SECTION I. OF HUME'S PHILOSOPHICAL CONSIST⯑ENCY.

DAVID HUME is dead! Ne⯑ver were the pillars of Orthodoxy ſo deſperately ſhaken, as they are now, by that event. It was attend⯑ed by every thing that contradicts the general prophecy concerning it. He hath proved himſelf, in oppoſi⯑tion [2] to a contrary opinion, one of thoſe rare characters, which ſo ſel⯑dom adorn either this, or any other country; to wit, an uniform Philo⯑ſopher. He is one of the few, who died in the practice of precepts, which he laid down in the earlieſt periods of a ſpeculative life. The laſt ſcene is lately painted by him⯑ſelf, and every touch of it correſ⯑ponds, corroborates, and confirms thoſe which preceded it. He took up the pen, to prove his conſiſt⯑ency, at a criſis, commonly eſteem⯑ed by men, the moſt alarming and pathetic. Air, phyſic, exer⯑ciſe, and the alleviating ſolicitudes of friendſhip, were all tried, and were all ineffectual: even adulati⯑on, [3] which is ſo ſeldom unwelcome, either to the ſick, or healthy, was not able to ſeduce our philoſopher into the hope of an exiſtence pro⯑tracted beyond the limits of a few months.—"I happened to come in⯑to his room," ſaid one of his moſt reſpectable friends, "when he was reading a letter, ſent him by Colo⯑nel Edmondſtone, who had written an eternal adieu to him, and which, Mr. Hume immediately ſhewed to me: I told him, that, though I was ſenſible how very much he was weakened, and that appearances, in many reſpects, were very bad, yet his chearfulneſs was ſtill ſo great, the ſpirit of life ſeemed ſtill to be ſo very ſtrong in him, that, I could [4] not help entertaining ſome faint hopes. He anſwered, "Your hopes are groundleſs. An habitual diarr⯑hoea of more than a year's ſtanding, would be a very bad diſeaſe at any age; at my age, it is a mortal one. When I lie down in the evening, I feel myſelf weaker, than when I roſe in the morning; and when I riſe in the morning, weaker than when I lay down in the evening. I am ſen⯑ſible, beſides, that ſome of my vital parts are affected, ſo that I muſt ſoon die."

I have admitted this extract, be⯑cauſe it marks, in the moſt vivid colours, the invariable, practical, conſiſtency of Hume to his own [5] theory. Thoſe, to whom that the⯑ory is obnoxious, wiſhed, and ex⯑pected a very different deportment of its author in his laſt moments; the more eſpecially, if thoſe mo⯑ments were paſt (which was the caſe) under the declinings of a diſorder that ſhould waſte the body, with⯑out impairing the mind. The per⯑ſons, who maintained oppoſite, and what is eſteemed, correcter tenets, imagined, that all the ſubtlety of a ſcepticiſm, avowed in the vi⯑gour of gay and glowing youth; and of arguments to ſupport them, written when the pulſe was full, among the ardours of ſcience, and for the ſake of ſingularity, [6] would, upon the bed of a lingering diſtemper, all fly off, as the proſ⯑pect of diſſolution became apparent, and leave their author in the agonies of terror-ſtruck repentance, or in the horrors of overwhelming deſpair. I, myſelf, know one perſon, in par⯑ticular, and he ſtill living, and not unknown in the Chriſtian world, who prognoſticated the moſt tra⯑gical exit to David Hume,—"Take my word for it, ſir," ſaid he, one day to me, "the triumph of that man, (meaning Hume) is ſhort-lived. He breaks apace: from an almoſt athletic corpulency, he is, within a few months, ſhrunk into the very ſhadow of himſelf. I [7] hear he ſtill affects his accuſtomed gaiety, and perſiſts in his unchriſtian principles: but this conduct will wear away in proportion as he gets worſe and worſe. As Dean Swift ſtands upon record the victim of diſappointment, pique, pride, ill-nature, ſo, I foreſee, will David Hume be a mournful example of that vain, and vicious philoſophy, which he hath long had the audacity to eſpouſe. Methinks, I already ſee him, ſir, in the extremity; tortured at once, by the, laſhes of his con⯑ſcience, and labouring to continue life, that he may publicly give the lie to his former horrible documents. Poor wretch—I pity him, I could almoſt wiſh his prayer granted, [8] that he might do ſome juſtice to poſterity; and, in that juſtice, pro⯑pitiate the wrath, the omnipotent wrath, which muſt neceſſarily be kindled againſt him. Inſtead of which,—ſhocking reverſe,—obſerve him ſtruggling at the ſame time with death, and with a thorough con⯑ſciouſneſs of having miſguided man⯑kind; of having endeavoured to un⯑dermine the foundation of religion—and of meriting deteſtation."

In all the phrenzy of a fiery zeal, bordering, I fear, ſomewhat upon bigotry, did a celebrated Chriſtian author, as near as I can recollect, in theſe words, foretell the miſeries of David Hume; and in the ſame fu⯑ror [9] of language, hath he, doubtleſs, been treated, by many others. On the peruſal of that pamphlet, which ſtates the accounts of his laſt illneſs, and all the concomitant circum⯑ſtances that attended it, I ſhould like much, as a matter of curioſity only, to know the unaffected ſtate of their feelings: their prophecy is, at all events, unfulfilled: and, what is worſe, all the minute articles (which are generally the moſt mark⯑ing) rather add to, than deduct from, the great aggregate of their con⯑ſternation.

In juſtice to the memory of an extraordinary man, who hath, it is preſumed, many ſecret and many [10] public enemies, at leaſt in a literary and ſcientific ſenſe, it is worth while to take a view of ſome of thoſe points, which prove him, beyond the poſſibility of a diſpute, to be at leaſt a ſincere believer in his own ſentiments. Many, indeed, will think, that this, however perſpicuouſly proved, will be doing him no real honour; ſince, in proportion to the clearneſs of the evidence upon this matter, it will only ſhew his impiety and obſtinate inſidelity the plainer; thereby, in the end, incurring upon him a more general diſgrace. I am of a different opinion. The terms In⯑fidelity, Impiety, and Atheiſin, ſhould not be laviſhly truſted from the lip. We ſhould not preſume ‘[11] To deal damnation through the land On each, we deem our foe:’

But, it is leſs the deſign of theſe papers to defend Hume's principles, than to ſhew, upon the beſt au⯑thority, that he was earneſt in what he wrote, and that, through every part of his life, even to the very moment of his death, he made precept and practice go, amicably, hand in hand together. Firſt, how⯑ever, be it obſerved, that, what⯑ever might be the force of his faith; no one, it is conjectured, will charge him with having neglected good works. I do not pretend to ſay how far thoſe are, or are [12] not ſufficient. Such enquiries are digreſſive from my ſubject. At the ſame time, I could wiſh (and ſure it is but a reaſonable requeſt) that, for theſe, he may have a proper de⯑gree of credit.

Perhaps, it is one of the very worſt circumſtances againſt the cauſe of Chriſtianity, that, very few of its profeſſors were ever, either ſo mo⯑ral, ſo humane, or could ſo phi⯑loſophically govern their paſſions, as the ſceptical David Hume. The ſimple dictates of this gen⯑tleman's own heart, unaſſiſted by thoſe examples, and ſacred ſenti⯑ments, which are ſuppoſed to in⯑ſpire [13] univerſal "love and good will amongſt men," inſpired him to prac⯑tiſe all the duties, decencies, and cha⯑rities. Thus Hume the Unbeliever, as he hath been called, led a life that might even, when ſcrutinized by the eye of malevolence itſelf, call a bluſh into the cheeks of thoſe, who would fain be thought, in the ima⯑ginations of men, to be ſteadfaſt and immoveable in the faith. It is not a little ſhocking to thinking people, to perceive that the ſpirit of hypocriſy ſo generally gone forth; and it is ſtill worſe, to ſee that hypocriſy (accord⯑ing to the aſſurance of a late lord) ſo generally ſucceſsful and carry all before it.

[14] It demands, alas! no ſearch into the records of antiquity, to prove that, the Chriſtian world proſecutes this duplicity with a vigour, to which the ſceptic Hume never had the infamy to ſtoop. I do not ſay this is an argument to deſtroy, or to invalidate the faith of Chriſtians; but I will take upon me to ſay, it is a dreadful ſymptom of an un⯑foundneſs in its profeſſors, and friends, when they ſo commonly ſkulk behind the holy ſhield of their religion, as a hiding place from the eyes of the world, whenever they have a mind to do any thing in di⯑rect oppoſition to its moſt obvious [15] and elementary principles. Either the religion is ſomewhere defective in itſelf, (which I, by no means, think ſo likely as the alternative) or elſe the votaries themſelves have a much worſe opinion of its real origin than ſceptics; becauſe, were not one of theſe, or perhaps, a mixture of them both, the fact, ſurely they could not, ſo much oftener than thoſe ſceptics, act in general defiance of its maxims. I, however, principally confine myſelf to that miſerable hypocriſy, which hath ſo very frequently been diſcover⯑ed amongſt the votaries of this ami⯑able religion; and, in particular, ſuch of them as have gained the [16] greateſt popularity, by an oftentati⯑ous diſplay of it. I beg theſe ſen⯑timents may not be thought to have any tendency to hurt the Chriſtian religion, of whoſe excellence I am not now to treat; yet, till ſome of its profeſſors can, by the con⯑junction of faith and good works, back'd by the proſpect of futurity, ſurpaſs, or at leaſt equal, the virtues of a man who was tender, friendly, generous, and ſocial; let theſe vain glorious boaſters have the modeſty to hold their tongues, and ſpeak nothing; ſince nothing can be ſpoken, but to their diſgrace.—It is to the honour of David Hume, then, that he was no hypocrite in philoſophy; and that, unlike the [17] many detected hypocrites in Chriſti⯑anity, he acted as he wrote, and wrote no more than, at all times, he actually felt.

This may be evidenced more ac⯑curately, when we run our eye over that poſthumous paper, which he hath, very characteriſtically, called, A Funeral Oration. Prior to this, I would juſt turn an old ſubject on a new ſide: I would make a com⯑ment or two, on that ſhameful ſpe⯑cies of deluſion, which, arrayed in the fair and unſuſpicious robes of or⯑thodoxy, makes the moſt fatal de⯑predations upon ſociety; and, in⯑deed, does infinitely more miſchief than the moſt daring and declared infidelity.

SECTION II. OF RELIGIOUS HYPOCRISY.

ONE of the diſtinguiſhing fea⯑tures, by which we mark the pre⯑ſent age, is religious Hypocriſy, or that abominable prudery in Sen⯑timent, which, from the lip out⯑wards, deceives the ſhallow mul⯑titude, who miſtake it for the con⯑ſcientious ſcruples of moral ſanctity. A philoſopher, who looks into the heart, and can trace many of its manoeuvres to their ſource; whoſe [19] acquaintance with life, and whoſe ſkill in detecting the chicane of men, ſees, clearly, at a ſingle glance, that the whole apparatus of external ap⯑pearance, is only a political veil thrown over the real feelings and propenſities of nature: this fallacy, to his penetrating eye, is ſufficiently obvious; he detects the cheat in a moment, and, did he not know how eaſily the major part of mankind were diſpoſed to favour that which ſuits equally their own purpoſes of impoſing upon each other (by which means the Hypocriſy be comes general), he would wonder how thoſe, who are ſuppoſed to ſtand at the top of rarefied and ra⯑tionalized matter, could be ſo con⯑ſtantly [20] the bubbles of imagination. Bubbles, however, they notori⯑ouſly are, in defiance of the very feelings which contradict their pu⯑ritanical pretenſions. This duplicity hath ever exiſted in life, and hath now crept into letters. There is a ſet of writers, who affect a chaſtity of ſentiment, and a kind of primi⯑tive preciſeneſs in ſtyle, with a view of paſſing upon the ſuperficial part of the public (which is infinitely the larger part) as orthodox mo⯑raliſts, and the moſt zealous pro⯑moters of Chriſtian rectitude, Co⯑pious is the catalogue of authors, whoſe performances are read and re⯑liſhed, upon this very principle.

[21] Hence it is, that, literary reputa⯑tion, like almoſt every other di⯑ſtinction, is, in theſe times, merely empirical. It is, nevertheleſs, not unamuſing to a philoſopher,—when he hath a mind to relieve himſelf from the labour of ſeverer thinking, with the petty concealments of the buſy and more vacant world,—to overturn, with a calmneſs pe⯑culiar to his collected character, the ſuperficial ſyſtems of theſe in⯑genious impoſtors.

When I have felt myſelf in a hu⯑mour, that diſpoſes to ſuch pleaſant paſtime; when I can deſcend from worthier ſciences, to the little de⯑ſigns which men have upon each [22] other, I have totally deſtroyed the whole web of Hypocriſy, and diſcovered, in plauſible maxims, more tendencies to vice and im⯑morality, or elſe more inſincerity, than in any writings of avow⯑ed luxury and licentiouſneſs. Our modern moraliſts, eſpecially of the ſacred order, have the art of making Virtue terrible, and Vice an object of indifference: like an unſkilful painter, they disſigure the native amiableneſs of the one by certain rigid ſtrokes of the pencil too formidable to be ſeen with pleaſure; and they pourtray the marking fea⯑tures of the other, either ſo looſely or ludicrouſly, that, as we have no violent deſire to poſſeſs the one, ſo [23] have we no remarkable diſguſt to the other. Nay, our refined moral mongers advance much farther; Re⯑ligion herſelf, a word for ever at the tip of their tongues, and the very God of it, a term even more in com⯑mon uſage, ſuffers at the very time they pretend the contrary. Like the "hand-writing upon the wall," it is upon record againſt the conſiſt⯑ency of ſome of our dabblers in mo⯑rals, that they have deſcribed the Deity infinitely more like a devil than a God: they tell us, he is all merciful and all benevolent, and yet very gravely inſiſt, his puniſh⯑ments are extreme, and his anger, on particular occaſions, eternal; they deſcribe him as armed with a flaming [24] ſword, to deſtroy the unhappy com⯑pound of thoſe paſſions, which, they allow, he hath himſelf implanted; they talk of his having, propenſely, hardened the heart of the ſinner, as he did that of Pharoah, and yet that he rewards with plague and peſtilence the creature whom he hath deſtined to diſobedience; they en⯑large much upon his tenderneſs, and yet obſerve, in one and the ſame page, that the crimes of the father ſhall be viſited on the children, even unto the fourth generation. I appeal to the man, who hath fortitude enough to think one moment for himſelf, whether the Omnipotent, thus deli⯑neated, is not rather diſhonoured than glorified! Are ſuch incon⯑ſiſtent [25] qualities poſſible, to an eſ⯑ſence all pure, immutable, un⯑contradictory? The real character of the univerſal Parent is clouded, confuſed, and enveloped, in the thick fog of human opinions and human inventions. Rewards and puniſh⯑ments, are, doubtleſs, held out to men as proper examples to encourage and to deter; but they ſhould never be injudiciouſly blended, as confound⯑ed one with the other.

How much happier would be the conſequence; how much more would it do honour to the Chriſtian cauſe, if divines and moraliſts were to inculcate, both in their public orations, and writings, that ſpecies [26] of Morality, Sentiment, Philoſophy or whatever elſe you pleaſe to call it, which draws the portraits of Virtue with all poſſible amiableneſs, which is finely coloured, which has recourſe both to Eloquence and Poetry, in order to attract, and entertain, rather than to affright and diſguſt! Doubtleſs, more may be done by inviting than by inſiſting, eſpecially in caſes of duty and obe⯑dience, which are, in themſelves, I conceive, not very conſiſtent with the pride or the dignity of human nature: true it is, that, a ſevere maſter may, by the power of that very ſeverity, create in a ſervant a kind of momentary veneration, but the very inſtant he is out of the pre⯑ſence [27] of his ſuperior, he admits, of neceſſity, a mixed ſentiment of hatred and terror. This mode of argu⯑ment may ſoar from familiar life, to the laſt ſplendid degrees of that pre⯑ternatural grandeur, and power, which divines impute to the Deity. I aſk the reader, if, after having heard any diſcourſe in which Pro⯑vidence hath been deſcribed in all its terrors, as holding out on the one hand, the horrors of perdition, and diſplaying, on the other, the ſigns of unrelenting and implacable reſent⯑ment againſt beings, confeſſedly im⯑perfect; I aſk, if he does not come away from ſuch diſcourſe, impreſſed, rather with a ſenſe of Almighty re⯑venge and barbarity, than with the [28] comfortableideas, and all their chear⯑ful aſſociations, of fairer and more alluring; attributes ^*. This makes [29] it obvious, that the great arguments for belief of Chriſtianity, and love of its origin, are commonly miſtaken [30] even by thoſe, who profeſſional⯑ly preach every Sunday upon the ſubject. The frowns of God may terrify into an extorted obedience, [31] as we may frighten a child, or a domeſtic, into the very falſhood, for which we are at that moment chiding him. But this is, in effect, making God the cauſe of our hy⯑pocriſy. Timorous minds, indeed, and thoſe who do not underſtand the phenomena of nature, may dread the found of the thunder, imputing that found, not to any thing in the order of nature, which is agreeable to the very conſtruction of the univerſe and [32] the regular operations of the mate⯑rial ſyſtem, but to the immediate diſpleaſure of the Deity. Thus it is, that after any great calamity (whether public or private), ſuch as the effuſion of much blood by the ſucceſs of our national enemies, or the ſudden reduction of any family (an unexpected tranſition from affluence to impriſonment for inſtance), it is common enough for ignorant people to inflict upon themſelves very ſe⯑vere and unneceſſary rigours, by way, it it preſumed, of propitiating the wrath of Providence, than which, by the bye, there cannot poſſibly be ſhewn to that Providence a greater indignity; for doth not this conduct evidently imply, that, God requires [33] to be firſt thanked for having made men miſerable, and then bribed by flattery leſt that miſery ſhould be continued?

I may receive a ſtroke of ill-for⯑tune with a proper degree of firm⯑neſs, with all the decencies of re⯑ſignation; I may bear my burthen, either as a Philoſopher, or as a Chriſtian, but I can never be per⯑ſuaded to believe, that any being can be barbarouſly delighted with the horrible incenſe of ſighs and tears; or that he exacts ſuch a diabo⯑lical ſacrifice, and expects, at the ſame time, that we ſhould call it devotion. It is downright wickedneſs! The whole of the matter then, amounts [34] to this,—To make men in love with any ſuperior power, he who repreſents to us the extent and the nature of that power, muſt take great care, leſt he deſtroys the hypotheſis, he means to ſup⯑port.

To effect this, it is not neceſſary to make that power a mere fool of good-nature, any more than it is to make him a tyrant of cruelty.

Would we wiſh to inſpire a ſtranger with a favourable idea of any of our acquaintance? we do be⯑gin his character by ſaying that, if he is once offended thoroughly, he will not only purſue the offenders [35] to the verge of the grave, but even carry his reſentment into the coffin, and maliciouſly ſcatter the bones in teſtimony of the ſtill-ſurviving vi⯑gour of his reſentment; neither do we ſay, that he will wreak his ven⯑geance on the widow, or her now orphan children, becauſe, this would effectually deter from forming any ſort of connection with ſo execrable a wretch. No; we take the fairer ſide of the argument; we dwell upon ſuch parts of his cha⯑racter, as naturally recommend him to reaſon and the ſenſibilities; nay, rather than let him want a cu⯑bit to the dignity or amiableneſs of his moral ſtature, we venture to draw a compliment or two from the me⯑taphors [36] of imagination, nor do we quit the charming ſubject till we have prepared the mind to expect the moſt delightful pleaſures in his ſociety.

Such is exactly the caſe with the more magnificent image of the Deity, whom, we ſhall always hon⯑our, in proportion as his attributes are repreſented, through the medium of gentleneſs, forgiveneſs, and com⯑placency.

There ſeems, however, no little ſhare of ignorance, in painting, thus publicly, the Deity in a paſſion; in giving him obſtinacy, ill-will, ill-na⯑ture, and all the turbulances of [37] a rigorous taſk-maſter; eſpecially where the ſervants themſelves are, by the neceſſity of their natures, pre⯑ſentenced to obey thoſe neceſſities.

The trite and very vulgar argu⯑ment of free-will with all the futile doctrine of agencies, which have, un⯑luckily, employed ſo many thouſands reams of paper, fall to the very earth, and mix with the duſt of it, upon the honeſt ſcrutiny of thoſe, that are not to be deluded by the jargon of mere pulpit debate.

But I ſhould, by entering upon this at preſent, take a much greater latitude than is now expedient; my deſign, being, not ſo much to di⯑greſs [38] from my ſubject, as to incor⯑porate what ſeems in its nature ana⯑lagous, to wit, ſome philoſophical ſtrictures on the danger of popular hypocriſy in ſacred matters, and on a mode of diſſimulation in ſen⯑timent, which diſhonours the frank and liberal ſpirit of true ſcience. But, our puritans of the preſs, take eſpecial care to write very reli⯑giouſly without any meaning at all; without, indeed, having any deter⯑minate idea of that delicate par⯑tition which divides one ſpecific qua⯑lity from another, without any ſober ſyſtem of either thinking, writing or acting. I have been entertained with the ingenuities of men, (I call them ingenuities, becauſe, ſometimes, they [39] really are ſuch,) who have volumni⯑ouſly recommended a ſomething, the practice of which was, to produce tranquillity and complacence; which was equally to defy diſtemper, ac⯑cident, and revolution. This ſome⯑thing, they recommend, without bringing one ſolid argument in its favour^*. In their way, they reaſon "about it and about it," till the original idea, if, indeed, they ever had ſuch, is utterly annihilated. If, therefore, their miſconceptions and [40] blunders are thus manifeſt in devo⯑tional ſubjects, it may be expected that, they are not much more accurate or perſpicuous in the manufacture of writings adapted ſimply to what is called the decencies and decorums of ſocial life. I ſhall, however, as an inſtance, confine myſelf to expoſe the futility of what they call, with moſt atrocious affectation, delicacy of ſentiment; two words to which, di⯑veſted of their popular hypocritical meaning, imply more actual groſſ⯑neſs and downright ſenſuality, than all that ever was written by Ro⯑cheſter, or any other licentious au⯑thor. Rocheſter, indeed, ‘Shewed too much to raiſe deſire.’ He made us delicate even from his [41] indelicacy; we behold his dirty, ill-diſpoſed, figures, in all their naſtineſs and nudity; the mind takes part with the body and recoils from enjoy⯑ment. But it is otherwiſe with wri⯑ters, that are eternally ſhewing you the ſentimental infamy of a perſonal treſpaſs, to which nature (they own), with all her attractive force and vi⯑gour, inclines; while they condemn us to flame and faggot, if we yield to her dictates. It is the fault of theſe men that they too often remind us of agreeable error, they minutely diſcover the temptation, and point to the moſt irreſiſtible parts of it, yet charge us neither to touch nor to enjoy it. This is ſhameful; but it is, notwithſtanding, the baſis of many literary reputations.

SECTION III. ON THE NATURAL DIGNITY OF THE LITERARY CHARACTER, AND THE REASONS WHICH HAVE BROUGHT IT INTO CONTEMPT.

LET us now advert to another ſpecies of Hypocriſy, from which our Philoſopher was totally exempt; to which, indeed, his temper was perfectly ſuperior. Among the inſtances of generous independency in David Hume, muſt not be forgot⯑ten that manlineſs, which prevent⯑ed him from wading through the [43] the proſtituted puddle of fawning DEDICATION. To this magnanimi⯑ty—to this firmneſs it was owing, that, his feelings were never diſ⯑graced, nor his ſpirit at any time weighed down by the burden of fa⯑vours, ignominiouſly begged, and ungraciouſly beſtowed. Alexander, when he had won his world, had leſs reaſon to ſing forth the Io Pean of triumph, than had our author to gratulate himſelf on the ſatisfaction of "never having preferred a re⯑queſt to one great man, or ever of having made advances to any of them." To confeſs the truth, he wrote, generally, upon ſubjects of which the modern nobility are, for the moſt part, ſo contemptibly ig⯑norant, [44] that to have inſcribed per⯑formances ſo ſcientific to ſuch pa⯑trons, would involve the Philoſo⯑pher in a ſimilar error of judgment. Indeed, nothing is more offenſive to men of true taſte, and right feel⯑ing, than the condeſcenſion of per⯑ſons of genius, to perſons of rank, merely as ſuch. This it is, more than any thing elſe, that hath help⯑ed to degrade the literary character; which, as it implies a ſuperior vi⯑gour of intellect, and a more en⯑larged capacity, poſſeſſes, naturally, an unrivalled dignity. According to all the ſyſtems of all the ſects, it is allowed that the human underſtand⯑ing is the greateſt, as it is the moſt boaſted, diſtinction of human beings; [45] conſequently, one of theſe beings muſt riſe higher than another in the ſcale of rationality, only by ſo much, as the diſtinguiſhing part of him is elevated above that of others: So, likewiſe, a ſhallow, illiterate, and va⯑cant creature, muſt ſink in the ſcale, by the ſame equitable proportion. Now, it is eaſy to prove, that, what are called the Great (who are but too commonly the leaſt of all God's lit⯑tle atoms), muſt, according to the very nature of things, be amongſt the worſt judges of literary merit, and therefore, ſpeaking truly, its moſt im⯑proper patrons. Men, born to titles and to fortunes which deſcend with⯑out effort, or exertion of any talent (whatever, imagine the cultivation of [46] the mind totally adventitious: nor does the man of faſhion admit it into the catalogue of his accom⯑pliſhments. Even the harlequin Lord Cheſterfield—that ſucceſsful ſmatterer—allows only ſuch a ſhare of philoſophy, as belongs to the philoſophy of the paſſions; which is nothing more in his idea, than guarding yourſelf while you make a fine, dextrous, and ſucceſsful puſh at the paſſions of another. Giddi⯑neſs, glitter, the indolence of plenty, and above all, its impudence, all contribute to render perſons of rank, ſrivolous, voluble, ſuperficial; the illuſtrious exceptions of a Bacon, a Bolingbroke, a Shafteſbury, a Lyt⯑telton, a Pruſſia, a Clarendon, have [47] nothing to do with a rule ſo de⯑plorably general.

This being die caſe, can any thing be ſo prepoſterous, as to inſcribe to the mere tinſel of titles, the labours of learning, or the reflections of accurate and abſtruſe Philoſophy? Yet hath this been, for many ages, the practice. Whence hath it hap⯑pened? The queſtion cannot be anſwered without affecting us.

Fortune ſeems to have neglected thoſe, whom Nature hath moſt fa⯑voured; and men of genius, I ſuppoſe, think it but fair, to ſupply the defect by ſolliciting men of money. This ſol⯑licitation, however, ſubjects them to all that rudeneſs and diſdain, which [48] thoſe who have only a handful of authority, beſtow upon their flatter⯑ers. The flatterers are, in turn, well ſerved; they ſet out upon a wrong principle—The intercourſe is altogether ill managed. Dedica⯑tions, being another ſource of our national Hypocriſy, deſerve a more correct inveſtigation. It has been juſt obſerved, that they are funda⯑mentally falſe.

A dedication admits of two diſ⯑tinct definitions, of which, one be⯑longs, to the Patron, and one to the Author. The Patron not only re⯑ceives every untruth that can be ex⯑preſſed in the pride of Panegyric, as his due, but believes, at the ſame [49] time, that he receives it from an un⯑provided being, who is to exiſt for a certain ſpace of time upon the ſuc⯑ceſs of his encomium; Something therefore is uſually ſent to keep—(for I would adopt the great man's language)—"the poor devil of an Author from ſtarving:" The Au⯑thor's definition, is, on the other hand, ſo ſervile, as to deduct from every ſentiment of pity, and make us confeſs the juſtice of his diſgrace.—He is contented to laviſh praiſes, of which the beſt man on earth, might bluſh to be the objects, and he expects a golden reward, propor⯑tionate to the violent colourings of the varniſh, and to the fainter, or [50] fuller blaze of the "lye courte⯑ous^*. Which conduct ſhall we [51] moſt reprobate? They are equally contemptible. The traffic ſhould [52] be regulated more conſiſtently. If men of genius muſt needs addreſs [53] their works to men of rank, let them aſſert a more noble equality. If [54] they draw the portraits of any per⯑ſon remarkable for any thing, [55] let not a writer think, he is more honoured, than he honours; [56] if he emblazons a name, which was before, glimmering in obſcurity, the [57] obligation is, to all intents, and pur⯑poſes, on the ſide of the Patron; [58] who, but for ſuch imputed excel⯑lence, would have paſſed unobſerved [59] through life: if he faithfully diſ⯑plays a character already much ce⯑lebrated, [60] he is ſtill a benefactor to that character, if it were only for jogging the elbow of the public, which, but for ſuch occaſional me⯑mentos [61] would ſoon forget the beſt and brighteſt man in the world.

Seriouſly, were literary per⯑ſons to act upon ſome ſuch prin⯑ciple as this, and ſhew their Patrons, that the dealing, was, in point both of praiſe and profit, entirely on [62] the ſquare, it would check much of that aſſurance which is now indulged, on the ſuppoſition, that writers are to offer incenſe at the ſhrine of great⯑neſs; or,—in words more worthy ſo groveling a ſubject, to making the faggot blaze to gratify ſolly, and then to be paid for burning the fingers, as the pittance is diſpenſed by a taſk-maſter. Of much more ſervice, indeed, would it be to ge⯑nius, ſcience, and general learning, if their votaries were more inclined to cheriſh a ſpirit of intellectual in⯑dependency—if, inſtead of cringing to a courtier, or running, from the moſt fordid motives, into panegeri⯑cal hyperbole, they were to aſſert [63] their dignity; and ſhew the ſuperior ^* luſtre of talents to the dullneſs of [64] titles, I ſay, if a ſpirit of this kind were arouſed, it would ſoon reſtore to men of genius, the original rights of literature, at the ſame time that it would effectually cruſh that dar⯑ing inſolence, which is now common among a ſet of people, who pique themſelves upon advantages which, [65] were the proper levelling power maintained, would, of itſelf, by no means entitle them to equal ho⯑nours.

Inſtead of this ſpirited conduct, however, we have the misfortune to perceive a ſtyle of baſeneſs and adu⯑lation, creep through moſt of the epiſtles dedicatory for the ſpace of ſeveral centuries; by which means flattery and fulſomeneſs is aſſociated with the very idea of thoſe addreſſes, and the literary character is held, by the dulleſt of the ſpecies, in ut⯑ter contempt.

What hat [...], undoubtedly, con⯑tributed to bring about ſo diſgrace⯑ful [66] a circumſtance, is a cuſtom which prevails amongſt authors, of ſwelling the ignorant vanity of Patrons, by ſubmitting to them a performance prior to its entry into the public world: this mode, might, indeed, be reaſonable enough, were it only deſigned as a compliment to the taſte of the Patron, which the Authors may be ſuppoſed anxious to gratify, before the matter becomes, as it were, public property; but when it is done with a view of beg⯑ging permiſſion to ſay civil things of the Patron and his family, it de⯑generates into a meanneſs which juſt⯑ly merits the neglect that commonly attends it.

[67] Aſk permiſſion! for what? For diſtinguiſhing a man? For circulat⯑ing the knowledge of his good qua⯑lities beyond the narrow circle of, very likely, a frivolous ſet of com⯑panions! Require leave to do this!—Was there ever heard ſuch an in⯑conſiſtency?—The point is miſcon⯑ceived. Be it again remarked, that, in true ſcience, there is a greatneſs which can ſeldom receive, though it may often, confer obligations. Ge⯑nius may more properly be ſaid to patronize, than be patronized.

If a production is fit for the eye of men of taſte, it ought to be ac⯑ceptable to men of rank; who are [68] ready enough to be thought in poſ⯑ſeſſion of a fine taſte themſelves, and very frequently, no doubt, pay liberally, for their dedications, ſole⯑ly upon that principle.

If, on the other hand, a perform⯑ance is crude, trifling, ill-writ⯑ten, and, notwithſtanding ſuch de⯑fects, is, without the conſent of the Patron, adorned with a name which it diſgraces, ſuch patron ought pub⯑licly to renounce his protection, and treat the pretender, as every pre⯑tender of whatever profeſſion de⯑ſerves to be treated; ſtill, however, with this ſalvo, that if the producti⯑on could have done any ſervice to literature, or promoted, but in a [69] ſmall degree, the cauſe of ſcience, he would have been the firſt man to acknowledge his obligations, for hav⯑ing been thought a fit patron to aſ⯑ſiſt that cauſe, and ſtrengthen thoſe ſervices.—While the preſent ſcan⯑dalous conceſſions remain, the ſneer will inevitably be thrown upon ſuch abominable proſtration. I have been ſomewhat copious on this ſubject, becauſe it has never, to my recol⯑lection, been placed in a proper light.

Perhaps, this doctrine of dedi⯑cations, may be little reliſhed by thoſe who are daily pampered into conceit by daily panegyric, but it is a juſtice which every man of letters [70] owes to a character, founded on qua⯑lities, which ought to be a better paſſport to honorary diſtinctions, than any that can be conferred by royal grant, or by the pride of an⯑ceſtry.

On ſuch qualities was founded the reputation of David Hume, ſo that upon this occaſion, at leaſt, his ex⯑ample may be held up to perſons en⯑gaged in literary purſuits, as a pro⯑per ſtandard.

SECTION IV. OF HUME'S PRINCIPLES, AND HIS MOTIVE FOR MAKING THEM PUB⯑LIC, WITH SOME REMARKS ON HIS CONDUCT IN HIS LAST MOMENTS.

BUT to go on with the moral character of David Hume. Who⯑ever places the writings of this Philoſopher beſide thoſe of many Chriſtian authors who have been much celebrated for them, will be able to judge without preju⯑dice. It is impoſſible for the ſen⯑timents of the elegant Tillotſon, or the orthodox Addiſon, to be more the champions of every part of [72] conduct, which tends to the welfare of the ſocial world, than thoſe ſen⯑timents which are to be collected from Hume—Nay, the moſt ra⯑tional ſpirit of morality, the moſt likely of all others in the world, to affect this, breathes ardently through all his philoſophy: elegance of taſte, chaſtity of ſentiment, delicacy of paſſion, decency of manners, love of truth, command of paſſion, cul⯑tivation of friendſhip, and the good order, and political proſperity of the ſtate, are every where recom⯑mended, Very few of our eminent writers on the oppoſite ſide of the queſtion can ſay as much. But, with reſpect to Mr. Hume, every [73] effort of his pen ſtands in teſtimony of it.

Theſe obſervations cannot, never⯑theleſs, be called ſceptical. I do not, nor ſhall I preſume to ſay, how far Hume's philoſophy was right or erroneous in its principle. Suffi⯑cient for my purpoſe, if I can con⯑vince any reader (that might heſi⯑tate before) of his conſiſtency with himſelf: a point, which, is of the utmoſt conſequence to the cauſe of every ſyſtem, be its purport, and its objects what they may.

The ſcience purſued with ſuch vigorous curioſity by Hume was, to uſe his own expreſſions, "to [74] know the different operations of the mind, to ſeparate them from each other, to claſs them under their proper heads, and to correct all that ſeeming diſorder, in which they lie involved, when made the object of reflection and enquiry!"

It hath, generally, been thought that, our author carried this mental geography, as he calls it, too far into the realms of ſcepticiſm, and into the abſtruſe, bewildering de⯑ſerts of unchearful metaphyſics. Yet, however ardent he was in ſpecula⯑tions of this abſtract and difficult nature, no one will deny, that he drew the form of virtue, upon all occaſions, as the moſt lovely and [75] eſtimable of all objects. He firmly believed, that, in ſome very impor⯑tant reſpects, truth was overwhelm⯑ed in error and ſuperſtition; he was, therefore, ſufficiently enter⯑prizing to try, if, by the aids of application, care, art, and diſcri⯑minating accuracy, he could not "unite the boundaries of the dif⯑ferent ſpecies of philoſophy, by re⯑conciling profound enquiry with clearneſs, and truth with novelty."

This, it is confeſſed, was the la⯑bour of a long, healthy, and con⯑templative life: he perſiſted in the purſuit, in defiance of all oppoſing fatigues, clamours, oppoſitions, neg⯑lects, oppreſſions. It could not [76] be the love of an eſtabliſhed literary ſame, that urged him to the proſe⯑cution of ſuch reſearches, becauſe he knew there was, in his ſpecies of philoſophy, an abſtractedneſs, as well as a ſuppoſed ſpirit of fallacy, which, could not, in the nature of things, and certain prevailing modes, become for many ages, either a po⯑pular, or a pleaſing ſcience. It was, to all intents and purpoſes, "caviare to the multitude." Nay, he was well perſuaded of all this, not only by the odium which was caſt upon his Treatiſe on Human Na⯑ture, which "fell dead born from the preſs," but alſo from the following paſſage, which ſhews how little hope he had of making the abſtruſe phi⯑loſophy [77] ſo generally reliſhed as that which is more gay, elegant, and ſu⯑perficial. "Nothing can be more uſeful," ſays he, "than compoſitions of the eaſy ſtyle and manner, which draw not too much from, life, re⯑quire no deep application, to be comprehended: and ſend back the ſtudent among mankind, full of noble ſentiments and wiſe precepts, applicable to every exigence of hu⯑man life. By means of ſuch com⯑poſitions, virtue becomes amiable, ſcience agreeable, company inſtruc⯑tive, and refinement entertaining."

A Philoſopher of Hume's cloſe, and difficult reaſoning, who was hardy enough, to ſcrutinize ſubjects, [78] imagined to puzzle more, as they are more inveſtigated—a man, who had either patience or for⯑titude enough to cultivate meta⯑phyſical ſcience, with a deter⯑mined view of overturning, and eradicating, root and branch, pre⯑judices which appeared to him at leaſt, to merit an analyſis which ſhould prove their futility.—Such a man, could not expect the ſame eclat with the generality of mankind, as thoſe who only played prettily on the ſurface of "a more eaſy and ob⯑vious philoſophy." Hume content⯑ed himſelf with leſs general gratifi⯑cations. His own remarks very fully convince us what he felt, what he [79] expected, and what he enjoyed on this ſubject.

Speaking of the common diſtaſte to which men have for ſpeculations that require thinking, to compre⯑hend them, he hath theſe ſentiments in the firſt ſection of his Enquiry concerning Human Underſtanding.

But as we read Mr. Hume's life, written by his own hand, we ſhall have freſh opportunities to clear up any doubts that may remain of his ſincerity. It ſeems pretty evident, that the little ſketch, called MY OWN LIFE, was thought neceſſary, by Mr. Hume, to [85] be before hand with his philoſophic antagoniſts, whom, he foreſaw, would raiſe new outcries againſt him, upon the ideas they might indulge con⯑cerning thoſe cloſing ſenſations which would attack him, within fight of the grave. To prevent little tri⯑umphs of this nature, I ſay, it is highly probable he choſe the fairer method of being his own hiſtorian; and never was there a biographical tract drawn up by any man in the higheſt health, with more coolneſs, more conciſeneſs, more impartiality.

He ſat down to this extraordi⯑nary employment, and took up the pen, exactly at the time that hun⯑dreds—I might, I believe, extend [86] the number, to thouſands,—wer [...] thinking he would begin the bitter groans of recantation. I certainly ſhall not take upon me to ſay how far this employment was proper, but the annals of the world cannot poſ⯑ſibly produce any inſtance, where⯑by philoſophy became ſo much of a piece. Whatever were the ſingularities of that philoſophy, I once more inſiſt upon it, it was a ſtrong evidence that he diſdained any of the popular hypocriſy now in vogue. He could not counterfeit the alterations which he did not feel riſen in his mind; he was calm enough to give a can⯑did account of his literary life, when he knew himſelf to be incur⯑able.

[87] After he had written it, he ob⯑ſerves the ſame tranquil compoſure, in regard to the nearer approaches of death: Nay, ſuch was his ſteadineſs to the principles by which he was directed, that, in a codicil to his will, he deſired the narrative of his life might be prefixed to the next edition of his works.

Having finiſhed the account of his life, he had no farther oppor⯑tunity to employ the pen, except from time to time, to ſend notes of information to the tender enquiries of his friends; among the moſt be⯑loved and diſtinguiſhed of theſe, ap⯑pears to have been Mr. Adam Smith, to whom, two or three days before [88] the ſtroke which carried him out of the world, he ſent the following letter.

This letter, may be brought, by every man who wiſhes well to Hume's Philoſophy, as another in⯑ſtance of that invariable congruity, with which he maintained his cha⯑racter. Heroiſm, on theſe occaſions approaches, for the moſt part, ſo near to enthuſiaſm, and that is ſo cloſely allied to abſolute frenzy, that I ſhall not hazard ſuch an ap⯑pellation. I ſhall not ſay Hume died like a hero; I will content my⯑ſelf with ſaying, that he died like a Philoſopher; perhaps, the [90] word ^* Philoſophy, hath no very pre⯑ciſe idea, generally affixed to it; [91] becauſe, it has been much confound⯑ed with the pragmatical pretenſions [92] of the ignorant, the affected, and the ſuperficial. There is a true, and a falſe philoſopher. Mr. Hume is to be claſſed amongſt the nobleſt of the former kind. He founded his ſyſ⯑tem upon thought, ſcience, argu⯑ment, and reaſonings, which, after many aſſiduous years, remained, in his mind, the ſame. Neither could the diſſipation of youth allure him from his favourite ſtudies, nor could the threats of diſſolution itſelf frighten him from making prepa⯑rations for a new edition of thoſe works, which were to deſtroy, what [93] he conſidered, as the prevailing ſyſtems of ſuperſtition.

In ſupport of theſe obſervations, we may very properly call in the letter of his ^* phyſician, written the day after the deceaſe of his patient.

Who would not wiſh, after read⯑ing this account, that their end, may be like his?

SECTION V. PARALLEL BETWIXT HUME AND LORD CHESTERFIELD, BOTH WITH RESPECT TO ABILITIES, AND PRIN⯑CIPLES.

WE have now ſurveyed our object in the moſt trying moments—We have ſeen him ſuperior to all ordinary terrors, and equal to all occaſions. It is taken for granted, therefore, that as a philoſopher, both in precept and practice, it will be allowed he was compleat, exact, [96] unchangeable—that, whether wrong or right, he acted, immediately, from his own boſom conviction; a conviction grounded upon intenſe and abſtract attention, and not taken up ſuddenly without reſpect either to cauſe or to conſequence. Thus far, then, the point is cleared before me; but I cannot perſuade myſelf to reſign Mr. Hume till I have done ampler juſtice to his memory, and to that ſocial, and honeſt conduct which ſo much endears it.

I would draw a ſlight parallel be⯑twixt this gentlemen, and another celebrated writer, who deſcended in⯑to the tomb a little before him. I would perſuade the reader to com⯑pare [97] with me the ſyſtem of Da⯑vid Hume, and that of the late Earl of Cheſterfield. Not with a view of propoſing the former to his imitation—for that point ſhould always be ſettled by a man's own mind, after a great deal of pre⯑meditation upon the matter—but, as it may ſerve to ſhew, what hath, indeed, been a principal en⯑deavour in theſe pages, that it is poſſible even [...]or ſceptics, to be more worthy members of ſociety, more reverend to a firſt cauſe, whatever it may be, and more eſſentially the friend ^* of mankind, than the moſt [98] illuſtrious perſons who have never ventured ſo far into the receſſes of [99] enquiry. Lord Cheſterfield was a character more diſtinguiſhed for the [100] brilliancy of his wit, than the ſolider powers of his underſtanding.—In [101] points of philoſophy, he was ex⯑ceedingly ſuperficial, in politics he [102] did not want ſagacity or experience. Aſſiſted, however, very much, by the ſplendours of his title—for a little ſpark will make a large luſ⯑tre in a Lord—he ſuſtained his character with ſingular eclat, and [103] paſſed in the world (which is very eaſily dazzled) as a compound of elegance, humour, morality, gaiety, and patronage.—Theſe qualities, in a certain degree, we allow him to have poſſeſſed, except one: it cer⯑tainly is not now neceſſary to ob⯑ſerve that it is the word morality which muſt be ſcratched out of this liſt. For many years, how⯑ever, Lord Cheſterfield's morals were unſuſpected; at length, too ſu⯑perficial to be conſiſtent, or, per⯑haps, weary of deceiving the world into notions of his plain-dealing, he condeſcended, in the eve of life, to ſhew mankind what a bubble he had made of it; how long, and how ſucceſsfully he had ſported up⯑on [104] on its weakneſſes—with how much caſe he had played the elegant trifler, and by what modes and manoeuvres, he had, with a facility which re⯑quired no effort but a ſmooth face, and pliable features, led, in victo⯑rious chains, a thouſand fools to the altars either of ridicule, or debau⯑chery, or deſtruction.

Such were the principles; ſuch is the ſyſtem of this diſtinguiſhed hy⯑pocrite, by the adoption of whoſe precepts, it is utterly impoſſible either for youth or age, wit or wiſdom, to eſcape every thing that is execrable, contemptible, and deluſive. The atheiſtical Hume, as ſome have called him, was, in compariſon with [105] Cheſterfield, deſerving of every epi⯑thet that could be formed in lan⯑guage to expreſs virtue. In his life, writing, and at his death, he ſeems to have abhorred diſſimulation; and yet, his company "was not unac⯑ceptible to the young and careleſs, as well as to the ſtudious, and lite⯑rary;" nor had he "any reaſon to complain of the reception he met from modeſt women, in whoſe com⯑pany he was particularly delighted." He did not, nevertheleſs, profeſs a fondneſs for the ſociety of modeſt wo⯑men, becauſe it was ſafer to have an affair of gallantry with ſuch, than with a proſtitute profeſſed; or be⯑cauſe the connection was more ele⯑vated and conſiſtent with the amours [106] of a gentleman; nor did he mix with the gay, and careleſs, with any la⯑tent deſign to take an advantage or the chearful hour, in order to make himſelf maſter of the ſecrets of the heart, imparted in its fullneſs—and conſequently maſter of the perſon to whom that entrapped heart had the misfortune to belong. By no means.—Whatever objections may lie againſt the philoſophy of Hume; none of them are of this nature; ſince his moſt abſtract reſearches were in favor of a behaviour per⯑fectly irreproachable.

Whoever is acquainted with Mr. Hume's writings, will bear witneſs, that he was a lover or decency, or⯑der [107] and decorum. Whoever knew the man, can atteſt, that, the fol⯑lowing paſſages are no wife exag⯑gerated.

"I am" ſays he, "or rather was, (for that is the ſtyle I muſt now uſe in ſpeaking of myſelf, which em⯑boldens me the more to ſpeak my ſentiments); I was, I ſay, a man of mild diſpoſitions, of command of temper, of an open, ſocial, and cheerful humour, capable of attach⯑ment, but little ſuſceptible of en⯑mity, and of great moderation in all my paſſions. Even my love of li⯑terary ſame, my ruling paſſion, never ſoured my temper, notwithſtanding my frequent diſappointments. My [108] company was not unacceptable to the young and careleſs, as well as to the ſtudious and literary; and as I took a particular pleaſure in the company of modeſt women, I had no reaſon to be diſpleaſed with the reception I met with from them. In a word, though moſt men any wiſe eminent, have found reaſon to complain of calumny, I never was touched, or even attacked by her baleful tooth: and though I wan⯑tonly expoſed myſelf to the rage of both civil and religions factions, they ſeemed to be diſarmed in my behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never had occaſion to vindi⯑cate any one circumſtance of my character and conduct: not but [109] that [...] zealots, we may well ſup⯑ [...] would have been glad to in⯑ [...] and propagate any ſtory to my [...]advantage, but they could never find any which they thought would wear the face of probability. I can⯑not ſay there is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myſelf, but I hope it is not a miſplaced one; and this is a matter of fact which is eaſily cleared and aſcertained."

To a character ſo amiable, ſo complacent, and ſo little tinctured by that pedantry which always ſticks to an affected philoſopher, who, that hath any ſenſe of agreeable qualities, will ever bring near him ſuch a fri⯑volous compound of whim, wicked⯑neſes, [110] cunning, and congee, as Lord Cheſterfield; unleſs, indeed, he is brought forward by way of con⯑traſt. There appears likewiſe to me, to have been as wide a differ⯑ence in the ſize of their abilities, as there was in the honeſty of their principles: every page in thoſe Let⯑ters, which have laid open his Lord⯑ſhip's hypocriſy, furniſhes us with examples of his futility: it would be the drudgery of a day to detect a ſingle light ſentence in Hume. The Earl of Cheſterfield's utmoſt ſtretch of penetration, amounts to little more than ſhrewdneſs, partly caught from the ſuggeſtions of a mind na⯑turally ſuſpicious, and partly from obſervations upon the weakneſſes, [111] and tender imperfections of men leſs capable to diſſemble. This faculty, is at beſt, but a principal ingredient in the character of a cunning fellow, who, as it were, by imperceptible ſlight of hand, hath the art of ap⯑pearing what he is not; and of cheating you, with ſingular dexte⯑rity, even before your face.

But all the ſame, of popular eti⯑quette that could poſſibly ariſe from ſuch practices, Hume would have diſcarded with diſdain. And, chief⯑ly for two reaſons: firſt, his genius had not a ſingle grain of the petit maitre in it, which, by the way, was a conſiderable ingredient in Lord Cheſterfield's; and, ſecondly, he had too much dignity in his na⯑ture [112] and too juſt a ſenſe of the ſo⯑cial compact between the indivi⯑dual, and the whole human race, to find any zeſt in gratifications, which emanated from, neither more, nor leſs, than flagrant treachery. Hence it appears obvious enough, that the Earl of Cheſterfield's heart and head, were both unable to bear any ſort of parallel, with the head and heart of David Hume. The one is the Author of a ſyſtem which ſeems to have been pillaged from the Dancing-maſter, the Perfumer, and the Devil: the other pur⯑ſues a philoſophy, which, with all its exceptions, gives coun⯑tenance neither to the follies of a coxcomb, nor the meanneſs, and [113] miſchief of a hypocrite—a wretch, which, in the courſe of theſe pages hath been marked with ſingular re⯑probation; and above all other hypo⯑crites, one that, ina kind of moral maſ⯑querade dreſs, perpetrates every baſe⯑neſs, and paſſes upon the world as a mighty good Chriſtian creature.

SECTION VI. OF PROPER CAUTIONS PRIOR TO THE ESTABLISHMENT OF OUR RELIGI⯑OUS CREDENDA.

WITH regard to the ſceptical doubts which might ſtart into the philoſophical and reaſoning mind of Mr. Hume, it is, I once more re⯑peat, no part of my office, to de⯑fend or to cenſure them. As a va⯑riety of men have employed their talents on one ſide of an important ſubject, he hath taken the liberty, as a philoſopher, to offer his opi⯑nions, [115] on the other ſide: conſidered in the light of ſpeculation, this is certainly fair; for who can circum⯑ſcribe the efforts of a mind, bent for any length of time, on one fa⯑vourite point?

The ſyſtems of either party, how⯑ever, ought not to ſway any man againſt the concurrence of his own reaſon; for, at that rate, one might be a Chriſtian, a Deiſt, a Mahome⯑tan, or an Atheiſt, in obedience to the bidding of another: by which means our religion would have more colours than the camelion, and more alterations than Proteus. A ſenſible man, will never have ſer⯑vility enough for this. If he is yet [116] uneſtabliſhed in his more ſerious te⯑nets, he will ſee what can be ſaid both for and againſt: of oppoſite principles, it is his buſineſs to fix upon thoſe which appear the moſt congruous, and probable. ^*Reaſon [117] and his feelings may generally be truſted upon the occaſion. But [118] let him not be haſty, nor yet vi⯑brate equipoiſ'd too long, between [119] fluctuating ſentiments. Fixing, let him fix; unleſs, afterwards, upon, [120] very cautious, and clear grounds, he hath weighty arguments to war⯑rant [121] an alteration. If his intellect is found enough for ſcience,—ſhal⯑low [122] lowneſs is perilous in philoſo⯑phy, as well as learning,—he can receive no injury from having heard both the pro and con. The caſe of a Judge upon a cauſe, brings the matter home to the "buſineſs and [123] boſom" more familiarly. A magiſ⯑trate is not qualified to decide of any point before him, till witneſſes on both ſides are examined: to theſe, very often, for conſcience ſake, are added croſs-examinations, to ſee if the ſtory told any other way, hath the ſame conſiſtence and congruity. The evidence once ſatisfactory to the ſenſes of the judge, and all doubt removed by ſeveral facts, each agree⯑ing with the other, and all reſolving themſelves into an harmonious whole, he proceeds, without farther debate or delay, to the final ſentence, which, whether it diſpenſes life or death, is given with the ſame firmneſs, ener⯑gy, and reſolution.

[124] Similar to this, ſhould be the procedure of any perſon uneſtabliſh⯑ed in his religious concerns. It is too important an article to take up on mere truſt. A thinking man will not be a Deiſt, or a Chriſtian, only becauſe his father before him, and all the other branches of his fa⯑mily were one of thoſe. He will look with an eye of penetration into the circumſtances: he will ſee why, wherefore, and upon what conſide⯑rations, this adopts Chriſtianity, that Deiſm. He will compare one ſyſtem to another; examine their diſtinct parts, and correſpondencies.—Trace out the points where they ſeparate, where they blend: in what they are utterly different, and where⯑in [125] in they are obviouſly, or apparently analogous.

When this ſober taſk is diligently done, let reaſon aſſert her dignity, and having ſcrutinized liberally, let her liberally determine. To which ever ſide ſhe inclines, let it be upon the reſult of her conviction, with⯑out paying any regard to paſſion, or prejudice, two mercenary coun⯑ſellors, which, in the court of moral arbitration, are too apt to take bribes, and turn the iſſue of the cauſe, while they endeavour to blind the equity and diſcernment of the magiſtrate.

[126] Aboe all other fatal things, I warn you not to give implicit cre⯑dit to great authorities, which, in religious caſes, are never to have an undue influence. Let not the force, ſplendour, or power of a name, ſe⯑duce, or awe you into a partial choice. Religion, like matrimony, ſhould be, if poſſible, ſettling for life. Let neither Hume, or Addiſon, or Bacon, or Boling⯑broke, Locke, or Tillotſon, ſway you by any thing, but the actual weight of arguments, which ſtrike eventually and irreſiſtibly upon the rational faculty.

Theſe hints purſued, will, I can⯑not but believe, ſerve, in ſome de⯑gree, [127] every heſitating perſon; and, when carried into practice, I have faith enough in them to conjecture, they will enable every one who is pleaſed to lend them his attention, to act honeſtly, amiably, up⯑rightly; and to diſcharge his duty according to the truth that is in him, whether he be of one religion or another.

Of David Hume, or of his phiſo⯑phy, I ſhall ſay no more; but from a ſuccinct view of the whole matter, I apprehend it may very fairly be concluded, in repetition of Mr. Smith's words, that, "though men will, no doubt, judge variouſly of his philoſophical opinions, every one [128] approving, or condemning them, according as they happen to coin⯑cide or diſagree with his own, yet, concerning his character and con⯑duct, there can ſcarce be a differ⯑ence of opinion."