ESSAY I. Of our ATTACHMENT to OBJECTS of DISTRESS.

A NOTED French author, who makes critical reflections upon poetry and painting, undertakes a ſubject, at⯑tempted by others unſucceſsfully, which is, to account for the ſtrong Attachment we have to Objects of Diſtreſs, not real objects only, but even fictitious. ‘It is not ea⯑ſy (ſays he) to account for the pleaſure we take in poetry and painting, which has often a ſtrong reſemblance to affliction, and of which the ſymptoms are ſometimes the ſame with thoſe of the moſt lively ſor⯑row. The arts of poetry and painting are never more applauded than when they ſucceed in giving pain. A ſecret charm attaches us to repreſentations of this na⯑ture, at the very time our heart, full of anguiſh, riſes up againſt its proper pleaſure. [2] I dare undertake this paradox, (continues our author) and to explain the foundation of this ſort of pleaſure which we have in po⯑etry and painting; an undertaking that may appear bold, if not raſh, ſeeing it promiſes to account to every man for what paſſes in his own breaſt, and for the ſecret ſprings of his approbation and diſlike.’ Our author is extremely ſenſible of the difficulty of his ſubject; and no wonder, for it has a deep foundation in human nature.

LET us follow him in this difficult under⯑taking. He lays it down as a preliminary, that our wants and neceſſities are our only motives to action, and that in relieving us from them conſiſts all natural pleaſure: and in this, by the way, he agrees with Mr. Locke in his chapter of Power, ſect. 37. and 43. This account of our natural pleaſures ſhall be afterwards examined. What we have at preſent to attend to, is the following funda⯑mental propoſition laid down by our author: ‘That man by nature is deſigned an active [3] being: that inaction, whether of body or mind, draws on languor and diſguſt; and that this is a cogent motive to fly to any ſort of occupation for relief. Thus (adds he) we fly by inſtinct to every object that can excite our paſſions, and keep us in agi⯑tation, not rebuted by the pain ſuch objects often give us, which cauſes vexatious days and ſleepleſs nights: but man, notwith⯑ſtanding, ſuffers more by being without paſſions, than by the agitation they occaſi⯑on.’ This is the ſum of his firſt ſection. In the ſecond he goes on to apply his prin⯑ciple to particular caſes. The firſt he gives is that of compaſſion, whereby we are natu⯑rally impelled to dwell upon the miſeries and diſtreſſes of our fellow creatures, though thereby we come to be partakers of their ſuf⯑ferings; an impulſe that he obſerves is en⯑tirely owing to the above principle, which makes us chuſe occupation, however painful, rather than be without action. Another is that of publick executions. ‘We go in crouds (ſays he) to a ſpectacle the moſt [4] horrid that man can behold, to ſee a poor wretch broke upon the wheel, burnt a⯑live, or his intrails torn out: the more dreadful the ſcene, the more numerous the ſpectators. Yet one might foreſee, even without experience, that the cruel circumſtances of the execution, the deep groans and anguiſh of a fellow creature, muſt make an impreſſion, the pain of which is not to be effaced but by a long courſe of time. But the attraction of agi⯑tation is far more ſtrong upon moſt people, than the joint powers of reflection and experience.’ He goes on to mention the ſtrange delight the Roman people had in the entertainments of the amphithe⯑atre; criminals expoſed to be torn to pieces by wild beaſts, and gladiators in troops ſet out to butcher one another. He takes this occa⯑ſion to make the following obſervation upon the Engliſh nation: ‘So tender hearted is that people, that they obſerve humanity towards their greateſt criminals. They al⯑low of no ſuch thing as torture, alledging [5] it better to let a criminal go unpuniſhed, than to expoſe an innocent perſon to thoſe torments which are authoriſed in other Chriſtian countries to extort a confeſſion from the guilty. Yet this people, ſo reſpect⯑ful of their kind, have an infinite pleaſure in prize-fighting, bull-beating, and ſuch other ſavage ſpectacles.’ He concludes, with ſhowing, that it is this very horror of inac⯑tion, which makes people every day precipi⯑tate themſelves into play, and deliver them⯑ſelves over to cards and dice. ‘None but fools and ſharpers (ſays he) are moved to play by hope of gain. The generality of mankind are directed by another mo⯑tive. They neglect thoſe diverſions where skill and addreſs are required, chuſing ra⯑ther to riſque their fortunes at games of mere chance, which keep their minds in continual motion, and where every throw is deciſive.’

THIS is our author's account of the mat⯑ter fairly ſtated. It has, I acknowledge, an air of truth, but the following conſiderati⯑ons [6] convince me that is not ſolid. In the firſt place, if the pain of inaction be the mo⯑tive which carries us to ſuch ſpectacles as are above mentioned, we muſt expect to find them frequented by none but thoſe who are oppreſt with idleneſs. But this will not be found the truth of the matter. All ſorts of people flock to ſuch ſpectacles. Pictures of danger, or of diſtreſs, have a ſecret charm which attracts men from the moſt ſerious occupations, and operates equally upon the active and the indolent. In the next place, were there nothing in theſe ſpectacles to attract the mind, abſtracting from the pain of inaction, there would be no ſuch thing as a preference of one object to another, upon any other ground than that of agi⯑tation; and the more the mind was agi⯑tated, the greater would be the attraction of the object: but this is contrary to experience. There are many objects of horror and diſ⯑taſte, which agitate the mind exceedingly, that even the idleſt fly from: and a more apt in⯑ſtance need not be given, than what our au⯑thor [7] himſelf cites from Livy, ^† who, ſpeak⯑ing of Antiochus Epiphanes, has the follow⯑ing words: Gladiatorum munus Romanae con⯑ſuetudinis primò majore cum terrore hominum inſuetorum ad tale ſpectaculum, quam volup⯑tate dedit. Deinde ſaepiùs dando, et familia⯑re oculis gratumque id ſpectaculum fecit, et ar⯑morum ſtudium pleriſque juvenum accendit. Such bloody ſpectacles behoved undoubtedly to make, at firſt, a greater impreſſion than af⯑terwards, when by repetition they were ren⯑dered familiar: yet this circumſtance was ſo far from being an attraction to the Grecians, that it raiſed in them averſion and horror. Upon the ſame account, the Bear-garden, which is one of the chief entertainments of the Engliſh, is held in abhorrence by the French, and other polite nations. It is too ſavage an entertainment, to be reliſhed by thoſe of a refined taſte.

IF man is conſidered as a being, whoſe only view, in all his actions, is either to at⯑tain [8] pleaſure, or to avoid pain, we muſt con⯑clude pleaſure and pain to be his only im⯑pulſes to action. Upon that ſuppoſition, it would be hard, if not impoſſible, to give any ſatisfactory account why we ſhould chuſe, with our eyes open, to frequent entertain⯑ments which muſt neceſſarily give us pain. But when we more attentively examine hu⯑man nature, we diſcover many and various impulſes to action, independent of pleaſure and pain. Let us follow out this thought, becauſe it may probably lead to a ſolution of the problem.

WHEN we attend to the impreſſions made by external objects, or to any of our impreſ⯑ſions, we find few of them ſo ſimple as to be altogether without modification. Im⯑preſſions are either ſtrong or weak, diſtinct or confuſed, &c. There is no diviſion of im⯑preſſions more comprehenſive than into a⯑greeable or diſagreeable. Some ſlight im⯑preſſions there may be, which give us little or no pleaſure, or pain: but theſe may be [9] neglected in the preſent inquiry. The bulk of our impreſſions may certainly be diſtin⯑guiſhed into pleaſant and painful. It is un⯑neceſſary, and would perhaps be in vain, to ſearch for the cauſe of this difference a⯑mong our impreſſions. More we cannot ſay than that ſuch is the conſtitution of our na⯑ture, ſo contrived by the Author of all things, in order to anſwer wiſe and good purpoſes.

THERE is another circumſtance to be at⯑tended to in theſe impreſſions; that Deſire enters into ſome of them, Averſion into others. With regard to ſome objects, we feel a deſire of poſſeſſing and enjoying them: other ob⯑jects raiſe our averſion, and move us to avoid them. At the ſame time, deſire and averſion are not ſeparate impreſſions, but modificati⯑ons only; each making a part of the total im⯑preſſion, raiſed by the agreeable, or diſagree⯑able object. The pleaſure, for example, of a fine garden, and the deſire of poſſeſſing it, are not different impreſſions, but only parts of that entire impreſſion which is cauſed by the object. [10] The impreſſion made by any object is one, tho' it may be annalized into parts. It does not belong to the preſent ſubject, to inquire in what inſtances Deſire is raiſed by agreeable objects; for deſire does not accompany a⯑greeable impreſſions in every inſtance: but it muſt be carefully attended to, that Aver⯑ſion does not make a part, or enter into the compoſition of every painful impreſſion. Ob⯑jects of horror and terror, loathſome ob⯑jects, and many others, raiſe averſion. But there are many impreſſions, ſome of them of the moſt painful ſort, which have no de⯑gree of averſion in their compoſition. Grief is a moſt painful paſſion or impreſſion, and yet is the fartheſt of any thing from being mixed with any degree of averſion. On the contrary, we cling to the object which raiſes our grief, and love to dwell upon it. Compaſſion is an inſtance of the like nature. Objects of diſtreſs raiſe no averſion in us, tho' they give us pain. Deſire always makes a part of the impreſſion, deſire to afford re⯑lief.

[11] IN infancy, appetite and paſſion, and the deſires and averſions accompanying them, are our ſole impulſes to action. But in the progreſs of life, when we learn to diſtin⯑guiſh the objects around us as contributing to pleaſure or pain, we acquire, by degrees, impulſes to action of a different ſort. Self-love is a ſtrong motive to ſearch about for every thing that may conduce to happineſs. Self-love operates by means of reflection and experience; and every object, ſo ſoon as diſcovered to contribute to our happineſs, raiſes of courſe a deſire of poſſeſſing. Hence it is that pleaſure and pain are the only mo⯑tives to action, ſo far as ſelf-love is concern⯑ed. But our appetites and affections, as a⯑bove explained, are very different in their nature. Theſe operate by direct impulſe, without the intervention of reaſon, and an⯑ſwer to what is called inſtinct in brute crea⯑tures. As they are not influenced by any ſort of reaſoning, the view of ſhunning mi⯑ſery, or acquiring happineſs, makes no part of the impulſive cauſe. It is true, that the [12] gratification of our affections and appetites is for the moſt part attended with pleaſure; and it is alſo true, that, in giving way to a particular appetite, the view of pleaſure may, by a reflex act, become an additional motive to the action. But theſe things muſt not be confounded with the direct impulſe ariſing from the appetite or affection, which, as I have ſaid, operates blindly, and in the way of inſtinct, without any view to conſequen⯑ces.

AND to aſcertain the diſtinction betwixt actions directed by ſelf-love, and actions di⯑rected by particular appetites and paſſions, it muſt be further remarked, that though, for the moſt part, pleaſure is the conſequence of indulging appetites and paſſions, it is not ne⯑ceſſarily, nor indeed univerſally ſo. If the lat⯑ter be made out, the former will be evident; becauſe there cannot be a neceſſary connec⯑tion betwixt two things, which are in ſome inſtances ſeparated. That pleaſure is not al⯑ways the conſequence of indulging our ap⯑petites [13] and paſſions, will be plain from induc⯑tion. Revenge gratified againſt the man we hate is attended with pleaſure. 'Tis a very different caſe, where we have taken offence at a man we love. Friendſhip will not allow me, however offended, to hurt my friend. ‘I cannot find in my heart to do him miſ⯑chief; but I would have him made ſenſible of the wrong he has done me.’ Revenge, thus denied a vent, recoils and preys upon the vitals of the perſon offended. It diſplays itſelf in peeviſhneſs and bad humour, which muſt work and ferment, till time, or ac⯑knowledgment of the wrong, carry it off. This ſort of revenge is turned againſt the man himſelf who is offended; and examples there are of perſons in this pettiſh humour, working great miſchief to themſelves, in order to make the offenders ſenſible of the wrong. Thus, nothing is more common than to find a young woman, diſappointed in love, ready to throw herſelf away upon the firſt worth⯑leſs fellow that will ask her the queſtion. This indeed is indulging the paſſion of re⯑venge, [14] but without any concomitant plea⯑ſure or ſatisfaction. Far from it: the great⯑er the degree of indulgence, the greater the pain. My next inſtance will be ſtill more ſatisfactory. Every one muſt have obſerved, that when the paſſion of grief is at its height, the very nature of it is to ſhun and fly from every thing which tends to give eaſe or comfort. He ruſhes on to miſery, by a ſort of ſympathy with the perſon for whom he is grieved. Why ſhould I be happy when my friend is no more? is the language of this paſſion. In theſe circumſtances, the man is truly a ſelf-tormentor. And here we have a ſingular phoenomenon in human nature, an appetite after pain, an inclination to ren⯑der one's ſelf miſerable. This goes further than even ſelf-murder; a crime that is ne⯑ver perpetrated but in order to put an end to miſery, when it riſes to ſuch an height as to be inſupportable.

WE now ſee how imperfect the deſcripti⯑on is of human nature, given by Mr. Locke, [15] and by our French author. They acknow⯑ledge no motive to action, but what ariſes from ſelf-love; meaſures laid down to at⯑tain pleaſure, or to ſhun pain. Our parti⯑cular appetites and affections, and the de⯑ſires and averſions involved in them, are left entirely out of the ſyſtem. And yet we may ſay, with ſome degree of probability, that we are more influenced by theſe than by ſelf-love. We further diſcover by this in⯑quiry, what is of great importance to the ſubject in hand, that, as happineſs is not al⯑ways the impulſive motive to action, ſo nei⯑ther is it always the effect of an indulged paſſion. Nay, we find this very ſingular phoenomenon in human nature a direct ap⯑petite or deſire, in ſome inſtances, after pain. So various is human nature, and ſo compli⯑cated its acting powers, that it is not readily to be taken in at one view.

AND now we return to our ſubject, af⯑ter having unfolded thoſe principles of ac⯑tion with which it is connected. It may be [16] gathered from what is above laid down, that nature, which deſigned us for ſociety, has connected us ſtrongly together, by a parti⯑cipation of the joys and miſeries of our fel⯑low creatures. We have a ſtrong ſympa⯑thy with them; we partake of their afflicti⯑ons; we grieve with them and for them; and, in many inſtances, their misfortunes af⯑fect us equally with our own. Let it not therefore appear ſurpriſing, that people, in⯑ſtead of ſhunning objects of miſery, chuſe to dwell upon them; for this is truly as natu⯑ral as indulging grief for our own misfor⯑tunes. And it muſt be obſerved at the ſame time, that this is wiſely ordered by provi⯑dence: were the ſocial affections mixt with any degree of averſion, even when we ſuf⯑fer under them, we ſhould be inclined, up⯑on the firſt notice of an object of diſtreſs, to drive it from our ſight and mind, inſtead of affording relief.

NOR ought we to judge of this principle, as any way vitious or faulty: for beſides, [17] that it is the great cement of human ſocie⯑ty, we ought to conſider, that, as no ſtate is exempt from misfortunes, mutual ſympa⯑thy muſt greatly promote the ſecurity and happineſs of mankind. And 'tis a much more comfortable ſituation, that the proſ⯑perity and preſervation of each individual ſhould be the care of the whole ſpecies, than that every man, as the ſingle inhabi⯑tant of a deſert iſland, ſhould be left to ſtand or fall by himſelf, without proſpect of re⯑gard, or aſſiſtance from others. Nor is this all. When we conſider our own character and actions in a reflex view, we cannot help approving of this tenderneſs and ſympathy in our nature; we are pleaſed with ourſelves for being ſo conſtituted, we are conſcious of inward merit; and this is a continual ſource of ſatisfaction.

To open this ſubject a little further, it muſt be obſerved, that naturally we have a ſtrong deſire to be acquainted with the hiſtory of our fellow creatures. We judge of their ac⯑tions, [18] approve or diſapprove, condemn or acquit; and in this the buſy mind has a won⯑derful delight. Nay, we go further. We enter deep into their concerns, take a ſide; we partake of joys and diſtreſſes, with thoſe we favour, and ſhow a proportional averſion to others. This turn of mind makes hiſto⯑ry, novels and plays the moſt univerſal and favourite entertainments. And indeed this is no more than what is to be expected from man as a ſociable creature; and we may venture to affirm, that the moſt ſociable have the greateſt ſhare of this ſort of curioſity, and the ſtrongeſt attachment to ſuch en⯑tertainments.

TRAGEDY is an imitation or repreſenta⯑tion of human characters and actions. 'Tis a feigned hiſtory which generally makes a ſtronger impreſſion, than what is real; be⯑cauſe, if it be a work of genius, incidents will be choſen to make the deepeſt impreſſi⯑ons, and will be ſo conducted, as to keep the mind in continual ſuſpenſe and agitation, [19] beyond what commonly happens in real life. By a well wrought tragedy, all the ſocial paſſions are rouſed. The firſt ſcene is ſcarce ended before we are engaged. We take a ſudden affection to ſome of the perſonages repreſented. We come to be attached to them as to our boſom-friends, and hope and fear for them, as if the whole were a true hiſtory, inſtead of a fable.

To a dry philoſopher, unacquainted with theatrical entertainments, it may appear ſur⯑priſing, that imitation ſhould have ſuch an effect upon the mind, and that the want of truth and reality ſhould not prevent the operation of our paſſions. But whatever may be the phyſical cauſe, one thing is evi⯑dent, that this aptitude of the mind of man, to receive impreſſions from feigned, as well as from real objects, contributes to the no⯑bleſt purpoſes of life. Nothing conduces ſo much to improve the mind, and confirm it in virtue, as being continually employed in ſurveying the actions of others, entering into [20] the concerns of the virtuous, approving of their conduct, condemning vice, and ſhow⯑ing an abhorrence at it; for the mind ac⯑quires ſtrength by exerciſe, as well as the body. But were there no opportunity for this ſort of diſcipline, but from ſcenes of re⯑al life, the generality of men would be little the better for it, becauſe ſuch ſcenes do but rarely occur. They are not frequent even in hiſtory. But, in compoſitions where li⯑berty is allowed of fiction, it muſt be want of genius, if the mind is not ſufficiently exerciſed, till it acquire the greateſt ſenſibi⯑lity, and the moſt confirmed habits of vir⯑tue.

Thus, tragedy engages our affections, not leſs than true hiſtory. Friendſhip, concern for the virtuous, abhorrence of the vitious, compaſſion, hope, fear, and the whole train of the ſocial paſſions, are rouſed and exer⯑ciſed by both of them equally.

THIS may appear to be a fair account of the attachment we have to theatrical en⯑tertainments: [21] but when the ſubject is more narrowly examined, ſome difficulties occur, to which the principles above laid down will ſcarce afford a ſatisfactory anſwer. 'Tis no wonder that young people flock to ſuch en⯑tertainments. The love of novelty, deſire of occupation, beauty of action, are ſtrong attractions: and if one is once engaged, of whatever age, by entering into the intereſts of the perſonages repreſented, the attraction turns ſtrong beyond meaſure, and the ſtory muſt be followed out, whatever be the con⯑ſequence. The foreſight of running one's ſelf into grief and affliction will not diſen⯑gage. But people generally turn wiſe by experience; and it may appear ſurpriſing, when diſtreſs is the never failing effect of ſuch entertainments, that perſons of riper judgment ſhould not ſhun them altogether. Does ſelf-love ly aſleep in this caſe, which is for ordinary ſo active a principle? When one conſiders the matter a priori, he will not heſitate to draw a concluſion to this pur⯑poſe, that as repeated experience muſt, at the [22] long run, make us wiſe enough to keep out of harm's way; deep tragedies, for that rea⯑ſon, will be little frequented by perſons of reflexion. Yet the contrary is true in fact; the deepeſt tragedies being the moſt fre⯑quented by perſons of all ages, eſpecially by thoſe of delicate feelings, upon whom the ſtrongeſt impreſſions are made. A man of that character, who has ſcarce got the better of the deep diſtreſs he was thrown into the night before by a well acted tragedy, does, in his cloſet, coolly and deliberately reſolve to go to the next entertainment of the kind, without feeling the ſmalleſt obſtruction from ſelf-love.

THIS leads to a ſpeculation, perhaps one of the moſt curious that belongs to human nature. Contrary to what is generally un⯑derſtood, the above is a palpable proof, that even ſelf-love does not always operate to a⯑void pain and diſtreſs. In examining how this is brought about, there will be diſcover⯑ed an admirable contrivance in human na⯑ture, [23] to give free ſcope to the ſocial affecti⯑ons. Let us review what is above laid down: in the firſt place, that of the painful paſſi⯑ons, ſome are accompanied with averſion, ſome with deſire: in the next place, that of the painful paſſions, accompanied with de⯑ſire, the gratification of ſome produces plea⯑ſure, ſuch as hunger and thirſt, revenge, &c. others pain and diſtreſs, ſuch as grief. Now, upon the ſtricteſt examination, the follow⯑ing propoſition will be found to hold true in fact; that the painful paſſions, which, in the direct feeling, are free from any degree of averſion, have as little of it in the reflex act. Or, to expreſs the thing more familiar⯑ly, when we reflect upon the pain we have ſuffered by our concern for others, there is no degree of averſion mixt with the reflecti⯑on, more than with the pain itſelf, which is the immediate effect of the object. For illuſtration's ſake, let us compare the pain which ariſes from compaſſion with any bo⯑dily pain. Cutting one's fleſh is not only accompanied with ſtrong averſion in the di⯑rect [24] feeling, but with an averſion equally ſtrong in reflecting upon the action after⯑wards. We feel no ſuch averſion in reflect⯑ing upon the mental pains above deſcribed. On the contrary, when we reflect upon the pain which the misfortune of a friend gave us, the reflection is accompanied with an eminent degree of ſatisfaction. We approve of ourſelves for ſuffering with our friend, value ourſelves the more for that ſuffering, and are ready to undergo chearfully the like diſtreſs upon the like occaſion.

WHEN we examine thoſe particular paſſi⯑ons, which though painful, not only in the firſt impreſſion, but alſo in the gratification, if I may call it ſo, are yet accompanied with no averſion; we find they are all of the ſocial kind, ariſing from that eminent principle of ſympathy, which is the cement of human ſociety. The ſocial paſſions are accompanied with appetite for indulgence, when they give us pain, not leſs than when they give us pleaſure. We ſubmit willingly [25] to ſuch painful paſſions, and reckon it no hardſhip to ſuffer under them. In this con⯑ſtitution, we have the conſciouſneſs of regu⯑larity and order, and that it is right and meet we ſhould ſuffer after this manner. Thus the moral affections, even ſuch of them as produce pain, both in the firſt feel⯑ing, and in the indulgence of the paſſion, are none of them attended with any degree of averſion, not even in reflecting upon the diſtreſs they often bring us under. And this obſervation tends to ſet the moral affections in a very diſtinguiſhed point of view, in op⯑poſition to thoſe that are either malevolent, or merely ſelfiſh.

Many and admirable are the ſprings of action in human nature, and not one more admirable than what is now unfolded. Com⯑paſſion is a moſt valuable principle, which connects people in ſociety by ties ſtrong⯑er than thoſe of blood. Yet compaſſi⯑on is a painful emotion, and is often ac⯑companied with pain in the indulgence. Were it accompanied with any degree of a⯑verſion, [26] even in reflecting upon the diſtreſs it occaſions, after the diſtreſs is over, that averſion would, by degrees, blunt the paſſi⯑on, and at length cure us of what we would be apt to reckon a weakneſs or diſeaſe. But the author of our nature has not left his work imperfect. He has given us this noble principle entire, without a counter-balance, ſo as to have a vigorous and univerſal opera⯑tion. Far from having any averſion to pain, occaſioned by the ſocial principles, we re⯑flect upon ſuch pain with ſatisfaction, and are willing to ſubmit to it upon all occaſi⯑ons with chearfulneſs and heart-liking, juſt as much as if it were a real pleaſure.

AND now the cauſe of the attachment we have to Tragedy is fairly laid open, and comes out in the ſtrongeſt light. The ſoci⯑al paſſions, put in motion by it, are often the occaſion of diſtreſs to the ſpectators. But our nature is ſo happily conſtituted, that diſtreſs, occaſioned by the exerciſe of the ſo⯑cial paſſions, is not an object of the ſmall⯑eſt [27] averſion to us, even when we reflect coolly and deliberately upon it. Self-love does not carry us to ſhun affliction of this ſort. On the contrary, we are ſo fram⯑ed, as willingly and chearfully to ſubmit to it upon all occaſions, as if it were a real and ſubſtantial good. And, thus, Tragedy is al⯑lowed to ſeize the mind with all the diffe⯑rent charms which ariſe from the exerciſe of the ſocial paſſions, without the leaſt obſtacle from ſelf-love.

HAD our author reflected on the ſym⯑pathiſing principle, by which we are led, as by a ſecret charm, to partake of the miſeries of others, he would have had no occaſion of recurring to ſo imperfect a principle as that of averſion to inaction, to explain this ſeem⯑ing paradox, that a man ſhould voluntarily chuſe to give himſelf pain. Without enter⯑ing deep into philoſophy, he might have had hints in abundance from common life to explain it. In every corner, perſons are to be met with of ſuch a ſympathiſing tem⯑per, [28] as to chuſe to ſpend their lives with the diſeaſed and diſtreſſed. They partake with them in their afflictions, enter heartily into their concerns, and ſigh and groan with them. Theſe paſs their lives in ſadneſs and deſpondency, without having any other ſatis⯑faction than what ariſes upon the reflection of having done their duty.

AND if this account of the matter be juſt, we may be aſſured, that thoſe who are moſt compaſſionate in their temper will be fondeſt of Tragedy, which affords them a large field for indulging the paſſion. And indeed admirable are the effects brought a⯑bout by this means: for, paſſions as they gather ſtrength by indulgence, ſo they de⯑cay by want of exerciſe. Perſons in pro⯑ſperity, unacquainted with diſtreſs and miſe⯑ry, are apt to grow hard-hearted. Tragedy is an admirable reſource in ſuch a caſe. It ſerves to humanize the temper, by ſupplying feigned objects of pity, which have nearly the ſame effect to exerciſe the paſſion that [29] real objects have. And thus it is, that we are carried by a natural impulſe to deal deep in affliction, occaſioned by repreſenta⯑tions of feigned misfortunes; and the paſſi⯑on of pity alone would make us throng to ſuch repreſentations, were there nothing elſe to attract the mind, or to afford ſatisfaction.

IT is owing to curioſity, that public ex⯑ecutions are ſo much frequented. Senſible people endeavour to correct an appetite, which, upon indulgence, gives pain and a⯑verſion, and, upon reflection, is attended with no degree of ſelf-approbation. Hence it is, that ſuch ſpectacles are the entertain⯑ment of the vulgar chiefly, who allow them⯑ſelves blindly to be led by the preſent in⯑ſtinct, with little attention whether it be conducive to their good or not.

AND as for prize-fighting and gladiatori⯑an ſhows, nothing animates and inſpires us more than examples of courage and bravery. We catch the ſpirit of the actor, and turn [30] bold and intrepid as he appears to be. On the other hand, we enter into the diſtreſſes of the vanquiſhed, and have a ſympathy for them in proportion to the gallantry of their behaviour. No wonder then, that ſuch ſhows are frequented by perſons of the beſt taſte. We are led by the ſame principle, that makes us fond of peruſing the lives of heroes and of conquerors. And it may be obſerved by-the-by, that ſuch ſpectacles have an admirable good effect in training up the youth to boldneſs and reſolution. In this, therefore, I ſee not that foreigners have rea⯑ſon to condemn the Engliſh taſte. Spec⯑tacles of this ſort deſerve encouragement from the ſtate, and to be made an object of public policy.

As for gaming, I cannot bring myſelf to think that there is any pleaſure in having the mind kept in ſuſpenſe, and as it were upon the rack, which muſt be the caſe of thoſe who venture their money at games of hazard. Inaction and idleneſs are not by [31] far ſo hard to bear. I am ſatisfied that the love of money is at the bottom. Nor is it a ſolid objection, that people will neglect games of skill and addreſs, to venture their money at hazard; for this may be owing to indo⯑lence, diffidence, or impatience. There is indeed a curious ſpeculation with regard to this article of gaming, that pleaſure and pain attend good and bad ſucceſs at play, inde⯑pendent of the money loſt or win. It is a plain caſe, that good luck raiſes our ſpirits, as bad luck depreſſes them, without regard to conſequences: and it ſeems extremely clear, that our concern at game, when we play for trifles, is owing to this very thing. What may be the root of this affection, is not ſo obvious. But as it is not neceſſarily connected with our preſent theme, I ſhall leave it to be inveſtigated by others.

ESSAY II. Of the FOUNDATION and PRINCIPLES of the LAW of NATURE.

ESSAY III. Of LIBERTY and NECESSITY.

WHEN we apply our thoughts to the contemplation of final cauſes, no ſubject more readily preſents itſelf than the natural world, which is ſtamped with the brighteſt characters of wiſdom and goodneſs. The moral world, being leſs in view, has been generally overlooked, tho' it yields not to the other in rich materials. Man's in⯑ward ſyſtem, accurately ſurveyed, will be found not leſs admirable than the external ſyſtem, of which he makes a part. The ſubject is the more curious, that the traces of wiſdom and deſign, diſcernible in our in⯑ternal frame, ly more out of common ſight. They are touches, as it were, of a finer pencil, and of a nicer hand, than are diſco⯑vered in the natural world. Thought is more ſubtile than motion, and more of exquiſite art is diſplayed in the laws of voluntary ac⯑tion, [152] than there is place for in adjuſting the laws of mere matter.

AN extreme beautiful ſcene opens to our view, when we conſider with what proprie⯑ty the ideas, feelings, and whole conſtituti⯑on of the mind of man, correſpond to his preſent ſtate. The impreſſions he receives, and the notions he forms, are accurately ad⯑apted to the uſeful purpoſes of life, tho' they do not correſpond in every inſtance to the philoſophic truth of things. It was not intended that man ſhould make profound diſcoveries. He is framed to be more an active than a contemplative being; and his views both of the natural and moral world are ſo adjuſted, as to be made ſubſervient to correctneſs of action rather than of belief. Several inſtances there are of perceptions, which, for want of a more proper term, may be called deceitful; becauſe they differ from the real truth. But man is not there⯑by in the leaſt miſled. On the contrary, the ends of life and action are better pro⯑vided [153] for by ſuch artifice, than if theſe per⯑ceptions were more exact copies of their ob⯑jects.

IN the natural world, ſomewhat of this kind is generally admitted by modern phi⯑loſophers. It is found, that the repreſentati⯑ons of external objects, and their qualities conveyed by the ſenſes, ſometimes differ from what philoſophy diſcovers theſe ob⯑jects, and their qualities to be. Thus a ſur⯑face appears ſmooth and uniform, when its roughneſs is not ſuch as to be hurtful. The ſame ſurface, examined with a microſcope, is found to be full of ridges and hollows. Were man endowed with a microſcopic eye, the bodies that ſurround him, would appear as different from what they do at preſent, as if he were tranſported into another world. His ideas, upon that ſuppoſition, would in⯑deed be more agreeable to ſtrict truth, but they would be far leſs ſerviceable in com⯑mon life. Further, it is now univerſally admitted, that the qualities called ſecundary, [154] which we by natural inſtinct attribute to matter, belong not properly to matter, nor exiſt really without us. Colour in particular is a ſort of viſionary beauty, which nature has ſpread over all her works. It is a wonderful artifice, to preſent objects to us thus differently diſtinguiſhed: to mark them out to the eye in various attires, ſo as to be beſt known and remembered: and to paint on the fancy, gay and lively, grand and ſtriking, or ſober and melancholy ſcenes: whence many of our moſt pleaſurable and moſt affecting ſenſations ariſe. Yet all this beauty of colours, with which heaven and earth appear clothed, is a ſort of romance and illuſion. For, among external objects, to which colours are attributed by ſenſe, there is really no other diſtinction, than what ariſes from a difference in the ſize and ar⯑rangement of the conſtituent parts, where⯑by the rays of light, are reflected or re⯑fracted in ſuch different ways, as to paint various colours on the retina of the eye. From this, and other inſtances of the ſame kind which might be adduced, it appears, [155] that our perceptions ſome times, are leſs ac⯑commodated to the truth of things, than to the end for which our ſenſes are deſigned. Nature, at the ſame time, has provided a re⯑medy; for ſhe ſeldom or never leaves us without means of diſcovering the deception, and arriving at the truth. And it is won⯑derful, that, even when we act upon theſe de⯑ceitful impreſſions, we are not betrayed in⯑to any thing that is hurtful. On the con⯑trary, life and action are better provided for, and the ends of our being fulfilled to more advantage, than if we conducted ourſelves by the ſtricteſt truth of things.

LET us carry on this ſpeculation from the natural to the moral world, and examine whether there are not here alſo, analogous inſtances of deceitful impreſſions. This will lead us into an unbeaten tract. We are to open a ſcene entirely new; which, like moſt other things that are new, may perhaps ſurprize the reader. But he will ſuſpend his judgment, 'till he has leiſurely reviewed [156] the whole: and then let him pronounce, whether our hypotheſis does not ſolve all the phoenomena: whether it does not tally with the nature of man, and illuſtrate the wiſdom and goodneſs of the author of his nature.

That nothing can happen without a cauſe, is a principle embraced by all men, the illi⯑terate and ignorant as well as the learned. Nothing that happens is conceived as hap⯑pening of itſelf, but as an effect produced by ſome other thing. However ignorant of the cauſe, we notwithſtanding conclude, that every event muſt have a cauſe. We ſhould perhaps be at a loſs to deduce this principle, from any premiſes, by a chain of reaſoning: but feeling affords conviction, where reaſon leaves us in the dark. We perceive, we feel the propoſition to be true. And, indeed, a ſentiment, common to all, muſt be founded on the common nature of all. Curioſity is one of the earlieſt paſſions that are diſcovered in children; and their [157] curioſity runs on nothing more than to have cauſes and reaſons given them, why ſuch a thing happened, or how it came about. Hiſtorians and politicians make it their chief concern, to trace the cauſes, of actions, the moſt myſterious not excepted. Be an event ever ſo extraordinary, the feeling of its be⯑ing an effect, is not in the leaſt weakened, even with the vulgar, who, rather than aſ⯑ſign no cauſe, recur to the operation of in⯑viſible powers. What is a cauſe with re⯑ſpect to its proper effect, is conſidered as an effect with reſpect to ſome prior cauſe, and ſo backward without end. Events thus viewed, in a train of cauſes and effects, ſhould naturally be conſidered, one would think, as neceſſary and fixed: for the relation be⯑twixt a cauſe and its effect implies ſome⯑what preciſe and determinate, and leads our thoughts to what muſt be, and cannot be o⯑therways than it is.

That we have ſuch a feeling as is above deſcribed, is not to be controverted: and [158] yet, when we ſearch further into human nature, a feeling of an oppoſite kind is diſ⯑covered, a feeling of chance or contingency in events; which is not leſs deeply rooted in our nature than the former. However ſtrange it may appear, that man ſhould be com⯑poſed of ſuch inconſiſtencies, the fact muſt notwithſtanding be admitted. This feeling of chance or contingency is moſt conſpicu⯑ous, when we look forward to future events. Some things we indeed always conſider, as certain or neceſſary, ſuch as the revoluti⯑on of ſeaſons, and the riſing and ſetting of the ſun. Theſe, as experience teaches, are regulated by fixed laws. But many things ap⯑pear to us looſe, fortuitous, uncertain. Uncer⯑tain not only with reſpect to us, on account of our ignorance of the cauſe, but uncertain in themſelves, or not tied down, and prede⯑termined to fall out, by any invariable law. We naturally make a diſtinction betwixt things that muſt be, and things that may be, or may not be. Thus we have a feeling of chance or of contingency in events, in which [159] that other feeling, of the dependency of e⯑vents upon preciſe and determinate cauſes, appears to be loſt.

WHEN we conſider in what view our own actions are perceived by the mind, there is ſomething which is equally ſtrange and ſurpriſing. It is admitted by all men, that we act from motives. The plain man, as well as the philoſopher, feels the connecti⯑on betwixt an action and its motive, to be ſo ſtrong, that, from this feeling, both of them reaſon with full confidence about the future actions of others. That an avariti⯑ous man, will take every fair opportunity of acquiring riches, is as little doubted, as that rain and ſun-ſhine will make plants grow. Why, but becauſe the motive of gain, is judged to operate, as certainly and infallibly, upon his temper, as heat and moiſture upon the ſoil, each to produce its proper effect? If we are uncertain what part a man will act, the uncertainty ariſes, not from our doubting whether he will act from a mo⯑tive; [160] for this is never called in queſtion: it ariſes from our not being able to judge, what the motive is, which, in his preſent circum⯑ſtances, will prevail. It being then a natu⯑ral feeling, that actions are ſo connected with their proper motives, as neceſſarily to ariſe from the temper, character, and other cir⯑cumſtances of the agent, it ſhould ſeem, that all the train of human actions, would occur to our minds as neceſſary and fixed. Yet human actions do not always appear to us in this light. It is a matter of fact, that the feeling varies, according to the dif⯑ferent poſitions of the object. Previous to any particular action, we indeed always judge, that the action will be the neceſſary reſult of ſome motive. But has a man done what is wrong and ſhameful? Inſtantly the feeling varies. We accuſe, and we condemn him, for acting the wrong and ſhameful part. We conceive that he had a power of acting otherways, and ought to have acted otherways. The whole train of our feeling, in a moment, accommodate themſelves to [161] the ſuppoſition of his being entirely a free agent.

THESE are phaenomena in human na⯑ture, of a very ſingular kind: feelings, which on both ſides are natural, and yet claſh with each other: every event admitted to have a neceſſary cauſe; and yet many events ſup⯑poſed contingent: every action admitted ne⯑ceſſarily to flow from a determining motive; and yet the ſame action, in an after view, conſidered and judged of as free. Our feel⯑ings are no doubt the teſt of truth; which is ſo evident, that, in many inſtances, no other means are afforded us for coming at the truth. The few exceptions that are diſco⯑vered by reaſon or experience, ſerve the more to confirm the general rule. But the feelings we have now laid open can be no teſt of truth; becauſe, in contradictory pro⯑poſitions, truth cannot ly on both ſides. There is no other way to get out of this la⯑byrinth of doubts and difficulties, than to enter upon a ſtrict ſurvey both of the natu⯑ral [162] and moral world, which may poſſibly lead to a diſcovery of what is really the truth of the matter. Let us then proceed, with impartiality and attention, to inquire what we are to believe, concerning contin⯑gency in events, and liberty or neceſſity in human actions: whether our feelings can be reconciled to each other, and reconciled to truth; or whether there be not here ſome of thoſe deceitful feelings, which we have al⯑ready hinted in ſome other inſtances to be⯑long to our nature.

TAKING a view of the natural world, we find all things there proceeding in a fixed and ſettled train of cauſes and effects. It is a point which admits of no diſpute, that all the changes produced in matter, and all the different modifications it aſſumes, are the re⯑ſult of fixed laws. Every effect is ſo pre⯑ciſely determined, that no other effect could, in ſuch circumſtances, have poſſibly reſult⯑ed from the operation of the cauſe: which holds even in the minuteſt changes of the [163] different elements, as all philoſophers ad⯑mit. Caſual and fluctuating as theſe ſeem, their ſmalleſt variation is a neceſſary effect of pre-eſtabliſhed laws. There is a chain of cauſes and effects which hang one upon an⯑other, running thro' this whole ſyſtem; and not the ſmalleſt link of the chain can be broken, without altering the whole con⯑ſtitution of things, or ſuſpending the regu⯑lar operation of the laws of nature. Here then, in the material world, there is nothing that can be called contingent; nothing that is left looſe; but every thing muſt be preciſe⯑ly what it is, and be found in that ſtate in which we find it.

IN the moral world, this does not appear ſo clearly. Man is the actor here. He is endowed with will, and he acts from choice. He has a power of beginning motion, which is ſubject to no mechanical laws; and there⯑fore he is not under what is called phyſical neceſſity. He has appetites and paſſions which prompt him to their reſpective gratifi⯑cations: [164] but he is under no neceſſity of blind ly ſubmitting to their impulſe. For reaſon has a power of reſtraint. It ſuggeſts motives from the cool views of good and evil. He de⯑liberates upon theſe. In conſequence of his deliberation he chuſes: and here, if any⯑where, lyes our liberty. Let us examine to what this liberty amounts. That motives have ſome influence in determining the mind, is certain; and that they have this influence in different degrees, is equally certain. The ſenſe of honour and gratitude, for in⯑ſtance, are powerful motives to ſerve a friend. Let the man's private intereſt con⯑cur; and the motives become more power⯑ful. Add the certain proſpect of poverty, ſhame, or bodily ſuffering, if he ſhall act a different part; and you leave him no choice: the motives to action are rendered irreſiſt⯑ible. Motives being once allowed to have a determining force in any degree, it is ea⯑ſy to ſuppoſe the force ſo augmented, by ac⯑cumulation of motives, as to leave little free⯑dom to the mind, or rather none at all. In [165] ſuch inſtances, there is no denying that we are under a neceſſity to act. And tho' this, to be ſure, is not phyſical neceſſity, as ariſ⯑ing not from the laws of matter, but from the conſtitution of the mind; yet the con⯑ſequence is equally certain, fixed and una⯑voidable, in the caſe of moral, as of phyſical neceſſity. This is ſo true, that, in ſome in⯑ſtances, theſe two kinds of neceſſity ſeem to coincide, ſo as ſcarcely to be diſtinguiſhed. A criminal walks to the ſcaffold in the midſt of his guards. No man will deny that he is under an abſolute neceſſity in this caſe. Why? becauſe he knows, that if he refuſes to go, they will drag him. I ask, Is this a phyſical, or a moral neceſſity? The anſwer, at firſt view, is not obvious; for the diſ⯑tinction betwixt theſe two ſeems loſt. And yet, ſtrictly ſpeaking, it is only a moral ne⯑ceſſity: for it is the force of a motive which determines the criminal to walk to the ſcaf⯑fold; to wit, that reſiſtance is vain, becauſe the guards are neither to be forced nor corrupted. The idea of neceſſity, howe⯑ver, [166] in the minds of the ſpectators, when they view the criminal in this ſituation, is not leſs ſtrong, than if they ſaw him bound and carried on a ſledge. Nothing is more common, than to talk of an action which one muſt do, and cannot avoid. He was compelled to it, we ſay; and it was impoſ⯑ſible he could act otherways: when, at the ſame time, all the compulſion we mean, is only the application of ſome very ſtrong mo⯑tive to the mind. This ſhows, that, in the judgment and feeling of all mankind, a mo⯑tive may, in certain circumſtances, carry in it the power of rendering an action neceſſa⯑ry. In other words, we expect ſuch an ac⯑tion in conſequence of ſuch a motive, with equal confidence, as when we expect to ſee a ſtone fall to the ground when it is dropt from the hand.

THIS, it will be ſaid, may hold in ſome in⯑ſtances, but not in all. For, in the greater part of human actions, there is a real feeling of liberty. When the mind heſitates betwixt [167] two things, examines and compares, and at laſt comes to a reſolution, is there any compulſi⯑on or neceſſity here? No compulſion, it is granted; but as to neceſſity, let us pauſe and examine more accurately. The reſolu⯑tion being taken, the choice being made, upon what is it founded? Certainly upon ſome motive, however ſilent or weak: for no mortal ever came to a determination, with⯑out the influence of ſome motive or other. If this be an undoubted fact, it follows of conſequence, that the determination muſt reſult, from that motive, which has the great⯑eſt influence for the time; or from what ap⯑pears the beſt and moſt eligible upon the whole. If motives be of very different kinds, with regard to ſtrength and influence, which we feel to be the caſe; it is involved in the very idea of the ſtrongeſt motive, that it muſt have the ſtrongeſt effect in determin⯑ing the mind. This can no more be doubt⯑ed of, than that, in a balance, the greater weight muſt turn the ſcale.

[168] HERE perhaps we ſhall be interrupted. Men are not always rational in their determinati⯑ons: they often act from whim, paſſion, humour, things as looſe and variable as the wind. This is admitted. But, ſuppoſe the motive which determines the mind, to be as whimſical and unreaſonable as you pleaſe, its influence, however, is equally neceſſary with that of the moſt rational motive. An indolent man, for inſtance, is incited to ac⯑tion, by the ſtrongeſt conſiderations, which reaſon, virtue, intereſt, can ſuggeſt. He wa⯑vers and heſitates; at laſt reſiſts them all, and folds his arms. What is the cauſe of this? Is it that he is leſs under the power of motives than another man? By no means. The love of reſt is his motive, his prevail⯑ing paſſion: and this is as effectual to fix him in his place, as the love of glory or riches are, to render active, the vain or the covetous. In ſhort, if motives are not under our pow⯑er or direction, which is confeſſedly the fact, we can, at bottom, have no liberty. We are ſo conſtituted, that we cannot exert a ſingle [169] action, but with ſome view, aim or purpoſe. At the ſame time, when two oppoſite mo⯑tives preſent themſelves, we have not the power of an arbitrary choice. We are di⯑rected, by a neceſſary determination of our nature, to prefer the ſtrongeſt motive.

IT is true, that, in diſputing upon this ſubject of human liberty, a man may attempt to ſhow, that motives have no neceſſary in⯑fluence, by eating perhaps the worſt apple that is before him, or, in ſome ſuch trifling inſtance, preferring an obviouſly leſſer good to a greater. But is it not plain, that the humour of ſhowing that he can act againſt motives, is, in this caſe, the very motive of the whimſical preference?

A COMPARISON inſtituted betwixt mo⯑ral and phyſical neceſſity may poſſibly throw additional light upon this ſubject. Where the motives to any action are perfectly full, cogent and clear, the feeling of liberty, as we ſhowed before, entirely vaniſhes. In [170] other caſes, where the field of choice is wider, and where oppoſite motives counter⯑balance and work againſt each other, the mind fluctuates for a while, and feels itſelf more looſe: but, in the end, muſt as neceſ⯑ſarily be determined to the ſide of the moſt powerful motive, as the balance, after ſeve⯑ral vibrations; muſt incline to the ſide of the preponderating weight. The laws of mind, and the laws of matter, are in this reſpect per⯑fectly ſimilar; tho', in making the compariſon, we are apt to deceive ourſelves. In form⯑ing a notion of phyſical neceſſity, we ſeldom think of any force, but what has viſibly a full effect. A man in priſon, or tied to a poſt, muſt remain there. If he is dragged along, he cannot reſiſt. Whereas motives, which, from the higheſt to the loweſt, are very different, do not always produce ſen⯑ſible effects. Yet, when the compariſon is accurately inſtituted, the very ſame thing holds in the actions of matter. A weak mo⯑tive makes ſome impreſſion: but, in oppoſi⯑tion to one more powerful, it has no effect [171] to determine the mind. In the preciſe ſame manner, a ſmall force will not overcome a great reſiſtance; nor the weight of an ounce in one ſcale, counter-balance a pound in the other. Comparing together the actions of mind and matter, ſimilar cauſes will, in both equally, produce ſimilar effects.

BUT admitting all that has been contend⯑ed for, of the neceſſary influence of mo⯑tives, to bring on the choice or laſt judg⯑ment of the underſtanding, it is urged by Dr. Clark, that man is ſtill a free agent, be⯑cauſe he has a power of acting, or beginning motion according to his will. In this, he places human liberty, that motives are not phyſical efficient cauſes of motion ^*. We agree with the doctor, that the immediate efficient cauſe of motion is not the motive, but the will to act. No perſon ever held, that the pleaſure of a ſummer-evening, when a man goes abroad into the fields, is [172] the immediate cauſe of the motion of his feet. But what does this obſervation avail, when the prevailing motive, the will to act, and the action itſelf, are three things inſepa⯑rably linked together? The motive, accord⯑ing to his own conceſſion, neceſſarily deter⯑mines the will; and the will neceſſarily pro⯑duces the action, unleſs it be obſtructed by ſome foreign force. Is not the action, by conſequence, as neceſſary, as the will to act; tho the motive be the immediate cauſe of the will only, and not of the action or be⯑ginning of motion? What does this author gain, by ſhowing, that we have a power of beginning motion, if that power never is, never can be, exerted, unleſs in conſequence of ſome volition or choice, which is neceſſa⯑rily cauſed? But, ſays he, it is only a moral neceſſity which is produced by motives; and a moral neceſſity, he adds, is no neceſſity at all, but is conſiſtent with the higheſt liberty. If theſe words have any meaning, the diſpute is at an end. For moral neceſſity, being that ſort of neceſſity which affects the mind, [173] and phyſical neceſſity that which affects matter, it is plain, that, in all reaſonings concerning human liberty, moral neceſſity, and no other, is meant to be eſtabliſhed. The laws of action, we ſay, which reſpect the human mind, are as fixed as thoſe which reſpect matter. The different nature of theſe laws, occaſions the fixed conſequences of the one to be called moral, and of the other to be called phyſical neceſſity. But the idea of neceſſary, certain, unavoidable, equally agrees to both. And to ſay that moral neceſſity is no neceſſity at all, becauſe it is not phyſi⯑cal neceſſity, which is all that the doctor's argument amounts to, is no better, than to argue, that phyſical neceſſity is no neceſſity at all, becauſe it is not moral neceſſity.

ONE great ſource of confuſion, in reflect⯑ing upon this ſubject, ſeems to be, our not diſtinguiſhing betwixt neceſſity and con⯑ſtraint. In common language, theſe are uſed as equivalent terms; but they ought to be diſtinguiſhed when we treat of this ſubject. A perſon, having a ſtrong deſire to eſcape, [174] remains in priſon, becauſe the doors are guarded. Finding his keepers gone, he makes his eſcape. His eſcape now is as ne⯑ceſſary, i. e. as certain and infallible a con⯑ſequence of the circumſtances he finds him⯑ſelf in, as his confinement was before; tho', in the one caſe there is conſtraint, in the other none. In this lyes the liberty of our actions, in being free from conſtraint, and in acting according to our inclination and choice. But as this inclination and choice is unavoidably cauſed or occaſioned by the prevailing motive; in this lyes the neceſſi⯑ty of our actions, that, in ſuch circumſtances, it was impoſſible we could act otherways. In this ſenſe all our actions are equally ne⯑ceſſary.

THE preceeding reaſonings may perhaps make a ſtronger impreſſion, by being reduc⯑ed into a ſhort argument, after this manner. No man can be conceived to act without ſome principle leading him to action. All our principles of action reſolve into deſires and averſions; for nothing can prompt us to [175] move or exert ourſelves in any ſhape, but what preſents ſome object to be either pur⯑ſued or avoided. A motive is an object ſo operating upon the mind, as to produce ei⯑ther deſire or averſion. Now, liberty as op⯑poſed to moral neceſſity, muſt ſignify a pow⯑er in the mind, of acting without or againſt motives; that is to ſay, a power of acting without any view, purpoſe or deſign, and even of acting in contradiction to our own deſires and averſions, or to all our principles of action; which power, beſides that no man was ever conſcious of it, ſeems to be an ab⯑ſurdity altogether inconſiſtent with a rati⯑onal nature.

WITH regard to things ſuppoſed ſo equal as to found no preference of one to another, it is not neceſſary to enter into any intricate inquiry, how the mind in ſuch caſes is di⯑rected. Tho' it ſhould be admitted, that where there is no ſort of motive to influ⯑ence the mind, it may exert a power of act⯑ing arbitrarily, this would not affect the pre⯑ceeding [176] reaſonings, in which, the exiſtence of a motive being once ſuppoſed, we have ſhown the mind to be neceſſarily determined. Ob⯑jects, ſo balanced one againſt another with perfect equality, if ſuch inſtances are to be found, muſt be ſo few, and in matters ſo trivial (as in the common inſtance of eggs) that they can have very inconſiderable influ⯑ence upon human life. It may well admit of a doubt, whether the mind be, in any caſe, left altogether deſtitute of a motive to determine its choice betwixt two objects. For, tho' the objects ſhould be themſelves perfectly e⯑qual, yet various circumſtances ariſing from minute unobſerved ſpecialitics, of fancy, cuſ⯑tom, proximity of place, &c. may turn the ſcale in favours of one of the objects, to make it the motive of election. The un⯑eaſineſs one is conſcious of, when in this ſtate of ſuſpenſe, betwixt two things equally balanced, ſearching and caſting about for ſome ground of choice; this uneaſineſs, I ſay, ſufficiently ſhows, that to act altogether [177] arbitrary is unnatural, and that our conſti⯑tution fits us to be determined by motives.

BUT now a thought comes acroſs the mind, which demands attention. How hard is the lot of the human ſpecies, to be thus tied down and fixed to motives; ſubjected by a neceſſary law to the choice of evil, if evil happen to be the prevailing motive, or if it miſlead us under the form of our greateſt in⯑tereſt or good! How happy to have had a free independent power of acting contrary to motives, when the prevailing motive has a bad tendency! By this power, we might have puſhed our way to virtue and happi⯑neſs, whatever motives were ſuggeſted by vice and folly to draw us back; or we might, by arbitrary will, have refrained from act⯑ing the bad part, tho' all the power of mo⯑tives concurred to urge us on. So far well; but let us ſee whither this will carry us. This arbitrary power being once ſuppoſed, may it not be exerted againſt good motives as well as bad ones? If it does us good by [178] accident, in reſtraining us from vice, may it not do us ill by accident, in reſtraining us from virtue? and ſo ſhall we not be thrown looſe altogether? At this rate, no man could be depended upon. Promiſes, oaths, vows, would be in vain; for nothing can ever bind or fix a man who is influenced by no mo⯑tive. The diſtinction of characters would be at an end; for a perſon cannot have a cha⯑racter, who has no fixed or uniform princi⯑ples of action. Nay, moral virtue itſelf, and all the force of law, rule and obligation, would, upon this hypotheſis, be nothing. For no creature can be the ſubject of ra⯑tional or moral government, whoſe actions, by the conſtitution of its nature, are inde⯑pendent of motives; and whoſe will is ca⯑pricious and arbitrary. To exhort, to in⯑ſtruct, to promiſe, or to threaten, would be to no purpoſe. In ſhort, ſuch a creature, if ſuch could exiſt, would be a moſt bi⯑zarre and unaccountable being: a mere abſurdity in nature, whoſe exiſtence could ſerve no end. Were we ſo conſtituted, as [179] always to be determined by the moral ſenſe, even againſt the ſtrongeſt counter-motives, this would be conſiſtent with human nature, becauſe it would preſerve entire the con⯑nection, that, by an unalterable law, is eſta⯑bliſhed betwixt the will and the prevailing motive. But, to break this connection alto⯑gether, to introduce an unbounded arbitrary liberty, in oppoſition to which, motives ſhould not have influence, would be, inſtead of amending, to deform and unhinge the whole human conſtitution. No reaſon have we therefore to regret, that we find the will neceſſarily ſubjected to motives. The truth of this general poſition muſt coincide with our wiſh, unleſs we would rather have man to be, a whimſical and ridiculous, than a rational and moral being.

THUS far then we have advanced in our argument, that all human actions proceed in a fixed and neceſſary train. Man being what he is, a creature endowed with a cer⯑tain degree of underſtanding, certain paſſi⯑ons [180] and principles, and placed in certain circumſtances, it is impoſſible he ſhould will or chuſe otherways, than in fact he wills or chuſes. His mind is paſſive in receiving im⯑preſſions of things as good or ill: accord⯑ing to theſe impreſſions, the laſt judgment of the underſtanding is neceſſarily formed; which the will, if conſidered as different from the laſt judgment of the underſtand⯑ing, neceſſarily obeys, as is fully ſhown; and the external action is neceſſarily connect⯑ed with the will, or the mind's final deter⯑mination to act.

IN the courſe of this reaſoning, we have abſtracted from all controverſies about Di⯑vine Preſcience and Decree. Tho' in fact, from what has been proved, it appears, that the Divine Being decrees all future events. For he who gave ſuch a nature to his crea⯑tures, and placed them in ſuch circumſtan⯑ces, that a certain train of actions behov⯑ed neceſſarily to follow; he, I ſay, who did ſo, and who muſt have foreſeen the conſe⯑quences, [181] did certainly reſolve or decree that events ſhould fall out, and men ſhould act as they do. Preſcience indeed is not, pro⯑perly ſpeaking, any cauſe of events. For events do not happen, becauſe they are fore⯑ſeen; but becauſe they are certainly to hap⯑pen, therefore they are capable of being fore⯑ſeen. Tho' preſcience does not cauſe, yet it undoubtedly ſuppoſes, the certain futuriti⯑on (as ſchoolmen ſpeak) of events. And, were there not cauſes which render the ex⯑iſtence of future events certain, it would in⯑volve a contradiction to maintain, that fu⯑ture events could be certainly foreſeen. But I avoid carrying the reader any further in⯑to ſuch thorny diſputes.

THE ſum of what we have diſcovered concerning contingency in events, and liber⯑ty in actions is this. Comparing together the moral and the natural world, every thing is as much the reſult of eſtabliſhed laws in the one as in the other. There is nothing in the whole univerſe that can properly be [182] called contingent, that may be, or may not be; nothing looſe and fluctuating in any part of nature; but every motion in the na⯑tural, and every determination and action in the moral world, are directed by immutable laws: ſo that, whilſt theſe laws remain in their force, not the ſmalleſt link of the uni⯑verſal chain of cauſes and effects can be broken, nor any one thing be otherways than it is ^*.

[183] THE doctrine of univerſal neceſſity being thus laid fairly open, and proved to be the true ſyſtem of the univerſe; we return to take a more deliberate view of the feelings of contingency and liberty, than was neceſ⯑ſary in broaching the ſubject. And, as we muſt now admit, perhaps reluctantly, that theſe feelings are in reality of the deluſive kind, our next and only remaining theme will be to unravel, if poſſible, this curious myſtery, by trying to reach the purpoſe of endowing man with feelings, ſo contra⯑dictory to the truth of things.

AND to begin with a review of the feel⯑ing of contingency. It is certain, that, in our ordinary train of thinking, things never oc⯑cur to us in the light above ſet forth. A multitude of events appear to us as depend⯑ing upon ourſelves to cauſe or to prevent: and we readily make a diſtinction betwixt events, which are neceſſary, i. e. which muſt be, and events which are contingent, i. e. which may [184] be, or may not be. This diſtinction is with⯑out foundation in truth: for all things that fall out, either in the natural or moral world, are, as we have ſeen, alike neceſſary, and a⯑like the reſult of fixed laws. Yet, how much ſoever a philoſopher may be convinced of this, the diſtinction betwixt things neceſſary, and things contingent, remains as much with him, in the common train of his thoughts, as with any other man. We act univerſally upon this ſuppoſed diſtinction. Nay, it is in truth the foundation of all the labour, care and induſtry of mankind. To illuſtrate this by an example; conſtant expe⯑rience has taught us, that death is a neceſſa⯑ry event. The human frame is not made to laſt, as it is, for ever; and therefore no man thinks of acquiring a natural immorta⯑lity. But the particular time of our death appears a contingent event. However cer⯑tain it be, that the preciſe time and man⯑ner of each man's death, is determined by a train of preceeding cauſes, not leſs neceſſa⯑ry than the hour of the ſun's riſing or ſetting [185] to-morrow, yet no perſon is in the leaſt af⯑fected by this doctrine. In the care of pro⯑longing life, every man is conducted by the feeling he has, of the contingency of the time of his death; which, to a certain term of years, he conſiders as depending in a great meaſure upon himſelf, by caution againſt ac⯑cidents, due uſe of exerciſe, medicine, &c. To theſe means, he applies himſelf with the ſame diligence, as if there was, in fact, no neceſſary train of cauſes, to fix the period of his life. In ſhort, whoever attends to his own practical ideas; whoever reflects upon the meaning of theſe words, which occur in all languages, of things poſſible, contingent, that are in our power to cauſe or prevent; whoever, I ſay, reflects upon ſuch words, will clearly ſee, that they ſuggeſt certain feelings, or natural notions, repugnant to the doctrine above eſtabliſhed, of univerſal ne⯑ceſſity ^*.

[186] WHAT then ſhall be done in this caſe, where truth contradicts the common feel⯑ings and natural notions of mankind; where it preſents to us, with irreſiſtible evidence, a ſyſtem of univerſal neceſſity upon which we never act; but are ſo formed, as to conduct [187] ourſelves by a ſyſtem of notions quite oppo⯑ſite? Shall we ſacrifice abſtract truth to feel⯑ing? or ſhall we ſtand by truth, and force our feelings into compliance? Neither of theſe will do. Truth is too rigid to bend to mere feeling; and our feelings are inca⯑pable of being forced by ſpeculation. The attempt is vain, pugnantia ſecum, frontibus adverſis, componere. Let us be honeſt then. Let us fairly own, that the truth of things is on the ſide of neceſſity; but that it was neceſſary for man to be formed, with ſuch feelings and notions of contingency, as would fit him for the part he has to act. This thought requires illuſtration.

THE Deity is the firſt cauſe of all things. He formed, in his infinite mind, the great plan or ſcheme, upon which all things were to be governed; and put it in execution, by eſtabliſhing certain laws, both in the natural and moral world, which are fixed and im⯑mutable. By virtue of theſe laws, all things proceed in a regular train of cauſes and ef⯑fects, [188] bringing about thoſe events which are comprehended in the original plan, and ad⯑mitting the poſſibility of none other. This univerſe is a vaſt machine, winded up and ſet a going. The ſeveral ſprings and wheels act unerringly one upon another. The hand advances, and the clock ſtrikes, pre⯑ciſely as the artiſt has determined. Whoe⯑ver has juſt ideas, and a true taſte of philo⯑ſophy, will ſee this to be the real theory, of the univerſe; and that, upon any other the⯑ory, there can be no general order, no whole, no plan, no means nor end in its adminiſtration. In this plan, man, a ratio⯑nal creature, was to bear his part, and to ful⯑fill certain ends, for which he was deſigned. He was to appear as an actor, and to act with conſciouſneſs and ſpontaneity. He was to exerciſe thought and reaſon, and to receive the improvements of his nature, by the due uſe of theſe rational powers. Conſequently it was neceſſary, that he ſhould have ſome idea of liberty; ſome feeling of things poſ⯑ſible and contingent, things depending upon [189] himſelf to cauſe, that he might be led to a proper exerciſe of that activity, for which he was deſigned. To have had his inſtinctive feelings, his practical ideas, formed upon the ſcheme of univerſal neceſſity; to have ſeen himſelf a part of that great machine, wind⯑ed up, and ſet a going, by the author of his nature, would have been altogether incon⯑gruous to the ends he was to fulfill. Then, indeed, the ignava ratio, the inactive doc⯑trine of the Stoicks, would have followed. Conceiving nothing to be contingent, or de⯑pending upon himſelf to cauſe, there would have been no room for fore-thought about futurity, nor for any ſort of induſtry and care: he would have had no motives to ac⯑tion, but immediate ſenſations of pleaſure and pain. He muſt have been formed like the brutes, who have no other principle of action, but mere inſtinct. The few inſtincts he is at preſent endowed with, would have been altogether inſufficient. He muſt have had an inſtinct to ſow, another to reap. He muſt have had inſtincts to purſue every con⯑veniency, [190] and perform every office of life. In ſhort, reaſon and thought could not have been exerciſed in the way they are, that is, man could not have been man, had he not been furniſhed with a feeling of contingen⯑cy. In this, as in all things elſe, the Di⯑vine Wiſdom and Goodneſs are moſt admi⯑rable. As, in the natural world, the Al⯑mighty has adapted our ſenſes, not to the diſcovery of the intimate nature and eſſen⯑ces of things, but to the uſes and conveni⯑encies of life; as he has, in ſeveral inſtan⯑ces, exhibited natural objects to us, not in their real, but in a ſort of artificial view, clothed with ſuch diſtinctions, and produc⯑ing ſuch ſenſations as are for the benefit of man: ſo he has exhibited the intellectual world to us, in a like artificial view, clothed with certain colours and diſtinctions, ima⯑ginary, but uſeful. Life is conducted ac⯑cording to this artificial view of things, and, by our ſpeculations, is not in the leaſt affect⯑ed. Let the philoſopher meditate in his cloſet upon abſtract truth; let him be ever [191] ſo much convinced of the ſettled, neceſſary, train of cauſes and effects, which leaves no⯑thing, properly ſpeaking, in his power; yet, the moment he comes forth into the world, he acts as a free agent. And, what is won⯑derful, tho' in this he acts upon a falſe ſup⯑poſition, yet he is not thereby miſled from the ends of action, but, on the contrary, ful⯑fills them, to the beſt advantage. Long ex⯑perience has made him ſenſible, that ſome things, ſuch as the ſun's riſing and ſetting, depend upon immutable laws. This is contradicted by no feeling, as it is no way for his benefit, that he ſhould act upon a⯑ny other ſuppoſition, Such things he rec⯑kons upon as neceſſary. But there are other things, which depend upon the ſpontancous choices of men, or upon a concurrence of natural and moral cauſes. As to theſe, he has not knowledge enough, to foreſee and determine by what law they will happen: and his ignorance of the event, is made to have the ſame effect upon his mind, as if the event were what we vulgarly call contin⯑gent. [192] Its uncertainty as to him produces the ſame feeling, and ſtirs him up to the ſame activity, as if it were uncertain in itſelf, and had no determined cauſe of its futurition. This feeling then of contingency, and all the ideas connected with it, may be treated as ſecondary qualities, which have no real exiſtence in things; but, like other ſeconda⯑ry qualities, are made to appear as exiſting in events, or belonging to them, in order to ſerve the neceſſary purpoſes of human life.

Some objections ſhall be conſidered, after diſcuſſing the other branch of the diſquiſi⯑tion concerning liberty of action. Theſe ſubjects are ſo cloſely connected, that they cannot fail to throw light upon each other. Contingency in events is analogous to liber⯑ty in actions. The one is a ſuppoſed quali⯑ty of the thing; the other of the actor.

The extent of human liberty is above aſ⯑certained. It conſiſts in ſpontaneity, or act⯑ing according to our inclination and choice. [193] It may be therefore diſtinguiſhed from con⯑ſtraint, but muſt not be oppoſed to neceſſi⯑ty. For, as has been fully ſhown, the mind, in the moſt calm choice, the moſt deliberate action, is neceſſarily, i. e. unavoidably and certainly, determined by the prepollent mo⯑tive. When we examine accurately, how far our feelings correſpond to this ſyſtem; we find, as was hinted before, firſt, that, an⯑tecedent to any particular action, we gene⯑rally think and reaſon upon the ſcheme of neceſſity. In conſidering or gueſſing at fu⯑ture events, we always conclude, that a man will act conſiſtently with his character; we infer what his actions will be, from the knowledge we have of his temper, and the motives that are fitted to influence it; and never dream of any man's having a power of acting againſt motives. Here we have a ve⯑ry weak feeling, if any at all, of liberty, as diſtinguiſhed from neceſſity: and wiſely ſo ordered, that a clue, as it were, might be afforded, to guide us in the labyrinth of fu⯑ture actions, which, were it not for the con⯑nection [194] betwixt an action and its motive, would appear like a rope of ſand, looſe and unconnected; and no means left of reaſon⯑ing upon, or foreſeeing future actions. It is to be obſerved in the next place, that, dur⯑ing the action, the feeling begins to vary; and, unleſs in caſes where the motive is ſo ſtrong and overbearing, as to approach to the nature of conſtraint; unleſs, in theſe, a man has a feeling of liberty, or of a power of acting otherways than he is doing. But, in the third place, it is principally in reflect⯑ing and paſſing judgment upon a paſt action, that the feeling of liberty is ſenſible and ſtrong. Then it is, that our actions are not conſidered as proceeding in a neceſſary una⯑voidable train: but we accuſe and blame o⯑thers, for not having acted the part they might and ought to have acted, and condemn our⯑ſelves, and feel remorſe, for having been guil⯑ty of a wrong we might have refrained from. The operations of moral conſcience plainly proceed upon this ſuppoſition, that there is ſuch a power in man of directing [195] his actions, as rendered it poſſible for the perſon accuſed, to have acted a better part. This affords an argument, which the advo⯑cates for liberty have urged in its full force, againſt the doctrine of neceſſity. They rea⯑ſon thus: If actions be neceſſary, and not in our own power, and if we know it to be ſo, what ground can there be for reprehen⯑ſion and blame, for ſelf-condemnation and remorſe? If a clock had underſtanding to be ſenſible of its own motions, knowing, at the ſame time, that they proceed according to neceſſary laws, could it find fault with itſelf for ſtriking wrong? Would it not blame the artiſt, who had ill adjuſted the wheels on which its movements depended? So that, upon this ſcheme, ſay they, all the moral conſtitution of our nature is over⯑turned. There is an end to all the operati⯑ons of conſcience about right and wrong. Man is no longer a moral agent, nor the ſub⯑ject of praiſe or blame for what he does.

[196] THIS difficulty is great, and never has been ſurmounted by the advocates for ne⯑ceſſity. They endeavour to ſurmount it, by reconciling feeling to philoſophic truth, in the following manner. We are ſo conſtitut⯑ed, they ſay, that certain affections, and the actions which proceed from them, appear o⯑dious and baſe; and others agreeable and lovely; that, wherever they are beheld, ei⯑ther in ourſelves or others, the moral ſenſe neceſſarily approves of the one, and con⯑demns the other; that this approbation is immediate and inſtinctive, without any re⯑flection on the liberty or neceſſity of acti⯑ons; that, on the contrary, the more any perſon is under the power of his affections and paſſions, and, by conſequence, the great⯑er neceſſity he is under, the more virtuous or vicious he is eſteemed.

BUT this account of the matter is not ſa⯑tisfactory. All that is here ſaid, is in the main true, but is not the whole truth. I appeal to any man who has been guilty of a bad action, which gives him uneaſineſs, whe⯑ther [197] there is not ſomewhat more in the inward feeling, than merely a diſlike or diſapprobation of the affection, from which his action proceeded? whether the pain, the cruciatus of remorfe, is not founded on the notion of a power he has over his will and actions, that he might have for⯑born to do the ill thing? and whether it is not upon this account, that he is gall⯑ed within, angry at himſelf, and confeſſ⯑es himſelf to be juſtly blameable? An unea⯑ſineſs ſomewhat of the ſame kind, is felt up⯑on the reflection of any fooliſh or raſh acti⯑on, committed againſt the rules of wiſdom. The ſting is indeed much ſharper, and for very wiſe reaſons, when a man has treſpaſſ⯑ed againſt the rules of ſtrict morality. But, in both caſes, the uneaſineſs proceeds upon the ſuppoſition, that he was free, and had it in his power to have acted a better part. This indeed is true, that to be ſo entirely under the power of any bad paſſion, (luſt, for in⯑ſtance, or cruelty) as to be incapable of act⯑ing otherways than they direct, conſtitutes [198] a very hateful character. I admit, that all ſuch ill affections are naturally, and in them⯑ſelves, the objects of diſlike and hatred, where⯑ever they are beheld. But I inſiſt upon it, that mere diſlike and hatred, are not the whole, but only a part of the moral feeling. The perſon, thus under the dominion of bad paſſions, is accuſed, is condemned, ſingly up⯑on this ground, that it was thro' his own fault he became ſo ſubject to them; in other words, that it was in his power, to have kept his mind free from the enſlaving influ⯑ence of corrupt affections. Were not this the caſe, brute animals might be the objects of moral blame, as well as man. Some beaſts are reckoned ſavage and cruel, others treacherous and falſe: we diſlike, we hate creatures ſo ill conſtituted: but we do not blame nor condemn them, as we do rational agents; becauſe they are not ſuppoſed to have a ſenſe of right and wrong, nor free⯑dom and power of directing their actions ac⯑cording to that inward rule. We muſt therefore admit, that the idea of freedom, [199] of a power of regulating our will and acti⯑ons according to certain rules, is eſſential to the moral feeling. On the ſyſtem of u⯑niverſal neceſſity, abſtracted from this feel⯑ing, tho' certain affections and actions might excite our approbation, and others our diſ⯑like, there could be no place for blame or remorſe. All the ideas would entirely va⯑niſh, which at preſent are ſuggeſted by the words ought and ſhould, when applied to mo⯑ral conduct.

HERE then is another inſtance of a natu⯑ral feeling, oppoſed to philoſophic truth, a⯑nalogous to what is before conſidered. It is the more remarkable, that it has given riſe to thoſe diſputes about liberty and ne⯑ceſſity, which have ſubſiſted thro' all ages in the inquiring world; which, ſince the ear⯑lieſt accounts of philoſophy, have run thro' all different ſects of philoſophers, and have been ingrafted into moſt of the religious ſyſ⯑tems. We are now able, I imagine, to give a clear and ſatisfactory account why the dif⯑ferent [200] parties never could agree; becauſe, in truth, the feeling of liberty, which we have, does not agree with the real fact. Thoſe who were boldeſt in their inquiries, traced out the philoſophic truth: they ſaw that all things proceeded in a neceſſary train of cau⯑ſes and effects, which rendered it impoſſible for them, to act otherways than they did; and to this ſyſtem they adhered, without yielding to natural feelings. Thoſe again, who had not courage to oppoſe the firſt and moſt obvious feelings of their heart, ſtopped ſhort, and adhered to liberty. It is obſerv⯑able, that the ſide of liberty has always been the moſt popular, and moſt generally embraced: and, upon this ſyſtem, all popu⯑lar diſcourſes and exhortations muſt needs proceed. Even thoſe perſons, whoſe phi⯑loſophical tenets are built upon the ſyſtem of neceſſity, find themſelves obliged to de⯑ſert that ſyſtem, in popular argument, and to adopt the ſtile and language of thoſe who eſpouſe liberty. Among the antients, the great aſſertors of neceſſity were the Stoicks; [201] a ſevere and rigid ſect, whoſe profeſſed doc⯑trine it was, to ſubdue all our feelings to philoſophy. The Platonics, Academics and Epicureans, who embraced a ſofter ſcheme of philoſophy, and were more men of the world than the Stoics, leaned to the ſide of liberty. Both parties have their own advantages in reaſoning; and both, when puſhed, run into difficulties, from which they can never extricate themſelves. The advocates for liberty talk with great ad⯑vantage upon the moral powers of man, and his character as an accountable being: but are at a loſs, how to give any view of the univerſe, as a regular pre-adjuſted plan; and when urged with the connection betwixt the motive and the action, and the neceſſa⯑ry train of cauſes and effects, which reſults from admitting it to be a fixed connection, they find themſelves greatly embarraſſed. Here the patrons of neceſſity triumph. They have manifeſtly all the advantages of ſpeculative argument; whilſt they fail in ac⯑counting for man's moral powers, and ſtruggle [202] in vain to reconcile to their ſyſtem, the teſ⯑timony which conſcience clearly gives to freedom.

LET us then fairly acknowledge, concern⯑ing both theſe claſſes of philoſophers, that they were partly in the right, and partly in the wrong. They divided, as it were, the truth betwixt them. The one had abſtract reaſon on their ſide: the other had natu⯑ral feeling. In endeavouring to reconcile theſe oppoſites, both parties failed; and the vain attempt has rendered the controverſy difficult and perplexed. After having aſ⯑certained the foundation, upon which the doctrine of neceſſity is built, and which ſeems incapable of being ſhaken, let us fair⯑ly and candidly take our nature as we find it, which will lead us to this concluſion, that tho' man, in truth, is a neceſſary agent, having all his actions determined by fixed and im⯑mutable laws; yet that, this being concealed from him, he acts with the conviction of be⯑ing a free agent. It is concealed from him, [203] I ſay, as to the purpoſes of action: for whatever diſcoveries he makes as a philoſo⯑pher, theſe affect not his conduct as a man. In principle and ſpeculation, let him be a moſt rigid fataliſt; he has nevertheleſs all the feelings which would ariſe from power over his own actions. He is angry at himſelf when he has done wrong. He praiſes and blames juſt like other men: nor can all his principles ſet him above the reach of ſelf-condemnation and remorſe, when conſci⯑ence at any time ſmites him. It is true, that a man of this belief, when he is ſeeking to make his mind eaſy, after ſome bad action, may reaſon upon the principles of neceſſity, that, according to the conſtitution of his nature, it was impoſſible for him to have acted any other part. But this will give him little re⯑lief. In ſpite of all reaſonings, his remorſe will ſubſiſt. Nature never intended us to act upon this plan; and our natural princi⯑ples are too deeply rooted, to give way to phi⯑loſophy. This caſe is preciſely ſimilar to that of contingency. A feeling of liberty, [204] which I now ſcruple not to call deceitful, is ſo interwoven with our nature, that it has an equal effect in action, as if we were real⯑ly endued with ſuch a power.

HAVING explained, at full length, this re⯑markable feeling of liberty, and examined, as we went along, ſome arguments againſt neceſſity that are founded upon it; we now proceed to handle this feeling, as we have done that of contingency, with regard to its final cauſe. And in this branch of our na⯑ture are diſplayed the greateſt wiſdom, and the greateſt goodneſs. Man muſt be ſo con⯑ſtituted, in order to attain the proper im⯑provement of his nature, in virtue and hap⯑pineſs. Put the caſe, he were entirely di⯑veſted of his preſent ideas of liberty: ſup⯑poſe him to ſee and conceive his own nature, and the conſtitution of things, in the light of ſtrict philoſophic truth; in the ſame light they are beheld by the deity: to conceive him⯑ſelf, and all his actions, neceſſarily linked into the great chain of cauſes and effects, which [205] renders the whole order both of the natural and moral world unalterably determined in every article: ſuppoſe, I ſay, our natural feelings, our practical ideas to ſuit and tally with this, which is the real plan; and what would follow? Why, an entire derangement of our preſent ſyſtem of action, eſpecially with regard to the motives which now lead us to virtue. There would ſtill indeed be ground for the love of virtue, as the beſt conſtitution of nature, and the only ſure foundation of happineſs; and, in this view, we might be grieved when we found our⯑ſelves deficient in good principles. But this would be all. We could feel no inward ſelf-approbation on doing well, no remorſe on doing ill; becauſe both the good and the ill were neceſſary and unavoidable. There would be no more place for applauſe or blame among mankind: none of that gene⯑rous indignation we now feel at the bad, as perſons who have abuſed and perverted their rational powers: no more notion of ac⯑countableneſs for the uſe of thoſe powers: no [206] ſenſe of ill deſert, or juſt puniſhment annex⯑ed to crimes as their due; nor of any reward merited by worthy and generous actions. All theſe ideas, and feelings, ſo uſeful to men in their moral conduct, vaniſh at once with the feeling of liberty. There would be field for no other paſſions but love and hatred, ſorrow and pity: and the ſenſe of duty, of being obliged to certain things which we ought to perform, muſt be quite extinguiſh⯑ed; for we can have no conception of mo⯑ral obligation, without ſuppoſing a power in the agent over his own actions.

IT appears then moſt fit and wiſe, that we ſhould be endued with a ſenſe of liberty; without which, man muſt have been ill qua⯑lified for acting his preſent part. That ar⯑tificial light, in which the feeling of liberty preſents the moral world to our view, an⯑ſwers all the good purpoſes of making the actions of man entirely dependent upon him⯑ſelf. His happineſs and miſery appear to be in his own power. He appears praiſe⯑worthy [207] or culpable, according as he im⯑proves or neglects his rational faculties. The idea of his being an accountable crea⯑rure ariſes. Reward ſeems due to merit; puniſhment to crimes. He feels the force of moral obligation. In ſhort, new paſſions ariſe, and a variety of new ſprings are ſet in motion, to make way for new exertions of reaſon and activity. In all which, tho' man is really actuated by laws of neceſſary influ⯑ence, yet he ſeems to move himſelf: and whilſt the univerſal ſyſtem is gradually carri⯑ed on to perfection by the firſt mover, that powerful hand, which winds up and directs the great machine, is never brought into ſight.

IT will now be proper to anſwer ſome ob⯑jections, which may be urged againſt the doctrine we have advanced. One, which at firſt, may ſeem of conſiderable weight, is, that we found virtue altogether upon a deceitful feeling of liberty, which, it may be alledged, is neither a ſecure nor an honourable foun⯑dation. [208] But, in the firſt place, I deny that we have founded it altogether upon a deceitful feeling. For, independent of the deceitful feeling of liberty, there is in the nature of man a firm foundation for virtue. He muſt be ſenſible that virtue is eſſentially prefer⯑able to vice; that it is the juſt order, the perfection and happineſs of his nature. For, ſuppoſing him only endued with the prin⯑ciple of ſelf-love; this principle will lead him to diſtinguiſh moral good from evil, ſo far as to give ground for loving the one, and hating the other: as he muſt needs ſee that benevolence, juſtice, temperance, and the other virtues, are the neceſſary means of his happineſs, and that all vice and wic⯑kedneſs introduce diſorder and miſery. But man is endued with a ſocial as well as a ſelf⯑iſh principle, and has an immediate ſatisfac⯑tion and pleaſure in the happineſs of others, which is a further ground for diſtinguiſhing and loving virtue. All this, I ſay, takes place, laying aſide the deceitful feeling of liberty, and ſuppoſing all our notions to be [209] adjuſted to the ſyſtem of neceſſity. I add, that there is nothing in the above doctrine, to exclude the perception, of a certain beauty and excellency in virtue, according to lord Shaftesbury and the antient Philoſophers; which may, for ought we know, render it lovely and admirable to all rational beings. It appears to us, unqueſtionably, under the form of intrinſick excellency, even when we think not of its tendency to our happi⯑neſs. Ideas of moral obligation, of remorſe, of merit, and all that is connected with this way of thinking, ariſe from, what may be called, a wiſe deluſion in our nature concern⯑ing liberty: but, as this affects only a certain modification of our ideas of virtue and vice, there is nothing in it, to render the foundati⯑on of virtue, either unſecure or diſhonourable. Unſecure it does not render it, becauſe, as now obſerved, virtue partly ſtands firm up⯑on a ſeparate foundation, independent of theſe feelings; and even where built upon theſe feelings, it is ſtill built upon human nature. For though theſe feelings of li⯑berty [210] vary from the truth of things, they are, nevertheleſs, eſſential to the nature of man. We act upon them, and cannot act otherways. And therefore, tho' the diſ⯑tinction betwixt virtue and vice, had no other foundation but theſe feelings, (which is not the caſe) it would ſtill have an immoveable and ſecure foundation in human nature. As for the ſuppoſed diſhonour done to virtue, by reſting its authority, in any degree, on a de⯑ceitful feeling, there is ſo little ground for this part of the objection, that, on the con⯑trary, our doctrine moſt highly exalts vir⯑tue. For the above deſcribed artificial ſenſe of liberty, is wholly contrived to ſupport virtue, and to give its dictates the force of a law. Hereby it is diſcovered to be, in a ſin⯑gular manner, the care of the Deity; and a peculiar ſort of glory is thrown around it. The Author of nature, has not reſted it, up⯑on the ordinary feelings and principles of human nature, as he has reſted our other affections and appetites, even thoſe which are moſt neceſſary to our exiſtence. But a [211] ſort of extraordinary machinery is introduc⯑ed for its ſake. Human nature is forced, as it were, out of its courſe, and made to re⯑ceive a nice and artificial ſet of feelings; merely that conſcience may have a com⯑manding power, and virtue be ſet as on a throne. This could not otherways be brought about, but by means of the deceit⯑ful feeling of liberty, which therefore is a greater honour to virtue, a higher recom⯑mendation of it, than if our conceptions were, in every particular, correſpondent to the truth of things.

A SECOND objection which may be urg⯑ed againſt our ſyſtem, is, that it ſeems to re⯑preſent the Deity, as acting deceitfully by his creatures. He has given them certain ideas of contingency in events, and of liberty in their own actions, by which he has, in a manner, forced them to act upon a falſe hy⯑potheſis; as if he were unable, to carry on the government of this world, did his crea⯑tures conceive things, according to the real [212] truth. This objection is, in a great meaſure, obviated, by what we obſerved in the intro⯑duction to this eſſay, concerning our ſenſible ideas. It is univerſally allowed by modern philoſophers, that the perceptions of our ex⯑ternal ſenſes, are not always agreeable to ſtrict truth, but ſo contrived, as rather to an⯑ſwer the purpoſes of uſe. Now, if it be called a deceit in our ſenſes, not to give us juſt repreſentations of the material world, the Deity muſt be the author of this deceit, as much as he is, of that which prevails in our moral ideas. But no juſt objection can ly againſt the conduct of the Deity, in either eaſe. Our ſenſes, both internal and exter⯑nal, are given us for different ends and pur⯑poſes; ſome to diſcover truth, others to make us happy and virtuous. The ſenſes which are appropriated to the diſcovery of truth, unerringly anſwer their end. So do the ſenſes, which are appropriated to virtue and happineſs. And, in this view, it is no ma⯑terial objection, that the ſame ſenſe does not anſwer both ends. As to the other part of [213] the objection, that it muſt imply imperfecti⯑on in the Deity, if he cannot eſtabliſh virtue but upon a deluſive foundation; we may be ſatisfied how fallacious this reaſoning is, by reflecting upon the numberleſs appearances, of moral evil and diſorder in this world. From theſe appearances, much more ſtrong⯑ly, were there any force in this reaſoning, might we infer imperfection in the Deity; ſeeing the ſtate of this world, in many par⯑ticulars, does not anſwer the notions we are apt to form, of ſupreme power conducted by perfect wiſdom and goodneſs. But, in truth, there is nothing in our doctrine, which can juſtly argue imperfection in the Deity. For it is abundantly plain, firſt, that it is a more perfect ſtate of things, and more worthy of the Deity, to have all events going on with unbroken order, in a fixed train of cauſes and effects; than to have every thing deſultory and contingent. And, if ſuch a being as man, was to be placed in this world, to act his preſent part; it was neceſſary, that he ſhould have a notion of contingency in e⯑vents, [214] and of liberty in his own actions. The objection therefore, on the whole, amounts to no more, than that the Deity cannot work contradictions. For, if it was fit and wiſe, that man ſhould think and act, as a free agent, it was impoſſible this could be otherways accompliſhed, than by endowing him with a ſenſe of liberty: and if it was alſo fit and wiſe, that univerſal neceſſity ſhould be the real plan of the univerſe, this ſenſe of liber⯑ty could be no other than a deceitful one.

ANOTHER objection may perhaps be raiſ⯑ed againſt us in this form. If it was neceſſa⯑ry for man to be conſtituted, with ſuch an artificial feeling, why was he endowed with ſo much knowledge, as to unravel the myſ⯑tery? What purpoſe does it ſerve, to let in juſt ſo much light, as to diſcover the diſguiſ⯑ed appearance of the moral world, when it was intended, that his conduct ſhould be ad⯑juſted to this diſguiſed appearance? To this, I anſwer, firſt, that the diſcovery, when made, cannot poſſibly be of any bad conſequence; [215] and next, that a good conſequence, of very great importance, reſults from it. No bad conſequence, I ſay, enſues from the diſcove⯑ry, that liberty and contingency are deceit⯑ful feelings; for the caſe is confeſſedly pa⯑rallel in the natural world, where no harm has enſued. After we have diſcovered, by philoſophy, that ſeveral of the appearances of nature, are only uſeful illuſions, that ſeconda⯑ry qualities exiſt not in matter, and that our ſenſible ideas, in various inſtances, do not correſpond to philoſophic truth; after theſe diſcoveries are made, do they, in the leaſt, affect even the philoſopher himſelf in ordi⯑nary action? Does not he, in common with the reſt of mankind, proceed, as it is fit he ſhould, upon the common ſyſtem of ap⯑pearances and natural feelings? As little, in the preſent caſe, do our ſpeculations about liberty and neceſſity, counteract the plan of nature. Upon the ſyſtem of liberty we do, and muſt act: and no diſcoveries, made con⯑cerning the illuſive nature of that feeling, are [216] capable of diſappointing, in any degree, the intention of the Deity.

BUT this is not all. Theſe diſcoveries are alſo of excellent uſe, as they furniſh us with one of the ſtrongeſt arguments, for the exiſtence of the Deity, and as they ſet the wiſdom and goodneſs of his providence, in the moſt ſtriking light. Nothing carries in it more expreſs characters of deſign; nothing can be conceived more oppoſite to chance, than a plan ſo artfully contrived, for adjuſt⯑ing our impreſſions and feelings to the pur⯑poſes of life. For here things are carried off, as it were, from the ſtraight line; taken out of the courſe, in which they would of them⯑ſelves proceed; and ſo moulded, as forcibly, and againſt their nature, to be ſubſervient to man. His mind does not receive the impreſ⯑ſion of the moral world, in the ſame man⯑ner, as wax receives the impreſſion of a ſeal. It does not reflect the image of it, in the ſame manner, as a mirror reflects its images: it has a peculiar caſt and turn given to its [217] conceptions, admirably ordered to exalt vir⯑tue, to the higheſt pitch. Theſe concepti⯑ons are indeed illuſive, yet, which is wonder⯑ful, it is by this very circumſtance, that, in man, two of the moſt oppoſite things in na⯑ture, are happily reconciled, liberty and neceſ⯑ſity; having this illuſtrious effect, that in him are accumulated, all the prerogatives both of a neceſſary and free agent. The diſcovery of ſuch a marvelous adjuſtment, which is more directly oppoſed to chance, than any other thing conceiveable, muſt neceſſarily give us the ſtrongeſt impreſſi⯑on of a wiſe deſigning cauſe. And now a ſufficient reaſon appears, for ſuffering man to make this ſurpriſing diſcovery. The Al⯑mighty has let us ſo far into his councils, as to afford the juſteſt foundation, for admiring and adoring his wiſdom. It is a remark wor⯑thy to be made, that the capacities of man ſeem, in general, to have a tendency beyond the wants and occaſions of his preſent ſtate. This has been often obſerved with reſpect to his wiſhes and deſires. The ſame holds [218] as to his intellectual faculties, which, ſome⯑times, as in the inſtance before us, run be⯑yond the limits of what is ſtrictly neceſſary for him to know, in his preſent circumſtan⯑ces, and let in upon him ſome glimmerings of higher and nobler diſcoveries. A veil is thrown over nature, where it is not uſeful for him to behold it. And yet, ſometimes, by turning aſide that veil a very little, he is admitted to a fuller view; that his admiration of nature, and the God of nature, may be increaſed; that his curioſity and love of truth may be fed; and, perhaps, that ſome augurium, ſome intimation, may be given, of his being deſigned for a future, more exalt⯑ed period of being; when attaining the full maturity of his nature, he ſhall no longer ſtand in need of artificial impreſſions, but ſhall feel and act according to the ſtricteſt truth of things.

ESSAY I. Of BELIEF.

BELIEF is a term ſo familiar, as to have eſcaped the inquiry of all philoſophers, except the author of the treatiſe of human nature. And yet the ſubject is, by no means, ſo plain as to admit of no doubts nor difficul⯑ties. This author has made two propoſitions ſufficiently evident; firſt, that belief is not any ſeparate action or perception of the mind, but a modification of our perceptions, or a certain manner of conceiving propoſitions. 2d, That it does not accompany every one of our perceptions. A man, in ſome circumſtances, ſees objects double, but he does not believe them to be double. He can form the idea of a golden mountain: he can form the idea of it, as of a certain ſize, and as exiſting in a certain place: but he does not believe it to be exiſting.

HAVING proved that belief is not a ſe⯑parate perception, but only a modification [222] of ſome perceptions, our author goes on to explain the nature of this modification. And his doctrine is, that belief making no altera⯑tion upon the idea, as to its parts and compo⯑ſition, muſt conſiſt in the lively manner of conceiving the idea; and that, in reality, a lively idea and belief are the ſame. I have a high opinion of this author's acuteneſs and penetration; but no authority can prevail with me to embrace ſuch a doctrine. For, at this rate, credulity and a lively imagination would be always connected, which does not hold in fact. Poetry and painting produce lively ideas, but they ſeldom produce belief. For my part, I have no difficulty to form as lively a conception of Ceſar's dying in his bed, deſcanting upon the vanity of ambition, or dictating rules of government to his ſuc⯑ceſſor, as of his being put to death in the ſenate-houſe. Nothing is told with more vivacity, than the death of Cyrus, in a pitch⯑ed battle with the queen of the Scythians, who dipped his head, as we are told, in a veſſel full of blood, ſaying, ‘Satiate thyſelf [223] with blood, of which thou waſt ever thir⯑ſty.’ Yet, upon comparing circumſtan⯑ces and authors, the more probable opinion is, that Cyrus died in his bed.

IT may be obſerved, at the ſame time, that the concluſion is very lame, which this author draws from his premiſes. Belief makes no alteration upon the idea, as to its parts and compoſition. It can only therefore conſiſt in a modification of the idea. But does it follow, that it conſiſts in a lively concepti⯑tion of the idea, which is but one of many modifications? There is not here the ſha⯑dow of an inference.

OUR author indeed urges, that true hiſto⯑ry takes faſt hold of the mind, and preſents its objects in a more lively manner, than any fabulous narration can do. Every man muſt judge for himſelf: I cannot admit this to be my caſe. Hiſtory, no doubt, takes faſt⯑er hold of the mind, than any fiction told in the plain hiſtorical ſtile. But can any [224] man doubt, who has not an hypotheſis to de⯑fend, that poetry makes a ſtronger impreſſi⯑on than hiſtory? Let a man, if he has feelings, attend the celebrated Garrick in the character of Richard, or in that of king Le⯑ar; and he will find, that dramatic repre⯑ſentations make ſtrong and lively impreſſi⯑ons, which hiſtory ſeldom comes up to.

BUT now, if it ſhall be ſuppoſed, that hiſtory preſents its objects in a more lively manner, than can be done by dramatic or epic poetry; it will not therefore follow, that a lively idea is the ſame with belief. I read a paſſage in Virgil. Let it be the epiſode of Niſus and Euryalus. I read a paſſage in Li⯑vy, ſciz. the ſacking of Rome by the Gauls. If I have a more lively idea of the latter ſto⯑ry, I put it to my author, to point out the cauſe of this effect. He ſurely will not af⯑firm, that it is the force of expreſſion, or harmony of numbers: for, in theſe parti⯑culars, the hiſtorian cannot be compared to the poet. It is evident, that no other ſatiſ⯑factory [225] account of the matter can be given, but this, that Livy's ſuperior influence up⯑on the imagination, is the effect of his being conſidered, as a true hiſtorian. The moſt, then, that our author can make of his obſer⯑vation, ſuppoſing it to hold true in fact, is, that the authority of the hiſtorian produces belief, and that belief produces a more live⯑ly idea, than any fabulous narration can do. The truth of the matter is, that belief and a lively conception, are really two diſtinct modi⯑fications of the idea; which, tho' often con⯑joined, are not only ſeparable in the imagi⯑nation, but in fact are often ſeparated. Truth, indeed, beſtows a certain degree of vivacity upon our ideas. At the ſame time, I cannot admit, that hiſtory exceeds drama⯑tic or epic poetry, in conveying a lively con⯑ception of facts; becauſe it appears evident, that, in works of imagination, the want of truth, is more than compenſated by ſenti⯑ment and language.

[226] SOMETIMES, indeed, belief is the reſult of a lively impreſſion. A dramatic repreſenta⯑tion is one inſtance, when it affects us ſo much, as to draw off the attention from eve⯑ry other object, and even from ourſelves. In this ſituation, we don't conſider the actor, but conceive him to be the very man whoſe character he aſſumes. We have that very man before our eyes. We perceive him as exiſting and acting, and believe him to be exiſting and acting. This belief, however, is but momentary. It vaniſhes, like a dream, ſo ſoon as we are rouzed by any trivial cir⯑cumſtance, to a conſciouſneſs of ourſelves, and of the place we are in. Nor is the live⯑ly impreſſion, even in this caſe, the cauſe of belief, but only the occaſion of it, by di⯑verting the attention of the mind, from it⯑ſelf and its ſituation. It is in ſome ſuch manner, that the idea of a ſpectre in the dark, which fills the mind, and diverts it from itſelf, is, by the force of imagination, converted into a reality. We think we ſee [227] and hear it. We are convinced of it, and believe the matter to be ſo.

REJECTING therefore this author's opi⯑nion, the real truth appears to be this. There is a certain peculiar manner of perceiving objects, and conceiving propoſitions, which, being a ſimple feeling, cannot be deſcribed, but is expreſſed by the word belief. The cauſes of this modification, termed belief, are the authority of my own ſenſes, and the authority of others, who either relate facts upon the authority of their ſenſes, or what they have heard at ſecond or third hand. So that belief, mediately or immedi⯑ately, is founded upon the authority of our ſenſes. We are ſo conſtituted by nature, as to put truſt in our ſenſes. Nor, in general, is it in our power to disbelieve our ſenſes: they have authority with us irreſiſtible. There is but one exception that I can think of. Finding, by experience, that we have been ſometimes led into an error, by truſt⯑ing ſome particular perceptions, the remem⯑brance [228] of theſe inſtances, counter-balances the authority of our perception in the like caſes, and either keeps the mind ſuſpended, or, perhaps, makes it reſt in a conviction, that the perception is erroneous.

WITH regard to the evidence of my own ſenſes, tho' I cannot admit, that the eſſence of belief conſiſts in the vivacity of the im⯑preſſion, I ſo far agree with our author, that vivacity and belief, in this caſe, are al⯑ways conjoined. A mountain I have once ſeen, I believe to be exiſting, tho' I am a thouſand miles from it; and the image or idea I have of that mountain, is more lively and more diſtinct, than of any I can form merely by the force of imagination. But this is far from being the caſe, as above ob⯑ſerved, of ideas raiſed in my mind by the force of language.

BELIEF ariſing from the evidence of o⯑thers, reſts upon a different foundation. Ve⯑racity and a diſpoſition to believe, are corre⯑ſponding [229] principles in the nature of man; and, in the main, theſe principles are ſo ad⯑juſted, that men are not often deceived. The diſpoſition we have to believe, is qualified by the opinion we have of the witneſs, and the nature of the ſtory he relates. But, ſup⯑poſing a concurrence of all other circum⯑ſtances to prompt our belief, yet, if the ſpeak⯑er pretends only to amuſe, without confining himſelf to truth, his narration will not, in the ſmalleſt degree, prompt our belief; let him enliven it with the ſtrongeſt colours that poetry is maſter of.

I HAVE only to add, that tho' our own ſenſes, and the teſtimony of others, are the proper cauſes of belief; yet that theſe cauſes are more or leſs efficacious, according to the temper of mind we are in at the time. Hope and fear are influenced by paſſion, ſo is belief. Hope and fear are modifications of our con⯑ception of future events. If the event be agree⯑able, and the probability of its exiſtence, be great, our conception of its exiſtence takes [230] on a modification, which is called hope. If the event be extremely agreeable, and the probability of its exiſting do greatly pre⯑ponderate, our hope is increaſed proportion⯑ally, and ſometimes is converted into a firm belief, that it will really happen. Upon weak minds, the delightfulneſs of the ex⯑pected event, will of itſelf have that effect. The imagination, fired with the proſpect, augments the probability, 'till it convert it to a firm perſuaſion or belief. On the other hand, if fear get the aſcendent, by a con⯑ceived improbability of the exiſtence of the event, the mind deſponds, and fear is con⯑verted into a firm belief, that the event will not happen. The operations of the mind are quite ſimilar, where the event in view is diſagreeable.

ESSAY II. Of the IDEA of SELF and of PERSONAL IDENTITY.

HAD we no original impreſſions but thoſe of the external ſenſes, accord⯑ing to the author of the treatiſe of human nature, we never could have any conſciouſ⯑neſs of ſelf; becauſe ſuch conſciouſneſs can⯑not ariſe from any external ſenſe. Man⯑kind would be in a perpetual reverie; ideas would be conſtantly floating in the mind; and no man be able to connect his ideas with himſelf. Neither could there be any idea of perſonal identity. For a man, cannot conſi⯑der himſelf to be the ſame perſon, in different circumſtances, when he has no idea or con⯑ſciouſneſs of himſelf at all.

BEINGS there may be, who are thus con⯑ſtituted: but man is none of theſe beings. It is an undoubted truth, that he has an o⯑riginal feeling, or conſciouſneſs of himſelf, [232] and of his exiſtence; which, for the moſt part, accompanies every one of his impreſſi⯑ons and ideas, and every action of his mind and body. I ſay, for the moſt part; for the faculty or internal ſenſe, which is the cauſe of this peculiar perception, is not al⯑ways in action. In a dead ſleep, we have no conſciouſneſs of ſelf. We dream ſometimes without this conſciouſneſs: and even ſome of our waking hours paſs without it. A reverie is nothing elſe, but a wandering of the mind through its ideas, without carrying along the perception of ſelf.

THIS conſciouſneſs or perception of ſelf, is, at the ſame time, of the livelieſt kind. Self-preſervation is every one's peculiar du⯑ty; and the vivacity of this perception, is ne⯑ceſſary to make us attentive to our own in⯑tereſt, and, particularly, to ſhun every appear⯑ance of danger. When a man is in a reve⯑rie, he has no circumſpection, nor any man⯑ner of attention to his own intereſt.

[233] 'TIS remarkable, that one has ſcarce any chance to fall aſleep, 'till this perception vaniſh. Its vivacity keeps the mind in a certain degree of agitation, which bars ſleep. A fall of water diſpoſes to ſleep. It fixes the attention, both by ſound and ſight, and, without creating much agitation, occu⯑pies the mind, ſo as to make it forget itſelf. Reading of ſome books has the ſame effect.

IT is this perception, or conſciouſneſs of ſelf, carried through all the different ſta⯑ges of life, and all the variety of action, which is the foundation of perſonal identity. It is, by means of this perception, that I conſider myſelf to be the ſame perſon, in all varieties of fortune, and every change of circumſtance.

THE main purpoſe of this ſhort eſſay, is to introduce an obſervation, that it is not by any argument or reaſoning, I conclude my⯑ſelf to be the ſame perſon, I was ten years ago. This concluſion reſts entirely upon the feeling [234] of identity, which accompanies me through all my changes, and which is the only con⯑necting principle, that binds together, all the various thoughts and actions of my life. Far leſs is it by any argument, or chain of reaſoning, that I diſcover my own exiſtence. It would be ſtrange indeed, if every man's exiſtence was kept a ſecret from him, 'till the celebrated argument was invented, that co⯑gito ergo ſum. And if a fact, that, to com⯑mon underſtanding, appears ſelf-evident, is not to be relied on without an argument; why ſhould I take for granted, without an argument, that I think, more than that I exiſt? For ſurely I am not more conſcious of thinking, than of exiſting.

UPON this ſubject, I ſhall juſt ſuggeſt a thought, which will be more fully inſiſted on afterwards; that any doctrine, which leads to a diſtruſt of our ſenſes, muſt land in univerſal ſcepticiſm. If natural feelings, whether from internal or external ſenſes, are not admitted as evidence of truth, I can⯑not [235] ſee, that we can be certain of any fact whatever. It is clear, from what is now ob⯑ſerved, that, upon this ſceptical ſyſtem, we can⯑not be certain even of our own exiſtence ^*.

ESSAY III. Of the AUTHORITY of our SENSES.

IN a former eſſay are pointed out ſome in⯑ſtances, in which our ſenſes may be call⯑ed deceitful ^*. They are of two ſorts. One is, when the deception is occaſioned by in⯑diſpoſition of the organ, remoteneſs of place, groſſneſs of the medium, or the like; which diſtort the appearances of objects, and make them be ſeen double, or greater or leſs, than they really are. In ſuch inſtances, the per⯑ception is always faint, obſcure or confuſ⯑ed: and they noway invalidate the authori⯑ty of the ſenſes, in general, when, abſtract⯑ing from ſuch accidental obſtructions, the perception is lively, ſtrong and diſtinct. In the other ſort, there is a deception eſtabliſh⯑ed by the laws of nature; as in the caſe of ſecondary qualities, taken notice of in that eſſay; whence it was inferred, that nature does not always give us ſuch correct per⯑ceptions, as correſpond to the philoſophic [238] truth of things. Notwithſtanding of which, the teſtimony of our ſenſes ſtill remains, as a ſufficient ground of confidence and truſt. For, in all theſe caſes, where there is this ſort of eſtabliſhed deception, nature furniſhes means for coming at the truth. As in this very in⯑ſtance of ſecondary qualities, philoſophy ea⯑ſily corrects the falſe appearances, and teach⯑es us, that they are rather to be conſidered, as impreſſions made upon the mind, than as qualities of the object. A remedy being thus provided to the deception, our belief, ſo far as it can be influenced by reaſon, is the more confirmed, with regard to our other ſenſati⯑ons, where there is no appearance of illuſi⯑on. But this is not the whole of the matter. When any ſenſe preſents to our view, an ap⯑pearance that may be called deceitful, we plainly diſcover ſome uſeful purpoſe intend⯑ed. The deceit is not the effect of an im⯑perfect or arbitrary conſtitution; but wiſely contrived, to give us ſuch notice of things, as may beſt ſuit the purpoſes of life. From this very conſideration, we are the more confirm⯑ed [239] in the veracity of nature. Particular in⯑ſtances, in which, our ſenſes are accommo⯑dated to the uſes of life, rather than to the ſtrictneſs of truth, are rational exceptions, which ſerve, the more firmly, to eſtabliſh the general rule. And, indeed, when we have nothing but our ſenſes to direct our conduct, with regard to external objects, it would be ſtrange, if there ſhould be any juſt ground, for a general diſtruſt of them. But there is no ſuch thing. There is nothing to which all mankind are more neceſſarily determin⯑ed, than to put confidence in their ſenſes. We entertain no doubt of their authority, be⯑cauſe we are ſo conſtituted, that it is not in our power to doubt.

WHEN the authority of our ſenſes is thus founded on the neceſſity of our nature, and confirmed by conſtant experience, it cannot but appear ſtrange, that it ſhould come into the thought of any man to call it in queſti⯑on. But the influence of novelty is great; and when a bold genius, in ſpite of common [240] ſenſe, and common feelings, will ſtrike out new paths to himſelf, 'tis not eaſy to foreſee, how far his airy metaphyſical notions may carry him. A late author, who gives us a treatiſe concerning the principles of human knowledge, by denying the reality of ex⯑ternal objects, ſtrikes at the root of the au⯑thority of our ſenſes, and thereby paves the way to the moſt inveterate ſcepticiſm. For what reliance can we have upon our ſenſes, if they deceive us in a point ſo material? If we can be prevailed upon, to doubt of the reality of external objects, the next ſtep will be, to doubt of what paſſes in our own minds, of the reality of our ideas and per⯑ceptions. For we have not a ſtronger con⯑ſciouſneſs, nor a clearer conviction of the one, than of the other. And the laſt ſtep will be, to doubt of our own exiſtence; for it is ſhown in the eſſay immediately forego⯑ing, that we have no certainty of this fact, but what depends upon ſenſe and feeling.

[241] IT is reported, that doctor Berkeley, the author of the abovementioned treatiſe, was moved to adopt this whimſical opinion, to get free of ſome arguments, urged by materi⯑aliſts againſt the exiſtence of the Deity. If ſo, he has been unhappy in his experiment; for this doctrine, if it ſhould not lead to u⯑niverſal ſcepticiſm, affords, at leaſt, a ſhrewd argument in favours of Atheiſm. If I can only be conſcious of what paſſes in my own mind, and if I cannot truſt my ſenſes, when they give me notice of external and indepen⯑dent exiſtences; it follows, that I am the only being in the world; at leaſt, that I can have no evidence from my ſenſes, of any other being, body or ſpirit. This is certainly an un⯑wary conceſſion; becauſe it deprives us of our principal, or only, inlet to the knowledge of the Deity. Laying aſide ſenſe and feel⯑ing, this learned divine will find it a difficult task, to point out by what other means it is, that we make the diſcovery of the above im⯑portant truth. But of this more afterwards.

[242] WERE there nothing elſe in view, but to eſtabliſh the reality of external objects, it would be ſcarce worth while, to beſtow much thought, in ſolving metaphyſical paradoxes againſt their exiſtence, which are better con⯑futed by common ſenſe and experience. But, as the above doctrine appears to have very extenſive conſequences, and to ſtrike at the root of the moſt valuable branches of hum⯑an knowledge; an attempt to re-eſtabliſh the authority of our ſenſes, by detecting the fal⯑lacy of the arguments that have been urged againſt it, may, it is hoped, not be unaccept⯑able to the public. The attempt, at any rate, is neceſſary in this work, the main pur⯑poſe of which is, to ſhow that our ſenſes, ex⯑ternal and internal, are the true ſources, from whence the knowledge of the Deity is de⯑rived to us.

IN order to afford ſatisfaction upon a ſub⯑ject, which is eaſier felt than expreſt, it will be proper, to give a diſtinct analyſis of the o⯑perations of thoſe ſenſes, by which we per⯑ceive [243] external objects. And, if this be once clearly apprehended, it will not be a matter of difficulty, to anſwer the ſeveral objections, which have been urged againſt their exiſt⯑ence.

THE impreſſions of the external ſenſes are of different kinds. Some we have at the organs of ſenſe, ſuch as ſmelling, taſting, touching. Some are made upon us as from a diſtance, ſuch as hearing and ſeeing. From the ſenſe of feeling, are derived the impreſſi⯑ons of body, ſolidity and external exiſtence. Laying my hand upon this table, I perceive a thing ſmooth and hard, preſſing upon my hand, and which is perceived as more diſtant from me, than my hand is. From the ſight, we have the impreſſions of motion and of co⯑lour; and from the ſight as well as from the touch, thoſe of extenſion and figure. But it is more material to obſerve, upon the preſent ſubject, that from ſight as well as touch, we have the impreſſion of things [244] as having an independent and continued or permanent exiſtence.

LET us endeavour to explain this modifi⯑cation of independency and permanent ex⯑iſtence of the objects of ſight and touch, for it is a cardinal point. To begin with the objects of ſight. I caſt my eye upon a tree, and perceive colour, figure, extention, and ſometimes motion. If this be a com⯑plete analyſis of the perception, ſubſtance is not diſcoverable by ſight. But upon atten⯑tively examining this perception, to try if there be any thing more in it, I find one cir⯑cumſtance omitted, that the above particulars, are not perceived as ſo many ſeparate exiſt⯑ences, having no relation to each other, but as cloſely united and connected. When look⯑ing around on different objects, I perceive colour in one quarter, motion in a ſecond, and extenſion in a third; the appearance theſe make in my mind, are in nothing ſimilar to the impreſſion made by a tree, where the extenſion, motion, and other qualities, are [245] introduced into the mind, under the modi⯑fication of an intimate connection and uni⯑on. But in what manner are they united and connected? Of this, every perſon can give an account, that they are perceived as inhering in, or belonging to ſome ſubſtance or thing, of which they are qualities; and that, by their reference to this ſubſtance or thing, they are thus cloſely united and connected. Thus it is, that the impreſſion of ſubſtance, as well as of qualities, is derived from ſight. And it is alſo to be attended to, as a part of the total impreſſion, that as the qualities appear to belong to their ſubſtance, and to inhere in it, ſo both the ſubſtance and its qualities, which we call the tree, are perceived as al⯑together independent of us, as really exiſt⯑ing, and as having a permanent exiſtence.

A SIMILAR impreſſion is made upon us, by means of the ſenſe of feeling. It is ob⯑ſerved above, that, from the touch, we have the impreſſions, of body, ſolidity and exter⯑nal [246] exiſtence; and we have, from the ſame ſenſe, the impreſſions of ſoftneſs and hard⯑neſs, ſmoothneſs and roughneſs. Now, when I lay my hand upon this table, I have an impreſſion, not only of ſmoothneſs, hard⯑neſs, figure and extenſion, but alſo of a thing I call body, of which the above are per⯑ceived as qualities. Smoothneſs, hardneſs, extenſion and figure are felt, not as ſeparate and unconnected exiſtences, but as inher⯑ing in and belonging to ſomething I call bo⯑dy, which is really exiſting, and which has an independent and permanent exiſtence. And it is this body, with its ſeveral qualities, which I expreſs by the word table.

THE above analyſis of the impreſſions of ſight and touch, will be beſt illuſtrated, by a compariſon with the impreſſions made by the other ſenſes. I hear a ſound, or I feel a ſmell. Attending to theſe impreſſi⯑ons, I perceive nothing but ſound or ſmell. They are not perceived as the qualities or properties of any body, thing or ſubſtance. [247] They make their appearance in the mind as ſimple exiſtences; and there is no impreſſi⯑on made of independency, or permanent exiſtence. Did ſeeing and feeling carry us no further, we never could have the leaſt conception of ſubſtance.

'TIS not a little ſurpriſing, that philoſo⯑phers, who diſcourſe ſo currently of qualities, ſhould affect ſo much doubt and heſitation a⯑bout ſubſtance; ſeeing theſe are relative ideas, and imply each other. For what other rea⯑ſon do we call figure a quality, but that we perceive it, not as a ſeparate exiſtence, but as belonging to ſomething that is figured; and which thing we call ſubſtance, becauſe it is not a property of any other thing, but is a thing which ſubſiſts by itſelf, or has an in⯑dependent exiſtence. Did we perceive fi⯑gure, as we perceive ſound, it would not be conſidered as a quality. In a word, a qua⯑lity is not intelligible, unleſs upon ſuppoſiti⯑on of ſome other thing, of which it is the quality. Sounds indeed, and ſmells are alſo [248] conſidered as qualities. But this proceeds from habit, not from original perception. For, having once acquired the diſtinction be⯑twixt a thing and its qualities, and finding ſound and ſmell, more to reſemble qualities than ſubſtances, we readily come into the uſe of conſidering them as qualities.

ANOTHER thing is to be obſerved with regard to thoſe things, which are perceived as qualities by the ſight and touch; that we cannot form a conception of them, indepen⯑dent of the beings to which they belong. It is not in our power, to ſeparate, even in imagination, colour, figure, motion and ex⯑tenſion from body or ſubſtance. There is no ſuch thing as conceiving motion by itſelf, abſtracted from ſome body which is in mo⯑tion. Let us try ever ſo often, our attempts will be in vain, to form an idea of a triangle independent of a body which has that figure. We cannot conceive a body that is not fi⯑gured; and we can as little conceive a figure without a body; for this would be to con⯑ceive [249] a figure, as having a ſeparate exiſtence, at the ſame time, that we conceive it, as hav⯑ing no ſeparate exiſtence; or to conceive it, at once, to be a quality, and not a quality. Thus it comes out, that ſubſtance, as well as quality, makes a part, not only of every per⯑ception of ſight and touch, but of every con⯑ception we can form, of colour, figure, exten⯑ſion and motion. Taking in the whole train of our ideas, there is not one more familiar to us, than that of ſubſtance, a being or thing which has qualities.

WHEN theſe things are conſidered, I can⯑not readily diſcover, by what wrong con⯑ception of the matter, Mr. Locke has been led, to talk ſo obſcurely and indiſtinctly of the idea of ſubſtance. 'Tis no wonder, he ſhould be difficulted, to form an idea of ſub⯑ſtance in general, abſtracted from all proper⯑ties, when ſuch abſtraction is altogether be⯑yond the reach of our conception. But there is nothing more eaſy, than to form an idea of any particular ſubſtance with its pro⯑perties. [250] Yet this has ſome how eſcaped him. When he forms the idea of a horſe or a ſtone, he admits nothing into the idea, but a collection of ſeveral ſimple ideas of ſenſible qualities ^† ‘And becauſe, ſays he, we cannot conceive how theſe qualities ſhould ſubſiſt alone, nor one in another, we ſup⯑poſe them exiſting in, and ſupported by ſome common ſubject; which ſupport, we denote by the name ſubſtance, tho' it be certain, we have no clear or diſtinct idea of that thing we ſuppoſe a ſupport.’ A ſingle queſtion would have unfolded the whole myſtery. How comes it, that we cannot conceive qualities to ſubſiſt alone, nor one in another? Mr. Locke himſelf muſt have given the following anſwer, that the thing is not conceiveable; becauſe a proper⯑ty or quality cannot ſubſiſt without the thing to which it belongs; for, if it did, that it would ceaſe to be a property or quality. Why then does he make ſo faint an infe⯑rence, as that we ſuppoſe qualities exiſting in, and ſupported by ſome common ſubject? It [251] is not a bare ſuppoſition: it is an eſſential part of the idea: it is neceſſarily ſuggeſted to us by ſight and touch. He obſerves that we have no clear nor diſtinct idea of ſubſtance. If he means, that we have no clear nor diſtinct idea of ſubſtance abſtract⯑ed from its properties, the thing is ſo true, that we can form no idea of ſubſtance at all, abſtracted from its properties. But it is alſo true, that we can form no idea of properties, ab⯑ſtracted from a ſubſtance. The ideas both of ſubſtance and of quality are perfectly in the ſame condition, in this reſpect; which, 'tis ſur⯑priſing, philoſophers ſhould ſo little attend to. At the ſame time, we have clear and diſtinct ideas, of many things as they exiſt; tho' perhaps we have not a complete idea of any one thing. We have ſuch ideas of things, as ſerve to all the uſeful purpoſes of life. 'Tis true, our ſenſes don't reach be⯑yond the external properties of beings. We have no direct perception of the eſſence and internal properties of any thing. Theſe we diſcover from the effects produced. But had we ſenſes directly to perceive the eſſence and [252] internal properties of things, our idea of them would indeed be more full and complete, but not more clear and diſtinct, than at pre⯑ſent. For, even upon that ſuppoſition, we could form no notion of ſubſtance, but by its properties internal and external. To form an idea of a thing abſtracted from all its properties, is impoſſible.

THE following is the ſum of what is above laid down. By ſight and touch, we have the impreſſions of ſubſtance and body, as well as of qualities. It is not figure, extenſion, mo⯑tion, that we perceive; but a thing figured, extended and moving. As we cannot form an idea of ſubſtance abſtracted from quali⯑ties, ſo we cannot form an idea of qualities abſtracted from ſubſtance. They are rela⯑tive ideas, and imply each other. This is one point gained. Another is, that the idea of ſubſtance or body, thus attained, compre⯑hends in it, independent and permanent ex⯑iſtence; that is, ſomething which exiſts in⯑dependent of our perceptions, and remains the ſame, whether we perceive it or not.

[253] IN this manner are we made ſenſible of the real exiſtence of things without us. The feeling is ſo ſtrong, and the conviction which makes a part of the feeling, that ſceptical arguments, however cunningly deviſed, may puzzle, but can never get the better: for ſuch is our conſtitution, that we can enter⯑tain no doubt of the authority of our ſenſes, in this particular. At the ſame time, every ſort of experience confirms the truth of our perceptions. I ſee a tree at a diſtance, of a certain ſhape and ſize. Walking forward, I find it in its place, by the reſiſtance it makes to my body; and, ſo far as I can diſcover by touch, it is of the ſame ſhape and ſize, which my eye repreſents it to be. I return day af⯑ter day, year after year, and find the ſame object, with no other variation, but what the ſeaſons and time produce. The tree is at laſt cut down. It is no longer to be ſeen or felt.

To overthrow the authority of our ſen⯑ſes, a few particular inſtances, in which they [254] appear fallacious, are of no weight. And to confirm this branch of the argument, we need but compare the evidence of our ſen⯑ſes, with the evidence of human teſtimony. The compariſon cannot fail to afford ſatis⯑faction. Veracity, and a diſpoſition to rely upon human evidence, are correſponding principles, which greatly promote ſociety. Among individuals, theſe principles are found to be of different degrees of ſtrength. But, in the main, they are ſo proportioned to each other, that men are not often deceived. In this caſe, it would be but a bad argument, that we ought not to give credit to any man's teſtimony, becauſe ſome men are defective in the principle of veracity. The only ef⯑fect ſuch inſtances have, or ought to have, is to correct our propenſity to believe, and to bring on a habit of ſuſpending our belief, 'till circumſtances be examined. The evi⯑dence of our ſenſes, riſes undoubtedly much higher, than the evidence of human teſtimo⯑ny. And if we continue to put truſt in the latter, after many inſtances of being deceiv⯑ed, [255] we have better reaſon to put truſt in the former, were the inſtances of being deceiv⯑ed equally numerous; which is plainly not the fact. When people are in ſound health of mind and body, they are very ſeldom miſ-led by their ſenſes.

IF I have been ſo lucky, as to put this ſubject in its proper light, it will not be a difficult task to clear it of any doubts which may ariſe, upon peruſing the above mentioned treatiſe. The author boldly de⯑nies the exiſtence of matter, and the re⯑ality of the objects of ſenſe; contending, that there is nothing really exiſting without the mind of an intelligent being; in a word, re⯑ducing all to be a world of ideas. ‘It is an opinion ſtrangely prevailing among men, (ſays he) that houſes, mountains, rivers, and, in a word, all ſenſible objects, have an exiſtence, natural or real, diſtinct from their being perceived by the underſtand⯑ing.’ He ventures to call this a manifeſt contradiction; and his argument againſt the [256] reality of theſe objects, is in the following words. ‘The forementioned objects are things perceived by ſenſe. We cannot perceive any thing, but our own ideas or perceptions; therefore, what we call men, houſes, mountains, &c. can be nothing elſe but ideas or perceptions.’ This ar⯑gument ſhall be examined afterwards, with the reſpect that is due to its author. It ſhall only be taken notice of by the way, that, ſuppoſing mankind to be under ſo ſtrange and unaccountable a deluſion, as to miſtake their ideas for men, houſes, mountains, &c. it will not follow, that there is in this, any manifeſt contradiction, or any contradiction at all. For deception is a very different thing from contradiction. But he falls from this high pretenſion, in the after part of his work, to argue more conſiſtently, ‘that, ſuppoſ⯑ing ſolid, figured, and moveable ſubſtan⯑ces, to exiſt without the mind, yet we could never come to the knowledge of this ^*.’ Which is true, if our ſenſes [257] bear no teſtimony of the fact. And he adds ^*, ‘that, ſuppoſing no bodies to exiſt without the mind, we might have the ve⯑ry ſame reaſons for ſuppoſing the exiſtence of external bodies, that we have now:’ which may be true, ſuppoſing only our ſen⯑ſes to be fallacious.

THE doctor's fundamental propoſition is, that we can perceive nothing but our own ideas or perceptions. This, at beſt, is an ambiguous expreſſion. For, taking percep⯑tion or ſenſation in its proper ſenſe, as ſigni⯑fying every object we perceive, it is a mere identical propoſition, ſciz. that we perceive nothing but what we perceive. But, taking the doctor's propoſition as he intended it, that we can have no perception or conſciouſ⯑neſs of any thing, but what exiſts in our own minds, he had certainly no reaſon to take this aſſertion for granted; and yet he has never once attempted a proof of it: tho', in ſo bold an undertaking, as that of annihilat⯑ing [258] the whole univerſe, his own mind ex⯑cepted, he had no reaſon to hope, that an aſſertion, ſo ſingular, and ſo contradictory to common ſenſe and feeling, would be taken upon his word. It may be true, that it is not eaſy to explain, nor even to comprehend, by what means we perceive external objects. But our ignorance is, in moſt caſes, a very indifferent argument againſt matter of fact. At this rate, he may take upon him equal⯑ly to deny the bulk of the operations in the natural world, which have not hitherto been explained by him, or others. And at, bot⯑tom, 'tis perhaps as difficult to explain the manner of perceiving our own ideas, or the impreſſions made upon us, as to explain the manner of perceiving external objects. The doctor, beſides, ought to have conſidered, that by this bold doctrine, he, in effect, ſets bounds to the power of nature, or of the Author of nature. If it was in the power of the Almighty, to beſtow upon man, a facul⯑ty of perceiving external objects, he has cer⯑tainly done it. For, ſuppoſing the exiſtence [259] of external objects, we have no conception, how they could be otherways manifeſted to us, than in fact they are. Therefore, the doctor was in the right to aſſert, that a fa⯑culty in man to perceive external objects, would be a contradiction, and conſequently a privilege not in the power of the Deity to beſtow upon him. He perceived the neceſ⯑ſity of carrying his argument ſo far; at the ſame time, ſenſible that this was not to be made out, he never once attempts to point at any thing like a contradiction. And if he cannot prove it to be a contradiction, the queſtion is at an end; for, ſuppoſing only the fact to be poſſible, we have the very higheſt evidence of its reality, that our na⯑ture is capable of, no leſs than the teſtimo⯑ny of our ſenſes.

IT has been urged in ſupport of the above doctrine, that nothing is preſent to the mind, but the impreſſions made upon it, and that it cannot be conſcious of any thing but what is preſent. This difficulty is eaſily ſolved. [260] For the propoſition, that we cannot be con⯑ſcious of any thing but what is preſent to the mind, or paſſes within it, is taken for granted, as if it were ſelf-evident. And yet the direct contrary is an evident fact, ſciz. that we are conſcious of many things which are not preſent to the mind; that is, which are not, like impreſſions and ideas, within the mind. Nor is there any manner of difficul⯑ty to conceive, that an impreſſion may be made upon us, by an external object, in ſuch a manner, as to raiſe a direct percepti⯑on of the external object itſelf. When we attend to the operations of the external ſenſes, the impreſſions made upon us by external objects, are diſcovered to have very different effects. In ſome inſtances we feel the im⯑preſſion, and are conſcious of it, as an im⯑preſſion. In others, being quite unconſci⯑ous of the impreſſion, we perceive only the external object. And to give full ſatisfacti⯑on to the reader, upon the preſent ſubject, it may perhaps not be fruitleſs, briefly to run over the operations of the ſeveral exter⯑nal [261] ſenſes, by which the mind is made con⯑ſcious of external objects, and of their pro⯑perties.

AND firſt, with regard to the ſenſe of ſmelling, which gives us no notice of ex⯑ternal exiſtences. Here the operation is of the ſimpleſt kind. It is no more but an impreſſion made at the organ, which is per⯑ceived as an impreſſion. Experience, 'tis true, and habit, lead us to aſcribe this parti⯑cular impreſſion to ſome external thing as its cauſe. Thus, when a particular impreſſion is made upon us, termed the ſweet ſmell of a roſe, we learn to aſcribe it to a roſe, tho' there is no ſuch object within view, becauſe that peculiar impreſſion upon the organ of ſmelling, is always found to accompany the ſight and touch of the body, called a roſe. But that this connection is the child of ex⯑perience only, will be evident from the fol⯑lowing conſiderations; that, when a new ſmell is perceived, we are utterly at a loſs, what cauſe to aſcribe it to; and, that when a child feels a ſmell, it is not led to aſſign it [262] to any cauſe whatever. In this caſe, there can be no other difficulty, but to compre⯑hend, in what manner the mind becomes conſcious of an impreſſion, made upon the body. Upon which, it ſeems ſufficient to ob⯑ſerve, that we are kept entirely ignorant, in what manner the ſoul and body are connect⯑ed; which is no ſingular caſe. But, from our ignorance of the manner of this connec⯑tion, to deny the reality of external exiſten⯑ces, reducing all to a world of ideas, is in re⯑ality not leſs whimſical, than if one, after admitting the reality of external exiſten⯑ces, ſhould go about to deny, that we have any perception of them; merely becauſe we cannot fully account for the manner of this perception, nor how a material ſubſtance can communicate itſelf to the mind, which is ſpi⯑rit and not matter. The ſame obſervations may be applied to the ſenſe of hearing; with this difference only, that a ſound is not per⯑ceived, at leaſt not originally, as an impreſſi⯑on made at the organ, but merely as an ex⯑iſtence in the mind.

[263] IN the ſenſes of taſting and touching, we are conſcious not only of an impreſſion made at the organ, but alſo of a body which makes the impreſſion. When I lay my hand upon this table, the impreſſion is of a hard ſmooth body, which reſiſts the moti⯑on of my hand. In this impreſſion, there is nothing to create the leaſt ſuſpicion of fal⯑lacy. The body acts where it is, and it acts merely by reſiſtance. There occurs not, therefore, any other difficulty in this caſe, than that mentioned above, ſciz. after what manner an impreſſion made at an organ of the body, is communicated to, or perceived by the mind. We ſhall only add upon this head, that touch alone, which is the leaſt intricate of all our feelings, is ſufficient to overthrow the doctor's whole pompous ſyſtem. We have, from that ſenſe, the full⯑eſt and cleareſt perception of external ex⯑iſtences, that can be conceived, ſubject to no doubt, ambiguity, nor even cavil. And this perception, muſt, at the ſame time, ſupport [264] the authority of our ſenſes, when they give us notice of external exiſtences.

WHAT remains to be examined, is the ſenſe of ſeeing, which, 'tis preſumed, the doctor had principally an eye to, in arguing againſt the reality of external exiſtences. And indeed, the operation of perceiving objects at a diſtance, is ſo curious, and ſo ſingular, that it is not ſurpriſing, a rigid philoſopher ſhould be puzzled about it. In this caſe, there is a difficulty, which applies with ſome ſhew of ſtrength, and which poſſibly has had weight with our author, tho' it is never once mentioned by him. It is, that no being can act but where it is, and that a body, at a diſtance, cannot act upon the mind, more than the mind upon it. I muſt candidly own, that this argument appears to evince the neceſſity, of ſome intermediate means, in the act of viſion. One means is ſuggeſted by matter of fact. The image of a viſible object, is painted upon the retina of the eye. And it is not more difficult to [265] conceive, that this image may be ſome how conveyed to the mind, than to conceive the manner of its being painted upon the retina. This circumſtance puts the operation of vi⯑ſion, in one reſpect, upon the ſame footing, with that of touching; both being perform⯑ed by means of an impreſſion made at the organ. There is indeed this eſſential diffe⯑rence, that the impreſſion of touch is felt as ſuch, whereas the impreſſion of ſight is not felt: we are not conſcious of any ſuch im⯑preſſion, but merely of the object itſelf, which makes the impreſſion.

AND here a curious piece of mechaniſm preſents itſelf to our view. Tho' an impreſ⯑ſion is made upon the mind, by means of the image painted upon the retina, whereby the external object is perceived; yet nature has carefully concealed this impreſſion from us, in order to remove all ambiguity, and to give us a diſtinct feeling of the object itſelf, and of that only. In touching and taſting, the impreſſion made at the organ, is ſo cloſe⯑ly [266] connected with the body which makes the impreſſion, that the perception of the impreſſion, along with that of the body, cre⯑ates no confuſion nor ambiguity, the body being felt as operating where it really is. But were the impreſſion of a viſible object felt, as made at the retina, which is the organ of ſight, all objects behoved to be ſeen as with⯑in the eye. It is doubted among naturaliſts, whether outneſs or diſtance is at all diſcover⯑able by ſight, and whether that appearance be not the effect of experience. But bodies, and their operations, are ſo cloſely connected in place, that were we conſcious of an organic impreſſion at the retina, the mind would have a conſtant propenſity to place the body there alſo; which would be a circumſtance extremely perplexing, in the act of viſion, as ſetting feeling and experience in perpetual oppoſition; enough to poiſon all the plea⯑ſure we enjoy by that noble ſenſe.

FOR ſo ſhort-ſighted a creature as man, it is the worſt reaſon in the world for denying [267] any well atteſted fact, that we cannot ac⯑count for the manner by which it is brought about. It is true, we cannot explain, after what manner it is, that, by the intervention of the rays of light, the beings, and things around us, are laid open to our view; but it is mere arrogance, to pretend to doubt of the fact, upon that account; for it is, in effect, maintaining, that there is nothing in nature, but what we can explain.

THE perception of objects at a diſtance, by intervention of the rays of light, in⯑volves no inconſiſtency nor impoſſibility. And unleſs this could be aſſerted, we have no reaſon nor foundation to with-hold that aſſent to a matter of fact, which is due to the authority of our ſenſes. And after all, this particular ſtep of the operation of viſion, is, at bottom, not more difficult to be conceiv⯑ed or accounted for, than the other ſteps, of which no man entertains a doubt. It is, per⯑haps, not eaſy to explain, how the image of an external body is painted upon the retina tuni⯑ca. [268] And no perſon pretends to explain, how this image is communicated to the mind. Why then ſhould we heſitate about the laſt ſtep, to wit the perception of external objects, more than about the two former, when they are all equally ſupported, by the moſt unexceptionable evidence. The whole operation of viſion far ſurpaſſes human know⯑ledge: but not more, than the operation of magnetiſm, electricity, and a thouſand other natural appearances; and our ignorance of the cauſe, ought not to make us ſuſpect de⯑ceit in the one caſe, more than in the other.

WE ſhall conclude this ſubject, with the following reflection. Whether our percep⯑tion of the reality of external objects, corre⯑ſponds to the truth of things, or whether it be a mere illuſion, is a queſtion, which, from the nature of the thing, cannot admit of a ſtrict demonſtration. One thing is certain, that, ſuppoſing the reality of external ob⯑jects, we can form no conception of their being diſplayed to us, in a more lively and [269] convincing manner, than in fact is done. Why then call a thing in doubt, of which we have as good evidence, as human nature is capable of receiving? But we cannot call it in doubt, otherways than in ſpeculation, and even then, but for a moment. We have a thorough conviction of the reality of exter⯑nal objects; it riſes to the higheſt certainty of belief; and we act, in conſequence of it, with the greateſt ſecurity of not being de⯑ceived. Nor are we in fact deceived. When we put the matter to a trial, every experi⯑ment anſwers to our perceptions, and con⯑firms us more and more in our belief.

ESSAY IV. Of our IDEA of POWER.

THE ſubject propoſed to be handled in the preſent eſſay is the idea of power, and its origin. This term is found in all languages: we talk familiarly, of a power in one body, to produce certain effects, and of a capacity in another body, to have cer⯑tain effects produced upon it. Yet authors have differed ſtrangely, about the foundati⯑on of theſe ideas; and, after all that has been ſaid, it ſeems yet to be a matter of uncer⯑tainty, whether they are ſuggeſted by reaſon, by experience, or by what other means. This ſubject deſerves our attention the more, that the bulk of uſeful knowledge depends upon it. Without ſome inſight into cauſes and their effects, we ſhould be a very imper⯑fect race of beings. And, with regard to the preſent undertaking, this ſubject muſt not, at any rate, be overlooked; becauſe from it, principally, is derived any know⯑ledge [272] we have of the Deity, as will be after⯑wards made evident.

POWER denotes a ſimple idea, which, upon that account, cannot admit of a defini⯑tion. But no perſon is, nor can be at a loſs, about the meaning. Every action we perceive, gives us a notion of power; for a produc⯑tive cauſe is implied in our perception of e⯑very action or event ^*; and the very idea of cauſe comprehends a power of producing its effect. Let us only reflect upon the per⯑ception we have, when we ſee a ſtone thrown into the air out of one's hand. In the per⯑ception of this action, are included, contigu⯑ity of the hand and ſtone, the motion of the perſon's hand with the ſtone in it, and the ſeparate motion of the ſtone, following the other circumſtances in point of time. The firſt circumſtance is neceſſary, to put the man in a condition to exert his power upon the ſtone; the ſecond is the actual exertion of the power; and the laſt is the effect produc⯑ed [273] by that exertion. But theſe circumſtan⯑ces, which include both contiguity and ſuc⯑ceſſion, make no part of the idea of power; which is conceived or felt as an inherent pro⯑perty ſubſiſting in the man, not merely when he is exerting it, but even when he is at reſt. That all men have this very idea, is a fact not to be controverted. The only doubt is, whence it is derived; from what ſource it ſprings.

THAT reaſon cannot help us out, will be evident. For reaſon muſt always have ſome object to employ itſelf upon. There muſt be known Data or principles, to lead us to the diſcovery of things, which are connected with theſe Data or principles. But with regard to power, which makes a neceſſary connection betwixt a cauſe and its effect, we have no Data nor principles to lead us to the diſcovery. We are not acquainted with the beings and things about us, otherways than by certain qualities and properties, obvious to the external ſen⯑ſes. Power is none of theſe; nor is there [274] any connection which we can diſcover, be⯑twixt power and any of theſe. In a word, we have not the leaſt foundation for conclud⯑ing power in any body, till it once exert its power. If it be urged, that the effects pro⯑duced are Data, from which, we can infer a cauſe by a proceſs of reaſoning, and con⯑ſequently, a power in the cauſe to produce theſe effects; I anſwer, that when a new thing or quality is produced, when in gene⯑ral any change is brought about, it is ex⯑tremely doubtful, whether, by any proceſs of reaſoning, we can conclude it to be an effect, ſo as neceſſarily to require a cauſe of its exiſt⯑ence. That we do conclude it to be an ef⯑fect, is moſt certain. But that we can draw any ſuch concluſion, merely from reaſon, I don't clearly ſee. What leads me, I confeſs, to this way of thinking, is, that men of the greateſt genius have been unſucceſsful, in at⯑tempting to prove, that every thing which be⯑gins to exiſt, muſt have a cauſe of its exiſtence. ‘Whatever is produced (ſays Mr. Locke) without any cauſe, is produced by nothing; [275] or, in other words, has nothing for its cauſe. But nothing can never be a cauſe, no more than it can be ſomething.’ This is obviouſly begging the queſtion. To af⯑firm that nothing is the cauſe, is taking for granted that a cauſe is neceſſary; which is the very point undertaken to be made out. Doctor Clarke's argument labours under the ſame defect. ‘Every thing (he ſays) muſt have a cauſe; for if any thing wanted a cauſe, it would produce itſelf; that is, exiſt before it exiſted, which is impoſſible.’ If a thing can exiſt without a cauſe, there is no neceſſity it ſhould produce itſelf, or that any thing ſhould produce it. In ſhort, there does not appear to me any contradiction in the above propoſition, that a thing may begin to exiſt without a cauſe: and therefore, I dare not declare the fact to be impoſſible. But ſenſe and feeling afford me a conviction, that nothing begins to exiſt without a cauſe, tho' reaſon cannot afford me a demonſtration of it. This matter will be opened afterwards. At preſent, it is ſufficient to obſerve, that the [276] conviction in this caſe is complete, and car⯑ries ſo much authority with it, as ſcarce to admit of a bare conception, that the thing can poſſibly be otherways. This ſubject, at the ſame time, affords a new inſtance of what we have had more than once occaſion to ob⯑ſerve. Fond of arguments drawn from the nature of things, we are too apt to apply ſuch arguments without diſcretion; and to call that demonſtration, which, at bottom, is no⯑thing but a conviction from ſenſe and feel⯑ing. Our perceptions, which work ſilently, and without effort, are apt to be overlook⯑ed; and we vainly imagine, we can demon⯑ſtrate every propoſition, which we perceive to be true.

IT will be pretty obvious, that the idea of power is not deducible from experience, more than from reaſon. We can learn no⯑thing merely from experience, but that two objects may have been conſtantly conjoined in time paſt, ſuch as fire and heat, the ſun and light. But, in the firſt place, all that [277] can be gathered from ſuch facts, comes far ſhort of our idea of cauſe and effect, or of a power in one body to produce ſome change in another. In the ſecond place, experience, which relates only to the actions of the par⯑ticular bodies we are acquainted with, can⯑not aid us to diſcover power in any body, that we have not formerly ſeen in action. Yet, from the very firſt operation of ſuch a body, we have the perception of cauſe and effect, which therefore cannot be from ex⯑perience. And, in the laſt place, as experi⯑ence in no caſe reaches to futurity, our idea of power, did it depend upon experience, could only look backward: with regard to every new production, depending upon cauſ⯑es even the moſt familiar, we ſhould be ut⯑terly at a loſs to form any idea of power.

IT being now evident, that our idea of power is not derived, either from reaſon or experience, we ſhall endeavour to trace out the true foundation of this idea. Running over the ſubject, the following thoughts oc⯑cur, [278] which I ſhall ſet before the reader, in their natural order. As man, in his life and actions, is neceſſarily connected, both with the animate and inanimate world; he would be utterly at a loſs to conduct himſelf, with⯑out ſome acquaintance with the beings a⯑round him, and their operations. His ex⯑ternal ſenſes give him all the intelligence that is neceſſary, not only for being, but for well⯑being. They diſcover to him, in the firſt place, the exiſtence of external things. But this would not be ſufficient, unleſs they alſo diſcovered to him their powers and operati⯑ons. The ſenſe of ſeeing is the principal means of his intelligence. I have explained, in a former eſſay, that peculiar manner of perception, by which we diſcover the exiſt⯑ence of external objects. And when theſe are put in motion, whereby certain things follow, 'tis by another peculiar manner of perception, that we diſcover a relation be⯑twixt certain objects, which makes one be termed the cauſe, the other the effect. I need ſcarce repeat again, that there is no ex⯑plaining [279] ſimple feelings and perceptions, o⯑therways than by ſuggeſting the terms which denote them. All that can be done in this caſe, is to requeſt of the reader, to attend to what paſſes in his mind, when he ſees one billiard ball ſtruck againſt another, or a tree, which the wind is blowing down, or a ſtone thrown into the air out of one's hand. We are obviouſly ſo conſtituted, as not only to perceive the one body acting, and exerting its power; but alſo to perceive, that the change in the other body is produced by means of that action or exertion of power. This change we perceive to be an effect; and we perceive a neceſſary connection betwixt the action and the effect, ſo as that the one muſt unavoidably follow the other.

As I diſcover power in external objects, by the eye, ſo I diſcover power in my mind, by an internal ſenſe. By one act of the will ideas are raiſed. By another act of the will, my limbs are put in motion. Attending to theſe operations, I perceive or feel the mo⯑tion [280] of the limbs, and the entry of the ide⯑as, to follow neceſſarily from the act of the will. In other words, I perceive or feel theſe to be effects, and the act of the will to be the cauſe.

AND that this feeling is involved in the very perception of the action, without taking in either reaſon or experience, may be illuſ⯑trated by ſome plain obſervations. There is no relation more familiar, even to children, than that of cauſe and effect. The firſt time a child lifts a bit of bread, the perception it has of this action, not only includes a con⯑junction of the hand with the bread, and that the motion of the latter follows the motion of the former; but it likeways in⯑cludes that peculiar modification, which is expreſt by a power in the hand to lift the bread. Accordingly, we find no expreſſion more familiar among infants and ruſticks, nor better underſtood than I can do this, I can do that. Further, as things are beſt illuſtrated by their contraries, let us put the caſe of a [281] being, if there is ſuch a one, who, in view⯑ing external objects, has no idea of ſubſtance, but only of qualities; and who, in viewing motion, does not feel the change produced by it, to be an effect, or any way connected with the motion, further than as following it in point of time. It appears extremely e⯑vident, that this ſuppoſed being can never have the idea of body, or of its powers. Rea⯑ſon or experience can never give it the idea of body or ſubſtance, and far leſs of their powers.

IT is very true, we cannot diſcover power in any object, as we diſcover the object itſelf, merely by intuition. But the moment an alte⯑ration is produced by any object, we perceive that the object has a power to produce that alteration; which leads to denominate the one a cauſe, and the other an effect. I don't aſſert that we can never be in a miſtake about this matter. Children often err, by attri⯑buting an effect to one cauſe inſtead of ano⯑ther, or by conſidering that to be a cauſe, [282] which is not. Miſtakes of this kind are cor⯑rected by experience. But they prove the reality of the perception of power, juſt as much as where our perceptions are agree⯑able to the truth of things.

AND with regard to the fallibility of the ſenſe of ſeeing, when it points out to us cau⯑ſes and effects, the compariſon may be juſt⯑ly inſtituted, betwixt it and belief. The fa⯑culty which regulates belief is not infallible. It ſometimes leads us into errors. Nei⯑ther is the faculty infallible, by which we diſcern one thing to be a cauſe, another to be an effect. Yet both are exerted with ſufficient certainty, to guide us through life, without many capital errors.

THE author of the treatiſe of human na⯑ture, has employed a world of reaſoning, in ſearching for the foundation of our idea of power and of neceſſary connection. And, after all his anxious reſearches, he can make no more of it, but ‘That the idea of ne⯑ceſſary [283] connection, alias power or energy, ariſes from a number of inſtances, of one thing always following another, which connects them in the imagination; where⯑by we can readily foretel the exiſtence of the one from the appearance of the o⯑ther.’ And he pronounces, ‘That this connection can never be ſuggeſted from any one of theſe inſtances, ſurveyed in all poſſible lights and poſitions ^*.’ Thus he places the eſſence of neceſſary connecti⯑on, or power, upon that propenſity, which cuſtom produces, to paſs from an object to the idea of its uſual attendant. And from theſe premiſes, he draws a concluſion of a very extraordinary nature, and which he him⯑ſelf acknowledges to be not a little paradox⯑ical. His words are: ‘Upon the whole, neceſſity is ſomething that exiſts in the mind, not in objects; nor is it poſſible for us even to form the moſt diſtant idea of it, conſidered as a quality in bodies. The efficacy or energy in cauſes, is neither [284] placed in the cauſes themſelves, nor in the Deity, nor in the concurrence of theſe two principles; but belongs entirely to the ſoul, which conſiders the union of two or more objects in all paſt inſtances. 'Tis here that the real power of cauſes is plac⯑ed, along with their connection and ne⯑ceſſity ^*.’

HE may well admit this doctrine to be a violent paradox, becauſe, in reality, it con⯑tradicts our natural feelings, and wages war with the common ſenſe of mankind. We cannot put this in a ſtronger light than our author himſelf does, in forming an objecti⯑on againſt his own doctrine. ‘What! the efficacy of cauſesly in the determination of the mind! as if cauſes did not operate en⯑tirely independent of the mind, and would not continue their operation, even tho' there was no mind exiſtent to contemplate them, or reaſon concerning them. This [285] is to reverſe the order of nature, and to make that ſecondary which is really pri⯑mary. To every operation there is a pow⯑er proportioned; and this power muſt be placed on the body that operates. If we remove the power from one cauſe, we muſt aſcribe it to another. But to remove it from all cauſes, and beſtow it on a being that is noways related to the cauſe, or effect, but by perceiving them, is a groſs abſurdi⯑ty, and contrary to the moſt certain princi⯑ples of human reaſon ^†.’ In ſhort, no⯑thing is more clear, than that, from the ve⯑ry ſight of bodies in motion, we have the idea of power, which connects them toge⯑ther, in the relation of cauſe and effect. This power is perceived as a quality in the acting body, and by no means is an operation of the mind, or an eaſy tranſition of thought from one object to another. And there⯑fore, flatly to deny our perception of ſuch a quality in bodies, as our author does, is tak⯑ing upon him to contradict a plain matter of [286] fact, of which all the word can give teſtimo⯑ny. He may be at a loſs, indeed, to diſcover the ſource of this perception, becauſe he can neither derive it, nor the idea of ſubſtance, from his own principles. But it has been more than once obſerved, that it is too bold, to deny a fact, ſupported by the beſt evi⯑dence, merely becauſe one is at a loſs to diſ⯑cover the cauſe. At the ſame time, there is no manner of difficulty to lay open the foundation of theſe perceptions. Both of them are impreſſions of ſight, as is clearly made out above.

AND to ſhow, that our author's account of this matter comes far ſhort of truth, it will be plain from one or two inſtances, that tho' a conſtant connection of two ob⯑jects, may, by habit or cuſtom, produce a ſi⯑milar connection in the imagination; yet that a conſtant connection, whether in the imagination, or betwixt the objects them⯑ſelves, does by no means come up to our idea of power. Far from it. In a gar⯑riſon, [287] the ſoldiers conſtantly turn out at a certain beat of the drum. The gates of the town are opened and ſhut regularly, as the clock points at a certain hour. Theſe facts are obſerved by a child, grow up with him, and turn habitual during a long life. In this inſtance, there is a conſtant connection be⯑twixt objects, which is attended with a ſimi⯑lar connection in the imagination: yet the perſon above ſuppoſed, if not a changeling, never imagined, the beat of the drum to be the cauſe of the motion of the ſoldiers; nor the pointing of the clock to a certain hour, to be the cauſe of the opening or ſhutting of the gates. He perceives the cauſe of theſe o⯑perations to be very different; and is not led into any miſtake by the above circumſtances, however cloſely connected. Let us put ano⯑ther inſtance ſtill more appoſite. Such is the human conſtitution, that we act neceſſarily, upon the exiſtence of certain perceptions or motives. The proſpect of victuals makes a hungry man accelerate his pace. Reſpect to an antient family moves him to take a wife. [288] An object of diſtreſs prompts him to lay out his money, or venture his perſon. Yet no man dreams a motive to be the cauſe of action; tho', if the doctrine of neceſſity hold true, here is not only a conſtant, but a ne⯑ceſſary connection ^*.

FROM the inſtance laſt given, it appears, that conſtant connection, and the other cir⯑cumſtances mentioned by our author, are far from coming up to our idea of power. [289] There may be even a neceſſary connection betwixt two objects, without putting them in the relation of cauſe and effect, and with⯑out involving a power in the one to produce the other. Our author, then, attempts ra⯑ther too bold an enterprize, when he un⯑dertakes to argue mankind out of their ſen⯑ſes and feelings. That we have ſuch a feel⯑ing of power, as is above deſcribed, is a fact that cannot admit of the ſmalleſt controver⯑ſy. And all that is left him, would he ar⯑gue with any proſpect of ſucceſs, is to queſ⯑tion, whether this feeling does, in fact, cor⯑reſpond to the truth of things. But he will not undertake ſo ſtubborn a task, as to prove this a deluſive feeling; when he muſt be ſen⯑ſible of the wonderful harmony, that ſubſiſts betwixt it and the reality of cauſes and their effects. We have no reaſon to ſuſpect deceit in this caſe, more than with regard to many other ſenſes, ſome of which remain to be unfolded, that are wrought into the conſti⯑tution of man, for wiſe and good purpoſes, [290] and without which, he would be a very ir⯑regular and defective being.

AND were it neceſſary to ſay more upon a ſubject, which indeed merits the utmoſt attention; we have, if I miſtake not, this author's own evidence for us; which I conſider as no mean evidence in any caſe; and which muſt be held of the greateſt au⯑thority, when given againſt himſelf. And this evidence he gives in his philoſophical eſ⯑ſays. For tho', in this work, he continues to maintain ‘That neceſſity exiſts only in the mind, not in objects, and that it is not poſſible for us even to form the moſt di⯑ſtant idea of it, conſidered as a quality in bodies;’ yet, in the courſe of the argu⯑ment, he more than once diſcovers, that he himſelf is poſſeſſed of an idea of power, con⯑ſidered as a quality in bodies, tho' he has not attended to it. Thus he obſerves ^*, ‘That nature conceals from us, thoſe pow⯑ers and principles, on which the influ⯑ence [291] of objects entirely depends.’ And of theſe powers and principles, he gives ſeve⯑ral apt inſtances, ſuch as a power or quality in bread to nouriſh; a power by which bo⯑dies perſevere in motion. This is not only owning an idea of power as a quality in bo⯑dies, but alſo owning the reality of this power. In another paſſage ^†, he obſerves, ‘That the particular powers, by which all natural operations are performed, never ap⯑pear to the ſenſes;’ and ‘that experi⯑ence does not lead us to the knowledge of the ſecret power by which one object produces another.’ What leads us to the knowledge of this ſecret power, is not at preſent the queſtion. But here is the au⯑thor's own acknowledgment, that he has an idea of a power in one object to produce a⯑nother; for he certainly will not ſay, that he is here making uſe of words, without having any ideas annexed to them. In one paſſage in particular ^*, he talks diſtinctly and expli⯑citly of ‘A power in one object, by which [292] it infallibly produces the other, and operates with the greateſt certainty and ſtrongeſt neceſſity.’ No maſter of language can give a deſcription of power, conſidered as a qua⯑lity in bodies, in more apt or more expreſ⯑ſive terms. So difficult it is to ſtifle, or to diſguiſe natural feelings and ſentiments ^*.

IF the foregoing arguments have not pre⯑vailed, may not the following argument hope for ſucceſs? Figure the ſimpleſt of all caſes; a man riſing from his ſeat, to walk through the room; and try to analyſe the perception of this ſimple event. In the firſt place, is the man active or paſſive? Is he moved, or does he move himſelf? No mor⯑tal is at a loſs to underſtand theſe queſtions; and no mortal is at a loſs to anſwer them. We have a diſtinct perception or feeling, that the man is not moved, but moves; or, which is the ſame, moves himſelf. Let us exa⯑mine, in the next place, what is involved in the perception or feeling we have, when we [293] ſee this man walking. Do we not ſay fami⯑liarly, does not a child ſay, that he can walk? And what other thing do we mean by this expreſſion, than that he has a power to walk? Does not the very idea of walking include in it a power to walk? In this inſtance, our author, unhappily for his argument, has nei⯑ther contiguity nor ſucceſſion to recur to, for explaining his idea of power, imperfect as it is. And therefore, with regard to this inſtance, he muſt either admit, that we have an idea of power, conſidered as a quality in objects, or take upon him to deny, that we have any idea of power at all: for it is evi⯑dent, that the idea of power, when it com⯑prehends only a ſingle object, can never be reſolved into a connection in the imaginati⯑on, betwixt two or more objects. We have thus the feeling of power from every action, be it of the ſimpleſt kind that can be figur⯑ed. And having once acquired the idea of power exerted by an animal, to put itſelf in motion, we readily transfer that idea to the actions of bodies, animate and inanimate, up⯑on [294] each other. And, after all, with due re⯑gard to an author of very acute parts, I cannot help obſerving, that there is, per⯑haps, not one idea of all the train, which is more familiar to us, or more univerſal, than the idea of power.

HAVING thus aſcertained the reality of our idea of power, as a quality in bodies, and traced it to its proper ſource, I ſhall cloſe this eſſay with ſome obſervations upon cauſ⯑es and their effects. That we cannot diſco⯑ver power in any object, otherways than by ſeeing it exert its power, is above obſerved. Therefore, we can never diſcover any ob⯑ject to be a cauſe, otherways than by the effect produced. But with regard to things cauſed or produced, the caſe is very diffe⯑rent. For we can diſcover an object to be an effect, after the cauſe is removed, or when it is not at all ſeen. For inſtance, no one is at a loſs to ſay, that a table or a chair is an effect produced. A child will ask, who made it? We perceive every event, every [295] new object, to be an effect or production, the very conception of which involves the idea of a cauſe. Hence the maxim, ‘That nothing can fall out, nothing begin to exiſt, without a cauſe;’ in other words, ‘That every thing which begins to exiſt muſt have a cauſe:’ a maxim univerſally recogniſed, and admitted by all mankind as ſelf-evident. Nor can this be attributed to experience. The feel⯑ing is original, regarding ſingular objects and events, the cauſes of which are utterly unknown, not leſs than objects and events, which depend upon familiar cauſes. Chil⯑dren and ruſticks are conſcious of this feel⯑ing, equally with thoſe who have the moſt conſummate experience of nature, and its operations ^*.

FURTHER, the perception we have of a⯑ny object, as an effect, includes in it the feel⯑ing of a cauſe proportioned to the effect. If the object be an effect properly adapted to ſome end, the perception of it neceſſarily in⯑cludes [296] an intelligent deſigning cauſe. If the effect be ſome good end brought about by proper means, the perception neceſſarily in⯑cludes a deſigning and benevolent cauſe. Nor is it in our power, by any ſort of con⯑ſtraint, to vary theſe feelings, or to give them a different modification from what they have by nature. It may be in our power to conceive, but it is not in our power to believe, that a fine piece of painting, a well wrote poem, or a beautiful piece of architecture, can ever be the effect of chance, or of blind fatality. The ſuppoſition, indeed, ſo far as we can diſcover, does not involve any incon⯑ſiſtency in the nature of things. It may be poſſible, for any reaſon we have to the con⯑trary, that a blind and undeſigning cauſe may be productive of excellent effects. But our ſenſes diſcover, what reaſon does not, that every object, which appears beautiful as adapted to an end or purpoſe, is the effect of a deſigning cauſe; and that every object, which appears beautiful as fitted to a good end or purpoſe, is the effect of a deſigning [297] cauſe; and that every object, which ap⯑pears beautiful as fitted to a good end or purpoſe, is the effect of a deſigning and benevolent cauſe. We are ſo conſtituted, that we can entertain no doubt of this, if we would. And, ſo far as we gather from experience, we are not deceiv'd.

ESSAY V. Of our KNOWLEDGE of FUTURE EVENTS.

WHILE we are tied to this globe, ſome knowledge of the beings around us, and of their operations, is neceſſary; becauſe, without it, we ſhould be utterly at a loſs how to conduct ourſelves. This ſub⯑ject is handled in two former eſſays. But were our knowledge limited to this ſubject, it would not be ſufficient for our well-be⯑ing, and ſcarce for our preſervation. It is likeways neceſſary, that we have ſome know⯑ledge of future events; for about theſe we are moſtly employed. A man will not ſow, if he has not a proſpect of reaping: he will not build a houſe, if he has not ſome ſecuri⯑ty, that it will ſtand firm for years. Man is poſſeſt of this valuable branch of know⯑ledge: he can foretel future events. There is no doubt of the fact. The difficulty on⯑ly is, what are the means employed in mak⯑ing [300] the diſcovery. It is, indeed, an eſtabliſh⯑ed maxim, that the courſe of nature con⯑tinues uniformly the ſame; and that things will be as they have been. But, from what premiſes we draw this concluſion, is not ob⯑vious. Uniformity in the operations of na⯑ture, with regard to time paſt, is diſcovered by experience. But of future time, having no experience, the maxim aſſuredly cannot be derived from that ſource. Neither will reaſon help us out. It is true, the produc⯑tion of one thing by another, even in a ſingle inſtance, implies a power; and this power is neceſſarily connected with its effect. But as power is an internal property, not diſcov⯑erable but by the effects produced, we can never, by any chain of reaſoning, conclude, power to be in any body, except in the in⯑ſtant of operation. The power, for ought we know, may be at an end from that very inſtant. We cannot ſo much as conclude, from any deduction of reaſon, that this earth, the ſun, or any one being, will exiſt to-morrow. And, ſuppoſing their future ex⯑iſtence [301] to be diſcoverable by reaſon, we are not ſo much acquainted with the nature or eſſence of any one thing, as to diſcover a neceſſary connection betwixt it and its pow⯑ers, that the one ſubſiſting, the other muſt alſo ſubſiſt. There is nothing ſo eaſy to con⯑ceive, as that the moſt active being, ſhall at at once be deprived of all its activity: and a thing that may be conceived, can never be proved inconſiſtent or impoſſible. An ap⯑peal to paſt experience, will not carry us through. The ſun has afforded us light and heat from the beginning of the world. But what reaſon have we to conclude, that its power of giving light and heat muſt conti⯑nue; when it is as eaſy to conceive powers to be limited in point of time, as to con⯑ceive them perpetual? If to help us our here, we have recourſe to the wiſdom and goodneſs of a Supreme Being, as eſtabliſhing permanent general laws; the difficulty is, that we have no Data, from whence to conclude, in the way of reaſoning, that theſe general laws muſt continue invariably the [302] ſame without end. It is true, the concluſi⯑on is actually made, but it muſt be referred to ſome other ſource. For reaſoning will not aid us, more than experience does, to draw any one concluſion, from paſt to fu⯑ture events. It is certain, at the ſame time, that the uniformity of nature's operations, is a maxim admitted by all mankind. Tho' altogether unaſſiſted either by reaſon or ex⯑perience, we never have the leaſt heſitation to conclude, that things will be as they have been; in ſo much that we truſt our lives and fortunes upon this concluſion. I ſhall endeavour to trace out the principle, upon which this important concluſion is founded. And this ſubject will afford, 'tis hoped, a freſh inſtance of the admirable correſpond⯑ence, which is diſcovered betwixt the nature of man, and his external circumſtances. What is already made out, will lead us directly to our point. If our conviction of the unifor⯑mity of nature, is not founded upon reaſon nor experience, it can have no other foun⯑dation but ſenſe and feeling. The fact tru⯑ly [303] is, that we are ſo conſtituted, as, by a ne⯑ceſſary determination of nature, to transfer our paſt experience to futurity, and to have a direct perception or feeling of the conſtan⯑cy and uniformity of nature. This percep⯑tion or feeling muſt belong to an internal ſenſe, becauſe it evidently has no relation to any of our external ſenſes. And an argument, which has been more than once ſtated in the foregoing eſſays, will be found deciſive up⯑on this point. Let us ſuppoſe a being, which has no perception or notion of the unifor⯑mity of nature: ſuch a being will never be able to transfer its paſt experience to futuri⯑ty. Every event, however conformable to paſt experience, will come equally unexpect⯑ed to this being, as new and rare events do to us; tho' poſſibly without the ſame ſur⯑priſe.

THIS ſenſe of conſtancy and uniformity in the works of nature, is not confined to the ſubject above handled, but diſplays it⯑ſelf, remarkably, upon many other objects. [304] We have a conviction of a common nature in beings, which are ſimilar in their appear⯑ances. We expect a likeneſs in their conſti⯑tuent parts, in their appetites, and in their conduct. We not only lay our account with uniformity of behaviour, in the ſame indivi⯑dual, but in all the individuals of the ſame ſpecies. This principle has ſuch influence, as even to make us hope for conſtancy and uniformity, where experience would lead us to the oppoſite concluſion. The rich man never thinks of poverty, nor the diſtreſſed of relief. Even in this variable climate, we cannot readily bring ourſelves to believe, that good or bad weather will have an end. Nay, it governs our notions in law-matters, and is the foundation of the maxim, ‘That alteration or change of circumſtances is not to be preſumed.’ Influenced by the ſame principle, every man acquires a certain uniformity of manner, which ſpreads itſelf upon his thoughts, words and actions. In our younger years, the effect of this princi⯑ple is leſs remarkable, being oppoſed by a [305] variety of paſſions, which, as they have dif⯑ferent, and ſometimes oppoſite tendencies, occaſion a fluctuation in our conduct. But, ſo ſoon as the heat of youth is over, this principle, acting without counter-balance, ſeldom fails to bring on a punctual regulari⯑ty in our way of living, which is extremely remarkable in moſt old people.

ANALOGY is one of the moſt common ſources of reaſoning; the force of which is univerſally admitted. The conviction of e⯑very argument founded on analogy, ariſes from this very ſenſe of uniformity. Things ſimilar, in ſome particulars, are preſumed to be ſimilar in every particular.

IN a word, as the bulk of our views and actions have a future aim, ſome knowledge of future events is neceſſary, that we may a⯑dapt our views and actions to natural events. To this end, the Author of our nature has done two things. He has eſtabliſhed a con⯑ſtancy and uniformity in the operations of [306] nature. And he has impreſſed upon our minds, a conviction or belief of this conſtan⯑cy and uniformity, and that things will be as they have been.

ESSAY VI. Of our DREAD of SUPERNATURAL POWERS in the DARK.

A VERY ſlight view of human nature is ſufficient to convince us, that we were not dropt here by accident. This earth is fitted for man, and man is fitted for inhabit⯑ing this earth. By means of inſtinctive fa⯑culties, we have an intuitive knowledge of the things that ſurround us; at leaſt of ſuch things by which we may be affected. We can diſcover objects at a diſtance. We diſcern them in their connection of cauſe and effect; and their future operations are laid open, as well as their preſent. But in this grand ap⯑paratus of inſtinctive faculties, by which the ſecrets of nature are diſcloſed to us, one fa⯑culty ſeems to be with-held; tho' in appear⯑ance the moſt uſeful of all; and that is, a faculty to diſcern, what things are noxious, and what are friendly. The moſt poiſon⯑ous fruits have ſometimes the faireſt colours; [308] and the ſavage animals partake of beauty with the tame and harmleſs. And when other particulars are inquir'd into, it will be found, by induction, that man has no origi⯑nal feeling of what is ſalutary to him, and what is hurtful.

IT is natural to inquire why this inſtinct is with-held, when it appears to be the de⯑ſign of nature, to furniſh us plentifully with inſtincts, for the diſcovery of uſeful truths. With regard to this matter, it is too bold an undertaking for man to dive into all the ſecrets of his maker. We ought to reſt contented with the numerous inſtances we have of good order and good purpoſe, which muſt afford us a rational conviction, that good or⯑der and good purpoſe take place univerſal⯑ly. At the ſame time, a rational account may be ſuggeſted of this matter. We have a conviction, that there is nothing redun⯑dant or ſuperfluous in the operations of na⯑ture. Different means are never afforded us to bring about the ſame end. Experience, [309] ſo far as it can go, is given us for acquiring knowledge; and inſtinct only, where expe⯑rience cannot aid us. 'Tis true, inſtinct is a more compendious way of diſcovering uſe⯑ful truths. But man was intended an active being, and therefore left to his own induſtry, as much as poſſible.

MAN then is placed in this world, amidſt a great variety of objects, the nature and ten⯑dency of which are unknown to him, other⯑ways than by experience. In this ſituation, he would be in perpetual danger, had he not ſome faithful monitor, to keep him conſtant⯑ly upon the watch againſt harm. This mo⯑nitor is the propenſity he has to be afraid of new objects; ſuch eſpecially which have no peculiar beauty to raiſe his deſire. A child, to whom all nature is ſtrange, dreads the ap⯑proach of every object; and even the face of man is frightful to it. The ſame timidity and ſuſpicion may be obſerved in travellers, who converſe with ſtrangers, and meet with unknown appearances. Upon the firſt ſight of [310] an herb or fruit, we apprehend the worſt, and ſuſpect it to be noxious. An unknown ani⯑mal is immediately conceived to be dange⯑rous. The more rare phaenomena of na⯑ture, the cauſes of which are unknown to the vulgar, never fail to ſtrike them with terror. From this induction, it is clear, that we dread unknown objects. They are al⯑ways ſurveyed with an emotion of fear, 'till experience diſcovers them to be harmleſs.

THIS dread of unknown objects, is ſup⯑poſed to enter into the conſtitution of all ſen⯑ſitive beings, but is moſt remarkable in the weak and defenceleſs. The more feeble and delicate the creature is, the more ſhy and ti⯑morous it is obſerved to be. No creature is, by nature, more feeble and delicate than man; and this principle is to him of admir⯑able uſe, to keep him conſtantly upon his guard, and to balance the principle of curi⯑oſity, which is prevalent in man above all o⯑ther creatures, and which, left to itſelf, would often betray him into fatal accidents.

[311] THE dread of unknown objects is apt to fire the imagination, ſo as to magnify their ſuppoſed evil qualities and tendencies. For it is a well known truth, that paſſion has a wonderful effect upon the imagination. The leſs we know of a new object, the greater li⯑berty we take, to dreſs it up in frightful co⯑lours. The object is forthwith conceived to have all thoſe dreadful qualities, which are ſuggeſted by the imagination; and the ſame terror is raiſed, as if thoſe qualities were real and not imaginary ^*.

AGAIN, where the new and unknown objects have any thing dreadful in appear⯑ance, this circumſtance, joined with our na⯑tural propenſity to dread unknown objects, will raiſe terror even in the moſt reſolute. If the evils, dreaded from ſuch objects, are known neither in quality nor degree; the i⯑magination, being under no reſtraint, figures the greateſt evils, both in kind and magni⯑tude, that can be conceived. Where no im⯑mediate harm enſues, the mind, by the im⯑pulſe [312] it has received, tranſports itſelf into fu⯑turity, and imagines the ſtrange forms to be preſages of direful calamities. Hence it is, that the uncommon phaenomena of nature, ſuch as comets, eclipſes, earthquakes, and the like, are, by the vulgar, held as forerun⯑ners of uncommon events. Grand objects make a deep impreſſion upon the mind, and give force to that paſſion which occupies it at the time. The above appearances being un⯑common, if not altogether new, diſpoſe the mind to terror; which, aided by the emotion ariſing from the grandeur of the objects, produces great agitation, and a violent appre⯑henſion of danger.

THE ſtrongeſt and moſt familiar inſtance of our natural propenſity to dread unknown objects, is the fear that ſeizes many young perſons in the dark; which is a phaenomenon that has not been accounted for, with any de⯑gree of ſatisfaction. Light diſpoſes the mind to chearfulneſs and courage. Darkneſs, on the contrary, depreſſes the mind, and diſpoſes [313] it to fear. Any object alarms the mind, when it is already prepared by darkneſs, to receive impreſſions of fear. The object, which, in the dark, is ſeen but obſcurely, leaves the heated imagination at full liberty, to beſtow upon it the moſt dreadful appearance. This phantom of the imagination, conceived as a reality, unhinges the mind, and throws it into a fit of diſtraction. The imagination, now heated to the higheſt degree, multiplies the dreadful appearances to the utmoſt bounds of its conception. The object be⯑comes a ſpectre, a devil, a hobgoblin, ſome⯑thing more terrible than ever was ſeen or deſcribed.

A VERY few accidents of this kind, having ſo powerful an effect, are ſufficient to intro⯑duce an aſſociation between darkneſs and malignant powers. And when once this aſſo⯑ciation is formed, there is no occaſion for the appearance of an object to create terror. Frightful ideas croud into the mind, and aug⯑ment the fear, which is occaſioned by dark⯑neſs. The imagination becomes ungovern⯑able, [314] and converts theſe ideas into real ap⯑pearances.

THAT the terror occaſioned by darkneſs, is entirely owing to the operations of the i⯑magination, will be evident from a ſingle re⯑flection, that in company no ſuch effect is produced. A companion can afford no ſe⯑curity againſt ſupernatural powers. But a companion has the ſame effect with ſun⯑ſhine, to chear the mind, and preſerve it from gloomineſs and deſpondency. The i⯑magination is thereby kept within bounds, and under due ſubjection to ſenſe and reaſon.

ESSAY VII. Of our KNOWLEDGE of the DEITY.

THE arguments a priori for the exiſt⯑ence and attributes of the Deity, are urged, with the greateſt ſhew of reaſon, in the ſermons preached at Boyle's lectures. But the ſermons upon this ſubject, tho' they command my ſtricteſt attention, never have gained my heart. On the contrary, they al⯑ways give me a ſenſible uneaſineſs; the cauſe of which I have been at a loſs to diſcover, tho' now I imagine I can explain it. Such deep me⯑taphyſical reaſoning, if it afford any convicti⯑on, is ſurely not adapted to the vulgar and illi⯑terate. Is the knowledge of God, then, reſerv⯑ed for perſons of great ſtudy and deep think⯑ing? Is a vail thrown over the eyes of the reſt of mankind? This thought always returned upon me, and gave me pain. If there really exiſts a being, who made, and who governs the world; and, if it be his purpoſe to diſ⯑play himſelf to his rational creatures; it is [316] not conſiſtent with any idea we can form of the power and wiſdom of this being, that his purpoſe ſhould be defeated; which plain⯑ly is the caſe, in a great meaſure, if he is on⯑ly to be diſcovered, and but obſcurely, by a very ſmall part of mankind. At the ſame time, to found our knowledge of the Dei⯑ty ſolely upon reaſoning, is not agreeable to the analogy of nature. We are not left to gather our duty by abſtract reaſoning, nor indeed by any reaſoning. It is engraved up⯑on the table of our hearts. We adapt our actions to the courſe of nature, by mere in⯑ſtinct, without reaſoning, or even experience. Therefore, if we can truſt to analogy, we ought to expect, that God will diſcover him⯑ſelf to us, in ſome ſuch manner, as may take in all mankind, the vulgar and illiterate, as well as the deep thinking philoſopher.

IF theſe abſtruſe arguments, however, are reliſhed by the learned and ſpeculative, 'tis ſo far well. I cannot help acknowledging, that they afford me no conviction, at leaſt, [317] no ſolid and permanent conviction. We know little about the nature of things, but what we learn from a ſtrict attention to our own nature. That nothing can begin to exiſt without a cauſe, is ſufficiently evident from ſenſe and feeling ^*. But that this can be demonſtrated by any argument a priori, drawn from the nature of things, I have not obſerved ^†. And if demonſtration fail us in the very outſetting, we cannot hope for its aſſiſtance in the after ſteps. If any one being can begin to exiſt without a cauſe, e⯑very being may; upon which ſuppoſition, we never can hope for a demonſtration, that any one being muſt be eternal. But, if this difficulty ſhall be ſurmounted, we have ano⯑ther to ſtruggle with. Admitting that ſome⯑thing has exiſted from all eternity, I find no Data to determine a priori, whether this world has exiſted of itſelf from all eternity, in a conſtant ſucceſſion of cauſes and ef⯑fects; or whether it be an effect produced [318] by an Almighty Power. It is indeed hard to conceive a world eternal and ſelf-exiſtent, where all things are carried on by blind fate, without deſign or intelligence. And yet I can find no demonſtration to the contrary. If we can form any obſcure notion of one intelligent being, exiſting from all eternity, it appears not more difficult to form a notion of a ſucceſſion of beings, with or without intelligence; or a notion of a perpetual ſuc⯑ceſſion of cauſes and effects.

IN ſhort, difficulties preſs both ways. But, theſe difficulties, when examined, do not a⯑riſe from any inconſiſtency in our ideas. They are occaſioned, merely, by the limit⯑ed capacity of the mind of man. We can⯑not comprehend an eternity of exiſtence. It is too bulky an object. It eludes our graſp. The mind is like the eye. It can⯑not take in an object that is very great or very little. This, plainly is the ſource of our difficulties, when we attempt ſpeculati⯑ons ſo remote from common apprehenſion. Abſtract reaſoning upon ſuch a ſubject, muſt [319] lead into endleſs perplexities. It is indeed leſs difficult to conceive one eternal un⯑changeable being who made the world, than to conceive a blind chain of cauſes and ef⯑fects. At leaſt, we are diſpoſed to the for⯑mer, as being more agreeable to the imagi⯑nation. But as we cannot find any incon⯑ſiſtency in the latter ſuppoſition, we cannot juſtly ſay that it is demonſtrably falſe.

GIVE me leave to add, that to bring out ſuch abſtruſe and intricate ſpeculations into any clear and perſuaſive light, is at any rate ſcarce to be expected. And if, after the utmoſt ſtraining, they remain obſcure and unaffecting, it is evident to me, that they muſt have a bad tendency. Perſons of a peeviſh and gloomy caſt of mind, finding no conviction from that quarter, will be for⯑tiſied in their propenſity to believe that all things happen by blind chance; that there is no wiſdom, order or harmony in the go⯑vernment of this world; and conſequently that there is no God.

[320] BEING therefore little ſollicitous about ar⯑guments a priori, for the exiſtence of a Deity, which are not proportioned to the capacity of man, I apply myſelf with zeal and chear⯑fulneſs, to ſearch for the Deity in his works; for by theſe we muſt diſcover him, if he has thought proper to make himſelf known. And the better to manage the inquiry, I ſhall endeavour to make out three propoſi⯑tions; 1ſt, That if there is a being who is the maker and governor of the world, it is agreeable to any notions we can form of his government, that he ſhould make ſome diſ⯑covery of himſelf to his intelligent creatures. 2dly, That in fact he has done ſo. And 3dly, That he has done ſo in a manner a⯑greeable to the nature of man, and analo⯑gous to his other operations.

THERE certainly cannot be a more diſ⯑couraging thought to man, than that the world was formed by a fortuitous concourſe of atoms, and that all things are carried on by blind impulſe. Upon that ſuppoſition, [321] he can have no ſecurity for his life; nor for his continuing to be a moral agent and an intelligent creature, even for a moment. Things have been carried on with regularity and order. But chance may, in an inſtant, throw all things into the moſt horrid and diſmal confuſion. We can have no ſolid com⯑fort in virtue, when it is a work of mere chance; nor can we juſtify our reliance up⯑on the faith of others, when the nature of man reſts upon ſo precarious a foundation. Every thing muſt appear gloomy, diſmal and disjointed, without a Deity to unite this world of beings into one beautiful and har⯑monious ſyſtem. Theſe conſiderations, and many more that will occur upon the firſt re⯑flection, afford a very ſtrong conviction, if there is a wiſe and good Being, who ſuper⯑intends the affairs of this world, that he will not conceal himſelf from his rational crea⯑tures. Can any thing be more deſirable, or more ſubſtantially uſeful, than to know, that there is a Being from whom no ſecrets are hid, to whom our good works are acceptable, [322] and even the good purpoſes of our hearts; and whoſe government, directed by wiſdom and benevolence, ought to make us reſt ſe⯑cure, that nothing does or will fall out, but according to good order? This ſentiment, rooted in the mind, is an antidote to all misfortune. Without it, life is at beſt but a confuſed and gloomy ſcene.

AND this leads to a different conſiderati⯑on, which makes our knowledge of a bene⯑volent Deity of the greateſt importance to us. Tho' natural and moral evil are far from prevailing in this world, yet ſo much of both is ſcattered over the face of things, as to create ſome degree of doubt, whether there may not be a mixture of chance, or of ill-will, in the government of this world. But, once ſuppoſing the ſuperintendency of a good being, theſe evils are no longer conſidered as ſuch. A man reſtrains himſelf from un⯑lawful pleaſures, tho' the reſtraint gives him pain. But then he does not conſider this pain, as an evil to repine at. He ſubmits to [323] it voluntarily and with ſatisfaction, as one does to grief for the loſs of a friend; being conſcious that it is right and fit for him to be ſo affected. In the ſame manner, he ſub⯑mits to all the evils of this life. Having con⯑fidence in the good government of the De⯑ity, he is perſuaded that every thing hap⯑pens for the beſt, and therefore that it is his duty to ſubmit to whatever happens. This unfolds a ſcene ſo enlivening, and ſo productive of chearfulneſs and good hu⯑mour, that we cannot readily think, if there is a benevolent Deity, that he will with-hold from his creatures ſo invaluable a bleſſing.

MAN, at the ſame time, by his taſte for beauty, regularity and order, is fitted for contemplating the wiſdom and goodneſs diſ⯑played in the frame and government of this world. Theſe are proper objects of ad⯑miration and joy. It is not agreeable to the ordinary courſe of nature, that man ſhould be endowed with an affection, with⯑out having a proper object to beſtow it up⯑on. [324] And as the providence of the Deity is the higheſt object of this affection, it would be unnatural, that he ſhould be kept in ig⯑norance of it.

THESE, I admit, are but probable reaſons for believing, that, if there is a benevolent Deity, it muſt be his intention to manifeſt himſelf to his creatures: but they carry a ve⯑ry high degree of probability, which leaves little room for doubt. At the ſame time, tho' it ſhould be our fate, to ſearch in vain for this object of our affection, we ought not however to deſpair, and, in that deſpair, to conclude there is no God. Let us but re⯑flect, that he has not manifeſted himſelf to all his creatures. The brutes apparently know nothing of him. And ſhould we be diſappointed in this ſearch, the worſt we can conclude, is, that for good and wiſe purpoſ⯑es, which we cannot dive into, he has thought proper to with-hold himſelf alſo from us. We certainly have no reaſon to convert our ignorance into an argument [325] againſt his exiſtence. Our ignorance brings us only a ſtep lower, and puts us, ſo far, up⯑on a footing with the brute creation.

THE ſecond and important branch of our diſquiſition, is, to aſcertain this fact, that there is a Deity, and that he has manifeſted himſelf to us. I requeſt only attention of my reader, and not any unreaſonable con⯑ceſſion. In a former eſſay ^*, two propoſitions are made out. The firſt is, that every thing which has a beginning, is perceived as a pro⯑duction or effect, which neceſſarily involves the idea of a cauſe. The ſecond, that we neceſſarily transfer to the cauſe, whatever of contrivance or deſign is diſcovered in the ef⯑fect. Conſidering a houſe, garden, picture or ſtatue in itſelf, it is perceived as beauti⯑ful. If we attend to theſe objects in a diffe⯑rent view, as things having a beginning, we perceive them to be effects, involving the i⯑dea of a cauſe. If again we conſider them as artfully contrived to anſwer certain pur⯑poſes, we perceive them to be the workman⯑ſhip [326] of ſome perſon of skill. Nor are we deceived in theſe perceptions. Upon exami⯑nation, we find, that they correſpond to truth and reality.

BUT not only are theſe objects perceived as effects, which we afterwards learn, from experience, to be the production of man. Natural objects, ſuch as plants and animals, as well as all other objects which once were not, are alſo perceived as effects, or as the production of ſome cauſe. The queſtion will always recur, how came it here? who made it? what is the cauſe of its exiſtence?

WE are ſo accuſtomed to human arts, that every work of deſign and uſe will be attri⯑buted to man. But what if it exceed his known powers and faculties? This ſuppoſi⯑tion does not alter the nature of our feel⯑ings; but only leads us to a different cauſe, and, in place of man, to determine upon ſome ſuperior power. If the object be con⯑ſidered as an effect, it neceſſarily involves the [327] idea of a cauſe. And the cauſe cannot be man, if the object of our perception be an effect far ſurpaſſing the power of man. This train of thinking leads us directly to our point. Attend but to the anatomy of the meaneſt plant: ſo much of art and of curi⯑ous mechaniſm is diſcovered in it, that it muſt be the production of ſome cauſe, far ſurpaſſing the power and intelligence of man. The ſcene opens more and more, when, paſ⯑ſing from plants to animals, we come to man, the moſt wonderful of all the works of na⯑ture. And when, at laſt, we take in, at one view, the natural and moral world, full of harmony, order and beauty; happily ad⯑juſted in all its parts to anſwer great and glo⯑rious purpoſes; there is, in this grand pro⯑duction, neceſſarily involved, the perception of a cauſe, unbounded in power, intelligence and goodneſs.

THUS it is, that the Deity has manifeſted himſelf to us, by the means of principles wrought into our nature, which muſt infal⯑libly [328] operate, upon viewing objects in their relation of cauſe and effect. We diſcover ex⯑ternal objects by their qualities of colour, figure, ſize and motion. In the perception of theſe qualities, connected after a certain manner, is comprehended, the feeling of the ſubſtance or thing, to which theſe qualities be⯑long. At the ſame time, we perceive this ſubſtance or thing, ſuppoſing it to have a be⯑ginning of exiſtence, to be an effect produ⯑ced by ſome cauſe; and we perceive the pow⯑ers and properties of this cauſe from its ef⯑fects. If there is an aptitude in the effect to ſome end, we attribute to the cauſe, intelli⯑gence and deſign. If the effect produced be ſome thing that is good in itſelf, or that has a tendency to ſome good end or pupoſe, we attribute goodneſs to the cauſe, as well as intelligence and deſign. And this we do, not by any proceſs of reaſoning, but merely by perception and feeling. The Deity has not left his exiſtence to be gathered from ſlip⯑pery and far-fetched arguments. We have but to open our eyes, to receive impreſſions [329] of him almoſt from every thing we perceive. We diſcover his being and attributes, in the ſame manner that we diſcover external objects. We have but to appeal to our own perceptions; and none but thoſe, who are ſo ſtubbornly hypothetical, as to deny the exiſt⯑ence of matter, againſt the evidence of their ſenſes, can, ſeriouſly and deliberately, deny the exiſtence of the Deity. In fine, there is a wonderful harmony eſtabliſhed betwixt our perceptions and the courſe of nature. We truſt to our perceptions, for the exiſtence of external objects, and their paſt, preſent and future operations. We truſt to theſe perceptions by the neceſſity of our nature, and, upon experience, find ourſelves not de⯑ceived. Our perception of the Deity, is as diſtinct and authoritative, as that of external objects. And tho' here, we cannot have ex⯑perience to appeal to, the want of experi⯑ence can never afford an argument againſt the authority of any perception, where, from the nature of the thing, there can be no ex⯑perience. It is ſufficient for conviction, that [330] our perceptions in general correſpond to the truth of things, wherever there is an oppor⯑tunity to try them by experience; and there⯑fore, we can have no cauſe to doubt of our perceptions in any caſe, where they are not contradicted by experience.

SO far the Deity is diſcoverable, by every perſon who goes but one ſtep beyond the ſurface of things, and their mere exiſtence. We may indeed behold the earth in its gayeſt dreſs, the heavens in all their glory, without having any perception, other than that of beauty, ſomething in theſe objects that plea⯑ſes and delights us. Many paſs their lives, brutiſhly involved in the groſs pleaſures of ſenſe, without having any feeling, at leaſt, any ſtrong or permanent feeling, of the Dei⯑ty; and poſſibly, this in general is the caſe of ſavages, before they are humanized by ſo⯑ciety and government. But the Deity can⯑not be long a ſecret from thoſe who are ac⯑cuſtomed to any degree of reflection. No ſooner are we enabled to reliſh beauties of [331] the ſecond and third claſs ^*; no ſooner do we acquire a taſte for regularity, order, de⯑ſign, and good purpoſe, than we begin to per⯑ceive the Deity, in the beauty of the opera⯑tions of nature. Savages who have no con⯑ſiſtent rule of conduct, who act by the blind impulſe of paſſion and appetite, and who have only a glimmering of the moral ſenſe, are but ill qualified to diſcover the Deity in his works. If they have little or no percep⯑tion of a juſt tenor of life, of the dignity of behaviour, and of the beauty of action, how ſhould they perceive the beauty of the works of creation, and the admirable harmony of all the parts, in the great ſyſtem of things? Being conſcious of nothing but diſorder and ſenſual impulſe within, they cannot be con⯑ſcious of any thing better without them. Society teaches mankind ſelf-denial, and im⯑proves the moral ſenſe. Diſciplined in ſo⯑ciety, the taſte for order and regularity un⯑folds itſelf by degrees. The ſocial affecti⯑ons [332] gain the aſcendant, and the morality of actions gets firm poſſeſſion of the mind. In this improved ſtate, the beauty of the crea⯑tion makes a ſtrong impreſſion; and, we can never ceaſe admiring the excellency of that cauſe, who is the author of ſo many beautiful effects. And thus, to ſociety we owe all the bleſſings of life, and, particularly, the know⯑ledge of the Deity, that moſt ineſtimable branch of human knowledge.

HITHERTO we have gone no further, than to point out the means by which we diſcover the Deity, and his attributes of pow⯑er, wiſdom and goodneſs. So far are we carried by thoſe wonderful principles in our nature, which diſcover the connection be⯑twixt cauſe and effect, and from the ef⯑fect diſcover the powers and properties of the cauſe. But there is one attribute of the Supreme Being, of the moſt eſſential kind, which remains to be unfolded. It is, what commonly paſſes under the name of ſelf-exiſtence, that he muſt have exiſted for [333] ever; and conſequently, that he cannot be conſidered as an effect, to require a cauſe of his exiſtence; but, on the contrary, without being cauſed, that, mediately, or immediate⯑ly, he is the cauſe of all other things. A principle, we have had occaſion, more than once, to mention, will make this evident, ſciz. that nothing can begin to exiſt with⯑out a cauſe. Every thing which comes in⯑to exiſtence, and once was not, is, by a ne⯑ceſſary determination of our nature, perceiv⯑ed as an effect, or as a production; the very conception of which, involves an adequate cauſe. Now, if every thing has a begin⯑ning, one being, at leaſt, to wit, that which firſt came into exiſtence, muſt be an effect or production without a cauſe, which is a di⯑rect inconſiſtency. If all beings had a be⯑ginning, there was a time, when the world was an abſolute void; upon which ſuppoſi⯑tion, it is intuitively certain, that nothing could ever have come into exiſtence. This propoſition we feel to be true, and our feel⯑ing affords us, in this caſe, a more ſolid con⯑viction, [334] than any demonſtration can do. One being, therefore, muſt have exiſted from all eternity, who, as he is not an effect or production, cannot poſſibly be indebted for his exiſtence to any other being. At the ſame time, as we can have no foundation for ſuppoſing the exiſtence of more eternal beings than one, this one being muſt be the Deity; becauſe, all other beings, mediately, or immediately, owe their exiſtence to him. All other beings, as they are ſuppoſed to be produced in time, muſt have a cauſe of their exiſtence, and, by the ſuppoſition, there can be no other cauſe but this eternal Being. The bulk of mankind, probably, in their no⯑tions of the Deity, ſcarce comprehend this attribute of ſelf-exiſtence. A man muſt be uſed, a good deal, to abſtract reaſoning, who of himſelf diſcovers this truth. But it is not difficult to explain it to others, after it is diſ⯑covered. And it deſerves well to be incul⯑cated; for, without it, our knowledge of the Deity muſt be extremely imperfect. His other attributes of power, wiſdom and good⯑neſs, [335] are, in ſome meaſure, communicated to his creatures; but his attribute of ſelf-exiſ⯑tence makes the ſtrongeſt oppoſition imagin⯑able, betwixt him and his creatures.

A FEW words will ſuffice upon the third propoſition, which, in a good meaſure, is al⯑ready explained. The eſſence of the Deity is far beyond the reach of our comprehenſi⯑on. Were he to exhibit himſelf to us, in broad day-light, it is not a thing ſuppoſable, that he could be reached by any of our ex⯑ternal ſenſes. The attributes of ſelf-exiſtence, wiſdom, goodneſs and power, are purely in⯑tellectual. And therefore, ſo far as we can comprehend, there are no ordinary means to acquire any knowledge of the Deity, but by his works. And indeed, by means of that ſenſe which diſcovers cauſes from their ef⯑fects, he has manifeſted himſelf to us in a fa⯑tisfactory manner, liable to no doubt nor error. And after all, what further evidence can we deſire, when the evidence we have of his exiſtence is little inferior to that we [336] have of our own exiſtence? Impreſſions or perceptions ſerve us for evidence in both caſ⯑es ^*. Our own exiſtence, indeed, is, of all facts, that which concerns us moſt; and, therefore, of our own exiſtence we ought to have the higheſt certainty. Next to it, we have not, as it appears to me, a greater cer⯑tainty of any matter of fact, than of the ex⯑iſtence of the Deity. 'Tis, at leaſt, equal to the certainty we have of external objects, and of the conſtancy and uniformity of the operations of nature, upon the faith of which our whole ſchemes of life are adjuſted.

THE arguments a poſteriori, which have been urged for the Being and attributes of the Deity, are generally defective. There is always wanting one link of the chain, to wit, that peculiar principle, upon which is founded our knowledge of cauſes and their ef⯑fects. But the calm perceptions, turning habi⯑tual by frequent repetition, are apt to be over⯑looked [337] in our reaſonings. Many a pro⯑poſition is rendered obſcure, by much la⯑boured argument, for the truth of which, we need but appeal to our own percepti⯑ons. Thus, we are told, that the frame and order of the world, the wiſdom and goodneſs diſplayed in every part of it, are an evident demonſtration of the Being of a God. I confeſs, theſe things afford us full conviction of his Being. But, laying a⯑ſide perception and feeling, I ſhould be ut⯑terly at a loſs, by any ſort of reaſoning, to conclude the exiſtence of any one thing, from that of any other thing. In particular, by what proceſs of reaſoning, can we demon⯑ſtrate this concluſion to be true, that order and beauty muſt needs proceed from a de⯑ſigning cauſe? It is true, the idea of an effect involves the idea of a cauſe. But how does reaſon make out, that the thing we name an effect, may not exiſt of itſelf, as well as what we name a cauſe? If it be urged, that hu⯑man works, where means are apparently ad⯑juſted to an end, and beautty and order diſ⯑covered, [338] are always known to be the effects of intelligence and deſign. True, they are: and as far as I have experience, I believe the fact to be ſo. But, where experience fails me, I deſire to know, by what ſtep, what link in the chain of reaſoning, am I to con⯑nect my paſt experience with this inference, that in every caſe, I ought to form the ſame concluſion? If it be ſaid, that nature prompts us to judge of ſimilar inſtances, by former experience; this is giving up reaſon and de⯑monſtration, to appeal to that very feeling, on which, I contend, the evidence of this truth muſt entirely reſt. All the arguments a poſteriori, may be reſolved into this princi⯑ple; which, no doubt, has had its due influ⯑ence upon the writers who handle the pre⯑ſent ſubject; tho', I muſt be allowed to ſay, it has not been explained, nor, perhaps, ſuffi⯑ciently underſtood by them; whereby, all of them have been led into the error, of ſtating as demonſtrative reaſoning, what is only an appeal to our ſenſes. They reaſon, for ex⯑ample, upon the equality of males and fe⯑males, [339] and hold the infinite odds againſt this equality, to be a demonſtration, that matters cannot be carried on by chance. This, con⯑ſidered as mere reaſoning, does not con⯑clude; for, beſides that chance is infinite in its varieties, there may be, ſome blind fata⯑lity, ſome unknown cauſe, in the nature of things, which produces this uniformity. But tho' reaſon cannot afford demonſtration in this caſe, ſenſe and feeling afford conviction. The equality of males and females, is one of the many inſtances which we know and feel to be the effects of a deſigning cauſe; and of which we can no more entertain a doubt, than of our own exiſtence. The ſame principle, which unfolds to us the con⯑nection of cauſes and their effects, in the moſt common events, diſcovers this whole uni⯑verſe to ſtand in the relation of an effect to a ſupreme cauſe.

To ſubſtitute feeling in place of reaſon and demonſtration, may ſeem to put the evi⯑dence of the Deity upon too low a footing. [340] But human reaſon is not ſo mighty an affair, as philoſophers vainly pretend. It affords very little aid, in making original diſcoveries. The comparing of things together, and directing our inferences from feeling and experience, are its proper province. In this way, reaſon gives its aid, to lead us to the knowledge of the Deity. It enlarges our views of final cauſ⯑es, and of the prevalence of wiſdom and good⯑neſs. But the application of the argument from final cauſes, to prove the exiſtence of a Deity, and the force of our concluſion, from beautiful and orderly effects to a deſigning cauſe, are not from reaſon, but from an inter⯑nal light, which ſhows things in their relation of cauſe and effect. Theſe concluſions reſt en⯑tirely upon ſenſe and feeling; and it is ſur⯑priſing, that writers ſhould overlook what is ſo natural, and ſo obvious. But the pride of man's heart, makes him deſire to extend his diſcoveries, by dint of reaſoning. For reaſon⯑ing is our own work. There is merit in acute⯑neſs and penetration; and we are better [341] pleaſed to aſſume merit to ourſelves, than humbly to acknowledge, that, to the moſt important diſcoveries, we are directly led by the hand of the Almighty.

HAVING unfolded that principle, upon which I would reſt the moſt important of all truths; objections muſt not be overlook⯑ed, ſuch as appear to have weight: and I ſhall endeavour to give theſe objections their ſtrongeſt effect, which ought to be done in every diſpute, and which becomes more ſtrict⯑ly a duty, in handling a ſubject, where truth is of the utmoſt importance.

CONSIDERING the above argument on all ſides, I do not find, that it can be more advantageouſly combated, than by oppoſing to it, the eternity and ſelf-exiſtence of the world, governed by chance or blind fatality. 'Tis above admitted to be very difficult, by any abſtract reaſoning, to prove the inconſiſ⯑tency of this ſuppoſition. But we feel the inconſiſtency; for the frame and conduct of [342] this world, contain in them, too much of wiſ⯑dom, art and foreſight, to admit of the ſup⯑poſition of chance or blind fatality. We are neceſſarily determined, by a principle in our nature, to attribute ſuch effects to ſome intelligent and deſigning cauſe. Suppoſing this cauſe to be the world itſelf, we have, at leaſt, got free of the ſuppoſition of chance and blind ſatality. And, if the world be a being, endued with unbounded power, in⯑telligence and benevolence, the world is the being we are in queſt of; for we have no other idea of the Deity, but of an eternal and ſelf-exiſtent being, endued with power, wiſdom and goodneſs. But the hypotheſis, thus reformed, ſtill contradicts our percepti⯑ons. The world is made up of parts, ſepar⯑able, and actually ſeparated. The attributes of unbounded power, intelligence and bene⯑volence, do certainly not belong to this earth, and as little to the ſun, moon or ſtars, which are not conceived to be even volun⯑tary agents. Therefore, theſe attributes muſt belong to a Being, who made the earth, [343] ſun, moon and ſtars, and who connects the whole together in one ſyſtem.

A SECOND objection may be, that the above reaſoning, by which we conclude the eternity and ſelf-exiſtence of one Being who made this world, does not neceſſarily infer ſuch a concluſion, but only, an eternal ſuc⯑ceſſion of ſuch beings; which may be rec⯑koned a more natural ſuppoſition, and more agreeable to our feelings, than the idea of one eternal ſelf-exiſtent Being, without any cauſe of his exiſtence.

IN matters ſo profound, it is difficult to form ideas with any degree of accuracy. I have obſerved above, that it is too much for man, to graſp, in his idea, an eternal Being, whoſe exiſtence, upon that account, cannot admit of the ſuppoſition of a cauſe. To talk, as ſome of our metaphyſical writers do, of an abſolute neceſſity in the nature of the Be⯑ing, as the cauſe of his exiſtence, is mere jargon. For we can conceive nothing more [344] clearly, than that the cauſe muſt go before the effect, and that the cauſe cannot poſſibly be in the effect. But, however difficult it may be, to conceive one eternal Being, with⯑out a cauſe of its exiſtence; it is not leſs dif⯑ficult, to conceive an eternal ſucceſſion of beings, deriving their exiſtence from each other. For, tho' every link be ſuppoſed a production, the chain itſelf exiſts without a cauſe, as well as one eternal Being does. Therefore, an eternal ſucceſſion of beings, is not a more natural ſuppoſition, than one eternal ſelf-exiſtent Being. And taking it in a different light, it will appear a ſuppoſi⯑tion much leſs natural, or rather altogether unnatural. Succeſſion in exiſtence, imply⯑ing the ſucceſſive annihilation of particulars, is indeed a very natural conception. But then, it is intimately connected with frail and dependent beings, and cannot, without the utmoſt violence to the conception, be applied to the Maker of all things, to whom, we naturally aſcribe, perpetual exiſtence, and every other perfection. And therefore, as [345] this hypotheſis of a perpetual ſucceſſion, when applied to the Deity, is deſtitute of a⯑ny ſupport from reaſon or experience, and is contradicted by every one of our natural feel⯑ings, there can be no ground for adopting it.

THE noted obſervation of Lucretius, that primos in orbe deos fecit timor, may be ob⯑jected; as it will be thought unphiloſophical, to multiply cauſes for our belief of a Deity, when fear alone muſt have that effect. For my part, I have little doubt of the truth of the obſervation, taking it in its proper ſenſe, that fear is the foundation of our belief of inviſible malevolent powers. For it is evi⯑dent, that fear can never be the cauſe of our belief of a benevolent Deity. I have unfolded, in another eſſay ^*, the cauſe of our dread of malevolent inviſible powers. And I am perſuaded, that nothing has been more hurtful to religion, than the irregular propenſity in our nature, to dread ſuch pow⯑ers. Superficial thinkers are apt to confound [346] theſe phantoms of the imagination, with the objects of our true and genuine perceptions. And finding ſo little reality in the former, they are apt to conclude the latter, alſo, to be a fiction. But, if they gave any ſort of deliberate attention, they would ſoon learn, by the aſſiſtance of hiſtory, if not by origi⯑nal feeling, to diſtinguiſh theſe objects, as having no real connection with each other. Man, in his original ſavage ſtate, is a ſhy and timorous animal, dreading every new object, and attributing every extraordinary e⯑vent, to ſome inviſible malevolent power. Led, at the ſame time, by mere appetite, he has little idea of regularity and order, of the morality of actions, or of the beauty of na⯑ture. In this ſtate, it is no wonder, he mul⯑tiplies his inviſible malevolent powers, with⯑out entertaining any notion of a ſupreme Be⯑ing, the Creator of all things. As man rip⯑ens in ſociety, and is benefited by the good⯑will of others, his dread of new objects gra⯑dually leſſens. He begins to perceive regu⯑larity and order in the courſe of nature. He [347] becomes ſharp-ſighted, in diſcovering cauſes from effects, and effects from cauſes. He aſcends gradually, thro' the different orders of beings, and their operations, till he diſ⯑covers the Deity, who is the cauſe of all things. And when we run over the hiſtory of man, it will be found to hold true in fact, that ſavages, who are moſt poſſeſt with the opinion of evil ſpirits, have, of all people, the leaſt idea of a Deity; and, that as all civilized nations, without exception, entertain the firm belief of a Deity, ſo the dread of evil ſpirits wears out in every nation, in proportion to their gradual advances in ſocial intercourſe.

AND this leads to a reflection, which can⯑not fail to have univerſal influence. Man, in a ſavage and brutiſh ſtate, is hurried a⯑way by every guſt of paſſion, and by every phantom of the imagination. His powers and faculties are improved by education, and good culture. He acquires deep knowledge in the nature of things, and learns accurate⯑ly to diſtinguiſh truth from falſehood. What [348] more ſatisfying evidence can we require, of the truth of our perceptions of the Deity, than to find theſe perceptions prevalent, in proportion, as mankind improve in the arts of life? Theſe perceptions go hand in hand with the rational powers. As man increaſ⯑es in knowledge, and in the diſcerning fa⯑culties, his perceptions of the Deity become proportionally more ſtrong, clear and autho⯑ritative. The univerſal conviction of a Dei⯑ty, which has, without exception, ſpread through all civilized nations, cannot poſſi⯑bly be without a foundation in nature. To inſiſt that it may, is to inſiſt, that an ef⯑fect may be without an adequate cauſe. Rea⯑ſon cannot be an adequate cauſe; becauſe, our reaſonings upon this ſubject, muſt, at beſt, be abſtruſe, and beyond the comprehen⯑ſion of the bulk of mankind. Our know⯑ledge, therefore, of the Deity, muſt be found⯑ed on our perceptions and feelings, which are common to mankind. And it is agree⯑able to the analogy of nature, that God ſhould diſcover himſelf to his rational crea⯑tures [349] after this manner. If this ſubject be involved in any degree of obſcurity, writers are to blame, who, in a matter of ſo great importance, ought to give no quarter to inac⯑curacy of thought or expreſſion. But it is an error, common to the bulk of writers, to ſubſtitute reaſon for feeling. The faculty of perception, working ſilently, and without effort, is generally overlookt. And we muſt find a reaſon for every thing we judge to be true; tho' the truth of the propoſition often depends, not upon reaſoning, but upon mere feeling. It is thus, that morality has been brought under ſome obſcurity, by metaphy⯑ſical writers; and it is equally to be regret⯑ed, that the knowledge of the Deity has been brought under obſcurity, by the ſame ſort of writers.

HAVING ſettled the belief of a Deity up⯑on its proper baſis, we ſhall proceed to take a general view of the attributes, which be⯑long to that great Being; and firſt,