſlaves to deſtiny and the courſe of nature. Men's exaggerated praiſes and compliments ſtill ſwell their idea upon them; and elevating their deities to the utmoſt bounds of perfection, at laſt beget the attributes of unity and infinity, ſimplicity and ſpirituality. Such refined ideas, being ſomewhat diſproportioned to vulgar comprehenſion, remain not long in their original purity; but require to be ſupported by the notion of inferior mediators or [56] ſubordinate agents, which interpoſe betwixt mankind and their ſupreme deity. Theſe demi-gods or middle beings, partaking more of human nature, and being more familiar to us, become the chief objects of devotion, and gradually recal that idolatry, which had been formerly baniſhed by the ardent prayers and panegyrics of timorous and indigent mortals. But as theſe idolatrous religions fall every day into groſſer and more vulgar conceptions, they at laſt deſtroy themſelves, and, by the vile repreſentations, which they form of their deities, make the tide turn again towards theiſm. But ſo great is the propenſity, in this alternate revolution of human ſentiments, to return back to idolatry, that the utmoſt precaution is not able effectually to prevent it. And of this, ſome theiſts, particularly the Jews and Mahometans, have been ſenſible; as appears by their baniſhing all the arts of ſtatuary and painting, and not allowing the repreſentations, even of human figures, to be taken by marble or colours; leſt the common infirmity of mankind ſhould thence produce idolatry. The feeble apprehenſions of men cannot be ſatisfied with conceiving their deity as a pure ſpirit and perfect intelligence; and yet their natural terrors keep them from [57] imputing to him the leaſt ſhadow of limitation and imperfection. They fluctuate betwixt theſe oppoſite ſentiments. The ſame infirmity ſtill drags them downwards, from an omnipotent and ſpiritual deity to a limited and corporeal one, and from a corporeal and limited deity to a ſtatue or viſible repreſentation. The ſame endeavour at elevation ſtill puſhes them upwards, from the ſtatue or material image to the inviſible power; and from the inviſible power to an infinitely perfect deity, the creator and ſovereign of the univerſe.

IX.

[58]

POLYTHEISM or idolatrous worſhip, being founded entirely in vulgar traditions, is liable to this great inconvenience, that any practice or opinion, however barbarous or corrupted, may be authorized by it; and full ſcope is left for knavery to impoſe on credulity, till morals and humanity be expelled from the religious ſyſtems of mankind. At the ſame time, idolatry is attended with this evident advantage, that, by limiting the powers and functions of its deities, it naturally admits the gods of other ſects and nations to a ſhare of divinity, and renders all the various deities, as well as rites, ceremonies, or traditions, compatible with each othera. Theiſm is oppoſite both in its advantages [59] and diſadvantages. As that ſyſtem ſuppoſes one ſole deity, the perfection of reaſon and goodneſs, it ſhould, if juſtly proſecuted, baniſh every thing frivolous, unreaſonable, or inhuman from religious worſhip, and ſet before men the moſt illuſtrious example, as well as the moſt commanding motives of juſtice and benevolence. Theſe mighty advantages are not indeed overballanced, (for that is not poſſible) but ſomewhat diminiſhed, by inconveniencies, which, ariſe from the vices and prejudices of mankind. While one ſole object of devotion is acknowledged, the worſhip of other deities is regarded as abſurd and impious. Nay, this unity of object ſeems naturally to require the unity of faith and ceremonies, and furniſhes deſigning men with a pretext for repreſenting their adverſaries as prophane, and the ſubjects of divine as well as human vengeance. For as each ſect is poſitive, that its own faith and worſhip are entirely acceptable to the deity, and as no one can conceive, that the ſame being ſhould be pleaſed with different and oppoſite rites and principles; the ſeveral ſects fall naturally into animoſity, [60] and mutually diſcharge on each other, that ſacred zeal and rancour, the moſt furious and implacable of all human paſſions.

THE tolerating ſpirit of idolaters both in antient and modern times, is very obvious to any one, who is the leaſt converſant in the writings of hiſtorians or travellers. When the oracle of Delphi was aſked, what rites or worſhip were moſt acceptable to the gods? Thoſe legally eſtabliſhed in each city, replied the oraclea. Even prieſts, in thoſe ages, could, it ſeems, allow ſalvation to thoſe of a different communion. The Romans commonly adopted the gods of the conquered people; and never diſputed the attributes of thoſe topical and national deities, in whoſe territories they reſided. The religious wars and perſecutions of the Egyptian idolaters are indeed an exception to this rule; but are accounted for by antient authors from reaſons very ſingular and remarkable. Different ſpecies of animals were the deities of the different ſects of the Egyptians; and the deities being in continual war, engaged their votaries in the ſame contention. The worſhipers of dogs could not long remain in peace with the adorers of [61] cats or wolvesa. And where that reaſon took not place, the Egyptian ſuperſtition was not ſo incompatible as is commonly imagined; ſince we learn from Herodotus b, that very large contributions were given by Amaſis towards rebuilding the temple of Delphi.

THE intolerance of almoſt all religions, which have maintained the unity of god, is as remarkable as the contrary principle in polytheiſts. The implacable, narrow ſpirit of the Jews is well known. Mahometaniſm ſet out with ſtill more bloody principles; and even to this day, deals out damnation, tho' not fire and faggot, to all other ſects. And if, amongſt Chriſtians, the Engliſh and Dutch have embraced the principles of toleration, this ſingularity has proceeded from the ſteddy reſolution of the civil magiſtrate, in oppoſition to the continued efforts of prieſts and bigots.

THE diſciples of Zoroaſter ſhut the doors of heaven againſt all but the Magians c. Nothing could more obſtruct the progreſs of the Perſian conqueſts, than the furious zeal of that nation [62] againſt the temples and images of the Greeks. And after the overthrow of that empire, we find Alexander, as a polytheiſt, immediately reeſtabliſhing the worſhip of the Babylonians, which their former princes, as monotheiſts, had carefully aboliſheda. Even the blind and devoted attachment of that conqueror to the Greek ſuperſtition hindered not but he himſelf ſacrificed according to the Babyloniſh rites and ceremoniesb.

So ſociable is polytheiſm, that the utmoſt fierceneſs and averſion, which it meets with in an oppoſite religion, is ſcarce able to diſguſt it, and keep it at a diſtance. Auguſtus praiſed extremely the reſerve of his grandſon, Caius Caeſar, when, paſſing by Jeruſalem, he deigned not to ſacrifice according to the Jewiſh law. But for what reaſon did Auguſtus ſo much approve of this conduct? Only, becauſe that religion was by the pagans eſteemed ignoble and barbarousc.

I may venture to affirm, that few corruptions of idolatry and polytheiſm are more pernicious to political ſociety than this corruption of [63] theiſma, when carried to the utmoſt height. The human ſacrifices of the Carthaginians, Mexicans, and many barbarous nationsb, ſcarce exceed the inquiſition and perſecutions of Rome and Madrid. For beſides, that the effuſion of blood may not be ſo great in the former caſe as in the latter; beſides this, I ſay, the human victims, being choſen by lot or by ſome exterior ſigns, affect not, in ſo conſiderable a degree, the reſt of the ſociety. Whereas virtue, knowledge, love of liberty, are the qualities, which call down the fatal vengeance of inquiſitors; and when expelled, leave the ſociety in the moſt ſhameful ignorance, corruption, and bondage. The illegal murder of one man by a tyrant is more pernicious than the death of a thouſand by peſtilence, famine, or any undiſtinguiſhing calamity.

[64] IN the temple of Diana at Aricia near Rome, whoever murdered the preſent prieſt, was legally entitled to be inſtalled his ſucceſſora. A very ſingular inſtitution! For, however barbarous and bloody the common ſuperſtitions often are to the laity, they uſually turn to the advantage of the holy order.

X.

[65]

FROM the compariſon of theiſm and idolatry, we may form ſome other obſervations, which will alſo confirm the vulgar obſervation, that the corruption of the beſt things gives riſe to the worſt.

WHERE the deity is repreſented as infinitely ſuperior to mankind, this belief, tho' altogether juſt, is apt, when joined with ſuperſtitious terrors, to ſink the human mind into the loweſt ſubmiſſion and abaſement, and to repreſent the monkiſh virtues of mortification, pennance, humility and paſſive ſuffering, as the only qualities, which are acceptable to him. But where the gods are conceived to be only a little ſuperior to mankind, and to have been, many of them, advanced from that inferior rank, we are more at our eaſe in our addreſſes to them, and may even, without profaneneſs, aſpire ſometimes to a rivalſhip and emulation of them. Hence activity, ſpirit, courage, magnanimity, love of liberty, and all the virtues, which aggrandize a people.

[66] THE heroes in paganiſm correſpond exactly to the ſaints in popery and holy derviſes in Mahometaniſm. The place of Hercules, Theſeus, Hector, Romulus, is now ſupplied by Dominic, Francis, Anthony, and Benedict. And inſtead of the deſtruction of monſters, the ſubduing tyrants, the defence of our n [...]tive country; celeſtial honours are obtained by whippings and faſtings, by cow rdice and humility, by abject ſubmiſſion and ſlaviſh obedience.

ONE great incitement to the pious Alexander in his warlike expeditions was his rivalſhip of Hercules and Bacchus, whom he juſtly pretended to have excelleda. Braſidas, that generous and noble Sparian, after falling in battle, had heroic honours paid him by the inhabitants of Amphipolis, whoſe defence he had embracedb. And in general, all founders of ſtates and colonies amongſt the Greeks were raiſed to this inferior rank of divinity, by thoſe who reaped the benefit of their labours.

THIS gave riſe to the obſervation of Machiavel c, that the doctrines of the Chriſtian religion [67] (meaning the catholic; for he knew no other) which recommend only paſſive courage and ſuffering, had ſubdued the ſpirit of mankind, and had fitted them for ſlavery and ſubjection. And this obſervation would certainly be juſt, were there not many other circumſtances in human ſociety, which controul the genius and character of a religion.

BRASIDAS ſeized a mouſe, and being bit by it, let it go. There is nothing ſo contemptible, ſays he, but what may be ſafe, if it has but courage to defend itſelf a. Bellarmine, patiently and humbly allowed the fleas and other odious vermin to prey upon him. We ſhall have heaven, ſays he, to reward us for our ſufferings: But theſe poor creatures have nothing but the enjoyment of the preſent life b. Such difference is there betwixt the maxims of a Greek hero and a Catholic ſaint.

XI.

[68]

HERE is another obſervation to the ſame purpoſe, and a new proof that the corruption of the beſt things begets the worſt. If we examine, without prejudice, the antient heathen mythology, as contained in the poets, we ſhall not diſcover in it any ſuch monſtrous abſurdity, as we may be apt at firſt to apprehend. Where is the difficulty of conceiving, that the ſame powers or principles, whatever they were, which formed this viſible world, men and animals, produced alſo a ſpecies of intelligent creatures, of more refined ſubſtance and greater authority than the reſt? That theſe creatures may be capricious, revengeful, paſſionate, voluptuous, is eaſily conceived; nor is any circumſtance more apt, amongſt ourſelves, to engender ſuch vices, than the licence of abſolute authority. And in ſhort, the whole mythological ſyſtem is ſo natural, that, in the vaſt variety of planets and worlds, contained in this univerſe, it ſeems more than probable, that, ſomewhere or other, it is really carried into execution.

[69] THE chief objection to it with regard to this planet, is, that it is not aſcertained by any juſt reaſon or authority. The antient tradition, inſiſted on by the heathen prieſts and theologers, is but a weak foundation; and tranſmitted alſo ſuch a number of contradictory reports, ſupported, all of them, by equal authority, that it became abſolutely impoſſible to fix a preference amongſt them. A few volumes, therefore, muſt contain all the polemical writings of pagan prieſts. And their whole theology muſt conſiſt more of traditional ſtories and ſuperſtitious practices than of philoſophical argument and controverſy.

BUT where theiſm forms the fundamental principle of any popular religion, that tenet is ſo conformable to ſound reaſon, that philoſophy is apt to incorporate itſelf with ſuch a ſyſtem of theology. And if the other dogmas of that ſyſtem be contained in a ſacred book, ſuch as the Alcoran, or be determined by any viſible authority, like that of the Roman pontif, ſpeculative reaſoners naturally carry on their aſſent, and embrace a theory, which has been inſtilled into them by their earlieſt education, and which alſo poſſeſſes ſome degree of conſiſtence and [70] uniformity. But as theſe appearances do often, all of them, prove deceitful, philoſophy will ſoon find herſelf very unequally yoaked with her new aſſociate; and inſtead of regulating each principle, as they advance together, ſhe is at every turn perverted to ſerve the purpoſes of ſuperſtition. For beſides the unavoidable incoherencies, which muſt be reconciled and adjuſted; one may ſafely affirm, that all popular theology, eſpecially the ſcholaſtic, has a kind of appetite for abſurdity and contradiction. If that theology went not beyond reaſon and common ſenſe, her doctrines would appear too eaſy and familiar. Amazement muſt of neceſſity be raiſed: Myſtery affected: Darkneſs and obſcurity ſought after: And a foundation of merit afforded the devout votaries, who deſire an opportunity of ſubduing their rebellious reaſon, by the belief of the moſt unintelligible ſophiſms.

ECCLESIASTICAL hiſtory ſufficiently confirms theſe reflections. When a controverſy is ſtarted, ſome people pretend always with certainty to conjecture the iſſue. Which ever opinion, ſay they, is moſt contrary to plain ſenſe is ſure to prevail; even where the general intereſt of the ſyſtem requires not that deciſion. Tho' the [71] reproach of hereſy may, for ſome time, be bandied about amongſt the diſputants, it always reſts at laſt on the ſide of reaſon. Any one, it is pretended, that has but learning enough of this kind to know the definition of Arian, Pelagian, Eraſtian, Socinian, Sabellian, Eutychian, Neſtorian, Monethelite, &c. not to mention Proteſtant, whoſe fate is yet uncertain, will be convinced of the truth of this obſervation. And thus a ſyſtem becomes more abſurd in the end, merely from its being reaſonable and philoſophical in the beginning.

TO oppoſe the torrent of ſcholaſtic religion by ſuch feeble maxims as theſe, that it is impoſſible for the ſame thing to be and not to be, that the whole is greater than a part, that two and three make five; is pretending to ſtop the ocean with a bull-ruſh. Will you ſet up profane reaſon againſt ſacred myſtery? No puniſhment is great enough for your impiety. And the ſame fires, which were kindled for heretics, will ſerve alſo for the deſtruction of philoſophers.

XII.

[72]

WE meet every day with people ſo ſceptical with regard to hiſtory, that they aſſert it impoſſible for any nation ever to believe ſuch abſurd principles as thoſe of Greek and Egyptian paganiſm; and at the ſame time ſo dogmatical with regard to religion, that they think the ſame abſurdities are to be found in no other communions. Cambyſes entertained like prejudices; and very impiouſly ridiculed, and even wounded, Apis, the great god of the Egyptians, who appeared to his profane ſenſes nothing but a large ſpotted bull. But Herodotus a judiciouſly aſcribes this ſally of paſſion to a real madneſs or diſorder of the brain: Otherwiſe, ſays the hiſtorian, he would never have openly affronted any eſtabliſhed worſhip. For on that head, continues he, every nation are beſt ſatisfied with their own, and think they have the advantage over every other nation.

IT muſt be allowed, that the Roman catholics are a very learned ſect; and that no one [73] communion, but that of the church of England, can diſpute their being the moſt learned of all the chriſtian churches: Yet Averroes, the famous Arabian, who, no doubt, had heard of the Egyptian ſuperſtitions, declares, that, of all religions, the moſt abſurd and non-ſenſical is that, whoſe votaries eat, after having created, their deity.

I BELIEVE, indeed, that there is no tenet in all paganiſm, which would give ſo fair a ſcope to ridicule as this of the real preſence: For it is ſo abſurd, that it eludes the force of almoſt all argument. There are even ſome pleaſant ſtories of that kind, which, tho' ſomewhat profane, are commonly told by the Catholics themſelves. One day, a prieſt, it is ſaid, gave inadvertently, inſtead of the ſacrament, a counter, which had by accident fallen among the holy wafers. The communicant waited patiently for ſome time, expecting it would diſſolve on his tongue: But finding, that it ſtill remained entire, he took it off. I wiſh, cries he to the prieſt, you have not committed ſome miſtake: I wiſh you have not given me God the Father: He is ſo hard and tough there is no ſwallowing him.

[74] A FAMOUS general, at that time in the Muſcovite ſervice, having come to Paris for the recovery of his wounds, brought along with him a young Turk, whom he had taken priſoner. Some of the doctors of the Sorbonne (who are altogether as poſitive as the Derviſes of Conſtantinople) thinking it a pity, that the poor Turk ſhould be damned for want of inſtruction, follicited Muſtapha very hard to turn Chriſtian, and promiſed him, for his encouragement, plenty of good wine in this world, and paradiſe in the next. Theſe allurements were too powerful to be reſiſted; and therefore, having been well inſtructed and catechized, he at laſt agreed to receive the ſacraments of baptiſm and the Lord's ſupper. The prieſt, however, to make every thing ſure and ſolid, ſtill continued his inſtructions; and began his catechiſm next day with the uſual queſtion, How many Gods are there? None at all, replies Benedict; for that was his new name. How! None at all! cries the prieſt. To be ſure, ſaid the honeſt proſelyte. You have told me all along that there is but one God: And yeſterday I eat him.

[75] SUCH are the doctrines of our brethren, the Catholics. But to theſe doctrines we are ſo accuſtomed, that we never wonder at them: Tho', in a future age, it will probably become difficult to perſuade ſome nations, that any human, two-legged creature, could ever embrace ſuch principles. And it is a thouſand to one, but theſe nations themſelves ſhall have ſomething full as abſurd in their own creed, to which they will give a moſt implicite and moſt religious aſſent.

I LODGED once at Paris in the ſame hotel with an ambaſſador from Tunis, who, having paſt ſome years at London, was returning home that way. One day, I obſerved his Mooriſh excellency diverting himſelf under the porch, with ſurveying the ſplendid equipages that drove along; when there chanced to paſs that way ſome Capucin friars, who had never ſeen a Turk; as he, on his part, tho' accuſtomed to the European dreſſes, had never ſeen the groteſque figure of a Capucin: And there is no expreſſing the mutual admiration, with which they inſpired each other. Had the chaplain of the embaſſy entered into a diſpute with theſe Franciſcans, their reciprocal ſurprize had been of the ſame nature. And [76] thus all mankind ſtand ſtaring at one another; and there is no beating it out of their heads, that the turban of the African is not juſt as good or as bad a faſhion as the cowl of the European. He is a very honeſt man, ſaid the prince of Sallee, ſpeaking of de Ruyter, It is a pity he were a Chriſtian.

HOW can you worſhip leeks and onions, we ſhall ſuppoſe a Sorbonniſt to ſay to a prieſt of Sais? If we worſhip them, replies the latter; at leaſt, we do not, at the ſame time, eat them. But what ſtrange objects of adoration are cats and monkies, ſays the learned doctor? They are at leaſt as good as the relicts or rotten bones of martyrs, anſwers his no leſs learned antagoniſt. Are you not mad, inſiſts the Catholic, to cut one another's throat about the preference of a cabbage or a cucumber. Yes, ſays the pagan; I allow it, if you will confeſs, that all thoſe are ſtill madder, who fight about the preference among volumes of ſophiſtry, ten thouſand of which are not equal in value to one cabbage or cucumbera.

[77] EVERY by-ſtander will eaſily judge (but unfortunately the by-ſtanders are very few) that, if nothing were requiſite to eſtabliſh any popular ſyſtem, but the expoſing the abſurdities of other ſyſtems, every votary of every ſuperſtition could give a ſufficient reaſon for his blind and bigotted attachment to the principles, in which he has been educated. But without ſo extenſive a knowledge, on which to ground this aſſurance, (and perhaps, better without it) there is not wanting a ſufficient ſtock of religious zeal and faith amongſt mankind. Diodorus Siculus b gives [78] a remarkable inſtance to this purpoſe, of which he was himſelf an eye-witneſs. While Egypt lay under the greateſt terror of the Roman name, a legionary ſoldier having inadvertently been guilty of the ſacrilegious impiety of killing a cat, the whole people roſe upon him with the utmoſt fury; and all the efforts of their prince were not able to ſave him. The ſenate and people of Rome, I am perſuaded, would not, then, have been ſo delicate with regard to their national deities. They very frankly, a little after that time, voted Auguſtus a place in the celeſtial manſions; and would have dethroned every god in heaven, for his ſake, had he ſeemed to deſire it. Praeſens divus habebitur Auguſtus, ſays Horace. That is a very important point: And in other nations and other ages, the ſame circumſtance has not been eſteemed altogether indifferenta.

NOT WITHSTANDING the ſanctity of our holy religion, ſays Tully b, no crime is more [79] common with us than ſacrilege: But was it ever heard, that an Egyptian violated the temple of a cat, an ibis, or a crocodile? There is no torture, an Egyptian would not undergo, ſays the ſame author in another placea, rather than injure an ibis, an aſpie, a cat, a dog, or a crocodile. Thus it is ſtrictly true, what Dryden obſerves

"Of whatſoe'er deſcent their godhead be,
"Stock, ſtone, or other homely pedigree,
"In his deſence his ſervants are as bold,
"As if he had been born of beaten gold."
ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.

Nay, the baſer the materials are, of which the divinity is compoſed, the greater devotion is he likely to excite in the breaſts of his deluded votaries. They exult in their ſhame, and make a merit with their deity, in braving, for his ſake, all the ridicule and contumely of his enemies. Ten thouſand Croiſes inliſt themſelves under the holy banners, and even openly triumph in th [...]ſe parts of their religion, which their adverſarie [...] regard as the moſt reproachful.

THERE occur I own, a difficulty in the Egyptian ſyſtem of theology; as indeed, few [80] ſyſtems are entirely free from difficulties. It is evident, from their method of propagation, that a couple of cats, in fifty years, would ſtock a whole kingdom; and if that religious veneration were ſtill paid them, it would, in twenty more, not only be eaſier in Egypt to find a god than a man, which Petronius ſays was the caſe in ſome parts of Italy; but the gods muſt at laſt entirely ſtarve the men, and leave themſelves neither prieſts nor votaries remaining. It is probable, therefore, that that wiſe nation, the moſt celebrated in antiquity for prudence and ſound policy, foreſeeing ſuch dangerous conſequences, reſerved all their worſhip for the fullgrown divinities, and uſed the freedom to drown the holy ſpawn or little ſucking gods, without any ſcruple or remorſe. And thus the practice of warping the tenets of religion, in order to ſerve temporal intereſts, is not, by any means, to be regarded as an invention of theſe latter ages.

THE learned, philoſophical Varro, diſcourſing of religion, pretends not to deliver any thing beyond probabilities and appearances: Such was his good ſenſe and moderation! But the paſſionate, the zealous Auguſtin, inſults the noble Roman on his ſcepticiſm and reſerve, and profeſſes [81] the moſt thorough belief and aſſurancea. A heathen poet, however, contemporary with the ſaint, abſurdly eſteems the religious ſyſtem of the latter ſo falſe, that even the credulity of children, he ſays, could not engage them to believe itb.

Is it ſtrange, when miſtakes are ſo common, to find every one poſitive and dogmatical? And that the zeal often riſes in proportion to the error? Moverunt, ſays Spartian, & ea tempeſtate Judaei bellum quod vetabantur mutilare genitalia c.

IF ever there was a nation or a time, in which the public religion loſt all authority over mankind, we might expect, that infidelity in Rome, during the Ciceronian age, would openly have erected its throne, and that Cicero himſelf, in every ſpeech and action, would have been its moſt declared abettor. But it appears, that, whatever ſceptical liberties that great man might uſe, in his writings or in philoſophical converſation; he yet avoided, in the common conduct of life, the imputation of deiſm and profaneneſs. Even in his own family, and to his wife, Terentia, whom he highly truſted, he [82] was willing to appear a devout religioniſt; and there remains a letter, addreſt to her, in which he ſeriouſly deſires her to offer ſacrifice to Apollo and Aeſculapius, in gratitude for the recovery of his healtha.

POMPEY'S devotion was much more ſincere: In all his conduct, during the civil wars, he paid a great regard to auguries, dreams, and propheſiesb. Auguſtus was tainted with ſuperſtition of every kind. As it is reported of Milton, that his poetical genius never flowed with eaſe and abundance in the ſpring; ſo Auguſtus obſerved, that his own genius for dreaming never was ſo perfect during that ſeaſon, nor was ſo much to be relied on, as during the reſt of the year. That great and able emperor was alſo extremely uneaſy when he happened to change his ſhoes, and put the right foot ſhoe on the left footc. In ſhort, it cannot be doubted, but the votaries of the eſtabliſhed ſuperſtition of antiquity were as numerous in every ſtate, as thoſe of the modern religion are at preſent. Its influence was as univerſal; tho' it was not ſo [83] great. As many people gave their aſſent to it; tho' that aſſent was not ſeemingly ſo ſtrong, preciſe, and affirmative.

WE may obſerve, that, notwithſtanding the dogmatical, imperious ſtyle of all ſuperſtition, the conviction of the religioniſts, in all ages, is more affected than real, and ſcarce ever approaches, in any degree, to that ſolid belief and perſuaſion, which governs us in the common affairs of life. Men dare not avow, even to their own hearts, the doubts, which they entertain on ſuch ſubjects: They make a merit of implicite faith; and diſguiſe to themſelves their real infidelity, by the ſtrongeſt aſſeverations and moſt poſitive bigotry. But nature is too hard for all their endeavours, and ſuffers not the obſcure, glimmering light, afforded in thoſe ſhadowy regions, to equal the ſtrong impreſſions, made by common ſenſe and by experience. The uſual courſe of men's conduct belies their words and ſhows, that the aſſent in theſe matters is ſome unaccountable operation of the mind betwixt diſbelief and conviction, but approaching much nearer the former than the latter.

[84] SINCE, therefore, the mind of man appears of ſo looſe and unſteddy a contexture, that, even at preſent, when ſo many perſons find an intereſt in continually employing on it the chiſſel and the hammer, yet are they not able to engrave theological tenets with any laſting impreſſion; how much more muſt this have been the caſe in antient times, when the retainers to the holy function were ſo much fewer in compariſon? No wonder, that the appearances were then very inconſiſtent, and that men, on ſome occaſions, might ſeem determined infidels, and enemies to the eſtabliſhed religion, without being ſo in reality; or at leaſt, without knowing their own minds in that particular.

ANOTHER cauſe, which rendered the antient religions much looſer than the modern, is, that the former were traditional and the latter are ſcriptural; and the tradition in the former was complex, contradictory, and, on many occaſions, doubtful; ſo that it could not poſſibly be reduced to any ſtandard and canon, or afford any determinate articles of faith. The ſtories of the gods were numberleſs like the popiſh legends; and tho' every one, almoſt, believed a part of theſe ſtories, yet no one could believe or know [85] the whole: While, at the ſame time, all muſt have acknowledged, that no one part ſtood on a better foundation than the reſt. The traditions of different cities and nations were alſo, on many occaſions, directly oppoſite; and no reaſon could be found for preferring one to the other. And as there was an infinite number of ſtories, with regard to which tradition was no way poſitive; the gradation was inſenſible, from the moſt fundamental articles of faith, to thoſe looſe and precarious fictions. The pagan religion, therefore, ſeemed to vaniſh like a cloud, whenever one approached to it, and examined it piecemeal. It could never be aſcertained by any fixt dogmas and principles. And tho' this did not convert the generality of mankind from ſo abſurd a faith; for when will the people be reaſonable? yet it made them faulter and heſitate more in maintaining their principles, and was even apt to produce, in certain diſpoſitions of mind, ſome practices and opinions, which had the appearance of determined infidelity.

To which we may add, that the fables of the pagan religion were, of themſelves, light, eaſy, and familiar; without devils or ſeas of brimſtone, or any objects, that could much terrify [86] the imagination. Who could forbear ſmiling, when he thought of the loves of Mars and Venus, or the amorous frolics of Jupiter and Pan? In this reſpect, it was a true poetical religion; if it had not rather too much levity for the graver kinds of poetry. We find that it has been adopted by modern bards; nor have theſe talked with greater freedom and irreverence of the gods, whom they regarded as fictions, than the antient did of the real objects of their devotion.

THE inference is by no means juſt, that, becauſe a ſyſtem of religion has made no deep impreſſion on the minds of a people, it muſt therefore have been poſitively rejected by all men of common ſenſe, and that oppoſite principles, in ſpite of the prejudices of education, were generally eſtabliſhed by argument and reaſoning. I know not, but a contrary inference may be more probable. The leſs importunate and aſſuming any ſpecies of ſuperſtition appears, the leſs will it provoke men's ſpleen and indignation, or engage them into enquiries concerning its foundation and origin. This in the mean time is obvious, that the empire of all religious faith over the underſtanding is wavering and [87] uncertain, ſubject to all varieties of humour, and dependent on the preſent incidents, which ſtrike the imagination. The difference is only in the degrees. An antient will place a ſtroke of impiety and one of ſuperſtition alternately, thro' a whole diſcourſea: A modern often thinks in the ſame way, tho' he may be more guarded in his expreſſions.

LUCIAN tells us expreſslyb, that whoever believed not the moſt ridiculous fables of paganiſm was eſteemed by the people profane and impious. To what purpoſe, indeed, would that agreeable author have employed the whole force of his wit and ſatyr againſt the national religion, had not that religion been generally believed by his countrymen and contemporaries?

[88] LIVYa acknowledges as frankly, as any divine would at preſent, the common incredulity of his age; but then he condemns it as ſeverely. And who can imagine, that a national ſuperſtition, which could delude ſo great a man, would not alſo impoſe on the generality of the people?

THE Stoics beſtowed many magnificent and even impious epithets on their ſage; that he alone was rich, free, a king, and equal to the immortal gods. They forgot to add, that he was not inferior in prudence and underſtanding to an old woman. For ſurely nothing can be more pitiful than the ſentiments, which that ſect entertained with regard to all popular ſuperſtitions; while they very ſeriouſly agree with the common augurs, that, when a raven croaks from the left, it is a good omen; but a bad one, when a rook makes a noiſe from the ſame quarter. Panaetius was the only Stoic, amongſt the Greeks, who ſo much as doubted with regard to auguries and divinationsb. Marcus Antoninus c tells us, that he himſelf had received many admonitions from the gods in his ſleep. It is true; Epictetus d forbids us to regard the [89] language of rooks and revens; but it is not, that they do not ſpeak truth: It is only, becauſe they can fortel nothing but the breaking of our neck or the forfeiture of our eſtate; which are circumſtances, ſays he, that no way concern us. Thus the Stoics join a philoſophical enthuſiaſm to a religious ſuperſtition. The force of their mind, being all turned to the ſide of morals, unbent itſelf in that of religiona.

PLATOb introduces Socrates affirming, that the accuſation of impiety raiſed againſt him was owing entirely to his rejecting ſuch fables, as thoſe of Saturn's caſtrating his father, Uranus, and Jupiter's dethroning Saturn: Yet in a ſubſequent dialoguec, Socrates confeſſes, that the doctrine of the mortality of the ſoul was the received opinion of the people. Is there here any contradiction? Yes, ſurely: But the contradiction is not in Plato; it is in the people, whoſe religious principles in general are always compoſed of the moſt diſcordant parts; eſpecially in an [90] age, when ſuperſtition ſate ſo eaſy and light upon thema.

[91] THE ſame Cicero, who affected, in his own family, to appear a devout religioniſt, makes no ſcruple, in a public court of judicature, of treating the doctrine of a future ſtate as a moſt ridiculous fable, to which no body could give any attentiona. Salluſt b repreſents Caeſar as ſpeaking the ſame language in the open ſenatec.

BUT that all theſe freedoms implied not a total and univerſal infidelity and ſcepticiſm [92] amongſt the people, is too apparent to be denied. Tho' ſome parts of the national religion hung looſe upon the minds of men, other parts adhered more cloſely to them: And it was the great buſineſs of the ſceptical philoſophers to ſhow, that there was no more foundation for one than for the other. This is the artifice of Cotta in the dialogues concerning the nature of the gods. He refutes the whole ſyſtem of mythology by leading the orthodox, gradually, from the more momentous ſtories, which were believed, to the more frivolous, which every one ridiculed: From the gods to the goddeſſes; from the goddeſſes to the nymphs; from the nymphs to the fawns and ſatyrs. His maſter, Carneades, had employed the ſame method of reaſoninga.

UPON the whole, the greateſt and moſt obſervable differences betwixt a traditional, mythological religion, and a ſyſtematical, ſcholaſtic one, are two: The former is often more reaſonable, as conſiſting only of a multitude of ſtories, which, however groundleſs, imply no expreſs abſurdity and demonſtrative contradiction; [93] and ſits alſo ſo eaſy and light on men's minds, that tho' it may be as univerſally received, it makes no ſuch deep impreſſion on the affections and underſtanding.

XIII.

[94]

THE primary religion of mankind ariſes chiefly from an anxious fear of future events; and what ideas will naturally be entertained of inviſible, unknown powers, while men lie under diſmal apprehenſions of any kind, may eaſily be conceived. Every image of vengeance, ſeverity, cruelty, and malice muſt occur and augment the ghaſtlineſs and horror, which oppreſſes the amazed religioniſt. A panic having once ſeized the mind, the active fancy ſtill farther multiplies the objects of terror; while that profound darkneſs, or, what is worſe, that glimmering light, with which we are invironed, repreſents the ſpectres of divinity under the moſt dreadful appearances imaginable. And no idea of perverſe wickedneſs can be framed, which thoſe terrified devotees do not readily, without ſcruple, apply to their deity.

THIS appears the natural ſtate of religion, when ſurveyed in one light. But if we conſider, on the other hand, that ſpirit of praiſe and eulogy, which neceſſarily has place in all religions, and which is the conſequence of theſe very [95] terrors, we muſt expect a quite contrary ſyſtem of theology to prevail. Every virtue, every excellence muſt be aſcribed to the divinity, and no exaggeration be eſteemed ſufficient to reach thoſe perfections, with which he is endowed. Whatever ſtrains of panegyric can be invented, are immediately embraced, without conſulting any arguments or phaenomena. And it is eſteemed a ſufficient confirmation of them, that they give us more magnificent ideas of the divine object of our worſhip and adoration.

HERE therefore is a kind of contradiction betwixt the different principles of human nature, which enter into religion. Our natural terrors preſent the notion of a deviliſh and malicious deity: Our propenſity to praiſe leads us to acknowledge an excellent and divine. And the influence of theſe oppoſite principles are various, according to the different ſituation of the human underſtanding.

IN very barbarous and ignorant nations, ſuch as the Africans and Indians, nay even the Japoneſe, who can form no extenſive ideas of power and knowledge, worſhip may be paid to a being, whom they confeſs to be wicked and deteſtable; [96] tho' they may be cautious, perhaps, of pronouncing this judgment of him in public, or in his temple, where he may be ſuppoſed to hear their reproaches.

SUCH rude, imperfect ideas of the divinity adhere long to all idolaters; and it may ſafely be affirmed, that the Greeks themſelves never got entirely rid of them. It is remarked by Xenophon a, in praiſe of Socrates, that that philoſopher aſſented not to the vulgar opinion, which ſuppoſed the gods to know ſome things, and be ignorant of others: He maintained that they knew every thing; what was done, ſaid, or even thought. But as this was a ſtrain of philoſophy b much above the conception of his countrymen, we need not be ſurprized, if very frankly, in their books and converſation, they blamed the deities, whom they worſhiped in their temples. It is obſervable, that Herodotus in particular ſcruples not, in many paſſages, to aſcribe envy to the gods; a ſentiment, of all [97] others, the moſt ſuitable to a mean and deviliſh nature. The pagan hymns however, ſung in public worſhip, contained nothing but epithets of praiſe; even while the actions aſcribed to the gods were the moſt barbarous and deteſtable. When Timotheus, the poet, recited a hymn to Diana, where he enumerated, with the greateſt eulogies, all the actions and attributes of that cruel, capricious goddeſs: May your daughter, ſaid one preſent, become ſuch as the deity whom you celebrate a.

BUT as men farther exalt their idea of their divinity; it is often their notion of his power and knowledge only, not of his goodneſs, which is improved. On the contrary, in proportion to the ſuppoſed extent of his ſcience and authority, their terrors naturally augment; while they believe, that no ſecrecy can conceal them from his ſcrutiny, and that even the inmoſt receſſes of their breaſt lie open before him. They muſt then be careful not to form expreſsly any ſentiment of blame and diſapprobation. All muſt be applauſe, raviſhment, extacy. And while their gloomy apprehenſions make them [98] aſcribe to him meaſures of conduct, which, in human creatures, would be highly blamed, they muſt ſtill affect to praiſe and admire theſe meaſures in the object of their devotional addreſſes. And thus it may ſafely be affirmed, that many popular religions are really, in the conception of their more vulgar votaries, a ſpecies of daemoniſm; and the higher the deity is exalted in power and knowledge, the lower of courſe is he frequently depreſt in goodneſs and benevolence; whatever epithets of praiſe may be beſtowed on him by his amazed adorers. Amongſt idolaters, the words may be falſe, and belie the ſecret opinion: But amongſt more exalted religioniſts, the opinion itſelf often contracts a kind of falſhood, and belies the inward ſentiment. The heart ſecretly deteſts ſuch meaſures of cruel and implacable vengeance; but the judgment dares not but pronounce them perfect and adorable. And the additional miſery of this inward ſtruggle aggravates all the other terrors, by which theſe unhappy victims to ſuperſtition are for ever haunted.

LUCIANa. obſerves, that a young man, who reads the hiſtory of the gods in Homer or Heſiod, [99] and finds their factions, wars, injuſtice, inceſt, adultery, and other immoralities ſo highly celebrated, is much ſurprized afterwards, when he comes into the world, to obſerve, that puniſhments are by law inflicted on the ſame actions, which he had been taught to aſcribe to ſuperior beings. The contradiction is ſtill perhaps ſtronger betwixt the repreſentations given us by ſome latter religions and our natural ideas of generoſity, lenity, impartiality, and juſtice; and in proportion to the multiplied terrors of theſe religions, the barbarous conceptions of the divinity are multiplied upon usa. Nothing can [100] preſerve untainted the genuine principles of morals in our judgment of human conduct, [101] but the abſolute neceſſity of theſe principles to the exiſtence of ſociety. If common conception [102] can indulge princes in a ſyſtem of ethics, ſomewhat different from that which ſhould regulate private perſons; how much more thoſe ſuperior beings, whoſe attributes, views, and nature are ſo totally unknown to us? Sunt ſuperis ſua jura a; The gods have maxims of juſtice peculiar to themſelves.

XIV.

[103]

HERE I cannot forbear obſerving a fact, which may be worth the attention of thoſe, who make human nature the object of their enquiry. It is certain, that, in every religion, however ſublime the verbal definition, which it gives of its divinity, many of the votaries, perhaps the greateſt number, will ſtill ſeek the divine favour, not by virtue and good morals, which alone can be acceptable to a perfect being, but either by frivolous obſervances, by intemperate zeal, by rapturous extaſies, or by the belief of myſterious and abſurd opinions. The leaſt part of the Sadder, as well as of the Pentateuch, conſiſts in precepts of morality; and we may be aſſured, that that part was always the leaſt obſerved and regarded. When the old Romans were attacked with a peſtilence, they never aſcribed their ſufferings to their vices, or dreamed of repentance and amendment. They never thought that they were the general robbers of the world, whoſe ambition and avarice made deſolate the earth, and reduced opulent nations to want and beggary. They only created a dictatora, in [104] order to drive a nail into a door; and by that means, they thought that they had ſufficiently appeaſed their incenſed deity.

IN Aegina, one faction entering into a conſpiracy, barbarouſly and treacherouſly aſſaſſinated ſeven hundred of their fellow-citizens; and carried their fury ſo far, that, one miſerable fugitive having fled to the temple, they cut off his hands, by which he clung to the gates, and carrying him out of holy ground, immediately murdered him. By this impiety, ſays Herodotus a, (not by the other many cruel aſſaſſinations) they offended the gods, and contracted an inexpiable guilt.

NAY, if we ſhould ſuppoſe, what ſeldom happens, that a popular religion were found, in which it was expreſsly declared, that nothing but morality could gain the divine favour; if an order of prieſts were inſtituted to inculcate this opinion, in daily ſermons, and with all the arts of perſuaſion; yet ſo inveterate are the people's prejudices, that for want of ſome other ſuperſtition, they would make the very attendance on theſe ſermons the eſſentials of religion, rather [105] than place them in virtue and good morals. The ſublime prologue of Zaleucus's lawsa inſpired not the Locrians, ſo far as we can learn, with any ſounder notions of the meaſures of acceptance with the deity, than were familiar to the other Greeks.

THIS obſervation, then, holds univerſally: But ſtill one may be at ſome loſs to account for it. It is not ſufficient to obſerve, that the people, every where, degrade their deities into a ſimilitude with themſelves, and conſider them merely as a ſpecies of human creatures, ſomewhat more potent and intelligent. This will not remove the difficulty. For there is no man ſo ſtupid, as that, judging by his natural reaſon, he would not eſteem virtue and honeſty the moſt valuable qualities, which any perſon could poſſeſs. Why not aſcribe the ſame ſentiment to his deity? Why not make all religion, or the chief part of it, to conſiſt in theſe attainments?

NOR is it ſatisfactory to ſay, that the practice of morality is more difficult than that of ſuperſtition; and is therefore rejected. For, [104] [...] [105] [...] [106] not to mention the exceſſive pennances of the Brahmans and Talapoins; it is certain, that the Rhamadan of the Turks, during which the poor wretches, for many days, often in the hotteſt months of the year, and in ſome of the hotteſt climates of the world, remain without eating or drinking from the riſing to the ſetting of the ſun; this Rhamadan, I ſay, muſt be more ſevere, than the practice of any moral duty, even to the moſt vicious and depraved of mankind. The four lents of the Muſcovites, and the auſterities of ſome Roman Catholics, appear more diſagreable than meekneſs and benevolence. In ſhort, all virtue, when men are reconciled to it by ever ſo little practice, is agreeable: All ſuperſtition is for ever odious and burthenſome.

PERHAPS, the following account may be received as a true ſolution of the difficulty. The duties, which a man performs as a friend or parent, ſeem merely owing to his benefactor or children; nor can he be wanting to theſe duties, without breaking thro' all the ties of nature and morality. A ſtrong inclination may prompt him to the performance: A ſentiment of order and moral beauty joins its force to theſe natural tyes: And the whole man, if truly virtuous, [107] is drawn to his duty, without any effort or endeavour. Even with regard to the virtues, which are more auſtere, and more founded on reflection, ſuch as public ſpirit, filial duty, temperance, or integrity; the moral obligation, in our apprehenſion, removes all pretence to religious merit; and the virtuous conduct is eſteemed no more than what we owe to ſociety and to ourſelves. In all this, a ſuperſtitious man finds nothing, which he has properly performed for the ſake of his deity, or which can peculiarly recommend him to the divine favour and protection. He conſiders not, that the moſt genuine method of ſerving the divinity is by promoting the happineſs of his creatures. He ſtill looks out for ſome more immediate ſervice of the ſupreme being, in order to allay thoſe terrors, with which he is haunted. And any practice recommended to him, which either ſerves to no purpoſe in life, or offers the ſtrongeſt violence to his natural inclinations; that practice he will the more readily embrace, on account of thoſe very circumſtances, which ſhould make him abſolutely reject it. It ſeems the more purely religious, that it proceeds from no mixture of any other motive or conſideration. And if, for its ſake, he ſacrifices much [108] of his eaſe and quiet, his claim of merit appears ſtill to riſe upon him, in proportion to the zeal and devotion, which he diſcovers. In reſtoring a loan, or paying a debt, his divinity is no way beholden to him; becauſe theſe acts of juſtice are what he was bound to perform, and what many would have performed, were there no god in the univerſe. But if he faſt a day, or give himſelf a ſound whipping; this has a direct reference, in his opinion, to the ſervice of God. No other motive could engage him to ſuch auſterities. By theſe diſtinguiſhed marks of devotion, he has now acquired the divine favour; and may expect, in recompence, protection and ſafety in this world, and eternal happineſs in the next.

HENCE the greateſt crimes have been found, in many inſtances, compatible with a ſuperſtitious piety and devotion: Hence it is juſtly regarded as unſafe to draw any certain inference in favour of a man's mora's from the fervor or ſtrictneſs of his religious exerciſes, even tho' he himſelf believe them ſincere. Nay, it has been obſerved, that enormities of the blackeſt dye, have been rather apt to produce ſuperſtitious terrors, and encreaſe the religious paſſion. Bomilcar, [109] having formed a conſpiracy for aſſaſſinating at once the whole ſenate of Carthage, and invading the liberties of his country, loſt the opportunity, from a continual regard to omens and propheſies. Thoſe who undertake the moſt criminal and moſt dangerous enterprizes are commonly the moſt ſuperſtitious; as an antient hiſtoriana remarks on this occaſion. Their devotion and ſpiritual faith riſe with their fears. Catiline was not contented with the eſtabliſhed deities, and received rites of his national religion: His anxious terrors made him ſeek new inventions of this kindb; which he never probably had dreamed of, had he remained a good citizen, and obedient to the laws of his country.

TO which we may add, that, even after the commiſſion of crimes, there ariſe remorſes and ſecret horrors, which give no reſt to the mind, but make it have recourſe to religious rites and ceremonies, as expiations of its offences. Whatever weakens or diſorders the internal frame promotes the intereſts of ſuperſtition: And nothing is more deſtructive to them than a manly, [110] ſteddy virtue, which either preſerves us from diſaſtrous, melancholy accidents, or teaches us to bear them. During ſuch calm ſunſhine of the mind, theſe ſpectres of falſe divinity never make their appearance. On the other hand, while we abandon ourſelves to the natural, undiſciplined ſuggeſtions of our timid and anxious hearts, every kind of barbarity is aſcribed to the ſupreme being, from the terrors, with which we are agitated; and every kind of caprice, from the methods which we embrace, in order to appeaſe him. Barbarity, caprice; theſe qualities, however nominally diſguiſed, we may univerſally obſerve, to form the ruling character of the deity, in popular religions. Even prieſts, inſtead of correcting theſe depraved ideas of mankind, have often been found ready to foſter and encourage them. The more tremendous the divinity is repreſented, the more tame and ſubmiſſive do men become to his miniſters: And the more unaccountable the meaſures of acceptance required by him, the more neceſſary does it become to abandon our natural reaſon, and yield to their ghoſtly guidance and direction. And thus it may be allowed, that the artifices of men aggravate our natural infirmities [111] and follies of this kind, but never originally beget them. Their root ſtrikes deeper into the mind, and ſprings from the eſſential and univerſal properties of human nature.

XV.

[112]

THO' the ſtupidity of men, barbarous and uninſtructed, be ſo great, that they may not ſee a ſovereign author in the more obvious works of nature, to which they are ſo much familiarized; yet it ſcarce ſeems poſſible, that any one of good underſtanding ſhould reject that idea, when once it is ſuggeſted to him. A purpoſe, an intention, a deſign is evident in every thing; and when our comprehenſion is ſo far enlarged as to contemplate the firſt riſe of this viſible ſyſtem, we muſt adopt, with the ſtrongeſt conviction, the idea of ſome intelligent cauſe or author. The uniform maxims too, which prevail thro' the whole frame of the univerſe, naturally, if not neceſſarily, lead us to conceive this intelligence as ſingle and undivided, where the prejudices of education oppoſe not ſo reaſonable a theory. Even the contrarieties of nature, by diſcovering themſelves every where, become proofs of ſome conſiſtent plan, and eſtabliſh one ſingle purpoſe or intention, however inexplicable and incomprehenſible.

[113] GOOD and ill are univerſally intermingled and confounded; happineſs and miſery, wiſdom and folly, virtue and vice. Nothing is pure and entirely of a piece. All advantages are attended with diſadvantages. An univerſal compenſation prevails in all conditions of being and exiſtence. And it is ſcarce poſſible for us, by our moſt chimerical wiſhes, to form the idea of a ſtation or ſituation altogether deſirable. The draughts of life, according to the poet's fiction, are always mixed from the veſſels on each hand of Jupiter: Or if any cup be preſented altogether pure, it is drawn only, as the ſame poet tells us, from the left-handed veſſel.

THE more exquiſite any good is, of which a ſmall ſpecimen is afforded us, the ſharper is the evil, allied to it; and few exceptions are [...]ound to this uniform law of nature. The moſt ſprightly wit borders on madneſs; the higheſt effuſions of joy produce the deepeſt melancholy; the moſt raviſhing pleaſures are attended with the moſt cruel laſſitude and diſguſt; the moſt flattering hopes make way for the ſevereſt diſappointments. And in general, no courſe of life has ſuch ſafety (for happineſs is not to be dreamed of) as the temperate and moderate, [114] which maintains, as far as poſſible, a mediocrity, and a kind of inſenſibility, in every thing.

AS the good, the great, the ſublime, the raviſhing are found eminently in the genuine principles of theiſm; it may be expected, from the analogy of nature, that the baſe, the abſurd, the mean, the terrifying will be diſcovered equally in religious fictions and chimeras.

THE univerſal propenſity to believe in inviſible, intelligent power, if not an original inſtinct, being at leaſt a general attendant of human nature, it may be conſidered as a kind of mark or ſtamp, which the divine workman has ſet upon his work; and nothing ſurely can more dignify mankind, than to be thus ſelected from all the other parts of the creation, and to bear the image or impreſſion of the univerſal Create. But conſult this image, as it commonly appears in the popular religions of the world. How is the deity disfigured in our repreſentations of him! What caprice, abſurdity, and immorality are attributed to him! How much is he degraded even below the character which we ſhould naturally, in common life, aſcribe to a man of ſenſe virtue!

[115] WHAT a noble privilege is it of human reaſon to attain the knowledge of the ſupreme being; and, from the viſible works of nature, be enabled to infer ſo ſublime a principle as its ſupreme Creator? But turn the reverſe of the medal. Survey moſt nations and moſt ages. Examine the religious principles, which have, in fact, prevailed in the world. You will ſcarcely be perſuaded, that they are other than ſick men's dreams: Or perhaps will regard them more as the playſome whimſies of monkeys in human ſhape, than the ſerious, poſitive, dogmatical aſſeverations of a being, who dignifies himſelf with the name of rational.

HEAR the verbal proteſtations of all men: Nothing they are ſo certain of as their religious tenets. Examine their lives: You will ſcarcely think that they repoſe the ſmalleſt confidence in them.

THE greateſt and trueſt zeal gives us no ſecurity againſt hypocriſy: The moſt open impiety is attended with a ſecret dread and compunction.

[116] NO theological abſurdities ſo glaring as have not, ſometimes, been embraced by men of the greateſt and moſt cultivated underſtanding. No religious precepts ſo rigorous as have not been adopted by the moſt voluptuous and moſt abandoned of men.

IGNORANCE is the mother of Devotion: A maxim, that is proverbial, and confirmed by general experience. Look out for a people, entirely devoid of religion: If you find them at all, be aſſured, that they are but few degrees removed from brutes.

WHAT ſo pure as ſome of the morals, included in ſome theological ſyſtems? What ſo corrupted as ſome of the practices, to which theſe ſyſtems give riſe?

THE comfortable views, exhibited by the belief of futurity, are raviſhing and delightful. But how quickly vaniſh, on the appearance of its terrors, which keep a more firm and durable poſſeſſion of the human mind?

THE whole is a riddle, an aenigma, an inexplicable myſtery. Doubt, uncertainty, ſuſpence [117] of judgment appear the only reſult of our moſt accurate ſcrutiny, concerning this ſubject. But ſuch is the frailty of human reaſon, and ſuch the irreſiſtible contagion of opinion, that even this deliberate doubt could ſcarce be upheld; did we not enlarge our view, and oppoſing one ſpecies of ſuperſtition to another, ſet them a quarreling; while we ourſelves, during their fury and contention, happily make our eſcape, into the calm, tho' obſcure, regions of philoſophy.

DISSERTATION II. OF THE PASSIONS.
DISSERTATION II. Of the Paſſions.

[][]

SECT. I.

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

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

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

WHEN good is certain or very probable, it produces JOY: When evil is in the ſame ſituation, there ariſes GRIEF or SORROW.

WHEN either good or evil is uncertain, it gives riſe to FEAR or HOPE, according to the degrees of uncertainty on one ſide or the other.

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

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

[123] PROBABILITY ariſes from an oppoſition of contrary chances or cauſes, by which the mind is not allowed to fix on either ſide; but is inceſſantly toſt from one to another, and in one moment is determined to conſider an object as exiſtent, and in another moment as the contrary. The imagination or underſtanding, call it which you pleaſe, fluctuates betwixt the oppoſite views; and tho' perhaps it may be oftener turned to one ſide than the other, it is impoſſible for it, by reaſon of the oppoſition of cauſes or chances, to reſt on either. The pro and con of the queſtion alternately prevail; and the mind, ſurveying the objects in their oppoſite cauſes, finds ſuch a contrariety as utterly deſtroys all certainty or eſtabliſhed opinion.

SUPPOSE, then, that the object, concerning which we are doubtful, produces either deſire or averſion; it is evident, that, according as the mind turns itſelf to one ſide or the other, it muſt feel a momentary impreſſion of joy or ſorrow. An object, whoſe exiſtence we deſire, gives ſatisfaction, when we think of thoſe cauſes, which produce it; and for the ſame reaſon, excites grief or uneaſineſs, from the oppoſite conſideration. So that, as the underſtanding, [124] in probable queſtions, is divided betwixt the contrary points of view, the heart muſt in the ſame manner be divided betwixt oppoſite emotions.

NOW, if we conſider the human mind, we ſhall obſerve, that, with regard to the paſſions, it is not like a wind-inſtrument of muſic, which, in running over all the notes, immediately loſes the ſound when the breath ceaſes; but rather reſembles a ſtring-inſtrument, where, after each ſtroke, the vibrations ſtill retain ſome ſound, which gradually and inſenſibly decays. The imagination is extremely quick and agile; but the paſſions, in compariſon, are ſlow and reſtive: For which reaſon, when any object is preſented, which affords a variety of views to the one and emotions to the other; tho' the fancy may change its views with great celerity; each ſtroke will not produce a clear and diſtinct note of paſſion, but the one paſſion will always be mixt and confounded with the other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil, the paſſion of grief or joy predominates in the compoſition; and theſe paſſions, being intermingled by means of the [125] contrary views of the imagination, produce by the union the paſſions of hope or fear.

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

THE paſſions of fear and hope may ariſe, when the chances are equal on both ſides, and no ſuperiority can be diſcovered in one above the other. Nay, in this ſituation the paſſions are rather the ſtrongeſt, as the mind has then the leaſt foundation to reſt upon, and is toſt with the greateſt uncertainty. Throw in a ſuperior degree of probability to the ſide of grief, you immediately ſee that paſſion diffuſe itſelf over the compoſition, and tincture it into fear. Encreaſe the probability, and by that means the grief; the fear prevails ſtill more and more, till at laſt it runs inſenſibly, as the joy continually diminiſhes, into pure grief. After you have brought it to this ſituation, diminiſh the grief, by a contrary operation to that, which encreaſed it, to wit, by diminiſhing the probability on the melancholy ſide; and you will ſee the paſſion clear every moment, till it changes inſenſibly [126] into hope; which again runs, by ſlow degrees, into joy, as you encreaſe that part of the compoſition, by the encreaſe of the probability. Are not theſe as plain proofs, that the paſſions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and joy, as in optics it is a proof, that a coloured ray of the ſun, paſſing thro' a priſm, is a compoſition of two others, when, as you diminiſh or encreaſe the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably, more or leſs, in the compoſition?

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

[127] 6. IT is a probable good or evil, which commonly cauſes hope or fear; becauſe probability, producing an inconſtant and wavering ſurvey of an object, occaſions naturally a like mixture and uncertainty of paſſion. But we may obſerve, that, wherever, from other cauſes, this mixture can be produced, the paſſions of fear and hope will ariſe, even tho' there be no probability.

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

BUT even impoſſible evils cauſe fear; as when we tremble on the brink of a precipice, tho' we know ourſelves to be in perfect ſecurity, and have it in our choice, whether we will advance a ſtep farther. The immediate preſence of the evil influences the imagination and produces a ſpecies of belief; but being oppoſed by the reflection on our ſecurity, that belief is immediately [128] retracted, and cauſes the ſame kind of paſſion, as when, from a contrariety of chances, contrary paſſions are produced.

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

7. BUT it is not only where good or evil is uncertain as to its exiſtence, but alſo as to its kind, that fear or hope ariſes. If any one were told, that one of his ſons is ſuddenly killed; the paſſion, occaſioned by this event, would not ſettle into grief, till he got certain information, which of his ſons he had loſt. Tho' each ſide of the queſtion produces here the ſame paſſion; that paſſion cannot ſettle, but receives from the imagination, which is unfixt, a tremulous, unſteddy motion, reſembling the mixture and contention of grief and joy.

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

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

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

[130] 9. CONCERNING the mixture of affections, we may remark, in general, that when contrary paſſions ariſe from objects no way connected together, they take place alternately. Thus when a man is afflicted for the loſs of a law-ſuit, and joyful for the birth of a ſon, the mind, running from the agreeable to the calamitous object; with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can ſcarcely temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a ſtate of indifference.

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

BUT ſuppoſe, that the object is not a compound of good and evil, but is conſidered as probable or improbable in any degree; in that caſe, the contrary paſſions will both of them be preſent at once in the ſoul, and inſtead of ballancing [131] and tempering each other, will ſubſiſt together, and by their union, produce a third impreſſion or affection, ſuch as hope or fear.

THE influence of the relations of ideas (which we ſhall afterwards explain more fully) is plainly ſeen in this affair. In contrary paſſions, if the objects be totally different, the paſſions are like two oppoſite liquors in different bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the objects be intimately connected, the paſſions are like an alcali or an acid, which, being mingled, deſtroy each other. If the relation be more imperfect, and conſiſts in the contradictory views of the ſame object, the paſſions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, never perfectly unite and incorporate.

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

SECT. II.

[132]

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

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

2. IN theſe two ſets of paſſions, there is an obvious diſtinction to be made betwixt the object of the paſſion and its cauſe. The object of pride and humility is ſelf: The cauſe of the paſſion is ſome excellence in the former caſe; ſome fault, in the latter. The object of love and hatred is ſome other perſon: The cauſes, [133] in like manner, are either excellencies or faults.

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

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

3. IN order to explain the cauſes of theſe paſſions, we muſt reflect on certain properties, which, tho' they have a mighty influence on every operation, both of the underſtanding and paſſions, are not commonly much inſiſted on by philoſophers. The firſt of theſe is the aſſciation of ideas, or that principle, by which we [134] make an eaſy tranſition from one idea to another. However uncertain and changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and method in their changes. They uſually paſs with regularity, from one object, to what reſembles it, is contiguous to it, or produced by ita. When one idea is preſent to the imagination; any other, united by theſe relations, naturally follows it, and enters with more facility, by means of that introduction.

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

IN the third place, it is obſervable of theſe two kinds of aſſociation, that they very much [135] aſſiſt and forward each other, and that the tranſition is more eaſily made, where they both concur in the ſame object. Thus, a man, who, by any injury from another, is very much diſcompoſed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred ſubjects of hatred, diſcontent, impatience, fear, and other uneaſy paſſions; eſpecially, if he can diſcover theſe ſubjects in or near the perſon, who was the object of his firſt emotion. Thoſe principles, which forward the tranſition of ideas, here concur with thoſe, which operate on the paſſions; and both, uniting in one action, beſtow on the mind a double impulſe.

UPON this occaſion, I may cite a paſſage from an elegant writer, who expreſſes himſelf in the following mannera. ‘"As the fancy delights in every thing, that is great, ſtrange, or beautiful, and is ſtill the more pleaſed the more it finds of theſe perfections in the ſame object, ſo it is capable of receiving new ſatisfaction by the aſſiſtance of another ſenſe. Thus, any continued ſound, as the muſic of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens every [136] moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the ſeveral beauties of the place, that lie before him. Thus, if there ariſes a fragrancy of ſmells or perfumes, they heighten the pleaſure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landſcape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both ſenſes recommend each other, and are pleaſanter together than where they enter the mind ſeparately: As the different colours of a picture, when they are well diſpoſed, ſet off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the ſituation."’ In theſe phaenomena, we may remark the aſſociation both of impreſſions and ideas; as well as the mutual aſſiſtance theſe aſſociations lend to each other.

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

WITH regard to the firſt relation, that of ideas, there can be no queſtion. Whatever we are proud of, muſt, in ſome manner, belong [137] to us. It is always our knowledge, our ſenſe, beauty, poſſeſſions, family, on which we value ourſelves. Self, which is the object of the paſſion, muſt ſtill be related to that quality or circumſtance, which cauſes the paſſion. There muſt be a connexion betwixt them; an eaſy tranſition of the imagination; or a facility of the conception in paſſing from one to the other. Where this connexion is wanting, no object can either excite pride or humility; and the more you weaken the connexion, the more you weaken the paſſion.

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

THE feeling or ſentiment of pride is agreeable; of humility, painful. An agreeable ſenſation is, therefore, related to the former; a painful, to the latter. And if we find, after examination, that every object, which produces [138] pride, produces alſo a ſeparate pleaſure; and every object, that cauſes humility, excites in like manner a ſeparate uneaſineſs; we muſt allow, in that caſe, that the preſent theory is fully proved and aſcertained. The double relation of ideas and ſentiments will be acknowledged inconteſtible.

6. To begin with perſonal merit and demerit, the moſt obvious cauſes of theſe paſſions; it would be entirely foreign to our preſent purpoſe to examine the foundation of moral diſtinctions. It is ſufficient to obſerve, that the foregoing theory concerning the origin of the paſſions may be defended on any hypotheſis. The moſt probable ſyſtem, which has been advanced to explain the difference betwixt vice and virtue, is, that either from a primary conſtitution of nature, or from a ſenſe of public or private intereſt, certain characters, upon the very view and contemplation, produce uneaſineſs; and others, in like manner, excite pleaſure. The uneaſineſs and ſatisfaction, produced in the ſpectator, are eſſential to vice and virtue. To approve of a character, is to feel a delight upon its appearance. To diſapprove of it, is to be ſenſible [139] of an uneaſineſs. The pain and pleaſure, therefore, being, in a manner, the primary ſource of blame or praiſe, muſt alſo be the cauſes of all their effects; and conſequently, the cauſes of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that diſtinction.

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

BUT a high or low conceit of ourſelves ariſes not from thoſe qualities alone of the mind, which, according to common ſyſtems of ethics, have been defined parts of moral duty; but from any [140] other, which have a connexion with pleaſure or uneaſineſs. Nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent of pleaſing by our wit, good humour, or any other accompliſhment; and nothing gives us a more ſenſible mortification, than a diſappointment in any attempt of that kind. No one has ever been able to tell preciſely, what wit is, and to ſhew why ſuch a ſyſtem of thought muſt be received under that denomination, and ſuch another rejected. It is by taſte alone we can decide concerning it; nor are we poſſeſt of any other ſtandard, by which we can form a judgment of this nature. Now what is this taſte, from which true and falſe wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of theſe denominations? It is plainly nothing but a ſenſation of pleaſure from true wit, and of diſguſt from falſe, without our being able to tell the reaſons of that ſatisfaction or uneaſineſs. The power of exciting theſe oppoſite ſenſations is, therefore, the very eſſence of true of falſe wit; and conſequently, the cauſe of that vanity or mortification, which ariſes from one or the other.

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

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

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

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

8. BUT tho' pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, that is, of ſelf, for their natural and more immediate cauſes; we find by experience, that many other objects produce theſe affections. We found vanity upon houſes, gardens, equipage, and other external objects; as well as upon perſonal merit and accompliſhments. This happens when external objects [...] any particular relation to [143] ourſelves, and are aſſociated or connected with us. A beautiful fiſh in the ocean, a well proportioned animal in a foreſt, and indeed any thing, which neither belongs nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity; whatever extraordinary qualities it may be endowed with, and whatever degree of ſurprize and admiration it may naturally occaſion. It muſt be ſomeway aſſociated with us, in order to touch our pride. It's idea muſt hang, in a manner, upon that of ourſelves; and the tranſition from one to the other muſt be eaſy and natural.

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

MEN are alſo vain of the temperature of the climate, in which they are born; of the fertility of their native ſoil; of the goodneſs of the wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the ſoftneſs or force of their language, with [144] other particulars of that kind. Theſe objects have plainly a reference to the pleaſures of the ſenſes, and are originally conſidered as agreeable to the feeling, taſte, or hearing. How could they become cauſes of pride, except by means of that tranſition above explained?

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

SINCE we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object, which bears a relation to us; it is no wonder we ſhould be vain of the qualities of thoſe, who are connected with us [145] by blood or friendſhip. Accordingly we find, that any qualities, which, when belonging to ourſelf, produce pride, produce alſo, in a leſs degree, the ſame affection, when diſcovered in perſons, related to us. The beauty, addreſs, merit, credit, and honours of their kindred are carefully diſplayed by the proud, and are conſiderable ſources of their vanity.

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

THOSE, who boaſt of the antiquity of their families, are glad when they can join this circumſtance, that their anceſtors, for many generations, have been uinnterrupted proprietors of the ſame portion of land, and that their family has never changed its poſſeſſions, or been tranſplanted into any other county or province. It is an additional [146] ſubject of vanity, when they can boaſt, that theſe poſſeſſions have been tranſmitted thro' a deſcent, compoſed entirely of males, and that the honours and fortune have never paſt thro' any female. Let us endeavour to explain theſe phaenomena from the foregoing theory.

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

[147] THE caſe is the ſame with the tranſmiſſion of the honours and fortune, thro' a ſucceſſion of males, without their paſſing thro' any female. It is an obvious quality of human nature, that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and conſiderable; and where two objects are preſented, a ſmall and a great, it uſually leaves the former, and dwells entirely on the latter. This is the reaſon, why children commonly bear their fathers name, and are eſteemed to be of a nobler or meaner birth, according to his family. And tho' the mother ſhould be poſſeſt of ſuperior qualities to the father, as often happens, the general rule prevails, notwithſtanding the exception, according to the doctrine, which ſhall be explained afterwards. Nay, even when a ſuperiority of any kind is ſo great, or when any other reaſons have ſuch an effect, as to make the children rather repreſent the mother's family than the father's, the general rule ſtill retains an efficacy, ſufficient to weaken the relation, and make a kind of breach in the line of anceſtors. The imagination runs not along them with the ſame facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the anceſtors to their poſterity of the ſame name and family ſo readily, as when the [148] tranſition is conformable to the general rules, and paſſes thro' the male line, from father to ſon, or from brother to brother.

9. BUT property, as it gives us the fulleſt power and authority over any object, is the relation, which has the greateſt influence on theſe paſſions.

EVERY thing, belonging to a vain man, is the beſt that is any where to be found. His houſes, equipage, furniture, cloaths, horſes, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and it is eaſy to obſerve, that, from the leaſt advantage in any of theſe, he draws a new ſubject of pride and vanity. His wine, if you will believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquiſite; his table more orderly; his ſervants more expert; the air, in which he lives, more healthful; the ſoil, which he cultivates, more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and in greater perfection: Such a thing is remarkable for it's novelty; ſuch another for it's antiquity: This is the workmanſhip of a famous artiſt; that belonged once to ſuch a prince or great man. All objects, in a word, which are [149] uſeful, beautiful, or ſurprizing, or are related to ſuch, may, by means of property, give riſe to this paſſion. Theſe all agree in giving pleaſure. This alone is common to them; and therefore muſt be the quality, that produces the paſſion, which is their common effect. As every new inſtance is a new argument, and as the inſtances are here without number; it would ſeem, that this theory is ſufficiently confirmed by experience.

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

10. OUR opinions of all kinds are ſtrongly affected by ſociety and ſympathy, and it is almoſt impoſſible for us to ſupport any principle or ſentiment, againſt the univerſal conſent of every one, with whom we have any friendſhip or correſpondence. But of all our opinions, thoſe, which we form in our own favour; however lofty or preſuming; are, at bottom, the fraileſt, and the moſt eaſily ſhaken by the contradiction [150] and oppoſition of others. Our great concern, in this caſe, makes us ſoon alarmed, and keeps our paſſions upon the watch: Our conſciouſneſs of partiality ſtill makes us dread a miſtake: And the very difficulty of judging concerning an object, which is never ſet at a due diſtance from us, nor is ſeen in a proper point of view, makes us hearken anxiouſly to the opinions of others, who are better qualified to form juſt opinions concerning us. Hence that ſtrong love of fame, with which all mankind are poſſeſt. It is in order to fix and confirm their favourable opinion of themſelves, not from any original paſſion, that they ſeek the applauſes of others. And when a man deſires to be praiſed, it is for the ſame reaſon, that a beauty is pleaſed with ſurveying herſelf in a favorable looking-glaſs, and ſeeing the reflexion of her own charms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THESE phaenomena ſeem to prove, that the favourable opinions of others are regarded only as authorities, or as confirmations of our own opinion. And if they have more influence in this ſubject than in any other, it is [152] eaſily accounted for from the nature of the ſubject.

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

A SECOND circumſtance, which is of conſequence in this affair, is the conſtancy and duration [153] of the object. What is very caſual and inconſtant, beyond the common courſe of human affairs, gives little joy, and leſs pride. We are not much ſatisfied with the thing itſelf; and are ſtill leſs apt to feel any new degree of ſelfſatisfaction upon its account. We foreſee and anticipate its change; which makes us little ſatisfied with the thing itſelf: We compare it to ourſelves, whoſe exiſtence is more durable; by which means its inconſtancy appears ſtill greater. It ſeems ridiculous to make ourſelves the object of a paſſion, on account of a quality or poſſeſſion, which is of ſo much ſhorter duration, and attends us during ſo ſmall a part of our exiſtence.

A THIRD circumſtance, not to be neglected, is, that the objects, in order to produce pride or ſelf-value, muſt be peculiar to us, or at leaſt, common to us with a few others. The advantages of ſun-ſhine, weather, climate, &c. diſtinguiſh us not from any of our companions, and give us no preference or ſuperiority. The compariſon, which we are every moment apt to make, preſents no inference to our advantage; and we ſtill remain, notwithſtanding theſe enjoyments, [154] on a level with all our friends and acquaintance.

AS health and ſickneſs vary inceſſantly to all men, and there is no one, who is ſolely or certainly fixed in either; theſe accidental bleſſings and calamities are in a manner ſeparated from us, and are not conſidered as a foundation for vanity or humiliation. But wherever a malady of any kind is ſo rooted in our conſtitution, that we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it damps our ſelf-conceit; as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the conſideration of their age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as poſſible, to conceal their blindneſs and deafneſs, their rheums and gouts; nor do they ever avow them without reluctance and uneaſineſs. And tho' young men are not aſhamed of every head-ach or cold which they fall into; yet no topic is more proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our lives ſubject to ſuch infirmities. This proves, that bodily pain and ſickneſs are in themſelves proper cauſes of humility; tho' the cuſtom of eſtimating every thing, by compariſon, more than by [155] its intrinſic worth and value, makes us overlook thoſe calamities, which we find incident to every one, and cauſes us to form an idea of our merit and character, independent of them.

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

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

IT may not be amiſs to obſerve on this occaſion, that the influence of general rules and [156] maxims on the paſſions very much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles or internal mechaniſm, which we here explain. For it ſeems evident, that, if a perſon full-grown, and of the ſame nature with ourſelves, were on a ſudden tranſported into our world, he would be very much embarraſſed with every object, and would not readily determine what degree of love or hatred, of pride or humility, or of any other paſſion ſhould be excited by it. The paſſions are often varied by very inconſiderable principles; and theſe do not always play with perfect regularity, eſpecially on the the firſt tryal. But as cuſtom or practice has brought to light all theſe principles, and has ſettled the juſt value of every thing; this muſt certainly contribute to the eaſy production of the paſſions, and guide us, by means of general eſtabliſhed rules, in the proportions, which we ought to obſerve in prefering one object to another. This remark may, perhaps, ſerve to obviate difficulties, that may ariſe concerning ſome cauſes, which we here aſcribe to particular paſſions, and which may be eſteemed too refined to operate ſo univerſally and certainly, as they are found to do.

SECT. III.

[157]

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

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

[158] 2. SOMETIMES a relation to ourſelf excites affection towards any perſon. But there is always here implied a relation of ſentiments, without which the other relation would have no influencea.

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

RELATION has here the ſame influence as cuſtom or acquaintance, in exciting affection; [159] and from like cauſes. The eaſe and ſatisfaction, which, in both caſes, attend our intercourſe or commerce, is the ſource of the friendſhip.

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

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

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

5. THE ſimilar tendency of compaſſion to that of benevolence, and of envy to anger, forms a very cloſe relation betwixt theſe two ſets of paſſions; tho' of a different kind from that inſiſted on above. It is not a reſemblance of feeling or ſentiment, but a reſemblance of tendency or direction. Its effect, however, is the ſame, in producing an aſſociation of paſſions. Compaſſion [161] is ſeldom or never felt without ſome mixture of tenderneſs or friendſhip; and envy is naturally accompanied with anger or ill-will. To deſire the happineſs of another, from whatever motive, is a good preparative to affection: And to delight in another's miſery almoſt unavoidably begets averſion towards him.

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

6. POVERTY, meanneſs, diſappointment, produce contempt and diſlike: But when theſe miſfortunes are very great, or are repreſented to us in very ſtrong colours, they excite compaſſion, and tenderneſs, and friendſhip. How is this contradiction to be accounted for? The poverty and meanneſs of another, in their common appearance, gives us uneaſineſs, by a ſpecies of imperfect ſympathy; and this uneaſineſs produces averſion or diſlike, from the reſemblance of ſentiment. But when we enter more intimately into another's concerns, and wiſh for his happineſs, as well as feel his miſery, friendſhip [162] or good-will ariſes, from the ſimilar tendency of the inclinations.

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

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

SECT. IV.

[163]

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

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

BUT ſuppoſe, that the perſon, whom we love, is alſo related to us, by blood, country, or friendſhip; it is evident, that a ſpecies of pride muſt alſo be excited by his accompliſhments and poſſeſſions; there being the ſame double relation, which we have all along inſiſted on. The perſon is related to us, or there [164] is an eaſy tranſition of thought from him to us; and the ſentiments, excited by his advantages and virtues, are agreeable, and conſequently related to pride. Accordingly we find, that people are naturally vain of the good qualities or high fortune of their friends and countrymen.

3. BUT it is obſervable, that, if we reverſe the order of the paſſions, the ſame effect does not follow. We paſs eaſily from love and affection to pride and vanity; but not from the latter paſſions to the former, tho' all the relations be the ſame. We love not thoſe related to us on account of our own merit; tho' they are naturally vain on account of our merit. What is the reaſon of this difference? The tranſition of the imagination to ourſelves, from objects related to us, is always very eaſy; both on account of the relation, which facilitates the tranſition, and becauſe we there paſs from remoter objects to thoſe which are contiguous. But in paſſing from ourſelves to objects, related to us; tho' the former principle forwards the tranſition of thought, yet the latter oppoſes it; and conſequently there is not the ſame eaſy [165] transfuſion of paſſions from pride to love as from love to pride.

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

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

A POET is not apt to envy a philoſopher or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, [166] or of a different age. All theſe differences, if they do not prevent, at leaſt weaken the compariſon, and conſequently the paſſion.

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

FROM the ſame principle we may account for that remark of hiſtorians, that any party, in a civil war, or even factious diviſion, always chooſe to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard rather than ſubmit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin applies this remark to the wars in Italy; where the relations betwixt the different ſtates are, properly ſpeaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. Yet even theſe relations, when joined with ſuperiority, by making the compariſon more natural, make it likewiſe more grievous, and cauſe men to ſearch for ſome other ſuperiority, which may be attended with no relation, and by that means, may have a leſs ſenſible influence on the [167] imagination. When we cannot break the aſſociation, we feel a ſtronger deſire to remove the ſuperiority. This ſeems to be the reaſon, why travellers, tho' commonly laviſh of their praiſes to the Chineſe and Perſians, take care to depreciate thoſe neighbouring nations, which may ſtand upon a footing of rivalſhip with their native country.

6. THE fine arts afford us parallel inſtances. Should an author compoſe a treati&;se, of which one part was ſerious and profound, another light and humourous; every one would condemn ſo ſtrange a mixture, and would blame him for the neglect of all rules of art and criticiſm. Yet we accuſe not Prior for joining his Alma and Solomon in the ſame volume; tho' that amiable poet has ſucceeded perfectly in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even ſuppoſe the reader ſhould peruſe theſe two compoſitions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of the paſſions. Why? but becauſe he conſiders theſe performances as entirely different; and by that break in the ideas, breaks the progreſs [168] of the affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other.

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

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

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

SECT. V.

[170]

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

2. WHAT is commonly, in a popular ſenſe, called reaſon, and is ſo much recommended in moral diſcourſes, is nothing but a general and a calm paſſion, which takes a comprehenſive and diſtant view of its object, and actuates the will, without exciting any ſenſible emotion. A man, we ſay, is diligent in his profeſſion from reaſon; that is, from a calm deſire of riches and a fortune. A man adheres to juſtice from reaſon; [171] that is, from a calm regard to a character with himſelf and others.

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

4. THE common error of metaphyſicians has lain in aſcribing the direction of the will entirely to one of theſe principles, and ſuppoſing the other to have no influence. Men often act knowingly againſt their intereſt: It is not therefore the view of the greateſt poſſible good which always influences them. Men often counteract a violent paſſion, in proſecution of their diſtant intereſts and deſigns: It is not therefore the preſent uneaſineſs alone, which determines them. [172] In general, we may obſerve, that both theſe principles operate on the will; and where they are contrary, that either of them prevails, according to the general character or preſent diſpoſition of the perſon. What we call ſtrength of mind implies the prevalence of the calm paſſions above the violent; tho' we may eaſily obſerve, that there is no perſon ſo conſtantly poſſeſt of this virtue, as never, on any occaſion, to yield to the ſollicitation of violent affections and deſires. From theſe variations of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the future actions and reſolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of motives and paſſions.

SECT. VI.

[173]

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

IT is a property in human nature, that any emotion, which attends a paſſion, is eaſily converted into it; tho' in their natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to each other. It is true, in order to cauſe a perfect union amongſt paſſions, and make one produce the other, there is always required a double relation, according to the theory above delivered. But when two paſſions are already produced by their ſeparate cauſes, and are both preſent in the mind, they readily mingle and unite; tho' they have but one relation, and ſometimes without any. The predominant paſſion ſwallows up the inferior, and converts it into itſelf. The ſpirits, when once excited, eaſily receive a change in their direction; and it is natural to imagine, that this change will come from the prevailing affection. The connexion [174] is in many caſes cloſer betwixt any two paſſions, than betwixt any paſſion and indifference.

WHEN a perſon is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprices of his miſtreſs, the jealouſies and quarrels, to which that commerce is ſo ſubject; however unpleaſant they be, and rather connected with anger and hatred; are yet found, in many inſtances, to give additional force to the prevailing paſſion. It is a common artifice of politicians, when they would affect any perſon very much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, firſt to excite his curioſity; delay as long as poſſible the ſatiſfying it; and by that means raiſe his anxiety and impatience to the utmoſt, before they give him a full inſight into the buſineſs. They know, that his curioſity will precipitate him into the paſſion, which they purpoſe to raiſe, and will aſſiſt the object in its influence on the mind. A ſoldier, advancing to battle, is naturally inſpired with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his friends and fellow-ſoldiers; and is ſtruck with fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion, therefore, proceeds from the former naturally encreaſes [175] the courage; as the ſame emotion proceeding from the latter, augments the fear. Hence in martial diſcipline, the uniformity and luſtre of habit, the regularity of figures and motions, with all the pomp and majeſty of war, encourage ourſelves and our allies; while the ſame objects in the enemy ſtrike terror into us, tho' agreeable and beautiful in themſelves.

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

2. SINCE paſſions, however independent, are naturally transfuſed into each other, if they are both preſent at the ſame time; it follows, that when good or evil is placed in ſuch a ſituation as to cauſe any particular emotion, beſides its direct paſſion of deſire or averſion, that latter paſſion muſt acquire new force and violence.

3. THIS often happens, when any object excites contrary paſſions. For it is obſervable, [176] that an oppoſition of paſſions commonly cauſes a new emotion in the ſpirits and produces more diſorder than the concurrence of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion is eaſily converted into the predominant paſſion, and in many inſtances, is obſerved to encreaſe its violence, beyond the pitch, at which it would have arrived, had it met with no oppoſition. Hence we naturally deſire what is forbid, and often take a pleaſure in performing actions, merely becauſe they are unlawful. The notion of duty, when oppoſite to the paſſions, is not always able to overcome them; and when it fails of that influence, is apt rather to encreaſe and irritate them, by producing an oppoſition in our motives and principles.

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

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

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

6. NOTHING more powerfully excites any affection than to conceal ſome part of its object, by throwing it into a kind of ſhade, which, at the ſame time, that it ſhows enough to prepoſſeſs us in favour of the object, leaves ſtill ſome work for the imagination. Beſides, that obſcurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort, which the fancy makes to [178] compleat the idea, rouzes the ſpirits, and gives an additional force to the paſſion.

7. As deſpair and ſecurity, tho' contrary, produce the ſame effects; ſo abſence is obſerved to have contrary effects, and in different circumſtances either encreaſes or diminiſhes our affection. Rocheſoucault has very well remarked, that abſence deſtroys weak paſſions, but encreaſes ſtrong; as the wind extinguiſhes a candle, but blows up a fire. Long abſence naturally weakens our idea, and diminiſhes the paſſion: But where the paſſion is ſo ſtrong and lively as to ſupport itſelf, the uneaſineſs, ariſing from abſence, encreaſes the paſſion, and gives it new force and influence.

8. WHEN the ſoul applies itſelf to the performance of any action, or the conception of any object, to which it is not accuſtomed, there is a certain unpliableneſs in the faculties, and a difficulty of the ſpirits moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the ſpirits, it is the ſource of wonder, ſurprize, and of all the emotions, which ariſe from novelty; [179] and is in itſelf very agreeable, like every thing, which inlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But tho' ſurpriſe be agreeable in itſelf, yet as it puts the ſpirits in agitation, it not only augments our agreeable affections, but alſo our painful, according to the foregoing principle. Hence every thing, that is new, is moſt affecting, and gives us either more pleaſure or pain, than what, ſtrictly ſpeaking, ſhould naturally follow from it. When it often returns upon us, the novelty wears off; the paſſions ſubſide; the hurry of the ſpirits is over; and we ſurvey the object with greater tranquillity.

9. THE imagination and affections have a cloſe union together. The vivacity of the former, gives force to the latter. Hence the proſpect of any pleaſure, with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any other pleaſure, which we may own ſuperior, but of whoſe nature we are wholly ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: The other, we conceive under the general notion of pleaſure.

[180] ANY ſatisfaction, which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is freſh and recent, operates on the will with more violence, than another of which the traces are decayed and almoſt obliterated.

A PLEASURE, which is ſuitable to the way of life, in which we are engaged, excites more our deſires and appetites than another, which is foreign to it.

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

IT is remarkable, that lively paſſions commonly attend a lively imagination. In this reſpect, as well as others, the force of the paſſion depends as much on the temper of the perſon, as on the nature or ſituation of the object.

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

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

DISSERTATION III. OF TRAGEDY.
DISSERTATION III. Of Tragedy.

[][]

IT ſeems an unaccountable pleaſure, which the ſpectators of a well-wrote tragedy receive from ſorrow, terror, anxiety, and other paſſions, which are in themſelves diſagreeable and uneaſy. The more they are touched and affected, the more are they delighted with the ſpectacle, and as ſoon as the uneaſy paſſions ceaſe to operate, the piece is at an end. One ſcene of full joy and contentment and ſecurity is the utmoſt, that any compoſition of this kind can bear; and it is ſure always to be the concluding one. If in the texture of the piece, there be interwoven any ſcenes of ſatisfaction, they afford only faint gleams of pleaſure, which are thrown in by way of variety, and in order to plunge the actors into deeper diſtreſs, by means of that contraſt and diſappointment. The whole art of the poet is employed, in rouzing and ſupporting the compaſſion and indignation, the anxiety and reſentment of his audience. [186] They are pleaſed in proportion as they are afflicted; and never are ſo happy as when they employ tears, ſobs, and cries to give vent to their ſorrow, and relieve their heart, ſwoln with the tendereſt ſympathy and compaſſion.

THE few critics, who have had ſome tincture of philoſophy, have remarked this ſingular phaenomenon, and have endeavoured to account for it.

L'ABBE. Dubos, in his reflections on poetry and painting, aſſerts, that nothing is in general ſo diſagreeable to the mind as the languid, liſtleſs ſtate of indolence, into which it falls upon the removal of every paſſion and occupation. To get rid of this painful ſituation, it ſeeks every amuſement and purſuit; buſineſs, gaming, ſhows, executions; whatever will rouze the paſſions, and take its attention from itſelf. No matter, what the paſſion is: Let it be diſagreeable, afflicting, melancholy, diſordered; it is ſtill better, than that inſipid languor, which ariſes from perfect tranquillity and repoſe.

[187] IT is impoſſible not to admit this account, as being, at leaſt, in part ſatisfactory. You may obſerve, when there are ſeveral tables of gaming, that all the company run to thoſe, where the deepeſt play is, even tho' they find not there the fineſt players. The view, or at leaſt, imagination of high paſſions, ariſing from great loſs or gain, affects the ſpectators by ſympathy, gives them ſome touches of the ſame paſſions, and ſerves them for a momentary entertainment. It makes the time paſs the eaſier with them, and is ſome relief to that oppreſſion, under which men commonly labour, when left entirely to their own thoughts and meditations.

WE find, that common lyars always magnify, in their narrations, all kinds of danger, pain, diſtreſs, ſickneſs, deaths, murders, and cruelties; as well as joy, beauty, mirth, and magnificence. It is an abſurd ſecret, which they have for pleaſing their company, fixing their attention, and attaching them to ſuch marvellous relations, by the paſſions and emotions, which they excite.

THERE is, however, a difficulty of applying to the preſent ſubject, in its full extent, this ſolution, [188] however ingenious and ſatisfactory it may appear. It is certain, that the ſame object of diſtreſs which pleaſes in a tragedy, were it really ſet before us, would give the moſt unfeigned uneaſineſs, tho' it be then the moſt effectual cure of languor and indolence. Monſieur Fontenelle ſeems to have been ſenſible of this difficulty; and accordingly attempts another ſolution of the phaenomenon; at leaſt, makes ſome addition to the theory abovementioneda.

‘"PLEASURE and pain,"’ ſays he, ‘"which are two ſentiments ſo different in themſelves, differ not ſo much in their cauſe. From the inſtance of tickling, it appears, that the movement of pleaſure puſhed a little too far, becomes pain; and that the movement of pain, a little moderated, becomes pleaſure. Hence it proceeds, that there is ſuch a thing as a ſorrow, ſoft and agreeable: It is a pain weakened and diminiſhed. The heart likes naturally to be moved and affected. Melancholy objects ſuit it, and even diſaſtrous and ſorrowful, provided they are ſoftened by ſome circumſtance. It is certain, that on the theatre the repreſentation has almoſt the effect of reality; [189] but yet is has not altogether that effect. However we may be hurried away by the ſpectacle; whatever dominion the ſenſes and imagination may uſurp over the reaſon, there ſtill lurks at the bottom a certain idea of falſhood in the whole of what we ſee. This idea, tho' weak and diſguiſed, ſuffices to diminiſh the pain which we ſuffer from the misfortunes of thoſe whom we love, and to reduce that affliction to ſuch a pitch as converts it into a pleaſure. We weep for the misfortune of a hero, to whom we are attached: In the ſame inſtant we comfort ourſelves, by reflecting, that it is nothing but a fiction: And it is preciſely, that mixture of ſentiments, which compoſes an agreeable ſorrow, and tears that delight us. But as that affliction, which is cauſed by exterior and ſenſible objects, is ſtronger than the conſolation, which ariſes from an internal reflection, they are the effects and ſymptoms of ſorrow, which ought to prevail in the compoſition."’

THIS ſolution ſeems juſt and convincing; but perhaps it wants ſtill ſome new addition, in order to make it anſwer fully the phaenomenon, [190] which we here examine. All the paſſions, excited by eloquence, are agreeable in the higheſt degree, as well as thoſe which are moved by painting and the theatre. The epilogues of Cicero are, on this account chiefly, the delight of every reader of taſte; and it is difficult to read ſome of them without the deepeſt ſympathy and ſorrow. His merit as an orator, no doubt, depends much on his ſucceſs in this particular. When he had raiſed tears in his judges and all his audience, they were then the moſt highly delighted, and expreſſed the greateſt ſatisfaction with the pleader. The pathetic deſcription of the butchery made by Verres of the Sicilian captains is a maſter-piece of this kind: But I believe none will affirm, that the being preſent at a melancholy ſcene of that nature would afford any entertainment. Neither is the ſorrow here ſoftened by fiction: For the audience were convinced of the reality of every circumſtance. What is it then, which in this caſe raiſes a pleaſure from the boſom of uneaſineſs, ſo to ſpeak; and a pleaſure, which ſtill retains all the features and outward ſymptoms of diſtreſs and ſorrow?

I ANSWER: This extraordinary effect proceeds from that very eloquence, with which the [191] melancholy ſcene is repreſented. The genius required to paint objects in a lively manner, the art employed in collecting all the pathetic circumſtances, the judgment diſplayed in diſpoſing them; the exerciſe, I ſay, of theſe noble talents, along with the force of expreſſion, and beauty of oratorial numbers, diffuſe the higheſt ſatisfaction on the audience, and excite the moſt delightful movements. By this means, the uneaſineſs of the melancholy paſſions is not only overpowered and effaced by ſomething ſtronger of an oppoſite kind; but the whole movement of thoſe paſſions is converted into pleaſure, and ſwells the delight, which the eloquence raiſes in us. The ſame force of oratory, employed on an unintereſting ſubject, would not pleaſe half ſo much, or rather would appear altogether ridiculous; and the mind, being left in abſolute calmneſs and indifference, would reliſh none of thoſe beauties of imagination or expreſſion, which, if joined to paſſion, give it ſuch exquiſite entertainment. The impulſe or vehemence, ariſing from ſorrow, compaſſion, indignation, receives a new direction from the ſentiments of beauty. The latter, being the predominant emotions, ſeize the whole mind, and convert the former into themſelves, or at leaſt, tincture [192] them ſo ſtrongly as totally to alter their nature: And the ſoul, being, at the ſame time, rouzed by paſſion, and charmed by eloquence, feels on the whole a ſtrong movement, which is altogether delightful.

THE ſame principle takes place in tragedy; along with this addition, that tragedy is an imitation, and imitation is always of itſelf agreeable. This circumſtance ſerves ſtill farther to ſmooth the motions of paſſion, and convert the whole feeling into one uniform and ſtrong enjoyment. Objects of the greateſt terror and diſtreſs pleaſe in painting, and pleaſe more than the moſt beautiful objects, that appear calm and indifferenta. The affection, rouzing the mind, excites a large ſtock of ſpirit and vehemence; which is all transformed into pleaſure by the force of the prevailing movement. It is thus [193] the fiction of tragedy ſoftens the paſſion, by an infuſion of a new feeling, not merely by weakening or diminiſhing the ſorrow. You may by degrees weaken a real ſorrow, till it totally diſappears; yet in none of its gradations will it ever give pleaſure; except, perhaps, by accident, to a man ſunk under lethargic indolence, whom it rouzes from that languid ſtate.

To confirm this theory, it will be ſufficient to produce other inſtances, where the ſubordinate movement is converted into the predominant, and gives force to it, tho' of a different, and even ſometimes tho' of a contrary nature.

NOVELTY naturally excites the mind and attracts our attention; and the movements, which it cauſes, are always converted into any paſſion, belonging to the object, and join their force to it. Whether an event excites joy or ſorrow, pride or ſhame, anger or goodwill, it is ſure to produce a ſtronger affection, when new and unuſual. And tho' novelty, of itſelf, be agreeable, it enforces the painful, as well as agreeable paſſions.

[194] HAD you any intention to move a perſon extremely by the narration of any event, the beſt method of encreaſing its effect would be artfully to delay informing him of it, and firſt excite his curioſity and impatience before you let him into the ſecret. This is the artifice, practiced by Iago in the famous ſcene of Shakeſpeare; and every ſpectator is ſenſible, that Othello's jealouſy acquires additional force from his preceding impatience, and that the ſubordinate paſſion is here readily transformed into the predominant.

DIFFICULTIES encreaſe paſſions of every kind; and by rouzing our attention, and exciting our active powers, they produce an emotion, which nouriſhes the prevailing affection.

PARENTS commonly love that child moſt, whoſe ſickly infirm frame of body has occaſioned them the greateſt pains, trouble, and anxiety in rearing him. The agreeable ſentiment of affection here acquires force from ſentiments of uneaſineſs.

[195] NOTHING endears ſo much a friend as ſorrow for his death. The pleaſure of his company has not ſo powerful an influence.

JEALOUSY is a painful paſſion, yet without ſome ſhare of it, the agreeable affection of love has difficulty to ſubſiſt in its full force and violence. Abſence is alſo a great ſource of complaint amongſt lovers, and gives them the greateſt uneaſineſs: Yet nothing is more favorable to their mutual paſſion than ſhort intervals of that kind. And if long intervals be pernicious, it is only becauſe, thro' time, men are accuſtomed to them, and they ceaſe to give uneaſineſs. Jealouſy and abſence in love compoſe the dolce piccante of the Italians, which they ſuppoſe ſo eſſential to all pleaſure.

THERE is a fine obſervation of the elder Pliny, which illuſtrates the principle here inſiſted on. It is very remarkable, ſays he, that the laſt works of celebrated artiſts, which they left imperfect, are always the moſt prized, ſuch as the Iris of Ariſtides, the Tyndarides of Nicomachus, the Medea of Timomachus, and the Venus of Apelles. Theſe are valued even above their finiſhed productions: The broken lineaments [196] of the piece and the half formed idea of the painter are carefully ſtudied; and our very grief for that curious hand, which had been ſtoped by death, is an additional encreaſe to our pleaſure a.

THESE inſtances (and many more might be collected) are ſufficient to afford us ſome inſight into the analogy of nature, and to ſhow us, that the pleaſure, which poets, orators, and muſicians give us, by exciting grief, ſorrow, indignation, compaſſion, is not ſo extraordinary nor paradoxical, as it may at firſt ſight appear. The force of imagination, the energy of expreſſion, the power of numbers, the charms of imitation; all theſe are naturally, of themſelves, delightful to the mind; and when the object preſented lays alſo hold of ſome affection, the pleaſure ſtill riſes upon us, by the converſion of this ſubordinate movement, into that which is predominant. The paſſion, tho', perhaps, naturally, and when excited by the ſimple appearance [197] of a real object, it may be painful; yet is ſo ſmoothed, and ſoftened, and mollified, when raiſed by the finer arts, that it affords the higheſt entertainment.

TO confirm this reaſoning, we may obſerve, that if the movements of the imagination be not predominant above thoſe of the paſſion, a contrary effect follows; and the former, being now ſubordinate, is converted into the latter, and ſtill farther encreaſes the pain and affliction of the ſufferer.

WHO could ever think of it as a good expedient for comforting an afflicted parent, to exaggerate, with all the force of oratory, the irreparable loſs, which he has met with by the death of a favorite child? The more power of imagination and expreſſion you here employ, the more you encreaſe his deſpair and affliction.

THE ſhame, confuſion, and terror of Verres, no doubt, roſe in proportion to the noble eloquence and vehemence of Cicero: So alſo did his pain and uneaſineſs. Theſe former paſſions were too ſtrong for the pleaſure ariſing from the beauties of elocution; and operated, [198] tho' from the ſame principle, yet in a contrary manner, to the ſympathy, compaſſion, and indignation of the audience.

LORD Clarendon, when he approaches the cataſtrophe of the royal party, ſuppoſes, that his narration muſt then become infinitely diſagreeable; and he hurries over the King's death, without giving us one circumſtance of it. He conſiders it as too horrid a ſcene to be contemplated with any ſatisfaction, or even without the utmoſt pain and averſion. He himſelf, as well as the readers of that age, were too deeply intereſted in the events, and felt a pain from ſubjects, which an hiſtorian and a reader of another age would regard as the moſt pathetic and moſt intereſting, and by conſequence, the moſt agreeable.

AN action, repreſented in tragedy, may be too bloody and atrocious. It may excite ſuch movements of horror as will not ſoften into pleaſure; and the greateſt energy of expreſſion beſtowed on deſcriptions of that nature ſerves only to augment our uneaſineſs. Such is that action repreſented in the ambitious Stepmother, where a venerable old man, raiſed to the height [199] of fury and deſpair, ruſhes againſt a pillar, and ſtriking his head upon it, beſmears it all over with mingled brains and gore. The Engliſh theatre abounds too much with ſuch images.

EVEN the common ſentiments of compaſſion require to be ſoftened by ſome agreeable affection, in order to give a thorough ſatisfaction to the audience. The mere ſuffering of plaintive virtue, under the triumphant tyranny and oppreſſion of vice, forms a diſagreeable ſpectacle, and is carefully avoided by all maſters of the theatre. In order to diſmiſs the audience with entire ſatisfaction and contentment, the virtue muſt either convert itſelf into a noble courageous deſpair, or the vice receive its proper puniſhment.

MOST painters appear in this light to have been very unhappy in their ſubjects. As they wrought for churches and convents, they have chiefly repreſented ſuch horrible ſubjects as crucifixions and martyrdoms, where nothing appears but tortures, wounds, executions, and paſſive ſuffering, without any action or affection. When they turned their pencil from this ghaſtly mythology, they had recourſe commonly to [200] Ovid, whoſe fictions, tho' paſſionate and agreeable, are ſcarce natural or probable enough for painting.

THE ſame inverſion of that principle, which is here inſiſted on, diſplays itſelf in common life, as in the effects of oratory and poetry. Raiſe ſo the ſubordinate paſſion that it becomes the predominant, it ſwallows up that affection, which it before nouriſhed and encreaſed. Too much jealouſy extinguiſhes love: Too much difficulty renders us indifferent: Too much ſickneſs and infirmity diſguſts a ſelfiſh and unkind parent.

WHAT ſo diſagreeable as the diſmal, gloomy, diſaſtrous ſtories, with which melancholy people entertain their companions? The uneaſy paſſion, being there raiſed alone, unaccompanied with any ſpirit, genius, or eloquence, conveys a pure uneaſineſs, and is attended with nothing that can ſoften it into pleaſure or ſatisfaction.

DISSERTATION IV. OF THE STANDARD OF TASTE.
DISSERTATION IV. Of the Standard of Taſte.

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THE great variety of Taſtes, as well as of opinions, which prevail in the world, is too obvious not to have fallen under every one's obſervation. Men of the moſt confined knowledge are able to remark a difference in the narrow circle of their acquaintance, even where the perſons have been educated under the ſame government, and have early imbibed the ſame prejudices. But thoſe who can enlarge their view to contemplate diſtant nations and remote ages, are ſtill more ſurpriſed at the great inconſiſtence and contradiction. We are apt to call barbarous whatever departs widely from our own taſte and apprehenſion: But ſoon find the epithet of reproach retorted on us. And the higheſt arrogance and ſelf conceit is at laſt ſtartled, on obſerving an equal aſſurance on all ſides, and ſcruples, amidſt ſuch a conteſt of ſentiments, to pronounce poſitively in its own favour.

As this variety of taſte is obvious to the moſt careleſs enquirer; ſo will it be found, on examination, [204] to be ſtill greater in reality than in appearance. The ſentiments of men often differ with regard to beauty and deformity of all kinds, even while their general diſcourſe is the ſame. There are certain terms in every language, which import blame, and others praiſe; and all men, who uſe the ſame tongue, muſt agree in their application of them. Every voice is united in applauding elegance, propriety, ſimplicity, ſpirit in writing; and in blaming fuſtian, affectation, coldneſs, and a falſe brilliant: But when critics come to particulars, this ſeeming unanimity vaniſhes; and it is found, that they had affixed a very different meaning to their expreſſions. In all matters of opinion and ſcience, the caſe is oppoſite: The difference among men is there oftner found to lie in generals than in particulars; and to be leſs in reality than in appearance. An explication of the terms commonly ends the controverſy; and the diſputants are ſurprized to find, that they had been quarrelling, while at bottom they agreed in their judgment.

THOSE who found morality on ſentiment, more than on reaſon, are inclined to comprehend ethics under the former obſervation, and to ſuppoſe, that in all queſtions, which regard conduct [205] and manners, the difference among men is really greater than at firſt fight it appears. It is indeed obvious, that writers of all nations and all ages concur in applauding juſtice, humanity, magnanimity, prudence, veracity; and in blaming the oppoſite qualities. Even poets and other authors, whoſe compoſitions are chiefly calculated to pleaſe the imagination, are yet found, from Homer down to Fenelon, to inculcate the ſame moral precepts, and to beſtow their applauſe and blame on the ſame virtues and vices. This great unanimity is uſually aſcribed to the influence of plain reaſon; which, in all theſe caſes, maintains ſimilar ſentiments in all men, and prevents thoſe controverſies, to which the abſtract ſciences are ſo much expoſed. So far as the unanimity is real, the account may be admitted as ſatisfactory: But it muſt alſo be allowed, that ſome part of the ſeeming harmony in morals may be accounted for from the very nature of language. The word, virtue, with its equivalent in every tongue, implies praiſe; as that of vice does blame: And no one, without the moſt obvious and groſſeſt impropriety, could affix reproach to a term, which in general uſe is underſtood in a good ſenſe; or beſtow applauſe, where the idiom requires diſapprobation. Homer's [206] general precepts, where he delivers any ſuch, will never be controverted; but it is very obvious, that when he draws particular pictures of manners, and repreſents heroiſm in Achilles and prudence in Ulyſſes, he intermixes a much greater degree of ferocity in the former, and of cunning and fraud in the latter, than Fenelon would admit of. The ſage Ulyſſes in the Greek poet ſeems to delight in lies and fictions, and often employs them without any neceſſity or even advantage: But his more ſcrupulous ſon in the French epic writer expoſes himſelf to the moſt imminent perils, rather than depart from the exacteſt line of truth and veracity.

THE admirers and followers of the Alcoran inſiſt very much on the excellent moral precepts, which are interſperſed throughout that wild performance. But it is to be ſuppoſed, that the Arabic words, which correſpond to the Engliſh, equity, juſtice, temperance, meekneſs, charity, were ſuch as, from the conſtant uſe of that tongue, muſt always be taken in a good ſenſe; and it would have argued the greateſt ignorance, not of morals, but of language, to have mentioned them with any epithets, beſides thoſe of applauſe and approbation. But would we know, [207] whether the pretended prophet had really attained a juſt ſentiment of morals? Let us attend to his narration; and we ſhall ſoon find, that he beſtows praiſe on ſuch inſtances of treachery, inhumanity, cruelty, revenge, bigotry, as are utterly incompatible with civilized ſociety. No ſteddy rule of right ſeems there to be attended to; and every action is blamed or praiſed, ſo far only as it is beneficial or hurtful to the true believers.

THE merit of delivering true general precepts in ethics is indeed very ſmall. Whoever recommends any moral virutes, really does no more than is implied in the terms themſelves. The people, who invented the word modeſty, and uſed it in a good ſenſe, inculcated more clearly and much more efficaciouſly, the precept, be modeſt, than any pretended legiſlator or prophet, who ſhould inſert ſuch a maxim in his writings. Of all expreſſions, thoſe, which, together with their other meaning, imply a degree either of blame or approbation, are the leaſt liable to be perverted or miſtaken.

It is very natural for us to ſeek a Standard of Taſte; a rule, by which the various ſentiments of men may be reconciled; or at leaſt, a deciſion [208] afforded, confirming one ſentiment, and condemning another.

THERE is a ſpecies of philoſophy, which cuts off all hopes of ſucceſs in ſuch an attempt, and repreſents the impoſſibility of ever attaining any ſtandard of taſte. The difference, it is ſaid, is very wide between judgment and ſentiment. All ſentiment is right; becauſe ſentiment has a reference to nothing beyond itſelf, and is always real, wherever a man is conſcious of it. But all determinations of the underſtanding are not right; becauſe they have a reference to ſomething beyond themſelves, to wit, real matter of fact; and are not always conformable to that ſtandard. Among a thouſand different opinions which different men amy entertain of the ſame ſubject, there is one, and but one, that is juſt and true; and the only difficulty is to fix and aſcertain it. On the contrary, a thouſand different ſentiments, excited by the ſame object, are all right: Becauſe no ſentiment repreſents what is really in the object. It only marks a certain conformity or relation betwixt the object and the organs or faculties of the mind; and if that conformity did not really exiſt, the ſentiment could never poſſibly have a being. Beauty is no [209] quality in things themſelves: It exiſts merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind perceives a different beauty. One perſon may even perceive deformity, where another is ſenſible of beauty; and every individual ought to acquieſce in his own ſentiment, without pretending to regulate thoſe of others. To ſeek the real beauty, or real deformity is as fruitleſs an enquiry, as to pretend to aſcertain the real ſweet or real bitter. According to the diſpoſition of the organs, the ſame object may be both ſweet and bitter; and the proverb has juſtly determined it to be fruitleſs to diſpute concerning taſtes. It is very natural, and even quite neceſſary, to extend this axiom to mental, as well as bodily taſte; and thus common ſenſe, which is ſo often at variance with philoſophy, eſpecially with the ſceptical kind, is found, in one inſtance at leaſt, to agree in pronouncing the ſame deciſion.

BUT though this axiom, by paſſing into a proverb, ſeems to have attained the ſanction of common ſenſe; there is certainly a ſpecies of common ſenſe which oppoſes it, or at leaſt ſerves to modify and reſtrain it. Whoever would aſſert an equality of genius and elegance betwixt [210] Ogilby and Milton, or Bunyan and Addiſon, would be thought to defend no leſs an extravagance, than if he had maintained a molehill to be as high as Teneriffe, or a pond as extenſive as the ocean. Though there may be found perſons, who give the preference to the former authors; no one pays attention to ſuch a taſte; and we pronounce without ſcruple the ſentiment of theſe pretended critics to be abſurd and ridiculous. The principle of the natural equality of taſtes is then totally forgot; and while we admit of it on ſome occaſions, where the objects ſeem near an equality, it appears an extravagant paradox, or rather a palpable abſurdity, where objects ſo diſproportioned are compared together.

IT is evident, that none of the rules of compoſition are fixed by reaſonings a priori, or can be eſteemed abſtract concluſions of the underſtanding, from comparing thoſe habitudes and relations of ideas, which are eternal and immutable. Their foundation is the ſame with that of all the practical ſciences, experience; nor are they any thing but general obſervations, concerning what has been univerſally found to pleaſe in all countries and in all ages. Many of the beauties of poetry and even of eloquence [211] are founded on falſhood and fiction, on hyperboles, metaphors, and an abuſe or perverſion of expreſſions from their natural meaning. To check the ſallies of the imagination, and to reduce every expreſſion to geometrical truth and exactneſs, would be the moſt contrary to the laws of criticiſm; becauſe it would produce a work, which, by univerſal experience has been found the moſt inſipid and diſagreeable. But though poetry can never ſubmit to exact truth, it muſt be confined by rules of art, diſcovered to the author either by genius or obſervation. If ſome negligent or irregular writers have pleaſed, they have not pleaſed by their tranſgreſſions of rule or order, but in ſpite of theſe tranſgreſſions: They have poſſeſſed other beauties, which were conformable to juſt criticiſm; and the force of theſe beauties has been able to overpower cenſure, and give the mind a ſatisfaction ſuperior to the diſguſt ariſing from the blemiſhes. Arioſto pleaſes; but not by his monſtrous and improbable fictions, by his bizarre mixture of the ſerious and comic ſtyles, by the want of coherence in his ſtories, or by the continual interruptions of his narration. He charms by the force and clearneſs of his expreſſion, by the readineſs and variety of his inventions, and by his natural [212] pictures of the paſſions, eſpecially thoſe of the gay and amorous kind: And however his faults may diminiſh our ſatisfaction, they are not able entirely to deſtroy it. Did our pleaſure really ariſe from thoſe parts of his poem, which we denominate faults, this would be no objection to criticiſm in general: It would only be an objection to thoſe particular rules of criticiſm, which would eſtabliſh ſuch circumſtances to be faults, and would repreſent them as univerſally blameable. If they are found to pleaſe, they cannot be faults; let the pleaſure, which they produce, be ever ſo unexpected and unaccountable.

BUT though all the general rules of art are founded only on experience and on the obſervation of the common ſentiments of human nature, we muſt not imagine, that, on every occaſion, the feelings of men will be conformable to theſe rules. Thoſe finer emotions of the mind are of a very tender and delicate nature, and require the concurrence of many favourable circumſtances to make them play with facility and exactneſs, according to their general and eſtabliſhed principles. The leaſt exterior hindrance to ſuch ſmall ſprings, or the leaſt internal diſorder, [213] diſturbs their motion, and confounds the operation of the whole machine. When we would make an experiment of this nature, and would try the force of any beauty or deformity, we muſt chooſe with care a proper time and place, and bring the fancy to a ſuitable ſituation and diſpoſition. A perfect ſerenity of mind, a recollection of thought, a due attention to the object; if any of theſe circumſtances be wanting our experiment will be fallacious, and we ſhall be unable to judge of the catholic and univerſal beauty. The relation, which nature has placed betwixt the form and the ſentiment, will at leaſt be more obſcure; and it will require greater accuracy to trace and diſcern it. We ſhall be able to aſcertain its influence not ſo much from the operation of each particular beauty, as from the durable admiration, which attends thoſe works, that have ſurvived all the caprices of mode and faſhion, all the miſtakes of ignorance and envy.

THE ſame Homer, who pleaſed at Athens and Rome two thouſand years ago, is ſtill admired at Paris and at London. All the changes of climate, government, religion, and language have not been able to obſcure his glory. Authority [214] or prejudice may give a temporary vogue to a bad poet or orator; but his reputation will never be durable or general. When his compoſitions are examined by poſterity or by foreigners, the enchantment is diſſipated, and his faults appear in their true colours. On the contrary, a real genius, the longer his works endure, and the more wide they are ſpread, the more ſincere is the admiration which he meets with. Envy and jealouſy have too much place in a narrow circle; and even familiar acquaintance with his perſon may diminiſh the applauſe due to his performances: But when theſe obſtructions are removed, the beauties, which are naturally fitted to excite agreeable ſentiments immediately diſplay their energy; and while the world endures, they maintain their authority over the minds of men.

IT appears then, that amidſt all the variety and caprices of taſte, there are certain general principles of approbation or blame, whoſe influence a careful eye may trace in all operations of the mind. Some particular forms or qualities, from the original ſtructure of the internal fabric, are calculated to pleaſe, and others to diſpleaſe; and if they fail of their effect in any particular [215] inſtance, it is from ſome apparent defect or imperfection in the organ. A man in a fever would not inſiſt on his palate as able to decide concerning flavours; nor would one, affected with the jaundice, pretend to give a verdict with regard to colours. In each creature, there is a ſound and a defective ſtate; and the former alone can be ſuppoſed to afford us a true ſtandard of taſte and ſentiment. If in the ſound ſtate of the organs, there be an entire or a conſiderable uniformity of ſentiment among men, we may thence derive an idea of the perfect and univerſal beauty; in like manner as the appearance of objects in day-light to the eye of a man in health is denominated their true and real colour, even while colour is allowed to be merely a phantaſm of the ſenſes.

MANY and frequent are the defects in the internal organs, which prevent or weaken the influence of thoſe general principles, on which depends our ſentiment of beauty or deformity. Though ſome objects, by the ſtructure of the mind, be naturally calculated to give pleaſure, it is not to be expected, that in every individual the pleaſure will be equally felt. Particular incidents and ſituations occur, which either throw [216] a falſe light on the objects, or hinder the true from conveying to the imagination the proper ſentiment and perception.

ONE obvious cauſe, why many feel not the proper ſentiment of beauty, is the want of that delicacy of imagination, which is requiſite to convey a ſenſibility of thoſe finer emotions. This delicacy every one pretends to: Every one talks of it; and would reduce every kind of taſte or ſentiment to its ſtandard. But as our intention in this diſſertation is to mingle ſome light of the underſtanding with the feelings of ſentiment, it will be proper to give a more accurate definition of delicacy, than has hitherto been attempted. And not to draw our philoſophy from too profound a ſource, we ſhall have recourſe to a noted ſtory in Don Quixote.

'TIS with good reaſon, ſays Sancho to the ſquire with the great noſe, that I pretend to have a judgment in wine: This is a quality hereditary in our family. Two of my kinſmen were once called to give their opinion of a hogſhead, which was ſuppoſed to be excellent, being old and of a good vintage. One of them taſtes it; conſiders it, and after mature reflection pronounces [217] the wine to be good, were it not for a ſmall taſte of leather, which he perceived in it. The other, after uſing the ſame precautions, gives alſo his verdict in favour of the wine; but with the reſerve of a taſte of iron, which he could eaſily diſtinguiſh. You cannot imagine how much they were both ridiculed for their judgment. But who laughed in the end? On emptying the hogſhead, there was found at the bottom, an old key with a leathern thong tied to it.

THE great reſemblance between mental and bodily taſte will eaſily teach us to apply this ſtory. Though it be certain, that beauty and deformity, no more than ſweet and bitter, are not qualities in objects, but belong entirely to the ſentiment, internal or external; it muſt be allowed, that there are certain qualities in objects, which are fitted by nature to produce thoſe particular feelings. Now as theſe qualities may be found in a ſmall degree or may be mixt and confounded with each other, it often happens, that the taſte is not affected with ſuch minute qualities, or is not able to diſtinguiſh all the particular flavours, amidſt the diſorder, in which they are preſented. Where the organs are ſo fine, as to allow nothing [218] to eſcape them; and at the ſame time ſo exact as to perceive every ingredient in the compoſition: This we call delicacy of taſte, whether we employ theſe terms in the natural or metaphorical ſenſe. Here then the general rules of beauty are of uſe; being drawn from eſtabliſhed models, and from the obſervation of what pleaſes or diſpleaſes, when preſented ſingly and in a high degree: And if the ſame qualities, in a continued compoſition and in a ſmaller degree, affect not the organs with a ſenſible delight or uneaſineſs, we exclude the perſon from all pretenſions to this delicacy. To produce theſe general rules or avowed patterns of compoſition is like finding the key with the leathern thong; which juſtified the verdict of Sancho's kinſmen, and confounded thoſe pretended judges, who had condemned them. Though the hogſhead had never been emptied, the taſte of the one was ſtill equally delicate, and that of the other equally dull and languid: But it would have been more difficult to have proved the ſuperiority of the former, to the conviction of every by-ſtander. In like manner, though the beauties of writing had never been methodized, or reduced to general principles; though no excellent models had ever been acknowledged; the different degrees [219] of taſte would ſtill have ſubſiſted, and the judgment of one man been preferable to that of another; but it would not have been ſo eaſy to ſilence the bad critic, who might always inſiſt upon his particular ſentiment, and refuſe to ſubmit to his antagoniſt. But when we ſhow him an avowed principle of art; when we illuſtrate this principle by examples, whoſe operation, from his own particular taſte, he acknowledges to be conformable to the principle; when we prove, that the ſame principle may be applied to the preſent caſe, where he did not perceive nor feel its influence: He muſt conclude, upon the whole, that the fault lies in himſelf, and that he wants the delicacy, which is requiſite to make him ſenſible of every beauty and every blemiſh, in any compoſition or diſcourſe.

'Tis acknowledged to be the perfection of every ſenſe or faculty, to perceive with exactneſs its moſt minute objects, and allow nothing to eſcape its notice and obſervation. The ſmaller the objects are, which become ſenſible to the eye, the finer is that organ, and the more elaborate its make and compoſition. A good palate is not tried by ſtrong flavours; but by a mixture of ſmall ingredients, where we are ſtill ſenſible [220] of each part, notwithſtanding its minuteneſs and its confuſion with the reſt. In like manner, a quick and acute perception of beauty and deformity muſt be the perfection of our mental taſte, nor can a man be ſatisfied with himſelf, while he ſuſpects, that any excellence or blemiſh in a diſcourſe has paſſed him unobſerved. In this caſe, the perfection of the man, and the perfection of the ſenſe or feeling, are found to be united. A very delicate palate, on many occaſions, may be a great inconvenience both to a man himſelf and to his friends; but a delicate taſte of wit or beauty muſt always be a deſirable quality; becauſe it is the ſource of all the fineſt and moſt innocent enjoyments, of which human nature is ſuſceptible. In this deciſion, the ſentiments of all mankind are agreed. Wherever you can fix or aſcertain a delicacy of taſte, it is ſure to be approved of; and the beſt way of fixing it is to appeal to thoſe models and principles, which have been eſtabliſhed by the uniform approbation and experience of nations and ages.

BUT though there be naturally a very wide difference in point of delicacy between one perſon and another, nothings tends further to encreaſe and improve this talent, than practice in a particular [221] art, and the frequent ſurvey or contemplation of a particular ſpecies of beauty. When objects of any kind are firſt preſented to the eye or imagination, the ſentiment, which attends them, is obſcure and confuſed: and the mind is, in a great meaſure, incapable of pronouncing concerning their merits or defects. The taſte cannot perceive the ſeveral excellencies of the performance; much leſs diſtinguiſh the particular character of each excellency, and aſcertain its quality and degree. If it pronounce the whole in general to be beautiful or deformed 'tis the utmoſt which can be expected; and even this judgment a perſon, ſo unpractiſed, will be apt to deliver with great heſitation and reſerve. But allow him to acquire experience in thoſe objects, his feeling becomes more exact and nice: He not only perceives the beauties and defects of each part, but marks the diſtinguiſhing ſpecies of each quality, and aſſigns it ſuitable praiſe or blame. A clear and diſtinct ſentiment attends him through the whole ſurvey of the objects; and he diſcerns that very degree and kind of aaprobation or diſpleaſure, which each part is naturally fitted to produce. The miſt diſſipates, which ſeemed formerly to hang over the object: The organ acquires [222] greater perfection in its operations; and can pronounce, without danger of miſtake, concerning the merits of each performance. In a word, the ſame addreſs and dexterity, which practice gives to the execution of any work, is alſo acquired, by the ſame means, in the judging of it.

So advantageous is practice to the diſcernment of beauty, that before we can pronounce judgment on any work of importance, it will even be requiſite, that that very individual performance be more than once peruſed by us, and be ſurveyed in different lights, with attention and deliberation. There is a flutter or hurry of thought, which attends the firſt peruſal of any piece, and which confounds the genuin ſentiment of beauty. The reference of the parts is not diſcerned: The true characters of ſtyle are little diſtinguiſhed: The ſeveral perfections and defects ſeem wrapped up in a ſpecies of confuſion, and preſent themſelves indiſtinctly to the imagination. Not to mention, that there is a ſpecies of beauty, which, as it is florid and ſuperficial, pleaſes at firſt; but being found incompatible with a juſt expreſſion either of reaſon or paſſion, ſoon palls upon the taſte, and is then rejected with diſdain, at leaſt rated at a much lower value.

[223] IT is impoſſible to continue in the practice of contemplating any order of beauty, without being frequently obliged to form compariſons between the ſeveral ſpecies and degrees of excellency, and eſtimating their proportion to each other. A man, who has had no opportunity of comparing the different kinds of beauty, is indeed totally unqualified to pronounce an opinion with regard to any object preſented to him. By compariſon alone we fix the epithets of praiſe or blame, and learn how to aſſign the due degree of each. The coarſeſt dawbing of a ſign-poſt contains a certain luſtre of colours and exactneſs of imitation, which are ſo far beauties, and would affect the mind of a peaſant or Indian with the higheſt admiration. The moſt vulgar ballads are not entirely deſtitute of harmony or nature; and none but a perſon, familiarized to ſuperior beauties, would pronounce their numbers harſh, or narration unintereſting. A great inferiority of beauty gives pain to a perſon converſant in the higheſt excellency of the kind, and is for that reaſon pronounced a deformity: As the moſt finiſhed object, with which we are acquainted, is naturally ſuppoſed to have reached the pinnacle of perfection, and to be entitled to the higheſt applauſe. [224] A man who has had opportunities of ſeeing, and examining, and weighing the ſeveral performances, admired in different ages and nations, can alone rate the merits of a work exhibited to his view, and aſſign its proper rank among the productions of genius.

BUT to enable him the more fully to execute this undertaking, he muſt preſerve his mind free from all prejudice, and allow nothing to enter into his conſideration, but the very object, which is ſubmitted to his examination. We may obſerve, that every work of art, in order to produce its due effect on the mind, muſt be ſurveyed in a certain point of view, and cannot be fully reliſhed by perſons, whoſe ſituation, real or imaginary, is not conformable to that required by the performance. An orator addreſſes himſelf to a particular audience, and muſt have a regard to their particular genius, intereſts, opinions, paſſions, and prejudices; otherwiſe he hopes in vain to govern their reſolutions, and inflame their affections. Should they even have entertained ſome prepoſſeſſions againſt him, however unreaſonable, he muſt not overlook this diſadvantage; but before he enters upon the ſubject, muſt endeavour to conciliate their affection, and acquire [225] their good graces. A critic of a different age or nation, who ſhould peruſe this diſcourſe, muſt have all theſe circumſtances in his eye, and muſt place himſelf in the ſame ſituation as the audience, in order to form a true judgment of the oration. In like manner, when any work is addreſſed to the public, though I ſhould have a friendſhip or enmity with the author, I muſt depart from this particular ſituation; and conſidering myſelf as a man in general, forget, if poſſible, my individual being and my peculiar circumſtances. A perſon, influenced by prejudice, complies not with this condition; but obſtinately maintains his natural poſition, without entering into that required by the performance. If the work be addreſſed to perſons of a different age or nation, he makes no allowance for their peculiar views and prejudices; but full of the manners of his own times, raſhly condemns what ſeemed admirable in the eyes of thoſe for whom alone the diſcourſe was calculated. If the work be executed for the public, he never ſufficiently enlarges his comprehenſion, or forgets his intereſts as a friend or enemy, as a rival or commentator. By this means, his ſentiments are perverted; nor have the ſame beauties and blemiſhes the ſame influence upon him, as if he had impoſed a proper [226] violence on his imagination, and had forgot himſelf for a moment. So far his taſte evidently departs from the true ſtandard; and of conſequence loſes all credit and authority.

IT is well known, that, in all queſtions, ſubmitted to the underſtanding, prejudice is moſt deſtructive of ſound judgment, and perverts all operations of the intellectual faculties: It is no leſs contrary to good taſte; nor has it leſs influence to corrupt our ſentiments of beauty. It belongs to good ſenſe to check its influence in both caſes; and in this reſpect, as well as in many others, reaſon, if not an eſſential part of taſte, is at leaſt requiſite to the operations of this latter faculty. In all the nobler productions of genius, there is a mutual relation and correſpondence of parts; nor can either the beauties or blemiſhes be perceived by him, whoſe thought is not capacious enough to comprehend all thoſe parts, and compare them with each other, in order to perceive the conſiſtence and uniformity of the whole. Every work of art has alſo a certain end or purpoſe, for which it is calculated; and is to be deemed more or leſs perfect, as it is more or leſs fitted to attain this end. The object of eloquence is to perſuade, of hiſtory to inſtruct, of poetry to [227] pleaſe by means of the paſſions and the imagination. Theſe ends we muſt carry conſtantly in our view, when we peruſe any performance; and we muſt be able to judge how far the means employed are adapted to their reſpective purpoſes. Beſides, every kind of compoſition, even the moſt poetical, is nothing but a chain of propoſitions and reaſonings; not always indeed the juſteſt and moſt exact, but ſtill plauſible and ſpecious, however diſguiſed by the colouring of the imagination. The perſons, introduced in tragedy and epic poetry, muſt be repreſented as reaſoning and thinking, and concluding and acting, ſuitable to their characters and circumſtances; and without judgment, as well as taſte and invention, a poet can never hope to ſucceed in ſo delicate an undertaking. Not to mention, that the ſame excellence of faculties which contributes to the improvement of reaſon, the ſame clearneſs of conception, the ſame exactneſs of diſtinction, the ſame vivacity of apprehenſion, are eſſential to the operations of true taſte, and are its infallible concomitants. It ſeldom, or never happens, that a man of ſenſe, who has experience in any art, cannot judge of its beauty; and it is no leſs rare to meet with a man, who has a juſt taſte, without a ſound underſtanding.

[228] THUS, though the principles of taſte be univerſal, and nearly, if not entirely the ſame in all men; yet few are qualified to give judgment on any work of art, or eſtabliſh their own ſentiment as the ſtandard of beauty. The organs of internal ſenſation are ſeldom ſo perfect as to allow the general principles their full play, and produce a feeling correſpondent to thoſe principles. They either labour under ſome defect, or are vitiated by ſome diſorder; and by that means, excite a ſentiment, which may be pronounced erroneous. When the critic has no delicacy, he judges without any diſtinction, and is only affected by the groſſer and more palpable qualities of the object: The finer touches paſs unnoticed and diſregarded. Where he is not aided by practice, his verdict is attended with confuſion and heſitation. Where no compariſon has been employed, the moſt frivolous beauties, ſuch as rather merit the name of defects, are the objects of his admiration. Where he lies under the influence of prejudice, all his natural ſentiments are perverted. Where good ſenſe is wanting, he is not qualified to diſcern the beauties of deſign and reaſoning, which are the higheſt and moſt excellent. Under ſome or other of theſe [229] imperfections, the generality of men labour; and hence a true judge in the finer arts is obſerved, even during the moſt poliſhed ages, to be ſo rare a character: Strong ſenſe, united to delicate ſentiment, improved by practice, perfected by compariſon, and cleared of all prejudice, can alone entitle critics to this valuable character; and the joint verdict of ſuch, whereever they are to be found, is the true ſtandard of taſte and beauty.

BUT where are ſuch critics to be found? By what marks are they to be known? How diſtinguiſh them from pretenders? Theſe queſtions are embarraſſing; and ſeem to throw us back into the ſame uncertainty, from which, during the courſe of this diſſertation, we have endeavoured to extricate ourſelves.

BUT if we conſider the matter aright, theſe are queſtions of fact, not of ſentiment. Whether any particular perſon be endowed with good ſenſe and a delicate imagination, free from prejudice, may often be the ſubject of diſpute, and be liable to great diſcuſſion and enquiry: But that ſuch a character is valuable and eſtimable will be agreed by all mankind. Where theſe [230] doubts occur, men can do no more than in other diſputable queſtions, which are ſubmitted to the underſtanding: They muſt produce the beſt arguments, which their invention ſuggeſts to them; they muſt acknowledge a true and deciſive ſtandard to exiſt ſomewhere, to wit, real exiſtence and matter of fact; and they muſt have indulgence to ſuch as differ from them in their appeals to this ſtandard. It is ſufficient for our preſent purpoſe, if we have proved, that the taſte of all individuals is not upon an equal footing, and that ſome men in general, however difficult to be particularly pitched upon, will be acknowledged by univerſal ſentiment to have a preference above others.

BUT in reality the difficulty of finding, even in particulars, the ſtandard of taſte, is not ſo great as is repreſented. Though in ſpeculation, we may readily avow a certain criterion in ſcience and deny it in ſentiment, the matter is found in practice to be much more hard to aſcertain in the former caſe than in the latter. Theories of abſtract philoſophy, ſyſtems of profound theology have prevailed during one age: In a ſucceſſive period, theſe have been univerſally exploded: Their abſurdity has been detected: Other theories [231] and ſyſtems have ſupplied their place, which again gave way to their ſucceſſors: And nothing has been experienced more liable to the revolutions of chance and faſhion than theſe pretended deciſions of ſcience. The caſe is not the ſame with the beauties of eloquence and poetry. Juſt expreſſions of paſſion and nature are ſure, after a little time, to gain public vogue, which they maintain for ever. Ariſtotle and Plato, and Epicurus and Deſcartes, may ſucceſſively yield to each other: But Terence and Virgil maintain an univerſal, undiſputed empire over the minds of men. The abſtract philoſophy of Cicero has loſt its credit: The vehemence of his oratory is ſtill the object of our admiration.

THOUGH men of delicate taſte are rare, they are eaſily to be diſtinguiſhed in ſociety, by the ſoundneſs of their underſtanding and the ſuperiority of their faculties above the reſt of mankind. The aſcendant, which they acquire, gives a prevalence to that lively approbation, with which they receive any productions of genius, and renders it generally predominant. Many men, when left to themſelves, have but a ſaint and dubious perception of beauty, who yet are capable of reliſhing any fine ſtroke, which is pointed out to them. Every convert to the admiration [232] of the true poet or orator is the cauſe of ſome new converſion. And though prejudices may prevail for a time, they never unite in celebrating any rival to the true genius, but yield at laſt to the force of nature and juſt ſentiment. And thus though a civilized nation may eaſily be miſtaken in the choice of their admired philoſopher, they never have been found long to err in their affection for a favourite epic or tragic author.

BUT notwithſtanding all our endeavours to-fix a ſtandard of taſte, and reconcile the various apprehenſions of men, there ſtill remain two ſources of variation, which, tho' they be not ſufficient to confound all the boundaries of beauty and deformity, will often ſerve to vary the degrees of our approbation or blame. The one is the different humours of particular men; the other, the particular manners and opinions of our age and country. The general principles of taſte are uniform in human nature: Where men vary in their judgments, ſome defect or perverſion in the faculties may commonly be remarked; proceeding either from prejudice, from want of practice, or want of delicacy; and there is juſt reaſon for approving one taſte and condemning another. But where there is ſuch a diverſity in the internal frame or external ſituation as is entirely [233] blameleſs on both ſides, and leaves no room to give one the preference above the other; in that caſe a certain diverſity of judgment is unavoidable, and we ſeek in vain for a ſtandard, by which we can reconcile the contrary ſentiments.

A young man, whoſe paſſions are warm, will be more ſenſibly touched with amorous and tender images, than a man more advanced in years who takes pleaſure in wiſe and philoſophical prefections concerning the conduct of life and moderation of the paſſions. At twenty, Ovid may be the favourite author; Horace at forty; and perhaps Tacitus at fifty. Vainly would we, in ſuch caſes, endeavour to enter into the ſentiments of others, and diveſt ourſelves of thoſe propenſities, which are natural to us. We chuſe our favourite author as we do our friend, from a conformity of humours and diſpoſitions. Mirth or paſſion, ſentiment or reflection; which ever of theſe moſt predominates in our temper, it gives us a peculiar ſympathy with the writer, who reſembles us.

ONE perſon is more pleaſed with the ſublime; another with the tender; a third with raillery. One has a ſtrong ſenſibility to blemiſhes, and is extremely ſtudious of correctneſs: Another has [234] a more lively feeling of beauties, and pardons twenty abſurdities and defects for one elevated or pathetic ſtroke. The ear of this man is entirely turned towards conciſeneſs and energy; that man is delighted with a copious, rich, and harmonious expreſſion. Simplicity is affected by one; ornament by another. Comedy, tragedy, ſatire, odes have each their partizans, who preſer that particular ſpecies of writing to all others. It is plainly an error in a critic to confine his approbation to one ſpecies or ſtyle of writing and condemn all the reſt. But it is almoſt impoſſible not to feel a predilection for that which ſuits our particular turn and diſpoſition. Such preferences are innocent and unavoidable, and can never reaſonably be the object of diſpute, becauſe there is no ſtandard, by which they can be decided.

For a like reaſon, we are more pleaſed with pictures of characters, which reſemble ſuch as are found in our own age or country, than with thoſe which deſcribe a different ſet of cuſtoms. 'Tis not without ſome effort, that we reconcile ourſelves to the ſimplicity of antient manners, and behold princeſſes drawing water from a ſpring, and kings and heroes dreſſing their own victuals. We may allow in general, that the repreſentation of ſuch manners is no fault in the author, nor deformity in the piece; but we are [235] not ſo ſenſibly touched with them. For this reaſon, comedy is not transferred eaſily from one age or nation to another. A Frenchman or Engliſhman is not pleaſed with the Andria of Terence, or Clitia of Machiavel, where the fine lady, upon whom all the play turns, never once appears to the ſpectators, but is always kept behind the ſcenes, ſuitable to the reſerved humour of the antient Greeks and modern Italians. A man of learning and reflection can make allowance for theſe peculiarities of manners; but a common audience can never diveſt themſelves ſo far of their uſual ideas and ſentiments as to reliſh pictures which no way reſemble them.

AND here there occurs a reflection, which may, perhaps, be uſeful in examining the celebrated controverſy concerning antient and modern learning; where we often find the one ſide excuſing any ſeeming abſurdity in the antients from the manners of the age, and the others refuſing to admit this excuſe, or at leaſt, admitting it only as an apology for the author, not for the performance. In my opinion, the proper bounds in this ſubject have ſeldom been fixed between the contending parties. Where any innocent peculiarities of manners are repreſented, ſuch as thoſe abovementioned, they ought certainly [236] to be admitted; and a man who is ſhocked with them, gives an evident proof of falſe delicacy and refinement. The poets monument more durable than braſs, muſt fall to the ground like common brick or clay, were men to make no allowance for the continual revolutions of manners and cuſtoms, and would admit nothing but what was ſuitable to the prevailing faſhion. Muſt we throw aſide the pictures of our anceſtors, becauſe of their ruffs and fardingales? But where the ideas of morality and decency alter from one age to another, and where vicious manners are deſcribed, without being marked with the proper characters of blame and diſapprobation; this muſt be allowed to disfigure the poem, and to be a real deformity. I cannot, nor is it proper I ſhould, enter into ſuch ſentiments; and however I may excuſe the poet, on account of the manners of his age, I never can reliſh the compoſition. The want of humanity and of decency, ſo conſpicuous in the characters drawn by ſeveral of the antient poets, even ſometimes by Homer and the Greek tragedians, diminiſhes conſiderably the merit of their noble performances, and gives modern authors a great advantage over them. We are not intereſted in the fortunes and ſentiments of ſuch rough heroes: We are diſpleaſed to find the limits of vice and virtue ſo [237] confounded: And whatever indulgence we may give the writer on account of his prejudices, we cannot prevail on ourſelves to enter into his ſentiments, or bear an affection to characters, which we plainly diſcover to be blameable.

THE caſe is not the ſame with moral principles as with ſpeculative opinions of any kind. Theſe are in continual flux and revolution. The ſon embraces a different ſyſtem from the father. Nay, there ſcarce is any man, who can boaſt of great conſtancy and uniformity in this particular. Whatever ſpeculative errors may be found in the polite writings of any age or country, they detract but little from the value of thoſe compoſitions. There needs but a certain turn of thought or imagination to make us enter into all the opinions, which then prevailed, and reliſh the ſentiments or concluſions derived from them. But a very violent effort is requiſite to change our judgment of manners, and excite ſentiments of approbation or blame, love or hatred, different from thoſe to which the mind from long cuſtom has been familiarized. And where a man is confident of the rectitude of that moral ſtandard, by which he judges, he is juſtly jealous of it, and will not pervert the ſentiments of his heart for a moment, in complaiſance to any writer whatever.

[238] OF all ſpeculative errors, thoſe which regard religion, are the moſt excuſable in compoſitions of genius; nor is it ever permitted to judge of the civility or wiſdom of any people, or even of ſingle perſons, by the groſſneſs or refinement of their theological principles. The ſame good ſenſe, that directs men in the ordinary occurrences of life, is not hearkened to in religious matters, which are ſuppoſed to be placed entirely above the cognizance of human reaſon. Upon this account, all the abſurdities of the pagan ſyſtem of theology muſt be overlooked by every critic, who would pretend to form a juſt notion of antient poetry; and our poſterity, in their turn, muſt have the ſame indulgence to their forefathers. No religious principles can ever be imputed as a fault to any poet, while they remain merely principles, and take not ſuch ſtrong poſſeſſion of his heart, as to lay him under the imputation of bigotry or ſuperſtition. Where that happens, they confound the ſentiments of morality and alter the natural boundaries of vice and virtue. They are therefore eternal blemiſhes, according to the principle abovementioned; nor are the prejudices and falſe opinions of the age ſufficient to juſtify them.

[239] 'Tis eſſential to the Roman catholic religion to inſpire a violent hatred to every other worſhip, and repreſent all pagaus, mahometans, and heretics as the objects of divine wrath and vengeance. Such ſentiments, though they are in reality extremely blameable, are conſidered as virtues by the zealots of that communion, and are repreſented in their tragedies and epic poems as a kind of divine heroiſm. This bigotry has disfigured two very fine tragedies of the French theatre, Polieucte and Athalia; where an intemperate zeal for particular modes of worſhip is ſet off with all the pomp imaginable, and forms the predominant character of the heroes. ‘"What is this,"’ ſays the heroic Joad to Joſabet, finding her in diſcourſe with Mattan, the prieſt of Baal, ‘"Does the daughter of David ſpeak to this traitor? Are you not afraid, left the earth ſhould open and pour forth flames to devour you both? Or that theſe holy walls ſhould fall and cruſh you together? What is his purpoſe? Why comes that enemy of God hither to poiſon the air, which we breath, with his horrid preſence?"’ Such ſentiments are received with great applauſe on the theatre of Paris; but at London the ſpectators would be full as much pleaſed to hear Achilles tell Agamemnon, that he [240] was a dog in his forehead and a deer in his heart, or Jupiter threaten Juno with a ſound drubbing, if ſhe will not be quiet.

RELIGIOUS principles are alſo a blemiſh in any polite compoſition, when they riſe up to ſuperſtition, and intrude themſelves into every ſentiment, however remote from any connection with religion. 'Tis no excuſe for the poet, that the cuſtoms of his country had burthened life with ſo many religious ceremonies and obſervances, that no part of it was exempt from that yoak. It muſt be for ever ridiculous in Petrarch to compare his miſtreſs, Laura, to Jeſus Chriſt. Nor is it leſs ridiculous in that agreeable libertine, Boccace, very ſeriouſly to give thanks to God Almighty, and the ladies, for their aſſiſtance in deſending him againſt his enemies.

FINIS.

Appendix A ERRATA.

P. 7. L. 13. r. ſet. P. 9. L. 12. r. be buried. P. 42. L. 5. r. conditions. P. 70. L. 4. from the Bottom, read foretel the iſſue. P. 116. L. 16. read corrupt.

Notes
a
The ſtatue of Laocoon, as we learn from Pliny, was the work of three artiſts: But 'tis certain, that, were we not told ſo, we ſhould never have concluded, that a groupe of figures, cut from one ſtone, and united in one plan, was not the work and contrivance of one ſtatuary To aſcribe any ſingle effect to the combination of ſeveral cauſes, is not ſurely a natural and obvious ſuppoſition.
b
Fragilis et laborioſa mortalitas in partes iſta digeſſit, infirmitatis ſuae memor, ut portionibus quiſquis eoleret, quo maxime indigeret. Plin. lib. ii. cap. 7. So early as Heſiod's time there were 30,000 deities. Oper. & Dier. lib. i. ver. 250. But the taſk to be performed by theſe, ſeems ſtill too great for their number. The provinces of the deities were ſo ſubdivided, that there was even a God of Sneezing, See Ariſt. Probl. Sect. 33. cap. 7. The province of copulation, ſuitable to the importance and dignity of it, was divided amongſt ſeveral deities.
*
Lib. viii.
*

The following lines of Euripides are ſo much to the preſent purpoſe that I cannot forbear quoting them:

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HECUBA.

‘There is nothing ſecure in the world; no glory, no proſperity. The gods toſs all life into confuſion; mix every thing with its reverſe; that all of us, from our ignorance and uncertainty, may pay them the more worſhip and reverence.’

a
Diod. Sic. Lib. iii.
b
Lib. vii.
a
Pere le Comte.
b
Regnard, Voïage de Lapponie.
c
Diod. Sic. lib. i. Lucian. de Sacrificiis. Ovid. alludes to the ſame tradition, Metam. lib. v. l. 321. So alſo Manilius, lib. iv.
d
Herodot. lib. i.
e
Caeſ. Comment. de bell. Gallico, lib. iv.
f
Lib. ix. 382.
a
Cap. ix.
b
Pere Brumoy, Theatre des Grecs; & Fontenelle, Hiſtoire des Oracles.
c
Arnob. lib. vii.
a
De Laced, Rep.
b
Epiſt. xli.
c
Quint. Curtius, lib. iv. cap. 3. Diod. Sic. lib. xvii.
d
Sueton. in vita Aug. cap. 16.
a
Id. in vita Cal. cap. 5.
b
Herodot. lib. ii. Lucian. Jupiter confutatus, de luctu Saturn. &c.
c
[...]. Heſ, Opera & Dies l. 108.
d
Theog. l. 570.
a
Metamorph. lib. i. l. 32.
b
Lib. i.
c
Id. ibid.
a
The ſame author, who can thus account for the origin of the world without a Deity, eſteems it impious to explain from phyſical cauſes, the common accidents of life, earthquakes, inundations, and tempeſts; and devoutly aſcribes theſe to the anger of Jupiter or Neptune. A plain proof, whence he derived his ideas of religion. See lib. xv. pag. 364. Ex edit. Rhodomanni.
a
It will be eaſy to give a reaſon, why Thales, Anaximander, and thoſe early philoſophers, who really were atheiſts, might be very orthodox in the pagan creed; and why Anaxagoras and Socrates, tho' real theiſts, muſt naturally, in antient times, be eſteemed impious. The blind, unguided powers of nature, if they could produce men, might alſo produce ſuch beings as Jupiter and Neptune, who being the moſt powerful, intelligent exiſtences in the world, would be proper objects of worſhip, But where a ſupreme intelligence, the firſt cauſe of all, is admitted, theſe capricious beings, if they exiſt at all, muſt appear very ſubordinate and dependent, and conſequently be excluded from the rank of deities. Plato (de Leg. lib. x.) aſſigns this reaſon of the imputation thrown on Anaxagoras, viz. his denying the divinity of the ſtars, planets, and other created objects.
b
Adverſus Mathem. lib. ix.
a
Dionyſ. Halic. lib. vi.
a
Epiſt. lib. vi.
a
Heſiod. Theog. l. 935.
b
Id. ibid. & Plut. in vita Pelop.
c
Iliad. xiv. 267.
d
Lucretius was plainly ſeduced by the ſtrong appearance of allegory, which is obſervable in the pagan fictions. He firſt addreſſes himſelf to Venus as to that generating power, which animates, renews, and beautifies the univerſe: But is ſoon betrayed by the mythology into incoherencies, while he prays to that allegorical perſonage to appeaſe the furies of her lover, Mars: An idea not drawn from allegory, but from the popular religion, and which Lucretius, as an Epicurean, could not conſiſtently admit of.
a
Herodian. lib. v. Jupiter Ammon is repreſented by Curtius as a deity of the ſame kind, lib. iv. cap. 7. The Arabians and Peſſinuntians adored alſo ſhapeleſs, unformed ſtones as their deity. Arnob. lib. vi. So much did their folly exceed that of the Egyptians.
b
Diog. Laert. lib. ii.
a
See Caeſar of the religion of the Gauls, De bello Gallico, lib. vi.
b
De moribus Germ.
a
The Jacobins, who denied the immaculate conception, have ever been very unhappy in their doctrine, even tho' political reaſons have kept the Romiſh church from condemning it. The Cordeliers have run away with all the popularity. But in the fifteenth Century, as we learn from Boulainvilliers, an Italian Cordelier maintained, that, during the three days, when Chriſt was interred, the hypoſtatic union was diſſolved, and that his human nature was not a proper object of adoration, during that period. Without the art of divination, one might foretel, that ſo groſs and impious a blaſphemy would not fail to be anathematized by the people. It was the occaſion of great inſults on the part of the Jacobins; who now got ſome recompence for their misfortunes in the war about the immaculate conception. See Hiſtoirc abregée, pag. 499.
a
Hyde de Relig. veterum Perſarum.
b
Called the Scapulaire.
a
Lib. iv.
a
Verrius Flaccus, cited by Pliny, lib. xxviii. cap. 2. affirmed, that it was uſual for the Romans, before they laid ſiege to any town, to invocate the tutelar deity of the place, and by promiſing him equal or greater honours than thoſe he at preſent enjoyed, bribe him to betray his old friends and votaries. The name of the tutelar deity of Rome was for this reaſon kept a moſt religious myſtery; leſt the enemies of the republic ſhould be able, in the ſame manner, to draw him over to their ſervice. For without the name, they thought, nothing of that kind could be practiſed. Pliny ſays, that the common form of invocation was preſerved to his time in the ritual of the pontifs. And Macrobius has tranſmitted a copy of it from the ſecret things of Sammonicus Serenus.
a
Xenoph. Memor. lib. ii.
a
Plutarch. de Iſid. & Oſiride.
b
Lib. ii. ſub fine.
c
Hyde de Relig. vet. Perſarum.
a
Arrian. de Exped. lib. iii. Id. lib. vii.
b
Id. ibid.
c
Sueton. in vita Aug. c. 93.
a
Corruptio optimi peſſima.
b
Moſt nations have fallen into this guilt; tho' perhaps, that impious ſuperſtition has never prevailed very much in any civilized nation, unleſs we except the Carthaginians. For the Tyrians ſoon aboliſhed it. A ſacrifice is conceived as a preſent; and any preſent is delivered to the deity by deſtroying it and rendering it uſeleſs to men; by burning what is ſolid, pouring out the liquid, and killing the animate. For want of a better way of doing him ſervice, we do ourſelves an injury; and fancy that we thereby expreſs, at leaſt, the heartineſs of our good will and adoration. Thus our mercenary devotion deceives ourſelves, and imagines it deceives the deity.
a
Strabo, lib. v. Sueton. in vita Cal.
a
Arrian. paſſim.
b
Thucyd. lib. v.
c
Diſcorſi, lib. vi.
a
Plut. Apophth.
b
Bayle, Article BELLERMINE.
a
Lib. iii. c. 38.
a
It is ſtrange that the Egyptian religion, tho' ſo abſurd, ſhould yet have borne ſo great a reſemblance to the Jewiſh, that antient writers even of the greateſt genius were not able to obſerve any difference betwixt them. For it is very remarkable, that both Tacitus and Suctonius, when they mention that decree of the ſenate, under Tiberius, by which the Egyptian and Jewiſh proſelytes were baniſhed from Rome, expreſsly treat theſe religions as the ſame; and it appears, that even the decree itſelf was founded on that ſuppoſition. Actum & de ſacris Aegyptiis, Judaiciſque pellendis; factumque patrum conſultum, ut quatuor millia libertini generis ea ſuperſtitione infecta, quîs idonea aetas, in inſulam Sardiniam veherentur, coercendis illic latrociniis; & ſi ob gravitatem coeli interiſſent, vile damnum: Ceteri cederent Italia, niſi certam ante diem profanos ritus exuiſſent. Tacit. Ann. lib. ii. c. 85. Externas caeremonias, Aegyptios, Judaicoſque ritus compeſcuit; coactis qui ſuperſtitione ea tenebantur, religioſas veſtes cum inſtrumento omni comburere, &c. Sueton. Tiber. c. 36. Theſe wiſe heathens, obſerving ſomething in the general air, and genius, and ſpirit of the two religions to be the ſame, eſteemed the differences of their dogmas too frivolous to deſerve any attention.
b
Lib. i.
a
When Louis the XIVth took on himſelf the protection of the Jeſu [...]tes college of Clermont, the ſociety ordered the king's arms to be put up over their gate, and took down the croſs, in order to make way for it: Which gave occaſion to the following epigram:
Suiſtlit hinc Chriſti, poſuitque inſignia Regis:
Impia gens, alium neſcit habere Deum.
b
De nat. Deor. l. i.
a
Tuſc. Quaeſt. lib. v.
a
De civitate Dei, l. iii. c. 17.
b
Claudii Rutilii Numitiani iter, lib. i. l. 386.
c
In vita Adriani.
a
Lib. xiv. epiſt. 7.
b
Cicero de Divin. lib. ii. c. 24.
c
Sueton. Aug. cap. 90, 91, 92. Plin. lib. ii. cap. 7.
a
Witneſs this remarkable paſſage of Tacitus: Praeter multiplices rerum bumanarum caſus, coelo terraque prodigia, & fulminum monitus, & futurorum praeſagia, laeta, triſtia, ambigua, manifeſta. Nec enim umquam atrocioribus populi Romani cladibus, magiſque juſtis judiciis approbatum eſt, non eſſe curae Diis ſecuritatem noſtram, eſſe ultionem, Hiſt. lib. i. Auguſtus's quarrel with Neptune is an inſtance of the ſame kind. Had not the emperor believed Neptune to be a real being and to have dominion over the ſea; where had been the foundation of his anger? And if he believed it, what madneſs to provoke ſtill farther that deity? The ſame obſervation may be made upon Quinctilian's exclamations, on account of the death of his children, lib. vi. Praef.
b
Philopſeudes.
a
Lib. x. cap. 40.
b
Cicero de Divin. lib. i. cap. 3.
c
Lib. i. § 17.
d
Ench. § 17.
a
The Stoics, I own, were not quite orthodox in the eſtabliſhed religion; but one may ſee, from theſe inſtances, that they went a great way: And the people undoubtedly went every length.
b
Eutyphro.
c
Phaedo.
a
Xenophon's conduct, as related by himſelf, is, at once, an inconteſtable proof of the general credulity of mankind in thoſe ages, and the incoherencies, in all ages, of men's opinions in religious matters. That great captain and philoſopher, the diſciple of Socrates, and one who has delivered ſome of the moſt refined ſentiments with regard to a deity, gave all the following marks of vulgar, pagan ſuperſtition. By Socrates's advice, he conſulted the oracle of Delphi, before he would engage in the expedition of Cyrus. De exped. lib. iii. p. 294. ex edit. Leunel. Sees a dream the night after the generals were ſeized; which he pays great regard to, but thinks ambiguous. Id. p. 295. He and the whole army regard ſneezing as a very lucky omen. Id. p. 300. Has another dream, when he comes to the river Centrites, which his fellow general, C [...]roſophus, alſo pays great regard to. Id. lib. iv. p. 323. The Greeks ſuffering from a cold north wind, ſacrifice to it, and the hiſtorian obſerves, that it immediately abated. Id. p. 329. Xenophon conſults the ſacrifices in ſecret, before he would form any reſolution with himſelf about ſettling a colony. Lib. v. p. 359. He himſelf a very ſkilful augur. Id. p. 351. Is determined by the victims to refuſe the ſole command of the army, which was offered him. Lib. vi. p. 273. Cleander, the Spartan, tho' very deſirous of it, refuſes it for the ſame reaſon. Id. p. 392. Xenophon mentions an old dream with the interpretation given him, when he firſt joined Cyrus. P. 373. Mentions alſo the place of Hercules's deſcent into hell as believing it, and ſays the marks of it are ſtill remaining. Id. p. 375. Had almoſt ſtarved the army rather than lead to the field againſt the auſpices. Id. p. 382, 383. His friend, Euclides, the augur, would not believe that he had brought no money from the expedition; till he (Euclides) ſacrificed, and then he ſaw the matter clearly in the Exta. Lib. vii. p. 425. The ſame philoſopher, propoſing a project of mines for the encreaſe of the Athenian revenues, adviſes them firſt to conſult the oracle. De rat. red. p. 932. That all this devotion was not a farce, in order to ſerve a political purpoſe, appears both from the facts themſelves, and from the genius of that age, when little or nothing could be gained by hypocriſy. Beſides, Xenophon, as appears from his Memorabilia, was a kind of heretic in thoſe times, which no political devotee ever is. It is for the ſame reaſon, I maintain, that Newton, Locke, Clarke, &c. being Arians or Socinians, were very ſincere in the creed they profeſt: And I always oppoſe this argument to ſome libertines, who will needs have it, that it was impoſſible, but that theſe great philoſophers muſt have been hypocrites.
a
Pro Cluentio, cap. 61.
b
De bello Catilin.
c
Cicero (Tuſc. Quaeſt. lib. i. cap. 5, 6.) and Seneca (Epiſt. 24.) as alſo Juvenal (Satyr. 2.) maintain that there is no boy or old woman ſo ridiculous as to believe the poets in their accounts of a future ſtate. Why then does Lucretius ſo highly exalt his maſter for freeing us from theſe terrors? Perhaps the generality of mankind were then in the diſpoſition of Cephalus in Plato (de Rep. lib. i.) who while he was young and healthful could ridicule theſe ſtories; but as ſoon as he became old and infirm, began to entertain apprehenſions of their truth. This, we may obſerve, not to be unuſual even at preſent.
a
Sext. Empir. adverſ. Mathem. lib. viii.
a
Mem. lib. i.
b
It was conſidered among the antients, as a very extraordinary, philoſophical paradox, that the preſence of the gods was not confined to the heavens, but was extended every where; as we learn from Lucian. Hermotimus ſive De ſectis.
a
Plutarch. de Superſt.
a
Necyomantia.
a

Bacchus, a divine being, is repreſented by the heathen mythology as the inventor of dancing and the theatre. Plays were antiently, even a part of public worſhip on the moſt ſolemn occaſions, and often employed in times of peſtilence, to appeaſe the offended deities. But they have been zealouſly proſcribed by the godly in latter ages; and the play-houſe, according to a learned divine, is the porch of hell.

But in order to ſhow more evidently, that it is poſſible for a religion to repreſent the divinity in ſtill a more immoral unamiable light than the antient, we ſhall cite a long paſſage from an author of taſte and imagination, who was ſurely no enemy to Chriſtianity. It is the chevalier Ramſay, a writer, who had ſo laudable an inclination to be orthodox, that his reaſon never found any difficulty, even in the doctrines which freethinkers ſcruple the moſt, the trinity, incarnation, and ſatisfaction: His humanity alone, of which he ſeems to have had a great ſtock, rebelled againſt the doctrines of eternal reprobation and predeſtination. He expreſſes himſelf thus: ‘'What ſtrange ideas, ſays he, would an Indian or a Chineſe philoſopher have of our holy religion, if they judged by the ſchemes given of it by our modern freethinkers, and phariſaical doctors of all ſects? According to the odious and too vulgar ſyſtem of theſe incredulous ſcoffers and credulous ſcriblers, ‘"The God of the Jews is a moſt cruel, unjuſt, partial and fantaſtical being. He created, about 6000 years ago, a man and a woman, and placed them in a fine garden of Aſia, of which there are no remains. This garden was furniſhed with all ſorts of trees, fountains, and flowers. He allowed them the uſe of all the fruits of this beautiful garden, except of one, that was planted in the midſt thereof, and that had in it a ſecret virtue of preſerving them in continual health and vigor of body and mind, of exalting their natural powers and making them wiſe. The devil entered into the body of a ſerpent, and ſolicited the firſt woman to eat of this forbidden fruit; ſhe engaged her huſband to do the ſame. To puniſh this ſlight curioſity and natural deſire of life and knowledge, God not only threw our firſt parents out of paradiſe, but he condemned all their poſterity to temporal miſery, and the greateſt part of them to eternal pains, tho' the ſouls of theſe innocent children have no more relation to that of Adam than to thoſe of Nero and Mahomet; ſince, according to the ſcholaſtic drivellers, fabuliſts, and mythologiſts, all ſouls are created pure, and infuſed immediately into mortal bodies, ſo ſoon as the foetus is formed. To accompliſh the barbarous, partial decree of predeſtination and reprobation, God abandoned all nations to darkneſs, idolatry and ſuperſtition, without any ſaving knowledge or ſalutary graces; unleſs it was one particular nation, whom he choſe as his peculiar people. This choſen nation was, however, the moſt ſtupid, ungrateful, rebellious, and perfidious of all nations. After God had thus kept the far greater part of all the human ſpecies, during near 4000 years, in a reprobate ſtate, he changed all of a ſudden, and took a fancy for other nations, beſide the Jews. Then he ſent his only begotten Son to the world, under a human form, to appeaſe his wrath, ſatisfy his vindictive juſtice, and die for the pardon of ſin. Very few nations, however, have heard of this goſpel; and all the reſt, tho' left in invincible ignorance, are damned without exception or any poſſibility of remiſſion. The greateſt part of thoſe, who have heard of it, have changed only ſome ſpeculative notions about God, and ſome external forms in worſhip: For, in other reſpects, the bulk of Chriſtians have continued as corrupt, as the reſt of mankind in their morals; yea, ſo much the more perverſe and criminal, that their lights were greater. Unleſs it be a very ſmall ſelect number, all other Chriſtians, like the pagans, will be for ever damned; the great ſacrifice offered up for them will become void and of no effect. God will take delight for ever in their torments and blaſphemies; and tho' he can, by one fiat, change their hearts, yet they will remain for ever unconverted and unconvertible, becauſe he will be for ever unappeaſeable and irreconcileable. It is true, that all this makes God odious, a hater of ſouls, rather than a lover of them; a cruel, vindictive tyrant, an impotent or a wrathful daemon, rather than an all-powerful, beneficent Father of ſpirits: Yet all this is a myſtery. He has ſecret reaſons for his conduct, that are impenetrable; and tho' he appears unjuſt and barbarous; yet we muſt believe the contrary, becauſe what is injuſtice, crime, cruelty, and the blackeſt malice in us, is in him juſtice, mercy, and ſovereign goodneſs."’ Thus the incredulous freethinkers, the judaizing Chriſtians, and the fataliſtic doctors, have disfigured and diſhonoured the ſublime myſteries of our holy faith; thus, they have confounded the nature of good and evil; transformed the moſt monſtrous paſſions into divine attributes, and ſurpaſſed the pagans in blaſphemy, by aſcribing to the eternal nature, as perfections, what makes the moſt horrid crimes amongſt men. The groſſer pagans contented themſelves with divinizing luſt, inceſt, and adultry; but the predeſtinarian doctors have divinized cruelty, wrath, fury, vengeance, and all the blackeſt vices.'’ See the chevalier Ramſay's philoſophical principles of natural and revealed religion, Part II. p. 401.

The ſame author aſſerts, in other places, that the Arminian and Moliniſt ſchemes ſerve very little to mend the matter: And having thus thrown himſelf out of all received ſects of Chriſtianity, he is obliged to advance a ſyſtem of his own, which is a kind of Origeniſm, and ſuppoſes the pre-exiſtence of the ſouls both of men and beaſts, and the eternal ſalvation and converſion of all men, beaſts, and devils. But this notion, being quite peculiar to himſelf, we need not treat of. I thought the opinions of this ingenious author very curious; but I pretend not to warrant the juſtneſs of them.

a
Ovid. Metam. lib. ix. 501.
a
Called Dictator clavis figendae cauſa. T. Livii, l. vii. c. 3.
a
Lib. vi.
a
To be found in Diod. Sic. lib. xii.
a
Diod. Sic. lib. xx.
b
Cic. Catil. i. Salluſt. de bello Catil.
a
See philoſophical Eſſays. Eſſay iii.
a
Addiſon, Spectator, No 412.
a
The affection of parents to children ſeems founded on an original inſtinct. The affection towards other relations depends on the principles here explained.
a
Reflexions ſur la poetique. § 36.
a
Painters make no ſcruple of repreſenting diſtreſs and ſorrow as well as any other paſſion: But they ſeem not to dwell ſo much on theſe melancholy affections as the poets, who, tho' they copy every emotion of the human breaſt, yet paſs very quickly over the agreeable ſentiments. A painter repreſents only one inſtant; and if that be paſſionate enough, it is ſure to affect and delight the ſpectator: But nothing can furniſh to the poet a variety of ſcenes and incidents and ſentiments, except diſtreſs, terror, or anxiety. Compleat joy and ſatisfaction is attended with ſecurity, and leaves no farther room for action.
a
Illud vero perquam rarum ac memoria dignum, etiam ſuprema opera artificum, imperfectasque tabulas, ſicut, Irin Ariſtidis, Tyndaridas Nicomachi, Medeam Timomachi, & quam diximus Venerem Apellis, in majori admiratione eſſe quam perfecta. Quippe in iis lineamenta reliqua, ipſaeque cogitationes artificum ſpectantur, atque in lenocinio commendationis dolor eſt manus, cum id ageret, extinctae, lib. xxxv. c. II.
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TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3636 Four dissertations I The natural history of religion II Of the passions III Of tragedy IV Of the standard of taste By David Hume esq. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5834-7